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Sherlock wakes up around one in the afternoon. He had went to bed late, staying up to work on an experiment, so he wakes up late.
He sits up and the strange feeling is immediate. It’s like he doesn’t have any strength in his core. He’s not sure what it really is. Maybe his skin feels a bit more sensitive than normal, or maybe it’s the air. The bed is missing John, who left behind several short strands of golden hair and twisted sheets. Sherlock isn’t sure of a lot right now, but he just really misses John, misses his solid body beside him. He could really use a cuddle…
Blinking awake, his senses become aware, sharp as ever. Something is wrong. He feels unsettled. Usually, if he doesn’t wake up with John in bed with him, a gentle scent of tea will drift through the flat. He’ll wake up and John will be in the kitchen sipping tea, reading the paper. Now, he stands up. He feels insubstantial, like if someone tried to touch him, their hand would go straight through him. Against the dull scent of nothingness, he feels like he doesn’t exist. He feels empty. He treads to the kitchen, dread settling in his stomach.
John isn’t there.
Panic starts building deep in his chest. Please, please, please. Maybe he did something wrong and John is sleeping upstairs in his old room, please, please.
John isn’t there either.
He’d go downstairs to check Mrs Hudson’s flat, but all of a sudden, as he stands at the top of the stairs, he feels himself getting smaller and smaller. It doesn’t feel safe for him to leave the flat. He’s a kid again and Father—Father—
He uses the last of his energy to get to the sofa, where he sits.
Where is John? He wraps his arms around himself and rocks. What if—what if—
He wants to hurt himself. Everyone always leaves him, hurts him. The impulse jolts through him ickily. He buries his face in his hands, in his shame. He settles with crying—silently, the way father taught him. He doesn’t feel very brave right now.
Father would—father would be angry with him because—because—he was clumsy and—he wasn’t a good boy—he was wrong, he was rotten, and father hated him, it was all his fault.
What if John—what if John—he is so scared, he muffles his sobs in his hand—what if John doesn’t want him anymore?
Father hated him. Sherlock wants to claw himself apart because he is alone, abandoned, and no one could ever love him.
He’s in his t-shirt. His trails his fingertips up his arms, scars from his past. In a wave of anger, he scratches down his forearm, leaving a red trail. He does it again and again until he is bleeding. It staves off the tears and makes him forget about John’s absence until he realizes what he’s done.
He takes little gasps of air, sobs silently. Please, please, please, he silently begs. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s really scared.
He’s just ugly and stupid and doesn’t deserve John. The self-loathing settles deep in him, a balm. He stops crying.
The door swings open some time later. Out of long time habit, he flinches, but reassuring footsteps present themselves.
“Sherlock?” John says, and that voice is everything.
He burrows deeper into the sofa’s cool leather, ignoring John—but, oh, the fact that John can tell this is different from his usual strops—the tears come again, tearing through his body, making him heave.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he hears John sigh behind him. He hears John set something down on the coffee table. He hears John toe off his shoes. A warm body climbs onto the sofa with him. He feels icky, undeserving. He remembers the scratch on his arm and wraps his arms tightly around himself, trembling.
“Sherlock, can you turn around for me?” John says, carding a hand through Sherlock’s hair, thumb caressing the tip of his ear.
He shakes his head slowly, trembling with tears.
“Sherlock, please? My good boy, for me?”
He sobs even harder, silently.
John settles firmly behind him, his front pressed to his back, his hands rubbing warmly against his stomach. Sherlock is held for some time while he cries, and he needs John so much, but he is reminded of—of—and his arm—
“Oh, my beautiful boy,” John finally whispers into his shaking shoulders, placing a kiss on the nape of his neck, “I love you so much. I love you forever. Please tell me what’s wrong, hm?”
John is perfect like this, chipping away at him bit by bit. What if—what if—
He turns around. It takes all of his strength, and once he does it, he buries his face in John’s strong shoulder, sobbing. “Da—a—Daddy!” he sobs. “I’m sorry, Daddy!”
Immediately, John wraps around him, gathering his small, shaking body into his hold. “Shh,” he whispers, “Shh, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here, my darling boy.”
Shaking his head, Sherlock pushes away from John and holds his arm out, the one where he hurt himself. “S-s-s-s-sorry. Sorry, sorry.”
“Shh, shh, Sherlock,” John just says, frowning but not in a mad way, more like thoughtful or sorry. He gathers Sherlock back into his arms after seeing. He rocks him. “My brave baby boy, thank you for showing me.”
“Daddy,” Sherlock whimpers into his shoulder.
“Baby boy, it’s alright, all’s forgiven, Daddy loves you,” John says quietly, calmly.
John makes sure to be extra gentle with Sherlock. He saw the way Sherlock flinched when he came in, knows the exact reason Sherlock won’t let himself cry out loud. “I love you,” he whispers to his sweet boy. “I’m proud of you.” He makes sure his arms are snug around his boy’s body, but also not tight enough that Sherlock would feel trapped. He doesn’t even clench his jaw at how Holmes Sr treated this sweet, sweet boy. He keeps his muscles relaxed, non-threatening. “You’re safe, Sherlock. Daddy’s not going anywhere.” He’ll never shout, he’ll never hurt Sherlock, never even act brusquely in front of his little boy.
Sherlock squeezes his Daddy tightly, holding onto him with his arms and legs. “I—woke up, an—an—an—I felt weird, an’ Daddy wasn’t there, an’ Daddy is always there—an—an—”
“I’m so sorry, my sweet boy,” John says. “I love you very much. I’ll never leave you. I don’t ever want to leave my boy alone, do you hear me? I won’t do it again. Hm?”
“Daddy,” Sherlock whimpers again, “scared.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” Daddy says kindly, kissing his nose, not even mad that Sherlock is so—
He shakes his head, burrowing back into Daddy’s warmth. He doesn’t want to ruin it. “Wuv’oo, Daddy,” he says in a tiny voice.
“I love you too, Sherlock,” Daddy says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning, and I tried really hard to be back before my sweet little bug woke up, but do you want to know where Daddy went?”
“Uh, may—maybe,” Sherlock says. Daddy huffs a smile and presses a kiss into Sherlock’s curls.
“I was out shopping because I wanted to give my good boy a present,” Daddy begins, but his good boy has already perked up.
“Present?” he says.
“Yes, my sweet boy! A present.”
“For me?” he says.
“For you,” Daddy says, “only for my sweet Sherlock.”
At the title, Sherlock blushes and buries his face in Daddy’s strong chest. “What is it, Daddy?” he asks hopefully.
Daddy unwraps an arm around Sherlock and reaches behind him. Sherlock hears the crinkle of the bag that Daddy brought back with him. He closes his eyes, not sure about how he feels without both of Daddy’s arms around him.
Then Daddy deposits something soft and squishy and furry in his arms! “You can open your eyes now, sweetheart,” John says gently, kissing his boy’s eyelids.
“Hm—Daddy!” Sherlock squeals, “A BEE!!!!”
Daddy chuckles happily, glad his sweet boy is pleased with his gift. “Do you like it, my good boy?”
“Daddy, I wuv it!” Sherlock says, pressing kisses all over his new plush bee. “Hello, Bee,” he coos.
Daddy gazes down at his darling baby. He is worried about Sherlock’s self-harm, even if it is only a scratch, but now is not the time to talk about it. Right now his sweet boy needs reassurance that he isn’t in trouble and that Daddy is here and loves him and Daddy will never, ever leave him alone. He is there to make his darling safe and protected. Most of all, he wants Sherlock to be confident in this knowledge.
“Did my sweet boy eat today?” he asks.
Immediately, Sherlock stops fussing over his new toy and clutches it to his chest tightly. He gazes at his Daddy, who smiles.
“Does that mean ‘no,’ little bug?”
“Sorry, Daddy…”
Daddy plants a big kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Do you want toast? Eggs?”
“Uh… pancakes?” Sherlock asks hopefully.
“Pancakes it is,” Daddy says happily. Pancakes are more work but he doesn’t ever want his baby to think he doesn’t deserve them. Big Sherlock has enough problems with food as it is, and Little Sherlock seems to have fewer. Daddy would like to keep it that way.
Daddy slides a hand into Sherlock’s and Sherlock toddles after Daddy to the kitchen, his other arm clutching Bee. He sits cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs, watching Daddy whisk away. He wants to help, but Daddy doesn’t like him near the stove. That’s one of their rules, especially after that one time Sherlock burned his hand….
While Daddy cooks, Sherlock shyly tells him stories about Bee, like where he came from and stuff he likes. And Daddy lets him talk for the most part, but Sherlock knows Daddy is listening to every word he says, because sometimes Daddy asks questions like, “What is Bee’s favorite flower?”
“Uh, chrysanthemums, because queen bee likes their nectar best! And Bee always wants to make his queen happy. Daddy, did you know Bee likes dragon snaps better though? Cause mummy liked them better, but daddy—” he cuts himself off.
Daddy makes sure he doesn’t leave his baby hanging. “What is it, love?” he asks, softly, turning from the pan.
“N—nothing, Daddy,” Sherlock says, eyes downcast and bottom lip wobbling. “Wrong Daddy. Long time ago.”
Daddy nods, noting that Sherlock is much more likely to accidentally let slip details about his childhood when he is little. He gently puts down his spatula and goes to Sherlock and slowly gives him a big hug. “Did you know Daddy is so glad you’re here?” he whispers. “Daddy is so lucky to have you.”
Sherlock shudders, feels tears rushing to his eyes. But Daddy holds him until he’s okay again. And by then the pancakes are ready to eat.
Daddy made pancakes in the shape of Winnie the Pooh characters, because Pooh loves honey and so does Sherlock. Daddy gives Sherlock the honey, which is kept in a plastic bottle the shape of a bear. Sherlock drizzles his honey on his pancakes, making sure not to squish the bear too hard. He watches as the golden honey lands on his Pooh pancake. Pooh is happy because now he has honey! Sherlock smiles proudly. Daddy presses a kiss into his hair.
Then Sherlock remembers Bee. “Bzz, bzzz,” he says, lifting Bee up and zooming him through the air towards the honey.
Daddy smiles. “Does Bee want the honey?”
Sherlock giggles. “No, Daddy… I want the honey!”
“Better eat it up, then,” Daddy says, “before Bee eats all your pancakes.”
Sherlock starts eating. Daddy sits across from him, carefully watching him and eating his own pancakes. Sherlock feels better—safe—when Daddy watches him. He knows Daddy would never let anything bad happen to him. He puts a big bite of pancake in his mouth and smiles at Daddy.
Daddy smiles at Sherlock, too. He reaches over and wipes some honey from Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock wriggles in his chair, feeling small and safe.
“Daddy cuddle,” he says.
Daddy smiles and drags his chair and plate to Sherlock’s side. He puts one strong arm around Sherlock and with the other brings a piece of Pooh pancake to Sherlock’s mouth.
“If we cuddle will you eat?” Daddy says, kissing Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock drapes his legs over Daddy’s like he is being cradled and snuggles into Daddy and opens his mouth and gets the pancake! “Daddy feed Sherlock.”
“That’s right, bub,” Daddy says proudly. “Daddy loves Sherlock so Daddy wants to make sure baby’s little tummy is always full and happy.”
They stay that way, sitting as close as possible together, Daddy feeding his baby bite by bite. Sherlock likes eating more when Daddy feeds him than when he feeds himself. Food is so overwhelming, but Daddy knows exactly how small his bites need to be…. Soon, Sherlock has eaten two pancakes and is feeling droopy. He nuzzles sleepily into Daddy’s arm.
“Daddy…” Sherlock yawns.
“Yes, darling?”
“Play?”
Daddy pretends to think about it, stroking an imaginary beard. Little Sherlock squeals, amused. “Daddyyyyyy!! Play!! Play doctor?”
“Hmmm,” Daddy says, “I think my darling boy is more sleepy than playful right now, hm? How does a nice nap with Daddy sound?”
“No…” Sherlock pouts. “Daddy and Sherlock play!”
John thinks about it. He knows Sherlock didn’t just recover suddenly from the anguish he was in that morning. The clinginess that Sherlock’s showing is definitely real, and he loves him for it, but John knows it’s also because Sherlock wants to make sure his Daddy stays. He wonders about how to let Sherlock know that Daddy belongs to him, that Daddy will never leave. Playing might show Sherlock that he’s there for him, and that the sweet child in Sherlock can count on his Daddy. Playing their favorite game might introduce some normalcy to their day. On the other hand, though, he can tell Sherlock is tuckered out from emotional exhaustion. And he knows Sherlock trusts him to do what’s best for him, to know what he really needs. So he drops a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, just above those sweet drooping eyelids. He uses both hands and squeezes Sherlock’s cute cheeks with his palms. “How about we play doctor in bed?” he proposes.
Sherlock frowns. Is Daddy tricking him? “O-okay,” he says.
Daddy leaves the plates to be washed later. Sherlock holds Daddy’s hand and hugs his Bee and they go down the hall together to the bedroom. Daddy guides Sherlock to the bed and tucks him in.
“Daddy doctor?” Sherlock says hopefully.
“Yes, my sweet boy.” Daddy goes to the desk and gets his toy medical kit, but sneaks in some real bandages. When they first played, Daddy had wanted to play with his real medicine tools, but Sherlock told him the importance of toy medicine tools, so they have this one set made out of plastic, and the box is white with a big red cross on it, and there are three little casts and ten fake plastic bandages in it, and one pair of blunt plastic scissors and a plastic needle. Sherlock counted.
Daddy pours all of the toy doctor tools onto the bed. “Hello, Sherlock,” he says, “I’m Doctor Daddy. What seems to be the problem today?”
Sherlock smiles. He loves it when Daddy is Doctor. He wiggles into the bed and blankets, feeling warm and happy. He puts his hand on his tummy. “Daddy, tummy.”
“Oh no! Is my poor boy’s tummy hurting?” Doctor Daddy says. He takes a big plastic stethoscope that’s pink and light baby blue from the bag and puts it on. Sherlock giggles. Daddy looks silly. Daddy puts on end of the stethoscope on his belly and Sherlock jumps and squeals because it’s cold and it tickles.
“I will have to listen to your tummy,” Daddy says seriously. Sherlock nods seriously, too. This is important. “Hmmm….” Daddy says. “I hear something…. I hear… pancakes!”
Sherlock smiles, eyes falling shut. He feels soft and warm and safe. “What will you do, Daddy?”
“Hmmm,” Daddy says. His voice is so gentle. “If there are pancakes in my sweet boy’s tummy, they will need to stay there. I know how much my sweet boy loves pancakes.”
Sherlock smiles, keeping his eyes closed. He feels floaty. Maybe he is tired. “Bee has a broken wing,” he says. “Band-Aid?”
“Good job, my sweet boy,” Daddy says. “Bee needs a band aid to be better.”
Sherlock listens to Daddy search around for one of the plastic bandaids and puts it on Bee.
“Bzzz, bzzz. All better,” Sherlock says quietly. They lay there, happy and warm and content together, the plastic medical toys on the bed between them. Then Sherlock rolls over on his side, facing Daddy. “Daddy?”
“Yes, bub?”
“…My arm hurts.”
“What happened, baby boy?”
Sherlock brings out the arm with the scratch. “…Don’t know.”
Daddy kisses baby’s scratch. Sherlock opens his eyes. “My sweet boy,” Daddy says. “I know how these scratches are made.”
Baby frowns. “How Daddy?”
“It’s because my sweet boy was sad, hm?”
Tears well up in Sherlock’s eyes. But he still feels warm and safe. And Daddy is being gentle with his arm. His voice is like fleece.
“And when my sweet boy is sad, sometimes his arms look like this…”
Sherlock holds his Bee tightly.
“Daddy knows what to do, though… Daddy will stitch up his sweet baby boy and put a Band-Aid on it! And my good boy will be sweet and good as new.”
Sherlock sighs, snuggling into his Bee. “Okay, Daddy. But, no needles.”
Daddy kisses the crooks of his elbows. “No needles, baby boy,” he promises.
Sherlock brings Bee up to his face with his other arm. His chest feels so full, like his heart is about to burst. He feels Daddy run something cool and wet against his arm. Suddenly he wants to cry, because no one before Daddy even knew about his arms. No one touched him there. But… then Daddy is rubbing the sewing thread thing around his arm and then there are real bandages, not toy ones, and Sherlock feels good now, a lot better. Then Daddy is wrapping some cloth around his arm. And there were no needles, because Sherlock doesn’t like needles, but Daddy still made him all better.
He sniffs. Maybe he is crying after all.
“Sherlock?” Daddy says softly. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “Does my sweet boy have a fever?”
Sherlock rolls over. “No…” he is very tired. He holds Bee to his face and cries a little bit. Bee is very soft but now his fur is getting a little wet. Sherlock rubs his face against Bee. He feels soft and slow and a little bit painful.
Sherlock puts his thumb in his mouth. Not to suck. He just likes it there. Comforting. When Daddy is here, he cries a lot. But it feels good, like his hurting heart can let go. Daddy says he’s glad Sherlock cries. Because sometimes little boys need to cry to feel better. “Let it all out. Daddy’s got you.”
It feels like he can’t stop crying. Daddy puts all the toys away quietly and gently without leaving the bed. Careful and safe. Then Daddy scoots over and takes Sherlock into his arms. Daddy noses at the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock feels Daddy’s t-shirt get soaked with his tears. It feels kind of gross against his cheek, but Daddy is warm, so he keeps his head there, where Daddy can kiss him.
“You’re crying about everything, hm?” Daddy says soft and slow. His voice is sweet like melons. “Everything that’s ever made you sad…. My poor baby boy….”
Sherlock whimpers, quietly, then reins himself in. Daddy sighs. His boy feels too much guilt for his innocence. He doesn’t know how to be okay. Doesn’t know how to cry out loud. Daddy knows sometimes the guilt washes over his boy, threatens to drown him, and in those times it is up to Daddy to help his sweetest boy. “Daddy forgives you, baby,” he whispers. “For your arms. For everything. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”
Sherlock shudders and Daddy rubs his back again and again. His hand makes a steady rhythm that Sherlock can rely on. Soon his breathing matches Daddy’s.
When Sherlock has cried himself out, Daddy kisses his hair. Daddy thinks it is time for some gentle reminders.
“Baby,” Daddy says. He fastens his hand around Sherlock’s. “I promise to always be in the flat when you wake up, hm?”
Sherlock sighs, clutches him tighter. Needs him. “Okay, Daddy.”
“And when you’re scared, even if it’s not the morning, text me or call me, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy….” He ducks his head. Sniffles. “Sorry I was bad today.”
“You weren’t bad, sweet boy. I know I gave you a scare. I’ll try not to, but when you wake up feeling bad or just weird, come find me, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“I am always here for my sweet boy. Do you remember why?” Daddy asks, soft, gentle, quiet.
Sherlock blushes, buries his head in John’s shoulder. “Nooo.”
Daddy smiles gently. “Because Daddy loves you. You are the most important thing in the world to Daddy, and I will protect you, keep you safe, and love you forever.”
Sherlock smiles, just a little bit.
Daddy kisses his cheek and nuzzles his nose. “Now, who’s my best boy?”
Sherlock looks straight at Daddy with his pretty eyes. “Me!
“Good boy,” Daddy praises.
Sherlock sniffles and yawns.
“Now,” Daddy says, “I think it’s naptime for my sweet Sherlock.”
“Daddy stay?” Sherlock asks, and Daddy’s heart melts. How could he ever leave?
“Daddy’s not going anywhere, baby,” Daddy says, pulling the blankets over the two of them. “Daddy loves his sweet boy.”
Sherlock’s eyes close. He snuffles into Daddy’s firm chest. Lulled by his Daddy’s warmth, his breathing evens out. John looks down at his sweet, innocent, good Sherlock. He’ll watch over him. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.