Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2015 / Day 7 - Fanfiction Free Choice
asteraeceaeblue said: Sherlock taking care of his babies when they are sick and Molly is not home? Making them special toast with the crusts cut off and trying to do things “Just like mummy does”?
Just Like Mummy
Everything would be fine, he’d said. Nothing would go wrong. He wouldn’t take any cases lower than a 9, and if he did, he’d be sure to bring the children to John and Mary’s house, if Mrs. Hudson or his parents weren’t available. They would all be fine, she would only be gone a week, the conference was the first one she’d gone to since the twins had been born three years ago, and for God’s sake Molly, I know how to take care of our children!
Well. So much for ‘fine’. So much for ‘I know how to take care of our children.’
Because from what he’d been able to ascertain, he’d never been more wrong in his entire life, up to and including how devastatingly he’d underestimated Irene Adler.
Not twenty-five minutes after they’d seen Molly off at Heathrow, in the midst of his explanation as to where exactly Budapest was located and why the twins couldn’t go with her, Edmund had sneezed. Violently. Twelve times in a row. Then Scarlett, never one to allow her brother to top her, had sniffled and coughed and the next thing he knew Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, had two rather sick toddlers on his hands.
It wasn’t, as he’d first feared, the flu; just a simple case of the common cold, John had assured him when he’d called his friend in a – not a panic, Sherlock Holmes never panicked, but in a state of understandable concern. Yes. Understandable concern, and John Watson could take his snickers and condescending attitude and shove it up his…
He winced at the miserable sounding whine from his daughter, who currently lay on one end of the sofa, her head on her favorite pillow – the Union Jack – while Edmund lay opposite her, with his head on a large, fluffy stuffed bear. A bright blue one with a rather saggy ear, the one Edmund tugged on when he was upset. He was tugging on it now, and both toddlers were staring at him out of sad, red-rimmed eyes.
He had set up the vaporizer he’d purchased that very morning on a small stool set carefully a few feet away from them, just far enough that they couldn’t knock into it if they decided to slide off the sofa, but close enough for the vapors to hopefully do some good.
“What is it, sweetpea?” he asked Scarlett, dutifully utilizing the nickname Molly used whenever Scarlett needed cosseting, although he couldn’t quite manage the loving coo his wife employed so effortlessly.
Apparently he was even worse at it than he thought, judging by the way Scarlett scrunched up her forehead and wrinkled her little nose. “Mummy say swee’pea,” Edmund corrected him crossly. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and mumbled, “Not Dada.”
Well. Apparently that was that. “What is it, Scarlett?” Sherlock corrected himself patiently.
“Drink?” she asked, then gave a pathetic little cough and opened her eyes as wide as they would go. “Doda?”
Sherlock scowled down at his daughter; sick or not, Scarlett knew very well how to pronounce her esses – and she also knew soda was only a treat for very special occasions. “Juice,” he countered firmly, then marched into the kitchen, stoutly ignoring the wails that erupted from her throat at being so thwarted. He poured out the juice into the little sippy cup he knew his daughter preferred – the one with the cheerful red dragon on a bright green background that always made him faintly nauseous – and carried it back into the sitting room.
His expression softened at the sight of his twins now cuddled together under Edmund’s blue-and-yellow plaid blanket, the one he’d been swathed in while Scarlett had insisted on “no blankie!” because she was too hot. Edmund’s arms were wrapped around his sister’s sturdy little form, and her cries had dropped to small sniffles as he whispered something nonsensical into her hair. Well nonsensical to the adults in their lives; like all twins, they’d developed something of a private language of their own that neither Sherlock nor Molly – nor one of Mycroft’s most expert cryptographers – had yet to decipher. In fact, the only people who came close were Mary – whom Sherlock firmly believed to be faking – and Isabelle Watson. Who refused to explain anything, even to her beloved Unca Lock.
All of which was beside the point. Scarlett’s pout vanished at the sight of her favorite cup; she sat up and made grabby hands, and Sherlock made sure she had it firmly in her grasp before letting go. Then it was Edmund’s turn to fuss a bit, needing his nose wiped and piece of toast with the crusts cut off. Sherlock felt a sense of accomplishment when this effort, at least, was met with approval. “Fanks, Dada, you cuts it just like Mummy!”
The rest of the week passed with both missteps and triumphs on Sherlock’s part, but at last the children were feeling better. On the day Molly was due home he managed to get them both into clothing rather than pyjamas – and himself as well, although that was essentially all they’d worn the entire time – and shoes, although as always with Edmund it was a fight. They were sitting on the sofa waiting for Molly’s arrival…and it was thus she found the three of them, cuddled up together and fast asleep. She smiled, kissed each of them on the forehead, deposited her suitcase in the bedroom, and covered them with the afghan Mrs. Hudson had crocheted upon Molly’s pregnancy. Then she curled up in Sherlock’s chair and just watched them sleep, content and happy to be home again.