John managed to hide his surprise. As well as he knew Sherlock, being one of a very select group of people the consulting detective had opened himself up to, even he knew little about his childhood, how he – and Mycroft – had grown up. Even after meeting Sherlock’s parents the previous Christmas; granted finding the small collection of framed photographs of the two Holmes brothers as little boys at the back of the Holmes’ living room had been an absolutely brilliant discovery. Thankfully neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had yet deduced he’d taken pictures of the photos on his phone and shared them with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. So far.
“Knowing you as an adult when you’re bored, I’m surprised your parents didn’t simply just toss you outside, lock the door and wait until you tired yourself out running around that huge field of yours,” John said.
A smile ghosted on Sherlock’s lips. “They did. Mycroft predicted that one day our parents would resort to such a measure and he snuck out of the house and took me to this little stash of food, water and some books he had put away in one of the dormant burrows in the nearby fields. It was close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk too far but far away enough that our parents couldn’t see us,” the detective recollected. “Mycroft spent the day tell me stories.”
“I’d never have taken Mycroft to be such a regular boy scout,” John commented with a grin.
“Overbearing, nosy busy-body you mean.”
John sighed, deciding that he was in no position to chastise Sherlock for his somewhat misguided opinions about his big brother, whom he obviously did care about on some level even if he didn’t demonstrate it, given his own fractious relationship with Harry. “Why did you come here again?”
“I’m bored.”
“You know, I think you might actually be worse than my daughter,” John observed.
“That’s because she can’t talk yet,” Sherlock replied. “Are you managing to sleep through the night yet?”
John perked up a little. “A little more but that to be expected, she’ll calm down until she starts teething at which point we’ll be right back at step one,” he explained. “We’ve just recently started reading to her when she does wake up, she seems to like it. Not that she would understand a word.”
“Books like that baby book with the caterpillar?”
“Huh?” John was momentarily stumped but then the answer hit him. “Oh you mean the Very Hungry Caterpillar! I remember that from my own childhood … but no. It’s a book series but someone called Amanda Kipling?”
Sherlock entire body language had changed, leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees and John wondered whether he ought to worry given the look on Sherlock’s face was similar enough to when the consulting detective was facing a serial killer. Gleeful. Intrigued.
“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he twisted his head around the small room and John found himself surprised again that he could read Sherlock’s excitement. That his friend, so reticent most of the time, was instantly readable at the mention of a simple children’s author. “Where are the … ah, you keep them in here!”
Just as suddenly, whilst John was wrapping his head around this new fact about his friend, Sherlock was up on his feet and taking the few steps around the sofa to the small collection of books he and Mary kept in the small built-in cupboards. There was the clatter of wood as Sherlock pulled out the children’s book set and John was entirely certain he heard a surprised and happy sigh come from the taller man.
“John, these are special editions of her books!”
John shrugged. “Apparently so, Mary said something about the set being a mix of first and second editions.”
Sherlock threw him a look. Not the look, the one that said he should know something because it was just so obvious but the look the detective usually threw at him when John didn’t quite meet his expected standards. John bit back a frustrated growl – he hated that look just as much as the other one – as Sherlock set the books down on the coffee table and started to examine the books, inside and out.
FILL PART 2B: For Will, I Dedicate To You (Sherlock, John POV)
“Knowing you as an adult when you’re bored, I’m surprised your parents didn’t simply just toss you outside, lock the door and wait until you tired yourself out running around that huge field of yours,” John said.
A smile ghosted on Sherlock’s lips. “They did. Mycroft predicted that one day our parents would resort to such a measure and he snuck out of the house and took me to this little stash of food, water and some books he had put away in one of the dormant burrows in the nearby fields. It was close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk too far but far away enough that our parents couldn’t see us,” the detective recollected. “Mycroft spent the day tell me stories.”
“I’d never have taken Mycroft to be such a regular boy scout,” John commented with a grin.
“Overbearing, nosy busy-body you mean.”
John sighed, deciding that he was in no position to chastise Sherlock for his somewhat misguided opinions about his big brother, whom he obviously did care about on some level even if he didn’t demonstrate it, given his own fractious relationship with Harry. “Why did you come here again?”
“I’m bored.”
“You know, I think you might actually be worse than my daughter,” John observed.
“That’s because she can’t talk yet,” Sherlock replied. “Are you managing to sleep through the night yet?”
John perked up a little. “A little more but that to be expected, she’ll calm down until she starts teething at which point we’ll be right back at step one,” he explained. “We’ve just recently started reading to her when she does wake up, she seems to like it. Not that she would understand a word.”
“Books like that baby book with the caterpillar?”
“Huh?” John was momentarily stumped but then the answer hit him. “Oh you mean the Very Hungry Caterpillar! I remember that from my own childhood … but no. It’s a book series but someone called Amanda Kipling?”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “No, John,” he chastised. “Not Amanda, Amelia Kipling.”
“Right, Amelia. You know the books?”
Sherlock entire body language had changed, leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees and John wondered whether he ought to worry given the look on Sherlock’s face was similar enough to when the consulting detective was facing a serial killer. Gleeful. Intrigued.
“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he twisted his head around the small room and John found himself surprised again that he could read Sherlock’s excitement. That his friend, so reticent most of the time, was instantly readable at the mention of a simple children’s author. “Where are the … ah, you keep them in here!”
Just as suddenly, whilst John was wrapping his head around this new fact about his friend, Sherlock was up on his feet and taking the few steps around the sofa to the small collection of books he and Mary kept in the small built-in cupboards. There was the clatter of wood as Sherlock pulled out the children’s book set and John was entirely certain he heard a surprised and happy sigh come from the taller man.
“John, these are special editions of her books!”
John shrugged. “Apparently so, Mary said something about the set being a mix of first and second editions.”
Sherlock threw him a look. Not the look, the one that said he should know something because it was just so obvious but the look the detective usually threw at him when John didn’t quite meet his expected standards. John bit back a frustrated growl – he hated that look just as much as the other one – as Sherlock set the books down on the coffee table and started to examine the books, inside and out.