Archive of Our Own

"All right. Yes. I understand. Yes, thanks for calling. No, I'll call the police, thanks, you've--" Done enough. "You just get back to the other kids."

John pressed the disconnect button on his mobile, feeling fairly disconnected himself. He dialed Mrs Holmes.

She didn't say hello when she picked up. She said, "What's wrong?"

"I just spoke to Sherlock's teacher. He's disappeared. She said he was right there reading one second, and then the next--gone."

There was a silence of several seconds.

"Right," Mrs Holmes said. "Let's not assume kidnapping. It would be far easier to take him after school than out of classes and less likely to arouse suspicion as well. We've no real reason to believe he hasn't just got bored and wandered off. I'll inform the appropriate people."

"What can I do?"

"You can go and fetch Mycroft. Just in case. And take Anthea with you."

*

"I need to go to Harrods," Sherlock told the woman at the tube station. "How much is it?"

She frowned at him. "You're a little young to be going on the train by yourself, dear."

Oh. Right. He gave her a big smile, with teeth and bright eyes. Adults seemed to like that one, though to Sherlock it always felt a bit like he was snarling.

"I'm not alone. My mummy said I could get the tickets by myself, she's over there." He waved in the direction of a woman pacing and talking on her mobile.

Her face relaxed, and she sold him the tickets and called him a big boy, which was silly. He knew he was of below average height and weight for his age.

He got on the train for Knightsbridge and sat next to a man reading a newspaper. Hopefully people would think the man was his father. It was like kids were pets in this city. If you were out in public without clearly belonging to someone, they probably picked you up and took you to the dogs' home.

School might as well be the dogs' home. He'd thought he'd have until next September at least, but John had found him some "gifted" programme that agreed to take him for the month before Christmas after they saw his test scores. It was hard to get into and only on a trial basis and blah, blah, blah, dull.

John had said he must try to get along, so he did try. It wasn't his fault all the kids there were so stupid. Half of them couldn't even read yet, and only three of them spoke another language, and the teachers tried to get Sherlock to read things like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Watership Down, which was about rabbits that talked.

John had also said Sherlock mustn't run off again. Sherlock bit his lip and wondered how angry John would be. John hadn't ever really been angry with him yet. That was when the others had left, generally. When Sherlock did something that made them angry. Well, once it was Mycroft, but usually it was Sherlock.

But this was different, he told himself. He couldn't buy John's Christmas present with John standing right there. That was obviously stupid.

*

"Have you tried his mobile?" was the first thing Mycroft said when John walked in.

John blinked. "How did you--"

"There is nothing else that would make you look like that. And you don't like to interrupt my lessons." He gestured to the whiteboard, which was covered in mathematical equations of the sort that involved Greek letters and symbols John was entirely unfamiliar with. "It reminds you I'm smarter than you are. Have you?"

"Yes. It rings out. Your mum's tracking the signal, but..."

"If he's been kidnapped, they would throw it away, and if he's gone off on his own, he'd throw it away."

"Yes. We're going to his school. I want to talk to his teacher."

John waited while Mycroft said goodbye to his maths tutor. Well, maths and Portuguese, really, as Miss Pires only spoke Portuguese and Japanese, and Mycroft said his Portuguese needed more work. It did, on occasion, manage to make John feel rather depressingly dim.

Mycroft stopped just outside the building, before they reached Anthea, who was standing guard at the bottom of the steps. He looked up at John. He didn't say anything, but John could guess what was going through his mind.

"We'll find him," John promised.

*

Perfume for Mrs Hudson. (She liked Chanel No. 5 and bought it in tiny bottles that she kept all lined up on her windowsill once they were empty. The glass made rainbows when the sun shone through it.) Gloves for Detective Inspector Lestrade, to wear when he looked at dead bodies in the cold. Fancy chocolates for Mycroft, that was easy. Mummy and John were harder.

Sherlock wandered through the halls of brightly lit bits and baubles, glass and silk and leather, rows and rows of Christmas trees (both fake and real) covered in shiny ornaments. Every surface reflected everything else, even the floor. Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. There was just too much of everything.

The jewelry was particularly reflective, but there were watches. That was good. Mummy obviously needed a watch; she was late for dinner almost every time John invited her, and one time she hadn't come at all. Sherlock looked them over. A lot of them didn't even have numbers. Did they want you to guess at the time? Stupid.

"Hello, little man," the woman behind the counter said. "What are you looking for?"

"A watch for my mum. How much is this one?"

"The Rolex? Sweetie, that's more than a thousand pounds. Why don't you come and look at these over here."

After the gloves and the perfume, Sherlock only had three hundred pounds left, so he went and looked at the ones she was pointing to. He had a little nagging thought at the back of his mind that maybe he shouldn't have lifted John's bank card from his wallet. But he only got five pounds a week allowance, and how was he supposed to buy decent presents with that? It was really John's fault for taking away his credit card, and anyway, if John didn't want him to use it, he shouldn't have let Sherlock watch him put in his PIN all those times. It would've been harder not to remember it.

"That one," he said.

"Are you sure? It's a little..."

"It has big numbers so she won't miss the time and be late. It's perfect." It was black and chunky and digital. Probably you could set alarms on it too. That would be useful.

"This one's a self-winder," the woman said, holding up one with a thinner strap and a silvery face. "Never needs batteries, and it shows the phases of the moon, look."

Sherlock looked. There was a little half moon showing in a window. That was pretty cool, actually. "All right," he said. "Can you wrap it? With a bow?"

She could, and did. He paid, waving to the background of shoppers to indicate that his dad was waiting for him. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to have a father, and if his father had been anything like John. He should ask Mycroft. Mycroft never talked about him, but he must remember him, at least a little.

He had one hundred pounds left for John's present. Well, one hundred and fifteen, counting what he'd saved up from his allowance.

*

Sherlock's teacher was a tall woman with dark hair and a widow's peak like a knife blade. It contrasted rather severely with her reddened nose and the damp tissue up her sleeve.

"I took my eyes off him for five minutes at most! He was in the corner, reading Gray's Anatomy."

John sighed. "I wondered where that had got to."

"He seemed quite happy! He even let one of the little girls share his crisps at lunch."

"That's promising," John admitted. "Look, try not to worry. I don't believe anyone could've snatched him out of the classroom without you noticing. He's not the type to go quietly. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything he said today that seemed unusual, anything he took an interest in that he hadn't before?"

"Well, there were the frogs..."

She had a list. John realized that inquiring what Sherlock had done or said that might qualify as "unusual" was sort of asking for it, but it seemed an excessively long list.

"Oh, and when we talked about Christmas, he actually listened. That did seem unusual. For him."

"What did you talk about? Exactly?"

"Well...the stories, of course. Both Jesus and Santa. A lot of the children asked whether it was true or just a myth, so we discussed that for a while. And then Jenny asked about mistletoe. Jenny's the girl he shared his crisps with." She smiled a bit at that. "I think she has plans for him. And then I asked what they wanted in the way of gifts, and Sherlock asked about what grown ups got for each other."

"Harrods!" Mycroft said. "He's at Harrods. I should've seen it before."

"What? How do you know?"

"We were playing Mornington Crescent two weeks ago and he was making me tell him what's near all the tube stops--I think he wants to memorise the entire city--and he asked about Harrods specifically."

"Right, let's go. Sorry," he said, to Sherlock's teacher. "We'll let you know if we find him."

She looked confused, but less upset than when they'd arrived.

"Where do you suppose he got the money?" Anthea said, without looking up from her Blackberry.

John reached for his wallet with a sinking feeling.

*

The jumper was perfect for John. It was very, very soft, and it was the same blue as the little butterflies on the moor. Sherlock missed it sometimes, though London was far more exciting and full of things to do and see. He missed how empty it was and how alone he was in the middle of it. Not always, but sometimes. Usually when he was at school.

The jumper was also five pounds more than he had. He glared at the price tag, but it didn't give in. He didn't understand how a single piece of clothing could cost so much. He was sure the jumpers John had now hadn't cost so much.

He still had John's bank card. He didn't think he could get away with using it, but he could get more cash from it. He'd have to leave the store though, and there was only one blue jumper left in John's size.

He'd just have to sneak it out with him. Then he could get the money, sneak it back in, and pay for it. It should be easy.

*

Lestrade set aside the last report and leaned back in his chair. He was caught up. It happened about two times a year. The lead up to Christmas was generally one of them, a slow period before things really picked up for the holidays. He'd probably manage it again some time in March or April, just before the weather got nice. Even killers enjoyed sunshine and balmy temperatures.

Donovan knocked and stuck her head just past the doorway. A smile hovered around her mouth. One might even say it verged on a smirk. "Sir? There's a kid here claims he knows you."

Lestrade frowned. "Kid? What's his name?"

"He won't say. Won't say anything, won't tell us his who his parents are or where he lives, just that he wants to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Her mouth twitched. "He says you're his nanny's boyfriend."

"Sherlock? Is he okay?" Lestrade found he'd shot out of his chair and made it halfway around his desk, but no, of course he was okay. Donovan wouldn't look so amused if he was hurt, and she did look amused. Or perhaps it was Mycroft? No. Really, it had to be Sherlock.

"It's true then?" she said.

"Where is he?"

She blocked the doorway, grinning at him. "You never told us you were seeing someone new. What's she like?"

"Donovan."

She held up her hands and backed off. "All right, all right. Touchy. Come on."

Sherlock was sitting with PC Gregson. They were looking at photos in the binder that some wag had labeled The Big Book of Suspects. Lestrade felt his stomach lurch all over again.

"What happened?" he snapped. "Gregson, you should know better than to question him without his mum here, what do you think you're doing? Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock and Gregson looked up at him with nearly identical expressions of bewildered innocence.

"I was only letting him have a look through, sir," Gregson said. "His memory, my god. Did you know Josie Pearls and Hugh Mash--you know, The Masher, from that arson case--are the same person? He saw the photos ten pages apart, but damned if he's not right."

Sherlock said: "I wasn't going to steal it, I just didn't want anyone else to buy it before me!"

Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

"I had to get presents! And I had enough for everyone, but I needed more for John's jumper, but it was the last one. I just took it with me so no one would get it, I was going to get the money and come right back!"

"Did you leave school? My god, John must be frantic." Lestrade pulled out his mobile and handed it to Sherlock. "Call him and tell him where you are and that you're very sorry. Got it?"

"But I'm not sorry."

Lestrade sighed. "Just call him."

*

John closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. "Sherlock. Where are you?"

Mycroft relaxed beside him as he listened to Sherlock's explanation and took in not a word of it, except that he was with Lestrade and safe. Even Anthea allowed herself a small smile.

When Sherlock was done, Lestrade's voice came on the line, low and amused. "All right? Not had a heart attack yet?"

"Several. How did you find him? No, wait, don't tell me. I've got to ring his mum. We'll be there--oh, maybe half an hour with the traffic like this. He's really okay?"

"He's absolutely fine. Not a scratch on him."

"Thank you. Really. Thanks."

"I'd take the credit if I could, but it's nothing to do with me. I'll let him tell you the whole thing when you get here."

*

Mycroft stood just inside the doorway and watched John scoop Sherlock up and hug him. It didn't seem like much of a punishment for scaring everyone and making them run all around the city after him. They'd spent almost an hour in Harrods, fighting the Christmas crowds. If there was a hell, it was probably quite similar to that.

"Do you love him?" Anthea said.

Mycroft blinked up at her. It was possibly the first unnecessary thing he'd ever heard her say. Usually when she spoke it was to convey messages from Mummy, or on occasion to let John know he had his jumper on inside out. He'd always appreciated her silence. Most people talked endlessly and said so very little.

Maybe she considered this question as important as not letting John go out looking like he'd dressed in the dark. He studied her face. At least that important.

"Yes," he said. "He's my brother, and I do love him. And no, I don't expect punishment would do any good. I can see Detective Inspector Lestrade's had a go at explaining why what he did was wrong, but Sherlock doesn't understand."

"Hm," she said, and typed something on her Blackberry.

Mycroft had tried to see what she did on there once, but the password protection was too much even for him. He wasn't entirely sure it was really a Blackberry anymore so much as a compact computer in a Blackberry case.

"Close your eyes," she said. "And tell me what you see."

"I'm not a performing monkey."

"It's a test. One I've taken myself many times. For you, of course, it's optional."

Implying it hadn't been for her. Interesting. Mycroft shut his eyes and described the room, its contents, and the people in it.

"And what's above your head?" Anthea said.

"What? The ceiling. It's a drop ceiling with that horrible speckled cardboard tile."

"No one ever looks up."

He felt warm lips press briefly against his cheek, and his eyes flew open. She was smiling at him, eyes crinkled with amusement. He looked up and saw a bunch of obviously plastic mistletoe.

"A reminder," she said. "Much gentler than the one I got, but hopefully as memorable. Always look up."

*

"Is that his father?" Donovan said.

She and Lestrade stood a few feet away, watching John try to explain to Sherlock why he shouldn't leave school in the middle of the day, even to buy Christmas presents.

Lestrade weighed his options. It wasn't that he'd ever planned to stay in the closet at work. He just didn't want his personal life mixed up with his professional life. Until John, it hadn't been a problem. He'd had precious little personal life the last few years anyway.

"No," Lestrade said, slowly. "He's Sherlock's nanny."

It was quite entertaining to watch her eyes get that wide.

"You never said!"

"There wasn't much to say up to now." Lestrade gave her a brief grin and then looked back to John. "And I did think some of you lot might've worked it out by now. You are detectives, after all."

"It's not as if you go around ogling the PCs' arses. We need something to go on."

"My impeccable dress sense didn't do it?"

She snorted. "It was just that one shirt! I was only trying to help."

"I liked that shirt."

"It had polka dots. And it was puce."

"All right, all right. Got rid of it, didn't I?"

"You could get rid of that jumper of his, too."

"I like his jumpers."

"The one Sherlock tried to steal for him was a lot nicer."

"He was going to pay for it."

"You believe him then?"

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah. If he'd meant to steal it, he'd have just said so. He's still a bit hazy on... Well, on why he shouldn't get to do just as he likes, all the time. John's working on it."

"No!" Sherlock yelled. Heads turned all around the room. There were a few more quiet words from John, and then Sherlock started wailing like an air raid siren. John looked briefly at the ceiling, picked him up, and headed over to Lestrade.

"Sorry about this," he said. "I've told him all the presents have to go back. I was going to ask if you want to get the tree with us later, but I'm not sure he'll be up to it."

"I will!" Sherlock yelled, smacking John's shoulder with a small fist. "I will, I want to go!"

John gave no sign he'd heard, or felt the impact. "Anyhow, I'll call you, okay?"

Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, still sulking just inside the doorway. "Look, I'm almost done here. You want to leave Mycroft with me and we'll meet up later? Doesn't seem quite fair to drag him along. He hates it when Sherlock's like this."

"I can hear you!" Sherlock yelled. "Don't talk like I'm not here!"

"All right," John said, ostensibly to Lestrade, but the soothing tone seemed to work on Sherlock too. He buried his face in John's shoulder and held onto his jumper. "That'd be great, thanks. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

*

Anthea had disappeared somewhere. Mycroft had pulled out a book and retreated to Lestrade's office, visibly relieved. John had, eventually, managed to hail a taxi.

He looked out the window as Sherlock clung to his neck. John rubbed his back slowly as he calmed down.

"We could--" Sherlock lifted his head and sniffled. "We could just give the jumper back?"

"Lestrade's taking care of that. And no, it's all going back."

"But it's presents!"

"Presents you bought with my money. You can't take things from people without asking, Sherlock. Christ, four hundred pounds. Lucky you didn't overdraw my account."

"But it's for Christmas!"

"Christmas is not an excuse to take things without asking, or to run off from school, after you promised me not to."

"I can't buy presents for you with you there!"

"You could've asked Mrs Hudson or Anthea, or even Lestrade to take you shopping, and honestly, Sherlock, you don't have to get me anything. Not scaring me half to death would've been an excellent present."

Sherlock teared up all over again, and John wanted to smack himself.

"Sorry," he said. "But Sherlock, you can't disappear like that."

"But I was fine!"

"I don't care. It's not up to you. No more running off. Not for any reason. Not even Christmas."

"Or what?"

"There's no 'or what'. You're not doing it again."

"But what if I did?"

"I am not going to give you a list of consequences so you can work out if it's worth disobeying me. You're not running off again. Period."

Sherlock looked down, fidgeting with the hem of John's jumper. "What if it wasn't my fault? What if I didn't mean to?" he said.

John brushed Sherlock's hair out of his face. He'd need a haircut soon. "Hey. What are you worrying yourself about now?"

"Would you go away? If I disappeared. What if it was like Mycroft and I didn't mean to go?"

"All right, first off, Mycroft didn't have a choice, second, I will not let that happen to you, and third, no. I wouldn't leave because of anything you did."

"What if it was really bad?" Sherlock said, looking up at him again. "What if I stole the jumper on purpose or-- or killed someone? Or let Mycroft's dogs out again?"

"There is nothing you can do that would make me leave you."

"Nothing ever? Even killing people? I mean people who aren't bad."

"Nothing ever," John said, ignoring the second part. He needed a bit more of a run up to tackle the idea that even killing bad people was not okay unless they were actively trying to kill you.

"You promise?"

"You know I can't promise to stay forever, right? That's up to your mum."

Sherlock nodded, though he didn't look happy about it.

"I promise that if I ever leave it won't be because of anything you did or didn't do."

"Or Mycroft or the dogs?"

"Or Mycroft or the dogs."

Sherlock stared hard at him for a few seconds and then leaned forward and smushed his face against John's chest. "Okay," he said, muffled by jumper.

John finger-combed through his curls slowly, over and over. By the time they got to Harrods, Sherlock was asleep. John maneuvered him out of the taxi, got him into Harrods, and, eventually, returned the gifts. Sherlock slept through the whole thing.

*

They arranged to meet at a Christmas tree pitch that had taken over a small car park near to Scotland Yard. It had fairy lights strung along its chain link fence. An older woman with a bright headscarf and a lower than standard number of teeth sat in a folding chair, collecting money.

Sherlock was holding onto John's hand and leaning against his leg while they waited for Lestrade and Mycroft. He was obviously worn out and, though they'd managed a snack, probably hungry too. John hoped they could get the tree home without another meltdown.

"John!" It was Lestrade, waving as he and Mycroft approached.

Mycroft had his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, hunched up against the chill. "Is this really necessary?" he said. "Surely they could just deliver one. You can probably order them online."

Sherlock pushed off John's leg and ran to him. "No, no internet! This is fun!" He grabbed Mycroft's hand and dragged him off into the trees.

John sighed. "At least he'll sleep well tonight."

"Looks as if you will too."

"Those multiple heart attacks really wore me out. God. He's just impossible sometimes."

Lestrade laughed softly and put a hand on John's back, guiding him forward, past the fencing. It was like walking into Narnia. Or, oddly, like Afghanistan. The Christmas party there had included about seventeen fake Christmas trees from various well meaning charities or individuals. Some had had fake snow pasted on, some had been irreparably bent, some had been missing all but one or two limbs. One was pink.

They'd started the evening inside, but around midnight, Murray, some of the other nurses, and some soldiers John didn't even know had got the brilliant idea of moving them all outdoors. When it was done, they'd sat in the cold, in their artificial forest, and looked up at the stars.

John looked up. No stars here, of course, between the cloud cover and light pollution. Sometimes it felt as if they weren't really up there at all, as if he'd left them behind in Afghanistan.

"What?" Lestrade said.

"What what?"

"You looked...far away." He turned and examined a blue spruce branch as he said it, like he didn't want to meet John's eyes.

John hesitated. He wasn't used to talking about the war. Or rather, he wasn't used to talking about the good bits. His therapist was happy to listen to his traumas, but when it came to the rest, she wanted him to push past them, to get to something real.

"I was thinking of the desert. We set up all these fake Christmas trees outside--"

"You what?"

John paused to explain, and then went on. "So we set them up, and we went back to our tents around, oh, three in the morning. When we woke up, they were all gone. Sandstorm. Buried or just blown away, I don't know, but I remember the way the sand stuck to everything, the way the light caught it. Like it was snowing. And it was cold as anything and before the sun was properly up there wasn't any color and it really did look like we'd got a white Christmas."

John looked up again, searching for snow, or stars. Mycroft was getting a telescope from his mum for Christmas. John anticipated many trips out of London so he could actually see something with it. Inside his pockets, he scraped his nails lightly over his palms. He wasn't sure he liked sharing those memories after all. They brought up too many others that he knew he should keep to himself.

Lestrade caught the lapels of his coat and pulled him close. They were hemmed in by pine branches on all sides. It smelled of cold and resin and Lestrade's faint cologne. Lestrade took his face between two gloved hands and kissed him. His lips were soft and warm and opened for John's tongue. The wool of his gloves was just a little scratchy against John's cheeks.

John leaned into him, feeling beautifully warm as he fitted himself into the gap in Lestrade's unbuttoned coat. His slid his arms inside it and around to Lestrade's back. Muscles shifted under fine cotton, and Lestrade bent to deepen the kiss. John wasn't used to leaning on anyone, physically or figuratively, but he didn't mind it so much with Lestrade.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, from quite close by. "John, we found one, where-- Oh. You're kissing again? There isn't even mistletoe."

John sighed. This was why they hadn't got past a bit of groping on the sofa late at night.

"We don't actually need an excuse," he said. "What have you got?"

Lestrade, it turned out, had very strong feelings about Christmas trees. It took him and the boys close to an hour of debate before they decided on a specimen that suited everyone.

"Do you deliver?" John asked the woman at the gate.

"We'll take it with us," Lestrade said. "It'll fit in the taxi, no problem."

"With us? And Sherlock and Mycroft? And, you know, the seats and all and the driver?"

"My family did this every year, and there were six of us."

"Are the rest of your family Smurfs? Because I don't see how else that could've worked."

Lestrade looked doubtful for a moment. "We did have an estate car," he said.

"We don't deliver anyway," the woman said. "Do you know what we'd have to charge? And I sell all my trees to cheap coppers."

Right. John paid while Lestrade went to hail a taxi.

They did get all of them, and the tree, into the taxi, though the driver wasn't happy about it. Sherlock crouched on the floor and held onto the tree, face gleeful. The sap would be hell to get out of his hair. He was cuddling the thing like a doll. Mycroft sat with a hand clenched in the back of Sherlock's coat to keep him from tipping over on tight turns.

Lestrade and John sat together, pressed pleasantly close. John got jostled against the door by every bump, but he didn't mind so much. Lestrade put an arm around him and pulled away from the door and against his side. John didn't mind that at all.

*

Lestrade finally got the tree upright in its stand and flopped onto the sofa.

"It's not straight," Mycroft said.

"It's straight enough."

"Oh shi-- darn," John said, with feeling.

"What?"

"Should've got a takeaway. There's nothing in."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Gone to have Christmas with her sister."

"You must have something, come on."

John gestured to the kitchen and slumped into his chair. "Be my guest. There's nothing I can do anything with, I know that."

Which was how Lestrade found himself in John's kitchen cooking pasta and cobbling together a sauce out of garlic, onions, and a bottle of tuna packed in oil. There was also frozen broccoli. He wasn't sure how well that would go down with the kids, but they could pick around it.

He was draining the pasta when John came to stand behind him. John's hands settled at his waist, tentative. Truth was, they didn't even know each other that well yet. It'd been a busy month for John.

"That smells amazing."

"S'just pasta. Will they eat it?"

"Oh, they're not picky. Thank god."

Lestrade tossed the pasta with the contents of the battered pan on the stove. John leaned his forehead briefly against his back and then stepped away.

"Where's their mum?" Lestrade said.

"China? South Korea? Yeah, Korea, I think. She was at the airport, ready to fly back, when I rang to say you'd found Sherlock. You may have saved their election. Or ruined it. Some major effect on world politics, anyhow."

Lestrade laughed. "I told you, I didn't do anything. She'll be back for Christmas?"

"She said she would. You're spending it with your sister?"

"That's the plan." It was much too early to be spending Christmases together, and Lestrade would miss his sister and his nieces and nephews if he didn't go. Not so much her husband, but they got along a lot better these days. All the same, there was a world of difference between visiting family and being part of one. Even such an odd one as this. Not yet. Maybe someday.

By the time they sat down to dinner, the lights were on the tree and Sherlock was drooping with exhaustion. Afterward, John went up to tuck the boys in and read to them. Lestrade gathered they were working on The Jungle Book and wondered how that was going over with two children who read university level text books for fun. John did have his work cut out for him.

*

Sherlock thought The Jungle Book was at least a small step above talking rabbits. Mycroft said there had been cases of people being raised by animals, so it wasn't completely impossible, even if all the talking animals were.

"Elephants don't really talk," he said, as John tucked him in.

"They talk to other elephants."

"Not really."

"I saw a documentary about them transmitting messages through the vibrations their feet make on the ground. A sort of elephant Morse code. Isn't that communication?"

"But it's not talking in English."

John shrugged. "Maybe Kipling just had them talk in English so we could understand. Quite hard to reproduce elephant Morse code in writing, I should think. Do you want a glass of water?"

"Yes."

John got him one, and kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. "Do you want the door open?" he asked, as he asked every night.

"Yes."

"Goodnight, then. I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock's answers to those two questions never varied, but John always asked. Every morning Sherlock said he didn't want to go to school, but John took him anyway. John read to them every night, even when he was very tired, or when Mycroft sneered at the plot, or when Sherlock jumped on the bed. Probably if John said he wouldn't leave, then he wouldn't leave.

Sherlock wriggled down until the blankets covered him up to his nose. He closed his eyes and stopped fighting off sleep.

*

Mycroft lay in the dark, waiting for sleep, remembering the odder details of the day.

Sherlock holding tight to his hand and pulling him through an uprooted forest.

John actually listening to him about Harrods (not that John didn't normally listen, but people in general did not normally listen).

Anthea.

Look up. There was just his ceiling, with its crack that ran from wall to wall in the shape of a line you might see on a heart beat monitor, although not one that was attached to a terribly healthy patient.

Phobos whuffed and jumped down off the bed to scratch at the door.

"It's too late," Mycroft told him. "In the morning."

He whined and came back to the bed, head and half his body stuck under it. His nails scrabbled against the floor.

Mycroft sighed. "What are you doing?"

Phobos whined again, and Deimos' ears pricked up.

"Stay," Mycroft told him, and got down off the bed to see what Phobos had. It had better not be his maths notebook again. Ms Pires wouldn't take that excuse twice.

He lay on his stomach and eased under the bed. Phobos turned to look at him, stuck out his tongue, and panted happily.

"It's not playtime," Mycroft said. "Get back on the bed." He saw the problem: Phobos' favorite soft toy, an already-ragged frog with something in its middle that made it squeak. It was stuck just out of Phobos' reach. Mycroft inched forward and snagged it.

When Phobos had it in his jaws, he was happy to retreat and go back to sleep next to his brother. Mycroft stayed still a moment, surveying the warped floorboards and clumps of dust.

Look up.

He did, and stared. The night sky was under his bed.

Someone had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars in and among the bed springs and their plastic covering. He recognized the constellations immediately: the Southern Cross, Canis Major, Gemini, Perseus. Even if he did get his telescope for Christmas, this wasn't a sky he'd ever see in England.

He lay still and put both hands over his mouth to hide his grin. How long had it been here? Had she only done it today? Was it her? Had to be. He'd find some proof in the morning. For now, he just stared and stared at his private sky, until Deimos jumped down and started licking his bare feet.

*

Lestrade cleaned up the kitchen, hung a few ornaments, and eventually settled on the sofa. He watched the glow of the lights on the cracked ceiling, and his eyes started to close.

The next thing he knew was John's body against his. They were stretched out on the sofa, and John was pulling a blanket over them. The room was dark except for the lights on the tree.

"Stay," John murmured.

"Shouldn't."

"Should."

"Mmf."

Lestrade slid his hands down John's back and over his arse. John made a soft noise and pushed that much closer against him. Lestrade shifted, almost onto his back, John's shoulder against his chest, John's hand at his waist. John's leg between his.

John tilted his head. His jaw brushed along Lestrade's, sliding, seeking, until their lips met and caught. John licked into his mouth and slid his thumb over Lestrade's stubble, stroking along his cheek, his jaw, under his chin. Lestrade could feel him getting hard against his thigh.

"Were you planning this?" Lestrade said.

John smiled against his mouth. "Maybe," he said, and pulled Lestrade's hand to press against the front of his trousers.

Lestrade had been thinking that perhaps this wasn't such a hot idea, right out in the open and the boys just upstairs, but feeling John's cock under his palm, the heat and hardness and clear shape of it, stopped him short. He slid his hand up and down the length, pushing at the fabric of John's trousers, outlining it more clearly, until John was rocking his hips forward and making soft little noises into Lestrade's neck.

The sofa springs groaned as they fitted their bodies still closer. Lestrade sucked at John's neck and felt John's pulse jump faster and faster under his tongue. John pulled at Lestrade's belt and then at the button and zip of his trousers.

"Wait, wait--" Lestrade tried to catch up, abruptly desperate to feel John's cock bare against his palm, his stomach, anywhere. John's pants clung to him, sticky with pre-come, and John's fingers dug into Lestrade's waist at the first touch.

John caught Lestrade's earlobe in his teeth, a hard scrape and suck that made Lestrade's skin tingle. He arched forward. They were both bared now, cocks bumping and brushing in the heated air under the blanket, knuckles and stomachs touching, everything slicked with fluid as John teased at the heads and dragged his hand down their shafts.

John was whispering in his ear, works broken up by rough inhales. "Wanted you just like this-- so long-- first day I saw you--you looked so good--"

Lestrade closed his eyes and kissed him as they rocked together, muscles winding tighter, heels and elbows slipping and knocking against the sofa cushions. He thought of that first day, of how John had looked, barefoot and grimly determined, gun in his hand.

"Me too," Lestrade gasped, and felt himself flush just a little. "Oh god, me too."

He came fast after that, one hand up John's jumper and holding onto his shoulder, biting his own tongue to keep quiet.

"Fuck, fuck," John whispered, and kissed him hard, pushing him down onto his back. One knee on the sofa between Lestrade's legs, hips pumping as he slid his hand through the mess on Lestrade's stomach and used it to slick his cock.

"Oh, god," Lestrade heard himself say faintly over the pounding in his ears. His cock twitched, and he held John tighter.

John pressed his face to Lestrade's shoulder, open-mouthed, breathing hot and damp through his shirt. He kept moving, hard, quick thrusts, and all Lestrade could think of was seeing him naked, watching his body, the shift of his muscles. He touched John everywhere he could reach, sides, hips, back, arse, and John bit down on his shoulder as he came.

There was a wet burst of heat, and John settled over him with a sigh. Lestrade could feel their heartbeats, just slightly out of sync.

"Don't fall asleep," John mumbled, sounding far closer to sleep than Lestrade was. "Gotta move."

"Mmhmm."

They were going to fall asleep. Lestrade could feel it creeping over him, and John's breaths were already coming longer and softer. They'd fall asleep, get stuck together, wake up a mess and a half in the morning. If they were lucky, they'd have just enough time to clean up before Sherlock came down. If not, they'd wake up when he jumped on them and demanded breakfast. Inevitable. Awkward. It shouldn't have made Lestrade smile quite so stupidly, but it did.