"It's all Mycroft fault!".
That was how Sherlock had decided to view the matter. There was a kernel of truth in that, if John had to be completely honest. After all, Mycroft's men caused the whole incident (even if Mycroft was a little more than reluctant to admit it) and it was indeed the politician who came to their door asking for (well, more like demanding really) their help. So, from that point of view, it was all Mycroft's fault.
But, if John was completely honest with him-self, and he was, it was also his fault. Sherlock, as always, had immediately denied any help and, if John had been a little less self-sacrificing, if he had kept his bloody mouth shut, if he had not looked open to the possibility, dammit, now this wouldn't be happening. Instead, he had shown concern and, the second Mycroft had sensed this weakness, he had exploited it with his usual ruthlessness.
"Please John", he had said in his most persuasive voice "You are, after all, the most qualified person to deal with this situation. And it would be for a very short time, just until we have come up with an antidote. I will, of course, take care of all the expenses and you will be well recompensed. Please John, I know I can trust you with this".
The doctor was still a little uncertain and Sherlock looked as he was about to say something; maybe, if he had, that would have been the end of it. Unfortunately, Mycroft anticipated him.
"I am sure you don't want the poor little thing to stay at my special facility...".
No, John really didn't. He could imagine all too well what the "special facility" looked like. He accepted, against Sherlock's will of course.
Now, after three days of this, he wished he'd been a cold-hearted bastard. He had just finished thinking this, when a loud screech pierced his ears. The doctor sighed, pausing in his preparations for dinner and wondering what happened this time. A second yell was heard, accompanied by the sound of running feet, and a little boy no older than two years rushed into the kitchen crying desperately. The child immediately zeroed on John, run to him and stretched out his arms, demanding to be picked up. The doctor promptly lifted him up in his arms and started to rub his back soothingly while the dark-haired child hid his face on his shoulder.
"There, there, it's okay. Shhh, it's fine, it's all fine, I got you, stop crying, okay?", John whispered in the kid's ear. After a while, the child calmed down a bit but still had runny eyes.
John smiled brightly at him: "Well done! Big boys don't cry, you know?".
The boy gave a little sniff and then an uncertain, wobbly smile.
"Well done!" John repeated, still smiling "Now, what happened to you?".
With no uncertainty the child spun around and pointed at Sherlock, who had just wandered into the kitchen. John immediately frowned.
"Sherlock, what did you do?".
The detective glared at the child, who, as an answer, snuggled closer into John's arms.
"Stupid crybaby", Sherlock muttered, ignoring the doctor's disapproving look.
"Sherlock, I asked you what did you do to the poor thing...".
"The poor thing?" Sherlock yelled, affronted "Please, do try to remember that "the poor thing" had you strapped to a bomb not that long ago! And anyway, he provoked me!".
The doctor ignored his remark, true as it was, and went on: "Sherlock, you are an adult and Jim is two years old...".
"He most certainly isn't!".
"Thanks to Mycroft's men ability in mixing drugs, or lack thereof, he is. So I expect you to act maturely since we promised...".
"That we would look after him until Mycroft comes up with an antidote. And anyway, how could he have possibly provoked you?".
"He laughed at my experiment!".
Sherlock glared at the child who, for his part, looked up at John with an angelic expression.
"Sherlock" John sighed "I really don't think...".
"So you are defending him?!".
Sherlock was now positively furious and was looking at John as if he was a traitor.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, he is two years old...".
"I hate you!" spat the detective, before spinning around and stomping out of the kitchen.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, come on, let's talk about this!".
A slammed door was the only answer he got.
John sighed again (he was doing that a lot recently) and tried to put Jim down in order to go after Sherlock, but the child tightened the pull on his jumper with a cry of "No! Mine!".
John looked down at Jim incredulously. The criminal mastermind's brown eyes met his with single-minded determination.
The floor creaked and John turned to see Sherlock, who had silently crept out of his room when the doctor failed to immediately come after him, fixing Jim with a death glare.
John shuddered. How was he going to survive this?
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