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Sherlock's grown more into his role. It hasn't been easy, but nothing ever is. He takes time and patience and John. John isn't the core of his world, but if you set up everything like a pie chart, John would consist of a greater portion of it than he would like to admit. Though nobody needs to know that except for him (and maybe John - and he thinks John is smart enough to know, at the very least, that). Regardless of pie charts and John and time and patience, Sherlock has spent the last six months engulfing himself into this role and he finds himself nearing a balance that he has so often craved.
Balance does not come easy for Sherlock. It's always at either a disadvantage ('Freak!') or an advantage ('You are an idiot and the clues are obvious.') but for this here, he is just Sherlock and he knows what ageplay means and he knows that he is a just a little more into infantilism than meets the eye. The temper tantrums where he hugs the sofa are one thing but the moments when he curls at John's side while the doctor strokes his hair and lets him watch cartoons are another.
When Sherlock was younger, they'd tried to go the drug route to calm his mind - benzodiazepines they were called - but quite obviously, after three days on the drugs, he flushed them all down the loo and told his parents to piss off. His mind ran and while he didn't mind it, that, at the time, was not the particular drug of choice he wanted to slow things down with, even if it was just a bit. He couldn't find that perfect mixture of drug that he wanted, he needed.
Not enough to stop being a consulting detective, but just enough so he could catch up with the world around him.
Cartoons do that for him now - his new drug of choice. Or lying down on the floor atop a special play mat that John had bought him at the store three lights down. It's pink in color and is covered in deers and bumblebees and foxes. It's a method they apply when they start to pull into this role - though they're trusting enough to the point where either brings it up.
John will lay the mat down, right by the fire place (gone quiet due to the summer's heat) but near enough so Sherlock can see the television. John does this when he knows that there hasn't been a case in a long enough time or Sherlock's back is too soon to go bad from sitting in front of his experiment for hours in the kitchen. It will take some time, but once John sets up Sherlock's pillow and blocks and coloring books, Sherlock will finally peek over with open eyes and move in for the attack.
Heroin is a beautiful thing but a quiet place to rest his head is just the same - even more with John right behind him, watching closely.
"You haven't eaten all day Sherlock. Would you like a snack and some juice?" John will ask, after flipping on the television to an age-appropriate show (something or other about animals who are cartoons taking over the world). Sherlock will only hum back, finding his head on his pillow and his fingers reaching around to grasp at his blocks while he focuses on the screen in front of him.
John makes a bottle and slices up a banana and mixes the slices in with a bowl of grapes to offer his little one. He's used to this method and despite the fact he has to take care of Sherlock even more in these roles, this is what John Watson needs. He needs adrenaline and speed and running and chasing but he also needs to take care of Sherlock because Sherlock takes care of him and that's what you call love. He tried once, silly enough, to find out if Sherlock and him were in love by searching google.com - it was only sometime later that night when Sherlock had come home late and kissed him roughly against the kitchen door did he realize that, yeah, we're in love.
"All of them, Sherlock," John warns, setting the baby bowl (covered in purple flowers and swirls) down by the detective's side as well as the bottle of milk which is half full.
Sherlock only growls back.
And this is how they play for the next three hours. Six episodes of cartoons; a half empty bowl of food; twenty minutes in the corner for throwing a tantrum over it; a few minutes of tears; and then finally Sherlock curled in John's lap for the final amount of pouting and apologizing before he is rested down for a nap.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and he never says such things, but right now he is maybe two years old and he's sucking on his thumb wildly, "No more corner."
John just kisses his forehead and says for Sherlock to be a good boy and to listen from time to time.
Sherlock lives for these things - like he lives for cases and murders and John.
John doesn't mind it so much either because here in his arms, is his Sherlock Holmes. You know, that particular consulting detective: the only one in the world.
*
The next time they play, it's almost two weeks later. They'd been busy with two cases that took far too long and by the time it is all over, Sherlock's exhausted and John's just about lost his job at the clinic. He hangs onto it by the tips of his nails (and of course, Mycroft makes a quick call to ensure John still has said job).
Sherlock's just gotten out of the shower and he stands there nude, dripping with water, while John is set in their bed, tucked under the covers. Usually they just sleep after long cases - pass out on the bed, or even the sofa if they make it that far. But tonight Sherlock's felt gross from blood and dirt and noise and idiots and opts for a rinse and John needs to wind down with a few pages from his dog-eared novel. But the sight of Sherlock catches him completely off-guard to the point that the novel settles beside him and he sits up, back flush to the headboard.
"You okay, Sherlock?"
"Daddy," Sherlock says, quietly but openly and unafraid because this is John and John will never, ever hurt him and now - now they both know what Sherlock needs. John, truthfully, could use the rest, but he knows it will come soon enough and Sherlock will make it up tomorrow with a quiet day off, so he can, John can, offer this - just a few hours for his little one. "Daddy."
John stands, pushing back the green sheets and engulfs Sherlock into his arms. It's so much easier now for the detective to fall into this role and it makes John so proud, makes John feel so loved. He knows Sherlock would never trust anyone else in such a position as he has been offered - daddy. He also knows that this role is strictly for these times and these times alone. They are partners and friends and lovers and sometimes a bickering old couple but for times like these they are daddy and baby and this is what they need and want and oh god, in Sherlock's mind, this is perfect.
"What's wrong love?"
Sherlock whimpers and buries his face into John's shoulder, though being much taller. He's still quiet in his words despite his actions. He's shy and rather introverted, but John has his ways with it. He nudges Sherlock's face up with the tips of his index and forefinger and they stare at each other. It makes Sherlock give in. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"
"Want," Sherlock starts, licking his lips, "want you to help me get dressed."
The Yard, their friends, the people they know, the world - none of them will ever see or hear Sherlock in such a manner and to most it would be considered silly but god this man in just such a miracle that if he wants to adjust his words to be at a toddler level and be fitted for his nightly attire by someone else, the world can just be damned.
"Of course," John replies and holds Sherlock tighter, "stay here and let me towel you down before you catch a cold. Taking care of my little one when he's sniffly isn't very fun is it?"
"No medicine," Sherlock replies, and it makes John smile because Sherlock is interacting back - slowly but surely, just like waiting for the tide to roll in. This is working.
John towels Sherlock down and lies him against the bed once he is nice and dry. They do not have particular made-to-order baby clothes for Sherlock (the younger won't go that far just quite yet) but there is a t-shirt and a white nappy set by him ready to go. He's gotten okay with these particular type of underwear - the feeling and protection overwhelm him and help draw him into the world that he's known to have existed for decades but never had until now.
Again, it's all about methods. John spreads Sherlock's legs and lifts them up a tad to rest the nappy underneath before applying just a sprinkle of powder and a kiss to the thin belly of the opposite. Sherlock blushes and hides his face in a pillow until the nappy is covered and the tabs are stuck to the middle. There is play time there - the naughty time - but they never mix these worlds. They make love on the sofa and bed and once in the alley way after a case gone just perfect, but right now, Sherlock is only a toddler and he requires a different kind of love in comparison to all of that.
"Arms up," John says, and tucks the blue shirt over Sherlock's head and through his arms so he is all set for the night. When the younger sits on the edge of the bed, his shirt is far too short to cover his diaper and he looks out of place and off but finally - finally - he is okay with it. He knows people are different and so is he and he's always been defined that way but guess what?
John is okay with it.
John is okay with all of this.
They settle into bed but there is no bottle or story tonight. They're both very tired, even Sherlock, and he just needs a little bit of comfort before bed - before sleeping twelve, thirteen hours straight. However, he is offered a pacifier which he accepts happily and slurps around until he finds the right and perfect pattern as John holds him close to his chest. Sherlock's hands find their way to John's cotton white shirt and he holds on as if he really were an infant holding onto his daddy, never wanting to let go because he never wants to let go of John.
"Get some rest, Sherlock," John says, curling his arm just a little tighter around Sherlock to make sure he is safe and close and just there against his heart.
Sherlock finds the ability to mumble around his pacifier and murmurs, quietly into the dark room, "Thank you." He forgoes the word daddy because sometimes it is there and sometimes it is not but that's just fine with the both of them because they know what they are and they are them and that's just the most perfect thing in the world.
*
Sherlock wakes first the next morning and the sun is shining in from the window. He's forgotten how long they've been together as a couple (though he has it penned down on a calendar somewhere) but he does know (being a consulting detective and all) that they will be together for the rest of their lives. Everything is warm and safe and although he's only slept eight hours it's the most he's slept in ages and he knows he would probably be dead without the man besides him, still holding him close.
He trusts this man with this secret side of him; with his life; with his heart; with his everything.
He feels devious this morning, too, with John still asleep. He spreads his legs just a bit and lets go in his nappy. It's not something he does each and every time, but the moment he floods the plastic material with his warmth, he triggers into a stream of bashfulness and embarrassment and excitement and it's so much that he just can't keep up. His nappy is completely full and he relaxes in it and in the feelings of being just a toddler who has had an accident for at least half an hour more before giving a whine out loud, hoping to wake his counterpart.
John does wake, sometime later, and kisses Sherlock gently on the forehead.
"Good morning," John says. To him, beyond the ageplay and infantilism, this should be weird, but ages ago he's accepted the fact that he's not really gay, he's just in love and that love alone is for Sherlock Holmes. Like the special times they have together, it's all fine. God, it's all perfectly fine. "Did you sleep all night little one?"
The term little one makes Sherlock blush but he nods and buries his face into the crook of John's neck. He wiggles closer and it's not been long enough so John feels the heat radiating down below. He knows this is hard for Sherlock to admit, but it's much easier for the detective to deal with the emotions of embarrassment so he takes the lead on this end.
"Someone had an accident overnight didn't they?"
It's not entirely the truth but Sherlock nods and keeps his face hidden away. The idea of him having no control of his bladder and having an accident while he is sleeping sends his senses on a swirl and he is sure to research how to make that happen very, very soon.
"That's alright," John says, "that's why we have you wear them at night. Perhaps we ought to keep you in them for a few nights just in case, alright?"
Sherlock's heart swirls and his stomach does flip flops because: yes, yes, yes!
He plays his roles though, as always, "But it was only once," Sherlock says, pouting his lower lip, "didn't mean to."
"Daddy's rules," John says firmly and there is no arguing back.
It's nirvana for Sherlock and John knows his secret. Sherlock is perfect at so many things and here he is, needing nappies because he wets the bed and can't help it and maybe if he researched it right, he might really wet in the middle of the night and be that toddler that hides in the back of his mind who is a pirate and plays with blocks and watches cartoons. God, that boy is hidden so deep but here he is playing, quietly on a Sunday morning with John and he is allowed and no one has to know and all Sherlock can do is glide against the fine line of their roles and kiss John on the lips.
John knows what it means and how far it goes.
That morning, John undoes Sherlock's wet nappy, scolding him just a little and reminding him that later after dinner he will need to be put back into one just so Sherlock doesn't wet the bed. That maybe he needs to be put on a potty training schedule if it keeps happening (which sends Sherlock's mind into a frenzy of eagerness). He's wiped clean and dressed for the day - normal as ever. Black pants, a button up, and the grin all great consulting detective's wear.
Sherlock does make it up to John that day. They go to Hyde Park and walk around. They don't hold hands but they sit next to each other on the benches and Sherlock deduces and John feeds the birds. They skip the cinema and have a late lunch at Angelo's. After food, they go home and make love for an hour and a half straight in the living room and bedroom (doors locked of course) where John guides himself into Sherlock and Sherlock lets him right in, crying out John's name over and over and over.
They have their roles. They have twenty-four hours in their day. Probably not enough time but they make the most of it - for all of this, for all of everything.
Hopefully they have plenty more days to come.
But for now, they make the most of it all as Sherlock and John. Because it is the biggest and best perfection they know in life and it's all they can ever imagine to want.
Because they are happy.
And while John's known that's the key to life, Sherlock's just now finding it out and god, he loves it.