Fill, 1/3
anonymous
December 12 2011, 04:57:09 UTC
I apologize if this isn't what you're looking for, OP, but here's a quick L/S-with-a-child fill
A muffled pounding at the door startled John out of his concentration, and he added an extra ‘e’ to the word he had been typing by accident.
“Get the door, would you, John?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “That’ll be Lestrade.”
“He has a key,” John said, somewhat irritably. Sherlock had been working non-stop for the past week, and that meant he had been working as well - in addition to his shifts at the surgery. He was beyond exhausted. “Anyway, it’s open.”
“Yes, thank you, John, I do realize that. However, he’ll have his son with him and won’t have a free hand with which to open said door.”
“His what?”
“Just answer it, John!”
Grumbling to himself, John hauled himself up off the sofa and went over to the door. He opened it to reveal Lestrade standing on the other side, a young child in his arms, his foot raised in mid-kick.
“Ah, sorry, John,” he said sheepishly, shifting the load in his arms. John stared at him.
“I didn’t - sorry - you have a kid?”
“John, invite the man in and stop badgering him! We have work to do,” Sherlock called impatiently from the kitchen.
“Right, yes, sorry,” John said quickly, stepping aside and allowing Lestrade to pass. The boy he was carrying was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep, arms wrapped loosely about the DI’s neck and face hidden in his shoulder. He looked anywhere from three to five years old - John always had been rubbish at guessing children’s ages.
“My fault. I wouldn’t have brought him along, but we were on our way back from holiday when I got Sherlock’s message. Babysitter’s off for the week, you see, and I can’t just leave him -”
“No, right, of course not,” John said quickly. “Sorry, it’s just that Sherlock never said - well - anyway, what’s his name?”
“Daniel. Sorry he’s not more lively; been a long day,” Lestrade said, shifting the boy and then wrapping his arms securely around the back of his son’s legs, clamping them to his stomach and holding him in place.
John led him into the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over a microscope.
“Well?” Lestrade said when the detective didn’t look up. “You brought me all the way out here; I’m assuming it’s for a reason. And, I hope, a good one.”
Sherlock straightened. “Have a look.”
Lestrade frowned but walked over to him all the same. Sherlock held out his arms for the boy and Lestrade gladly handed him over, cracking his neck as soon as he had been relieved of the extra weight. Daniel didn’t appear to register the change of arms; he simply muttered something and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sighing contentedly. John raised an eyebrow that no one saw and kept his burning questions to himself.
“So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing, here?”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, just come out and say it! I haven’t the patience for one of your dramatic reveals tonight.”
“These are soil samples from the suspect’s shoes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “They clearly show that he was in Brixton at the time of the murder; in fact, he was in Brixton all day. There are no other kinds of soils on his shoes, which means that he couldn’t have been anywhere near where the victim was murdered.”
“And there’s no way he changed shoes?”
Sherlock leveled a look at him. “You don’t think I’ve already considered that possibility?”
“Yeah, s’pose that was a dumb question,” Lestrade muttered. “Won’t ask how you figured that one out though; probably don’t want to know.”
At that moment, Lestrade’s son stirred in Sherlock’s arms, and then he blinked open deep brown eyes he had clearly gotten from his father. He lifted his head to lock eyes with Sherlock, and he stared at him for several moments. John and Lestrade were quiet, watching the silent exchange between the detective and the child.
“Hello, Daniel,” Sherlock said finally. He held the child against his side with one arm and with his free hand swiped his thumb across the Daniel’s eyes, rubbing away the sleep.
“Hi,” the boy whispered.
“Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Yeah.” Daniel scrubbed his eye with his fist. “We went to the sea.”
Fill, 2/3
anonymous
December 12 2011, 04:59:51 UTC
And then Daniel wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, clinging to him, and John felt as though he was intruding on a suddenly-private moment. Sherlock swallowed hard and laid his free hand on Daniel’s back, and then glanced cautiously at Lestrade. The DI met his eyes for a moment and then looked away, passing a hand over his mouth and shifting his feet.
“Well, this certainly complicates things,” he said finally as Daniel drew back from the hug. And just like that the spell was broken; Sherlock’s mask was back in place and Lestrade was focusing again on the case.
“It more than complicates things,” Sherlock retorted. “It - Daniel, do stop pulling my hair - it means that you have the wrong man.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Lestrade sighed, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped out of the kitchen and down the stairs, retreating to the front hall so as to have a bit of privacy.
“Daniel, this is my flatmate. Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, turning sideways so that the boy could see John. Daniel gave John a cautious look.
“Would you like something to eat, Daniel?” John offered, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that they had nothing in. Thankfully, Daniel shook his head and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck again. “Ah, well...bit tired, are we?”
“Home,” Daniel mumbled into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek on top of Daniel’s hair.
“Soon,” he soothed, and John was sure his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline out of surprise. “Your father needs to finish his case first.”
“Daddy’s working?” Daniel asked, and John chose that moment to slip out of the room. He went into the living room and back to his laptop, where he could still hear the conversation but felt less like an intruder.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John saw from a glance into the kitchen that he was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, swaying with Daniel on his hip.
“Daddy’s always working,” Daniel muttered.
“Your father is an important man.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through the soft hair. “He must work.”
Lestrade came back up the stairs then, nodded to John, and slipped into the kitchen, looking harried. The door slid shut behind him, and their voices were reduced to soft murmurs.
----
Sherlock turned around at the sound of the door sliding shut, and Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pocketing his mobile. “I hope he behaved.”
“You were gone less than five minutes, Lestrade,” Sherlock admonished. “How much trouble can he get into in that amount of time?”
“You’d be surprised.” Lestrade walked over and laid a hand on Daniel’s back. He peered into his son’s face; saw that he was nearly asleep again. Sherlock shifted Daniel in his arms and grimaced.
“What have you been feeding this child?” he asked disdainfully. Lestrade rolled his eyes.
“Bricks and weights. Food, Sherlock; what’d you expect me to say?”
“Is it normal for him to weigh this much?”
“Yes, and it’s called growing. It’s what children do.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned against the table, Daniel still plastered to him and looking for all the world like an extra growth.
“It’s been a while,” he said finally, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. The DI was leaning against the counter, facing Sherlock and Daniel, his feet brushing against Sherlock’s in the narrow space between table and counter. “Since I’ve seen him.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s grown a lot since Christmas.”
“I’ve missed it,” Sherlock said softly, and if Lestrade didn’t know any better, he’d have said that Sherlock’s tone was regretful. Piercing blue eyes, swirling with accusation and perhaps a touch of hurt, met his own. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
And Lestrade could hardly deny this, and Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated it, so he simply said, “Yeah,” again. Sherlock’s face fell a fraction before he could slip the mask back on, and Lestrade felt a dull ache start up in his chest.
Fill, 3/3
anonymous
December 12 2011, 05:01:41 UTC
“I would’ve kept you safe; you know that, Greg,” he said angrily. “Mycroft would have seen to it, if I’d asked.”
“And would you have?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were fierce. “For you. Both of you. Did you ever doubt it?”
“No,” Lestrade said truthfully. “But it wasn’t that. He was growing attached to you, Sherlock. And in the space of three months you nearly died at least three times, which frankly is a record for you. I couldn’t - I couldn’t do that to him. Especially after the pool, and Moriarty.”
Lestrade rubbed his shoulder absently. “It hurt him too much.”
“And this isn’t - won’t - hurt me?” Sherlock said bitterly. “Or you?”
“He comes first,” Lestrade said. “Always.”
Sherlock rested his cheek absently against Daniel’s head, and the image made Lestrade’s breath catch in his throat.
“He misses you terribly,” Lestrade said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them - and at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, he found that he didn’t want to stop them. He added softly, “We both do.”
“Stay,” Sherlock said, voice cracking around the word. He swallowed.
“I really should get him home.”
“You’ve stayed over with him before,” Sherlock pointed out. “The bed’s more than large enough.”
Lestrade pushed himself off the counter and closed the distance between them, bending down to press his lips against Sherlock’s. God, but he had missed this - missed the velvet lips and tender, probing tongue and the way Sherlock sank against him. An arm slid around his waist; Sherlock’s other remained firmly wrapped around Daniel. Lestrade sighed, enveloping them both in an embrace.
“I have next Wednesday off,” he said finally. “We were going to go to the museum; Daniel’s been wanting to see the dinosaurs. Come with us?”
There was a pause, and then he felt Sherlock nod against his chest.
“Good.” Lestrade dropped a kiss onto his head. “Come on, see us out.”
Sherlock drew back from the embrace and straightened. Daniel stirred in his arms for the second time that night and, realizing that he was about to be handed back over to his father, began to whine.
“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. The squirming child stilled immediately - and Lestrade never had managed to figure out how Sherlock pulled that off - and leaned back in Sherlock’s arms to consider him solemnly. Sherlock curled a hand around the back of his neck and held Daniel in place while he kissed his forehead; then, with great reluctance, he passed the child back to Lestrade.
“I’ll see you next week,” he murmured to Daniel, swiping a thumb across his cheek.
“Promise?” the boy asked plaintively. Sherlock swallowed visibly, and that alone was nearly enough to break Lestrade’s resolve right there.
Christ, how he missed this.
“Yeah,” Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll be there.”
He ducked around Daniel to press his lips to Lestrade’s, and his insistent fingers dug into the DI’s neck.
Filler hereimpishtubistDecember 15 2011, 01:11:07 UTC
You are very kind. I'm so glad that you liked this! I'm the anon filler; I'll be cleaning this up and posting it within the week. Thank you for your kind words!
A muffled pounding at the door startled John out of his concentration, and he added an extra ‘e’ to the word he had been typing by accident.
“Get the door, would you, John?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “That’ll be Lestrade.”
“He has a key,” John said, somewhat irritably. Sherlock had been working non-stop for the past week, and that meant he had been working as well - in addition to his shifts at the surgery. He was beyond exhausted. “Anyway, it’s open.”
“Yes, thank you, John, I do realize that. However, he’ll have his son with him and won’t have a free hand with which to open said door.”
“His what?”
“Just answer it, John!”
Grumbling to himself, John hauled himself up off the sofa and went over to the door. He opened it to reveal Lestrade standing on the other side, a young child in his arms, his foot raised in mid-kick.
“Ah, sorry, John,” he said sheepishly, shifting the load in his arms. John stared at him.
“I didn’t - sorry - you have a kid?”
“John, invite the man in and stop badgering him! We have work to do,” Sherlock called impatiently from the kitchen.
“Right, yes, sorry,” John said quickly, stepping aside and allowing Lestrade to pass. The boy he was carrying was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep, arms wrapped loosely about the DI’s neck and face hidden in his shoulder. He looked anywhere from three to five years old - John always had been rubbish at guessing children’s ages.
“My fault. I wouldn’t have brought him along, but we were on our way back from holiday when I got Sherlock’s message. Babysitter’s off for the week, you see, and I can’t just leave him -”
“No, right, of course not,” John said quickly. “Sorry, it’s just that Sherlock never said - well - anyway, what’s his name?”
“Daniel. Sorry he’s not more lively; been a long day,” Lestrade said, shifting the boy and then wrapping his arms securely around the back of his son’s legs, clamping them to his stomach and holding him in place.
John led him into the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over a microscope.
“Well?” Lestrade said when the detective didn’t look up. “You brought me all the way out here; I’m assuming it’s for a reason. And, I hope, a good one.”
Sherlock straightened. “Have a look.”
Lestrade frowned but walked over to him all the same. Sherlock held out his arms for the boy and Lestrade gladly handed him over, cracking his neck as soon as he had been relieved of the extra weight. Daniel didn’t appear to register the change of arms; he simply muttered something and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sighing contentedly. John raised an eyebrow that no one saw and kept his burning questions to himself.
“So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing, here?”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, just come out and say it! I haven’t the patience for one of your dramatic reveals tonight.”
“These are soil samples from the suspect’s shoes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “They clearly show that he was in Brixton at the time of the murder; in fact, he was in Brixton all day. There are no other kinds of soils on his shoes, which means that he couldn’t have been anywhere near where the victim was murdered.”
“And there’s no way he changed shoes?”
Sherlock leveled a look at him. “You don’t think I’ve already considered that possibility?”
“Yeah, s’pose that was a dumb question,” Lestrade muttered. “Won’t ask how you figured that one out though; probably don’t want to know.”
At that moment, Lestrade’s son stirred in Sherlock’s arms, and then he blinked open deep brown eyes he had clearly gotten from his father. He lifted his head to lock eyes with Sherlock, and he stared at him for several moments. John and Lestrade were quiet, watching the silent exchange between the detective and the child.
“Hello, Daniel,” Sherlock said finally. He held the child against his side with one arm and with his free hand swiped his thumb across the Daniel’s eyes, rubbing away the sleep.
“Hi,” the boy whispered.
“Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Yeah.” Daniel scrubbed his eye with his fist. “We went to the sea.”
“So your father had told me.”
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“Well, this certainly complicates things,” he said finally as Daniel drew back from the hug. And just like that the spell was broken; Sherlock’s mask was back in place and Lestrade was focusing again on the case.
“It more than complicates things,” Sherlock retorted. “It - Daniel, do stop pulling my hair - it means that you have the wrong man.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Lestrade sighed, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped out of the kitchen and down the stairs, retreating to the front hall so as to have a bit of privacy.
“Daniel, this is my flatmate. Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, turning sideways so that the boy could see John. Daniel gave John a cautious look.
“Would you like something to eat, Daniel?” John offered, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that they had nothing in. Thankfully, Daniel shook his head and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck again. “Ah, well...bit tired, are we?”
“Home,” Daniel mumbled into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek on top of Daniel’s hair.
“Soon,” he soothed, and John was sure his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline out of surprise. “Your father needs to finish his case first.”
“Daddy’s working?” Daniel asked, and John chose that moment to slip out of the room. He went into the living room and back to his laptop, where he could still hear the conversation but felt less like an intruder.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John saw from a glance into the kitchen that he was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, swaying with Daniel on his hip.
“Daddy’s always working,” Daniel muttered.
“Your father is an important man.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through the soft hair. “He must work.”
Lestrade came back up the stairs then, nodded to John, and slipped into the kitchen, looking harried. The door slid shut behind him, and their voices were reduced to soft murmurs.
----
Sherlock turned around at the sound of the door sliding shut, and Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pocketing his mobile. “I hope he behaved.”
“You were gone less than five minutes, Lestrade,” Sherlock admonished. “How much trouble can he get into in that amount of time?”
“You’d be surprised.” Lestrade walked over and laid a hand on Daniel’s back. He peered into his son’s face; saw that he was nearly asleep again. Sherlock shifted Daniel in his arms and grimaced.
“What have you been feeding this child?” he asked disdainfully. Lestrade rolled his eyes.
“Bricks and weights. Food, Sherlock; what’d you expect me to say?”
“Is it normal for him to weigh this much?”
“Yes, and it’s called growing. It’s what children do.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned against the table, Daniel still plastered to him and looking for all the world like an extra growth.
“It’s been a while,” he said finally, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. The DI was leaning against the counter, facing Sherlock and Daniel, his feet brushing against Sherlock’s in the narrow space between table and counter. “Since I’ve seen him.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s grown a lot since Christmas.”
“I’ve missed it,” Sherlock said softly, and if Lestrade didn’t know any better, he’d have said that Sherlock’s tone was regretful. Piercing blue eyes, swirling with accusation and perhaps a touch of hurt, met his own. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
And Lestrade could hardly deny this, and Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated it, so he simply said, “Yeah,” again. Sherlock’s face fell a fraction before he could slip the mask back on, and Lestrade felt a dull ache start up in his chest.
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“And would you have?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were fierce. “For you. Both of you. Did you ever doubt it?”
“No,” Lestrade said truthfully. “But it wasn’t that. He was growing attached to you, Sherlock. And in the space of three months you nearly died at least three times, which frankly is a record for you. I couldn’t - I couldn’t do that to him. Especially after the pool, and Moriarty.”
Lestrade rubbed his shoulder absently. “It hurt him too much.”
“And this isn’t - won’t - hurt me?” Sherlock said bitterly. “Or you?”
“He comes first,” Lestrade said. “Always.”
Sherlock rested his cheek absently against Daniel’s head, and the image made Lestrade’s breath catch in his throat.
“He misses you terribly,” Lestrade said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them - and at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, he found that he didn’t want to stop them. He added softly, “We both do.”
“Stay,” Sherlock said, voice cracking around the word. He swallowed.
“I really should get him home.”
“You’ve stayed over with him before,” Sherlock pointed out. “The bed’s more than large enough.”
Lestrade pushed himself off the counter and closed the distance between them, bending down to press his lips against Sherlock’s. God, but he had missed this - missed the velvet lips and tender, probing tongue and the way Sherlock sank against him. An arm slid around his waist; Sherlock’s other remained firmly wrapped around Daniel. Lestrade sighed, enveloping them both in an embrace.
“I have next Wednesday off,” he said finally. “We were going to go to the museum; Daniel’s been wanting to see the dinosaurs. Come with us?”
There was a pause, and then he felt Sherlock nod against his chest.
“Good.” Lestrade dropped a kiss onto his head. “Come on, see us out.”
Sherlock drew back from the embrace and straightened. Daniel stirred in his arms for the second time that night and, realizing that he was about to be handed back over to his father, began to whine.
“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. The squirming child stilled immediately - and Lestrade never had managed to figure out how Sherlock pulled that off - and leaned back in Sherlock’s arms to consider him solemnly. Sherlock curled a hand around the back of his neck and held Daniel in place while he kissed his forehead; then, with great reluctance, he passed the child back to Lestrade.
“I’ll see you next week,” he murmured to Daniel, swiping a thumb across his cheek.
“Promise?” the boy asked plaintively. Sherlock swallowed visibly, and that alone was nearly enough to break Lestrade’s resolve right there.
Christ, how he missed this.
“Yeah,” Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll be there.”
He ducked around Daniel to press his lips to Lestrade’s, and his insistent fingers dug into the DI’s neck.
“I promise.”
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I like that Lestrade says his son comes first, and I like that you acknowledged that Sherlock's life isn't exactly conducive to having children...
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I hope you write more in this 'verse, it's wonderful.
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