Fic for alafaye: Home for the Hols
Title: Home for the Hols
Recipient: alafaye
Author: mahmfic
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Greg/John, past John/Mary, Past Greg/OC, Kid OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Do I have to warn for things AU-canon divergence, Greg POV, domestic!threesome, parentlock, and asexual!Sherlock? Well, there you go.
Summary: DI Greg Lestrade lives with his two partners (he refuses to call them boyfriends), and a little girl that one of his partner's had from a previous marriage. Greg has two children as well, but he can only see them on their birthdays and on New Years. It's only two days before Christmas and everything is fine in the Holmes-Lestrade-Watson household.
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: Many thanks to desolationoffili & brighteyed_jill for being awesome speedy betas! Kudos and basket full of kittens for the mods for all of their mountains of hard work to make this fest run smoothly year after year.
Greg had his mobile phone out and was switching between scrolling through his personal email and Facebook while his cab was stuck in traffic. He knew he should have told the driver to take a shortcut at this hour; lesson learned. At least it gave him time to catch up on what his two oldest were up to these days. He hardly got to see them since the divorce over five years ago. Even though the court granted them joint custody, his access to Noah and Sophie was extremely limited. It was the judge's opinion that he was 'unfit' to have complete custody of his own children due to the demands and very nature of his profession, while Margaret, being a maths teacher, was rather nice and safe.
And Jesus they had grown like weeds. Noah was 15 and was now as tall as his old man. Sophie at 13 was still considered short compared to the rest of her classmates. He only got to see them in person a couple times a year so each time it was like meeting a new person. Last August for her birthday, Sophie was obsessed with an American reality TV show called Teen Mom, but when he had got to have her over for New Years, she'd had her nose stuck in a popular young adult novel the entire time and was irritated whenever someone interrupted her reading. Noah wasn't much better. For his last birthday in July, he'd been broody and refused to talk to anyone, preferring to text on his mobile phone. However at New Years, he'd had a lively argument with John over football and rugby.
Shit, sometimes kids were impossible. At least John's little Isla was a darling.
Greg smiled to himself. He loved Isla like she was his very own. In many ways, she was. He always told the people who asked that he had three children, one boy and two girls, aged 15, 13 and 4. Usually he got a look of surprise in return. Some asked why the large gap between child two and three, some joked that it must be tough raising two teenagers and a four year old. Others who were aware of his marriage to Marge, asked questions like 'Did you two make up then?' or 'I thought you were divorced?'. The smart ones realized, 'Hey, Isla looks exactly like John Watson… the blogger? How is she your kid?'
He always told them, 'Well, it's a bit complicated'.
Just as his mobile pinged with a text message from Sophie, his cab finally came to a screeching halt at the intersection of Baker Street and Melcombe. Greg grumbled under his breath as he paid the driver his fee. Oh well, he could always use a bit of extra exercise.
The street was packed with tourists and shoppers. It was difficult to manoeuvre his way through the throng when he was heading in the opposite direction from them. John's Isla would probably be cross with him if she saw the way he was pushing and shoving his way through without so much as a backwards glance or a half-arsed murmured apology. They were teaching the little girl manners and this went against everything Daddy, Papa Sherlock and Papa Greg taught. Well, maybe Isla was a better person than he was. Greg didn't have time for proper manners. He wanted to get home and fast.
He checked the text that Sophie had sent a few minutes ago. It was a picture of her and Noah sitting in front of the Christmas tree at Marge's. The tree was lit with white fairy lights, strung with golden tinsel and hung with ornaments that had been used in their family for years. Sophie, sat on the left hand side, had her long dark hair in a single messy plait off to the side and wore grey gym shorts and a Hunger Games sweater that Uncle John had given her for her last birthday. She flashed a peace sign and a wide grin. He noticed with his keen eyes that she wasn't wearing her prescription glasses (did Marge get her contacts? Was his daughter going through a phase where she didn't wish to wear her glasses? Maybe her vision had miraculously got better?) and that she had painted her fingernails and toenails in Christmas colours. Noah on her other side, had a sleepy looking Poirot sprawled across his legs. Noah's hair was styled in a fauxhawk and dyed a dark green (taking after his old man). His son gave the barest hint of a smile at the camera, leaning back on his palms and trying to give off a cool vibe. Noah was wearing one of his Chelsea football club jerseys and ratty pair of sweats. Goddamn, Greg was losing time fast with his children. Each day something happened in their lives and he felt as though he was missing it all. Greg had to admit that he even missed Poirot. He and Marge had adopted the relaxed British Shorthair in the beginning of their marriage when Poirot was only a kitten. Now Marge not only had their kids but their cat too. Sometimes shit really sucked. He forwarded the text to both John and Sherlock as he jogged up the front steps of 221 Baker Street.
The door to Mrs. Hudson's flat was shut so he figured that their landlady was either out or wanted her privacy. It was close to five o'clock in the evening after all. Perhaps she was out having dinner? Greg jogged the fourteen steps, two at a time, up to the flat he shared with Sherlock, John and Isla, pulling his ring of keys out of one of the inside pockets of winter jacket. The lock of the door turned with ease, and Greg stepped inside in no time.
The place was mostly dark except for the light that came from the kitchen and from the dancing fibre optic fairy lights of the Christmas in the corner of the living room. Something felt.. off however. Typically he was the last to arrive home at night unless Sherlock was out for a case. Things were usually noisy with the TV blasting with Doctor Who or one of Isla's kid shows that she liked watching. Sherlock would be going through flash cards of the multiplication tables and John would be ordering some take away from Angelo's. Instead there was none of that.
His ears perked up when he heard the familiar smashing of John's old-fashioned mechanical keyboard coming from the kitchen (he had said he like the feel of the key as he typed and wanted nothing to do with that new chiclet nonsense). "John?" Greg called out as he placed his keys in the dish by door. "You there?"
Almost immediately the typing stopped, and there was a slight pause before resuming. "Yeah, give me one second to finish up this paragraph and I'll be right out."
Greg chuckled to himself and flipped the light switch in the living room. The magical glow that was cast by the Christmas tree before was diminished but not entirely gone. He toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket on the coat rack. "Solved a case today," he shouted over the noise of John's rapid fire typing. "A big one. There was a conference and everything. It'll probably run on the news tonight."
"You solved a big case without Sherlock's help? He'll be so livid," John replied with amusement from the kitchen, still typing.
The DI had a laugh about that. "He will be when he finds out it was a decapitation."
John groaned loudly. "Oh, those are his favourites! Can't tell you how many severed heads I used to find stashed in the veg bin."
Greg decided to have a private conversation with Sherlock later about all that. He knew that the detective somehow still managed to steal body parts from the hospital at St. Bart's, but Christ the man wasn't Frankenstein. At least he knew better now than to have them on the lying about on the dinner table or in the fridge like before. Since Isla was born and she and John moved into Baker Street, Sherlock had 221C converted into his own laboratory.
"Least I know now that a head can fit in the veg bin," Greg whispered to himself. He kicked back on his favourite spot on the sofa (the side with the armrest closest to the door). His gaze became fixed on the photo hung low on the opposite wall.
It was the photo from John and Mary's wedding day. Everyone was dressed to the nines on the happy occasion. The bride and groom were situated in the middle of the photo, their hands clasped over each other's, and on either side of them were Sherlock and Greg, standing erect and proud. Sherlock, because he was Sherlock looked rather grim while Greg was showing off his cheesiest smile. Of course none of them knew of the shit storm that was going to befall them all after that.
Mary Morstan. Or whatever the hell her real name was. It was still all so confusing even now. She had been a former spy and assassin. She'd shot Sherlock (their Sherlock!) because he had found out her secret. Fat lot of good that did, because the detective informed (or rather let Mary herself spill the beans) John of her status. What made things complicated was that she was pregnant with John's daughter, Isla. Mary was held under Mycroft's watchful eye for the remainder of her pregnancy. However, Mary had not kept up her strength during her capture, and she passed away soon after giving birth to little Isla.
They kept that photo up because it was the only photo they had of the four of them together, all of Isla's parents. It didn't matter that their triad formed after Isla was born or that Mary might not have been the most ideal mother.
Honestly, thinking about her gave Greg a giant headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned as John's typing got on his nerves. "What are you typing up, John?" Greg yelled as he rubbed his temple. "I thought you said you only said a paragraph?"
"Oh Christ, I did," the ex-soldier replied regretfully. The DI listened as he heard a couple quick taps of the keyboard and then the slam of the laptop being shut. Muted footfalls padded across the tiled kitchen floor and stopped at the archway of the living room. "I reckon my blog post about the penguin theft isn't going to be as interesting as your beheading case. Maybe I should mention that too. Get more hits or likes or whatever they call them."
He tilted his head to the side and gaped at the sight before him. John Watson stood ever so casually sipping on his tea with his #1 DAD mug in the buff. His cock twitched at the sight.
"Like what you see?" John teased.
Greg scrubbed his jawline. "Jesus. Where's Sherlock and Isla?"
John cocked his head and straightened his posture. He set his mug down on top of one of the bookshelves. "Sherlock owed me a favour so he's babysitting her. Took her ice skating to Hampton Court."
Greg's eyes raked over John's deliciously well-toned form. "Can Sherlock even ice skate?"
John snorted as strode with purpose over to Greg, leaning down to frame the DI's body. "Hell if i know," he retorted as he captured Greg's lips in a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After their bout of sex on the couch, the DI happened to mention that he hadn't been to Hampton Court in ages. He must have been a kid on a school trip or something. He remembered very little of what Henry VIII's palace looked like let alone what it'd be during Christmas time. John thought it was a brilliant idea if they relieved Sherlock of his babysitting duties and surprised the pair by picking them up.
The place was ridiculously crowded (he and John couldn't get in without tickets, what the hell?). It all looked pretty in the conventional sense. The front of Hampton Court and the ice rink had been lit up with a blue light. It gave the palace and ice an interesting reflective effect.
It was easy to spot Sherlock and Isla. They stuck out like a sore thumb. Isla was wearing her Merida dress and skated quite well for someone in her age group while Sherlock, tall, thin and beautiful beyond reason could barely stand up fully on the ice. The pair hung about the edges of the rink, the consulting detective clung desperately to the wire barrier while Isla skated a few feet away only to return to Papa Sherlock to make sure he was okay.
Greg and John couldn't stop laughing. They had tears in their eyes and clutched their bellies. The duo thought they were going to die.
It took a couple minutes for Isla to notice that her Daddy and Papa Greg had unexpectedly arrived. Once Sherlock and John's daughter were safely off the ice, the consulting detective threatened, "You both owe me a hundred favours."
Greg knew better. He had witnessed the genuine smile on Sherlock's face as Isla gliding away from him each time to do a shaky twirl.
Getting a cab that would take four people was almost impossible. After fifteen minutes of John attempting to flag one down, Isla was getting antsy and Sherlock was hinting that he could fake getting run over, but the two sane adults among the group firmly put an end to that. Just as they started debating if they should take the train or not, a cabbie (middle-aged man with a fake left thumb, Syrian refugee with a wife and young boy who had died during a bombing, Sherlock deduced within seconds) pulled over and let them in.
They had a pleasant ride until they were on the A219. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, while the ex-soldier curled his arm around behind the consulting detective's back and was caressing his dark curls. Their fingers were interlaced over John's thigh.
Isla was on Greg's lap even though she insisted she could have her own seat like a big girl. She bragged to everyone about how she twirled all by herself until she fell asleep.
On the A219, his mobile rang, Sophie's special ring tone (an awful song one of the Teen Mom stars had come up with). With practiced hands, Greg lifted Isla and put her on Sherlock's lap before answering the call.
"Hello darling. Yes I did get your picture. Sorry I didn't reply." There wasn't an immediate audible response. Instead he heard his daughter sobbing and sniffling. Instinctively he sat up straighter in his seat. "Soph, what's wrong? Baby can you hear me?" His eyes flickered over to his partners who were staring right back at him.
On the other end of the line, Sophie caught her breath. "Da, Da, it's not fair…"
"What's not fair, Soph? What's going on?"
"Noah and Mum had a big row. Noah went up his room and hasn't come down for ages."
Greg was puzzled. That didn't seem to be anything to be particularly alarmed by. Parents and teens argued all the time.
"And Mum says we can't see you for New Years," his daughter sobbed hard, gasping in large gulps.
His brain froze. It was screaming, No, no, no, NO! Marge could not do this to him. She knew how much it pained him that he had so little time with Noah and Sophie. If he didn't see them in a few days then he wouldn't get to until their birthdays in the summer. His daughter had every right to be upset. This was unfair. "Soph, Sophie, breathe for me okay? Deep, deep breaths. Good. I'm going to sort this out. Put your Mum on the phone for me, will you?"
He tried to get his breathing under control as he waited. The DI placed the mobile's receiver under his chin and met his partners' concerned gazes. They were both alert and ready for action. John whispered, "What's wrong?"
Greg chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling over his words. "Marge isn't letting the kids come over."
John was about to have an outburst, his red grew red and eyes were narrow as slits. Before the blogger could get any words out, Greg heard a voice on the other end of the line.
"Hello?"
"Margaret, what the hell is going on?"
"Well, you sound stroppy. You only call me by my full name when you're really angry."
Greg's nostrils flared. "Of course I'm stroppy! Sophie called crying her eyes out and I get told two days before Christmas that I won't be seeing my kids for their scheduled court appointed visit. What are you playing at?"
His ex-wife shot back defensively, "Oi, this isn't my call!"
"It is entirely your call, Margaret," he ground out. "Who else's would it be?"
"Ted's!"
It was like a slap to his face. "Ted? Does he want a fight? Does he want full custody of my kids? He's got no right!"
"No!" Margaret shouted back. "No, God no, Greg! That's not it." His ex-wife took a lengthy pause before continuing. "His Mum's on her deathbed, Greg. Parkinsons. She'd had it for ages. But now, the doctors only give her about a week or less to live. And if she's got that long… Evelyn always loved Noah and Sophie. She… she would have wanted them there… at her f-- funeral."
Greg ran his hand over his scalp. His initial anger dissipated. "Jesus Christ, Marge. I'm sorry. You could have told me sooner."
"I know, I'm sorry too. I always was a bit of a chicken when it came to confrontations. It took everything out of me just to tell the kids and as you know they didn't take it well at all." She sounded so tired, "Look, me and Ted were talking. We know that all this was shit timing. Not that we could do anything about it. But how about the kids start seeing you over the summer holidays?"
The DI scrunched up his face. "Are you having me on?"
"No, of course not. You know I always disagreed with the judge's ruling. You're a great father not only to Noah and Soph but to your partner's child as well. We'll go over the details more later yeah? Right now I've got to help Ted calm down two teenagers."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll send them both a quick text when I hang up, yeah? Say hi to Ted for me. Happy Christmas. Bye."
The second he clicked on the red phone icon he typed two similar messages to his children, saying to try and be good for their Mum, he'd call them on Christmas Day and that he was looking forward to spending the summer with them for the first time in years.
"That seemed to end rather amicably," John commented as he pulled his fidgety daughter off Sherlock. "What happened?"
Once Greg was finished he slumped down in his seat, fully exhausted.
"She was genuine?" Sherlock asked. The consulting detective had his elbows on his knees and fingertips in the prayer position, something he did while thinking.
"Hm? Yes. She seemed quite distressed."
The youngest man shrugged, placed his bony hand on Greg's knee, kneading the rough fabric of his trousers.
Isla rubbed one of her eyes and let out a big yawn. "Are Noah and Sophie not coming to stay anymore?"
Instinctively Greg reached out and rubbed the young blonde girl's cheek. "Oh no, no, no poppet. Something has happened to their Step-Dad's grandmother and they won't be able to come round this weekend. Instead, they'll be staying all summer long. Won't that be lovely?"
Isla's eyes went as wide as tea saucers. "Really?"
They all assured her that yes, really, cross their hearts and all, Noah and Soph would be there all summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once they had got inside, Sherlock bossily pushed the DI into their bedroom and in the middle of their bed. The younger man even took the time to help undress Greg and tossed him a pair of boxers. Greg tried to settle in his usual spot but Sherlock nudged him aside with his laptop when he hopped in. The two sat in companionable silence. Greg relaxed with a book while his partner tapped away at his keyboard. Occasionally a pale hand would come round and stroke patterns on his back coincidentally just as Sherlock's typing speed slowed to a crawl.
"Christ, I never thought she was going to go to sleep."
Both detectives glanced up when John entered. He seemed wiped out.
"She kept asking is we could skip Christmas altogether and go right onto summer. Then she was telling me all the awesome things she and Soph are going to do when they get here. I was worried she wouldn't settle down, but I broke out the Brave picture book and she conked out."
Quickly John stripped down and climbed into bed on the other side of Greg. The silver-haired man was shocked and wanted to protest. He didn't sleep in the middle. It was always Sherlock who was in the middle. No words were spoken between the three men. John pulled Greg close against his toned body, burying his face in the older man's neck. Sherlock put away his laptop under the bed, pulled the lamp cord and joined the pair. He rested his dark curls on Greg's chest and laid his hand across his stomach.
It wasn't long before Greg fell asleep in the safe embrace of his beloved partners.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he woke on Christmas Eve, Greg found himself lying in Sherlock's lap. The smell of coffee filled the air and the morning sun filtered through the blinds. The silver-haired DI cracked open one eye to see a very relaxed consulting detective reading on his mobile with his back against the headboard.
"Good morning," Sherlock said lazily without taking his eyes off his phone.
"How'd you know I was up?"
"Your body shifted a millimetre to the left when the sun started bothering you too much, the rhythm of your breathing began to increase and you stopped snoring."
"I do not!"
A small smile crossed Sherlock's lips and there was a twinkling in his pale eyes. "John was called into work, and he left Isla in the very capable hands of Mrs. Hudson. She'll bring her back around lunchtime. Mycroft offers you his congratulations and says if you are in need of an attorney he'd be more than happy to help."
"My-- Mycroft? How does he?" A piercing glare from Sherlock told Greg that he should know better than to question the power of Mycroft Holmes. "Of course. Of course he bloody knows. Why wouldn't he?"
"Fatcroft didn't have to dig too far. He read John's most recent blog post."
Greg lifted an eyebrow. "Um, the one about your penguin theft?"
Suddenly Sherlock's mobile flooded his view. The silver-haired man shifted so he was lying on his back instead of on his side and cracked his stiff neck. However, to Greg's surprise Sherlock burrowed his head in the DI's chest.
The page that was up on the phone was of John's blog. It was dated 24th December and titled 'Home for the Hols'.
Most of the world enjoys the winter hols with their loved ones. For some it's the only time of year they are able to see their extended family for a good homemade sit-down meal and chat about the past year.
I never understood it myself. My family was pretty small and to be honest, none of us got on well. Family gatherings were spent with the telly on high volume with little to no conversation as the alcohol flowed freely. I've never had a happy holiday memory until the past few years when Sherlock, Greg, and of course my daughter entered my life.
Not to get domestic or bore everyone, but by now if you are a regular reader of my blog you are aware of my relationship with both Sherlock Holmes and Greg. We've never hid it and we're proud of being a triad. Greg has two teenage children from his previous marriage and I have my young daughter from my previous marriage. Together the three of us raise my daughter and live in a flat. It can be crazy and hectic with my schedule at the clinic, Greg's work at the Yard and Sherlock's odd hours with his experiments and cases. But we make it work.
You're probably wondering about Greg's kids. Due to a judge's ruling, my partner can only see his children on New Years and on their birthdays. Don't go crazy and jump ahead and blame Greg's ex. It isn't her fault. If it was up to her Greg would see his kids way more often. The judge for their case thought because of Greg's career choice, he was most unsuitable to have custody even 50% of the time.
Greg never mentions it or tries to let it show too often, but it breaks his heart that he can't be around his children. In the past five years he's missed his son changing into a man, his daughter breaking her wrist and having a cast. Greg will never be able to get back the moment when his son brought home a girl for a first date. He will never get to go to his daughter's first chess match and see her win second prize. Those moments have passed and because of fate or whatever you'd like to call it, Greg wasn't there. And not by his choice.
Sometimes, when he talks to one of his kids on the phone he looks so sad. I wonder what it would be like if I missed all of Isla's important life stages. I don't know how I could go on. Greg is a stronger man than I will ever be.
Tomorrow is Christmas day. Undoubtedly, my daughter will wake us up at some godforsaken hour and we'll open presents, eat til our bellies pop and watch Christmas specials on the telly while Sherlock does his usual commentary. Greg will call his kids, and pass the phone around so all of us get to take turns chatting. But it won't be the same. It never is.
I apologize that this post is so sentimental. I had a lot of frustration to get out. Greg found out last night that his kids won't be joining us for New Years due to circumstances that can't be blamed on anyone but nature. However, we have the good news that his ex and her husband want to renegotiate the custody of the kids so Greg will see them more, a lot more.
I guess what I am trying to say is… I never appreciated the holidays until I found my family. I hope that everyone who reads this will spend theirs with those they love.
Happy Christmas.
There were over two-hundred comments on this entry. Two-hundred! John's blog was popular and the most he'd ever got was around forty comments on a single post. Two-hundred was insane. Most of the comments were from users who had never stopped by before either because Greg didn't recognize any of their handles.
koolskat: Such a heartwarming post, Dr. Watson!
greentoasters: I had no idea you were in a triple! Me and my two girlfriends support you 100%! Subscribing!
petitearrow: You and your family will be in my thoughts this holiday season. Happy Christmas.
dspwh: I'm sorry that you dealt with so much unhappiness in your childhood. Glad that you found others who can show you what it truly means to be happy in this world.
christmasmincepie06: Greg, man. I totally feel you. I'm divorced as well and barely get to see my spawn either. Psyched that your ex is going to let you see your kids more.
There were many more like that. It warmed his heart that strangers, perfect strangers had reached out and commented on John's post. They didn't skim it. They read it and related to it because it meant something to them as well.
And when had John had the time to write this? Yesterday he was busy working on an update for the penguin theft and now… this? And why had John gone out of his way to discard the other entry and do this instead?
A baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. "It's already gone viral in the UK. #homeforthehols, #solidarityforgreg and #ot3bakerstreet are the top three trending hashtags on Twitter besides #ChristmasEve and #FatherChristmas. Reddit, Tumblr and Facebook are all buzzing about John's post. The news agents are starting to catch on too."
Greg took a sharp inhale out. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. "Sherlock what are you doing?" he asked just as his younger lover kissed the line of hair just above the waistband of his boxer shorts and moaned.
"I would hope that you weren't that stupid."
The DI moaned and bucked his hips as Sherlock nuzzled his cock through the thin fabric. "But you usually don't-- ahh-- you usually don't do this."
Sherlock gazed up through half-lidded lust filled eyes. "Greg, just because I'm asexual doesn't mean I don't occasionally indulge."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes but it was kind of hard when Sherlock was looking at him like that. "I know that but why--"
"No talking," Sherlock commanded before pulling Greg's full erection out of his boxers.
Greg couldn't help but let out his wanton moans as Sherlock's languid pace drove him wild. He gripped Sherlock's dark curls and massaged his scalp to urge his lover on. Sherlock looked even more beautiful as the bright sun hit his pale skin. Greg soon came undone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They had finished up Christmas Eve dinner and were snuggled up on the sofa and watching a yule log burn on the telly. Isla was tucked in her bed and eagerly waiting for Father Christmas. Earlier in the evening, Sherlock had played festive Christmas music on his violin for them all. Isla danced (which was more like twirling and swinging her arms) with Greg and John as Sherlock performed and glided graceful about the flat.
Sherlock was in his rightful place in the middle once more, Greg on the right and John on the left. The consulting detective had decided to sprawl out and had his head in Greg's lap and feet hanging over the John's side of the couch. It had been a long day for everyone and soon they'd have to get up and place Isla's gifts under the tree. But right now, Greg was content to enjoy this perfect moment with his partners listening to the crackling fire and watching the glow of flickering lights on the Christmas tree.
Everything would be fine.
Recipient: alafaye
Author: mahmfic
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Greg/John, past John/Mary, Past Greg/OC, Kid OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Do I have to warn for things AU-canon divergence, Greg POV, domestic!threesome, parentlock, and asexual!Sherlock? Well, there you go.
Summary: DI Greg Lestrade lives with his two partners (he refuses to call them boyfriends), and a little girl that one of his partner's had from a previous marriage. Greg has two children as well, but he can only see them on their birthdays and on New Years. It's only two days before Christmas and everything is fine in the Holmes-Lestrade-Watson household.
Word Count: 5.2k
A/N: Many thanks to desolationoffili & brighteyed_jill for being awesome speedy betas! Kudos and basket full of kittens for the mods for all of their mountains of hard work to make this fest run smoothly year after year.
Greg had his mobile phone out and was switching between scrolling through his personal email and Facebook while his cab was stuck in traffic. He knew he should have told the driver to take a shortcut at this hour; lesson learned. At least it gave him time to catch up on what his two oldest were up to these days. He hardly got to see them since the divorce over five years ago. Even though the court granted them joint custody, his access to Noah and Sophie was extremely limited. It was the judge's opinion that he was 'unfit' to have complete custody of his own children due to the demands and very nature of his profession, while Margaret, being a maths teacher, was rather nice and safe.
And Jesus they had grown like weeds. Noah was 15 and was now as tall as his old man. Sophie at 13 was still considered short compared to the rest of her classmates. He only got to see them in person a couple times a year so each time it was like meeting a new person. Last August for her birthday, Sophie was obsessed with an American reality TV show called Teen Mom, but when he had got to have her over for New Years, she'd had her nose stuck in a popular young adult novel the entire time and was irritated whenever someone interrupted her reading. Noah wasn't much better. For his last birthday in July, he'd been broody and refused to talk to anyone, preferring to text on his mobile phone. However at New Years, he'd had a lively argument with John over football and rugby.
Shit, sometimes kids were impossible. At least John's little Isla was a darling.
Greg smiled to himself. He loved Isla like she was his very own. In many ways, she was. He always told the people who asked that he had three children, one boy and two girls, aged 15, 13 and 4. Usually he got a look of surprise in return. Some asked why the large gap between child two and three, some joked that it must be tough raising two teenagers and a four year old. Others who were aware of his marriage to Marge, asked questions like 'Did you two make up then?' or 'I thought you were divorced?'. The smart ones realized, 'Hey, Isla looks exactly like John Watson… the blogger? How is she your kid?'
He always told them, 'Well, it's a bit complicated'.
Just as his mobile pinged with a text message from Sophie, his cab finally came to a screeching halt at the intersection of Baker Street and Melcombe. Greg grumbled under his breath as he paid the driver his fee. Oh well, he could always use a bit of extra exercise.
The street was packed with tourists and shoppers. It was difficult to manoeuvre his way through the throng when he was heading in the opposite direction from them. John's Isla would probably be cross with him if she saw the way he was pushing and shoving his way through without so much as a backwards glance or a half-arsed murmured apology. They were teaching the little girl manners and this went against everything Daddy, Papa Sherlock and Papa Greg taught. Well, maybe Isla was a better person than he was. Greg didn't have time for proper manners. He wanted to get home and fast.
He checked the text that Sophie had sent a few minutes ago. It was a picture of her and Noah sitting in front of the Christmas tree at Marge's. The tree was lit with white fairy lights, strung with golden tinsel and hung with ornaments that had been used in their family for years. Sophie, sat on the left hand side, had her long dark hair in a single messy plait off to the side and wore grey gym shorts and a Hunger Games sweater that Uncle John had given her for her last birthday. She flashed a peace sign and a wide grin. He noticed with his keen eyes that she wasn't wearing her prescription glasses (did Marge get her contacts? Was his daughter going through a phase where she didn't wish to wear her glasses? Maybe her vision had miraculously got better?) and that she had painted her fingernails and toenails in Christmas colours. Noah on her other side, had a sleepy looking Poirot sprawled across his legs. Noah's hair was styled in a fauxhawk and dyed a dark green (taking after his old man). His son gave the barest hint of a smile at the camera, leaning back on his palms and trying to give off a cool vibe. Noah was wearing one of his Chelsea football club jerseys and ratty pair of sweats. Goddamn, Greg was losing time fast with his children. Each day something happened in their lives and he felt as though he was missing it all. Greg had to admit that he even missed Poirot. He and Marge had adopted the relaxed British Shorthair in the beginning of their marriage when Poirot was only a kitten. Now Marge not only had their kids but their cat too. Sometimes shit really sucked. He forwarded the text to both John and Sherlock as he jogged up the front steps of 221 Baker Street.
The door to Mrs. Hudson's flat was shut so he figured that their landlady was either out or wanted her privacy. It was close to five o'clock in the evening after all. Perhaps she was out having dinner? Greg jogged the fourteen steps, two at a time, up to the flat he shared with Sherlock, John and Isla, pulling his ring of keys out of one of the inside pockets of winter jacket. The lock of the door turned with ease, and Greg stepped inside in no time.
The place was mostly dark except for the light that came from the kitchen and from the dancing fibre optic fairy lights of the Christmas in the corner of the living room. Something felt.. off however. Typically he was the last to arrive home at night unless Sherlock was out for a case. Things were usually noisy with the TV blasting with Doctor Who or one of Isla's kid shows that she liked watching. Sherlock would be going through flash cards of the multiplication tables and John would be ordering some take away from Angelo's. Instead there was none of that.
His ears perked up when he heard the familiar smashing of John's old-fashioned mechanical keyboard coming from the kitchen (he had said he like the feel of the key as he typed and wanted nothing to do with that new chiclet nonsense). "John?" Greg called out as he placed his keys in the dish by door. "You there?"
Almost immediately the typing stopped, and there was a slight pause before resuming. "Yeah, give me one second to finish up this paragraph and I'll be right out."
Greg chuckled to himself and flipped the light switch in the living room. The magical glow that was cast by the Christmas tree before was diminished but not entirely gone. He toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket on the coat rack. "Solved a case today," he shouted over the noise of John's rapid fire typing. "A big one. There was a conference and everything. It'll probably run on the news tonight."
"You solved a big case without Sherlock's help? He'll be so livid," John replied with amusement from the kitchen, still typing.
The DI had a laugh about that. "He will be when he finds out it was a decapitation."
John groaned loudly. "Oh, those are his favourites! Can't tell you how many severed heads I used to find stashed in the veg bin."
Greg decided to have a private conversation with Sherlock later about all that. He knew that the detective somehow still managed to steal body parts from the hospital at St. Bart's, but Christ the man wasn't Frankenstein. At least he knew better now than to have them on the lying about on the dinner table or in the fridge like before. Since Isla was born and she and John moved into Baker Street, Sherlock had 221C converted into his own laboratory.
"Least I know now that a head can fit in the veg bin," Greg whispered to himself. He kicked back on his favourite spot on the sofa (the side with the armrest closest to the door). His gaze became fixed on the photo hung low on the opposite wall.
It was the photo from John and Mary's wedding day. Everyone was dressed to the nines on the happy occasion. The bride and groom were situated in the middle of the photo, their hands clasped over each other's, and on either side of them were Sherlock and Greg, standing erect and proud. Sherlock, because he was Sherlock looked rather grim while Greg was showing off his cheesiest smile. Of course none of them knew of the shit storm that was going to befall them all after that.
Mary Morstan. Or whatever the hell her real name was. It was still all so confusing even now. She had been a former spy and assassin. She'd shot Sherlock (their Sherlock!) because he had found out her secret. Fat lot of good that did, because the detective informed (or rather let Mary herself spill the beans) John of her status. What made things complicated was that she was pregnant with John's daughter, Isla. Mary was held under Mycroft's watchful eye for the remainder of her pregnancy. However, Mary had not kept up her strength during her capture, and she passed away soon after giving birth to little Isla.
They kept that photo up because it was the only photo they had of the four of them together, all of Isla's parents. It didn't matter that their triad formed after Isla was born or that Mary might not have been the most ideal mother.
Honestly, thinking about her gave Greg a giant headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned as John's typing got on his nerves. "What are you typing up, John?" Greg yelled as he rubbed his temple. "I thought you said you only said a paragraph?"
"Oh Christ, I did," the ex-soldier replied regretfully. The DI listened as he heard a couple quick taps of the keyboard and then the slam of the laptop being shut. Muted footfalls padded across the tiled kitchen floor and stopped at the archway of the living room. "I reckon my blog post about the penguin theft isn't going to be as interesting as your beheading case. Maybe I should mention that too. Get more hits or likes or whatever they call them."
He tilted his head to the side and gaped at the sight before him. John Watson stood ever so casually sipping on his tea with his #1 DAD mug in the buff. His cock twitched at the sight.
"Like what you see?" John teased.
Greg scrubbed his jawline. "Jesus. Where's Sherlock and Isla?"
John cocked his head and straightened his posture. He set his mug down on top of one of the bookshelves. "Sherlock owed me a favour so he's babysitting her. Took her ice skating to Hampton Court."
Greg's eyes raked over John's deliciously well-toned form. "Can Sherlock even ice skate?"
John snorted as strode with purpose over to Greg, leaning down to frame the DI's body. "Hell if i know," he retorted as he captured Greg's lips in a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After their bout of sex on the couch, the DI happened to mention that he hadn't been to Hampton Court in ages. He must have been a kid on a school trip or something. He remembered very little of what Henry VIII's palace looked like let alone what it'd be during Christmas time. John thought it was a brilliant idea if they relieved Sherlock of his babysitting duties and surprised the pair by picking them up.
The place was ridiculously crowded (he and John couldn't get in without tickets, what the hell?). It all looked pretty in the conventional sense. The front of Hampton Court and the ice rink had been lit up with a blue light. It gave the palace and ice an interesting reflective effect.
It was easy to spot Sherlock and Isla. They stuck out like a sore thumb. Isla was wearing her Merida dress and skated quite well for someone in her age group while Sherlock, tall, thin and beautiful beyond reason could barely stand up fully on the ice. The pair hung about the edges of the rink, the consulting detective clung desperately to the wire barrier while Isla skated a few feet away only to return to Papa Sherlock to make sure he was okay.
Greg and John couldn't stop laughing. They had tears in their eyes and clutched their bellies. The duo thought they were going to die.
It took a couple minutes for Isla to notice that her Daddy and Papa Greg had unexpectedly arrived. Once Sherlock and John's daughter were safely off the ice, the consulting detective threatened, "You both owe me a hundred favours."
Greg knew better. He had witnessed the genuine smile on Sherlock's face as Isla gliding away from him each time to do a shaky twirl.
Getting a cab that would take four people was almost impossible. After fifteen minutes of John attempting to flag one down, Isla was getting antsy and Sherlock was hinting that he could fake getting run over, but the two sane adults among the group firmly put an end to that. Just as they started debating if they should take the train or not, a cabbie (middle-aged man with a fake left thumb, Syrian refugee with a wife and young boy who had died during a bombing, Sherlock deduced within seconds) pulled over and let them in.
They had a pleasant ride until they were on the A219. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, while the ex-soldier curled his arm around behind the consulting detective's back and was caressing his dark curls. Their fingers were interlaced over John's thigh.
Isla was on Greg's lap even though she insisted she could have her own seat like a big girl. She bragged to everyone about how she twirled all by herself until she fell asleep.
On the A219, his mobile rang, Sophie's special ring tone (an awful song one of the Teen Mom stars had come up with). With practiced hands, Greg lifted Isla and put her on Sherlock's lap before answering the call.
"Hello darling. Yes I did get your picture. Sorry I didn't reply." There wasn't an immediate audible response. Instead he heard his daughter sobbing and sniffling. Instinctively he sat up straighter in his seat. "Soph, what's wrong? Baby can you hear me?" His eyes flickered over to his partners who were staring right back at him.
On the other end of the line, Sophie caught her breath. "Da, Da, it's not fair…"
"What's not fair, Soph? What's going on?"
"Noah and Mum had a big row. Noah went up his room and hasn't come down for ages."
Greg was puzzled. That didn't seem to be anything to be particularly alarmed by. Parents and teens argued all the time.
"And Mum says we can't see you for New Years," his daughter sobbed hard, gasping in large gulps.
His brain froze. It was screaming, No, no, no, NO! Marge could not do this to him. She knew how much it pained him that he had so little time with Noah and Sophie. If he didn't see them in a few days then he wouldn't get to until their birthdays in the summer. His daughter had every right to be upset. This was unfair. "Soph, Sophie, breathe for me okay? Deep, deep breaths. Good. I'm going to sort this out. Put your Mum on the phone for me, will you?"
He tried to get his breathing under control as he waited. The DI placed the mobile's receiver under his chin and met his partners' concerned gazes. They were both alert and ready for action. John whispered, "What's wrong?"
Greg chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling over his words. "Marge isn't letting the kids come over."
John was about to have an outburst, his red grew red and eyes were narrow as slits. Before the blogger could get any words out, Greg heard a voice on the other end of the line.
"Hello?"
"Margaret, what the hell is going on?"
"Well, you sound stroppy. You only call me by my full name when you're really angry."
Greg's nostrils flared. "Of course I'm stroppy! Sophie called crying her eyes out and I get told two days before Christmas that I won't be seeing my kids for their scheduled court appointed visit. What are you playing at?"
His ex-wife shot back defensively, "Oi, this isn't my call!"
"It is entirely your call, Margaret," he ground out. "Who else's would it be?"
"Ted's!"
It was like a slap to his face. "Ted? Does he want a fight? Does he want full custody of my kids? He's got no right!"
"No!" Margaret shouted back. "No, God no, Greg! That's not it." His ex-wife took a lengthy pause before continuing. "His Mum's on her deathbed, Greg. Parkinsons. She'd had it for ages. But now, the doctors only give her about a week or less to live. And if she's got that long… Evelyn always loved Noah and Sophie. She… she would have wanted them there… at her f-- funeral."
Greg ran his hand over his scalp. His initial anger dissipated. "Jesus Christ, Marge. I'm sorry. You could have told me sooner."
"I know, I'm sorry too. I always was a bit of a chicken when it came to confrontations. It took everything out of me just to tell the kids and as you know they didn't take it well at all." She sounded so tired, "Look, me and Ted were talking. We know that all this was shit timing. Not that we could do anything about it. But how about the kids start seeing you over the summer holidays?"
The DI scrunched up his face. "Are you having me on?"
"No, of course not. You know I always disagreed with the judge's ruling. You're a great father not only to Noah and Soph but to your partner's child as well. We'll go over the details more later yeah? Right now I've got to help Ted calm down two teenagers."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll send them both a quick text when I hang up, yeah? Say hi to Ted for me. Happy Christmas. Bye."
The second he clicked on the red phone icon he typed two similar messages to his children, saying to try and be good for their Mum, he'd call them on Christmas Day and that he was looking forward to spending the summer with them for the first time in years.
"That seemed to end rather amicably," John commented as he pulled his fidgety daughter off Sherlock. "What happened?"
Once Greg was finished he slumped down in his seat, fully exhausted.
"She was genuine?" Sherlock asked. The consulting detective had his elbows on his knees and fingertips in the prayer position, something he did while thinking.
"Hm? Yes. She seemed quite distressed."
The youngest man shrugged, placed his bony hand on Greg's knee, kneading the rough fabric of his trousers.
Isla rubbed one of her eyes and let out a big yawn. "Are Noah and Sophie not coming to stay anymore?"
Instinctively Greg reached out and rubbed the young blonde girl's cheek. "Oh no, no, no poppet. Something has happened to their Step-Dad's grandmother and they won't be able to come round this weekend. Instead, they'll be staying all summer long. Won't that be lovely?"
Isla's eyes went as wide as tea saucers. "Really?"
They all assured her that yes, really, cross their hearts and all, Noah and Soph would be there all summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once they had got inside, Sherlock bossily pushed the DI into their bedroom and in the middle of their bed. The younger man even took the time to help undress Greg and tossed him a pair of boxers. Greg tried to settle in his usual spot but Sherlock nudged him aside with his laptop when he hopped in. The two sat in companionable silence. Greg relaxed with a book while his partner tapped away at his keyboard. Occasionally a pale hand would come round and stroke patterns on his back coincidentally just as Sherlock's typing speed slowed to a crawl.
"Christ, I never thought she was going to go to sleep."
Both detectives glanced up when John entered. He seemed wiped out.
"She kept asking is we could skip Christmas altogether and go right onto summer. Then she was telling me all the awesome things she and Soph are going to do when they get here. I was worried she wouldn't settle down, but I broke out the Brave picture book and she conked out."
Quickly John stripped down and climbed into bed on the other side of Greg. The silver-haired man was shocked and wanted to protest. He didn't sleep in the middle. It was always Sherlock who was in the middle. No words were spoken between the three men. John pulled Greg close against his toned body, burying his face in the older man's neck. Sherlock put away his laptop under the bed, pulled the lamp cord and joined the pair. He rested his dark curls on Greg's chest and laid his hand across his stomach.
It wasn't long before Greg fell asleep in the safe embrace of his beloved partners.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he woke on Christmas Eve, Greg found himself lying in Sherlock's lap. The smell of coffee filled the air and the morning sun filtered through the blinds. The silver-haired DI cracked open one eye to see a very relaxed consulting detective reading on his mobile with his back against the headboard.
"Good morning," Sherlock said lazily without taking his eyes off his phone.
"How'd you know I was up?"
"Your body shifted a millimetre to the left when the sun started bothering you too much, the rhythm of your breathing began to increase and you stopped snoring."
"I do not!"
A small smile crossed Sherlock's lips and there was a twinkling in his pale eyes. "John was called into work, and he left Isla in the very capable hands of Mrs. Hudson. She'll bring her back around lunchtime. Mycroft offers you his congratulations and says if you are in need of an attorney he'd be more than happy to help."
"My-- Mycroft? How does he?" A piercing glare from Sherlock told Greg that he should know better than to question the power of Mycroft Holmes. "Of course. Of course he bloody knows. Why wouldn't he?"
"Fatcroft didn't have to dig too far. He read John's most recent blog post."
Greg lifted an eyebrow. "Um, the one about your penguin theft?"
Suddenly Sherlock's mobile flooded his view. The silver-haired man shifted so he was lying on his back instead of on his side and cracked his stiff neck. However, to Greg's surprise Sherlock burrowed his head in the DI's chest.
The page that was up on the phone was of John's blog. It was dated 24th December and titled 'Home for the Hols'.
Most of the world enjoys the winter hols with their loved ones. For some it's the only time of year they are able to see their extended family for a good homemade sit-down meal and chat about the past year.
I never understood it myself. My family was pretty small and to be honest, none of us got on well. Family gatherings were spent with the telly on high volume with little to no conversation as the alcohol flowed freely. I've never had a happy holiday memory until the past few years when Sherlock, Greg, and of course my daughter entered my life.
Not to get domestic or bore everyone, but by now if you are a regular reader of my blog you are aware of my relationship with both Sherlock Holmes and Greg. We've never hid it and we're proud of being a triad. Greg has two teenage children from his previous marriage and I have my young daughter from my previous marriage. Together the three of us raise my daughter and live in a flat. It can be crazy and hectic with my schedule at the clinic, Greg's work at the Yard and Sherlock's odd hours with his experiments and cases. But we make it work.
You're probably wondering about Greg's kids. Due to a judge's ruling, my partner can only see his children on New Years and on their birthdays. Don't go crazy and jump ahead and blame Greg's ex. It isn't her fault. If it was up to her Greg would see his kids way more often. The judge for their case thought because of Greg's career choice, he was most unsuitable to have custody even 50% of the time.
Greg never mentions it or tries to let it show too often, but it breaks his heart that he can't be around his children. In the past five years he's missed his son changing into a man, his daughter breaking her wrist and having a cast. Greg will never be able to get back the moment when his son brought home a girl for a first date. He will never get to go to his daughter's first chess match and see her win second prize. Those moments have passed and because of fate or whatever you'd like to call it, Greg wasn't there. And not by his choice.
Sometimes, when he talks to one of his kids on the phone he looks so sad. I wonder what it would be like if I missed all of Isla's important life stages. I don't know how I could go on. Greg is a stronger man than I will ever be.
Tomorrow is Christmas day. Undoubtedly, my daughter will wake us up at some godforsaken hour and we'll open presents, eat til our bellies pop and watch Christmas specials on the telly while Sherlock does his usual commentary. Greg will call his kids, and pass the phone around so all of us get to take turns chatting. But it won't be the same. It never is.
I apologize that this post is so sentimental. I had a lot of frustration to get out. Greg found out last night that his kids won't be joining us for New Years due to circumstances that can't be blamed on anyone but nature. However, we have the good news that his ex and her husband want to renegotiate the custody of the kids so Greg will see them more, a lot more.
I guess what I am trying to say is… I never appreciated the holidays until I found my family. I hope that everyone who reads this will spend theirs with those they love.
Happy Christmas.
There were over two-hundred comments on this entry. Two-hundred! John's blog was popular and the most he'd ever got was around forty comments on a single post. Two-hundred was insane. Most of the comments were from users who had never stopped by before either because Greg didn't recognize any of their handles.
koolskat: Such a heartwarming post, Dr. Watson!
greentoasters: I had no idea you were in a triple! Me and my two girlfriends support you 100%! Subscribing!
petitearrow: You and your family will be in my thoughts this holiday season. Happy Christmas.
dspwh: I'm sorry that you dealt with so much unhappiness in your childhood. Glad that you found others who can show you what it truly means to be happy in this world.
christmasmincepie06: Greg, man. I totally feel you. I'm divorced as well and barely get to see my spawn either. Psyched that your ex is going to let you see your kids more.
There were many more like that. It warmed his heart that strangers, perfect strangers had reached out and commented on John's post. They didn't skim it. They read it and related to it because it meant something to them as well.
And when had John had the time to write this? Yesterday he was busy working on an update for the penguin theft and now… this? And why had John gone out of his way to discard the other entry and do this instead?
A baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. "It's already gone viral in the UK. #homeforthehols, #solidarityforgreg and #ot3bakerstreet are the top three trending hashtags on Twitter besides #ChristmasEve and #FatherChristmas. Reddit, Tumblr and Facebook are all buzzing about John's post. The news agents are starting to catch on too."
Greg took a sharp inhale out. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. "Sherlock what are you doing?" he asked just as his younger lover kissed the line of hair just above the waistband of his boxer shorts and moaned.
"I would hope that you weren't that stupid."
The DI moaned and bucked his hips as Sherlock nuzzled his cock through the thin fabric. "But you usually don't-- ahh-- you usually don't do this."
Sherlock gazed up through half-lidded lust filled eyes. "Greg, just because I'm asexual doesn't mean I don't occasionally indulge."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes but it was kind of hard when Sherlock was looking at him like that. "I know that but why--"
"No talking," Sherlock commanded before pulling Greg's full erection out of his boxers.
Greg couldn't help but let out his wanton moans as Sherlock's languid pace drove him wild. He gripped Sherlock's dark curls and massaged his scalp to urge his lover on. Sherlock looked even more beautiful as the bright sun hit his pale skin. Greg soon came undone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They had finished up Christmas Eve dinner and were snuggled up on the sofa and watching a yule log burn on the telly. Isla was tucked in her bed and eagerly waiting for Father Christmas. Earlier in the evening, Sherlock had played festive Christmas music on his violin for them all. Isla danced (which was more like twirling and swinging her arms) with Greg and John as Sherlock performed and glided graceful about the flat.
Sherlock was in his rightful place in the middle once more, Greg on the right and John on the left. The consulting detective had decided to sprawl out and had his head in Greg's lap and feet hanging over the John's side of the couch. It had been a long day for everyone and soon they'd have to get up and place Isla's gifts under the tree. But right now, Greg was content to enjoy this perfect moment with his partners listening to the crackling fire and watching the glow of flickering lights on the Christmas tree.
Everything would be fine.