Chapter Text
Lock had spent the morning perfecting his act of terror. He’d been nothing but a nuisance, a child worthy of Supernanny’s guidance, having forfeited his good behaviour for a wicked sense of destruction. His parents had never seen him behave so poorly before, and wondered if John’s absence at a medical conference overseas was the root of the issue.
Every rule in the book had long since been broken, some multiple times, and come eleven in the morning, he’d spent twelve minutes in two timeouts. The six year old boy was crackling with energy, none of which had been directed to an activity of interest. Lock refused to eat, had barely slept the night before, and was trying his absolute best to drive his fathers up the wall.
He grinned, not quite evil, definitely cunning as he circuited the bottom floor for the fourth time. Daddy was calling out to him to stop running in the house, but he didn’t listen. He crashed into a doorframe, rebounding with an audible exhale. Daddy cringed, waiting for tears, but the detective cackled and broke out into a mad dash again. It reminded Lestrade of an excitable puppy doing zoomies, although it was a fraction of the cuteness in comparison. Daddy was tired, papa was tired, and Lock was climbing the walls.
Lestrade left him for a couple of moments to pee. Lock was at least smart enough not to approach the stairs. The house fell quiet, suspiciously so, and Greg remembered the phrase of silence and toddlers equalling nothing good. He followed the source of peculiar scratching to the backdoor.
“What on earth are you doing?” Lock ran away without responding, the backdoor swinging open with the whoosh of air he created in his wake. Greg took a few deep breaths, collected himself, relocked the backdoor and went after his son.
Young Holmes was at the front door now, crouched at the handle. He whirled around, hands turning up empty when Greg asked him to show what he had. “Turn around, hands either side of your head.”
Greg had to admit it was bizarre frisking a child, one of the man-sized variety, yet he was glad he did. “What are these for?”
Lock didn’t answer, keeping his gaze averted. He looked sheepish this time, however, which was progress from the last several rounds of discipline. In his pocket were two straightened rods of metal, likely stolen paperclips. In his other Greg pricked his finger, hissing as he retracted a toothpick. Implements to lock pick the door, the cheeky monkey. It was convenient that they were at the door as the stairs were only a few steps away.
“No!” Lock screeched, arching his back so his bum didn’t touch the stairs. Greg had hold of his wrists, supporting the majority of his weight.
“You will sit here for five minutes.” Greg explained over the noise. “After we can talk about why you’re there, but I think you already know.”
To his credit, Lock calmed, albeit reluctantly, sitting down. He’d once played a game in timeout, moving away the moment papa walked away. He quickly learned that he would be silently returned to the step, the timer restarted until he endured the entirety of his punishment. Daddy was aware of his devious tendencies, and would likely follow in papa’s footsteps. So he sat and waited, huffing and puffing, head rested on his palm.
As promised daddy arrived five minutes later wearing a stern expression. Lock’s DIY lock picking kit was nowhere to be seen but Holmes wasn’t stupid enough to grumble about the loss. Daddy crouched so that they were eye level, though he didn’t touch Lock. “Are you ready to talk?”
Lock sighed resignedly. “Yes daddy.”
“Good. Do you know why you’re in timeout?” Daddy remained a foot away. Sometimes Lock couldn’t handle touch after a punishment, overwhelmed by emotion; they weren’t cruel and he didn’t need further punishment to learn his lesson. Timeouts were effective enough – though perhaps not today.
Lock bit his lip whilst his fingers fiddled in his lap. “Because I didn’t listen to daddy.”
“Anything else?” Lestrade prompted gently. Lock racked his brains, suddenly remembering the rest of his abhorrent behaviour.
He pursed his lips, angry at both himself and the world. “I tried to unlock the door.”
Daddy nodded and continued. “Why don’t we do that?”
“It’s dangerous.” Lock mumbled.
“Exactly. You know what else is dangerous?” Lock shook his head. “Using the wrong tools to pick the lock. Paperclips, really?”
Holmes didn’t have a response for that, shoulders hunched. He felt shame lick at his cheeks, red hot and unmistakable. His moue was prominent. “You could have really hurt yourself, especially putting sharp things in your pockets. Look, I cut myself on the toothpick.”
Indeed he had. Daddy’s finger was a deep pink, in the centre of the pad an angry looking mark where he’d been pricked. Lock frowned – he never meant to hurt daddy. He was just having a bit of fun.
“Do you understand now why daddy and papa put these rules in place?” Lestrade asked. Clear wording was needed, no blame placed so that Lock could understand.
“Yes daddy.” He said quietly. “Didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, sweetheart, but that’s what happens when you don’t follow the rules.” Daddy sighed and Lock realised how tired he looked and felt ten times worse. “What’s gotten into you today, hm?”
Holmes wasn’t entirely sure, except that he’d felt out of sorts since the night before. He linked it to John’s departure earlier the previous afternoon, though he couldn’t place his finger on what exactly was wrong. He knew he was displaying attention seeking behaviours, couldn’t deny that at the moment any attention was good attention, which was guaranteed when he was naughty. He had energy to burn but couldn’t find something he wanted to do – everything was overwhelming. The worst part was that he couldn’t verbalise his feelings – didn’t even know where to start, so instead of speaking he shrugged. Greg misinterpreted it to mean he didn’t want to answer and sighed again, lifting Lock to his feet.
It was warm in the house, so Greg did something entirely uncommon. He stripped Lock to his pull-up to ensure the little wouldn’t sneak anything else into his pockets. Despite the punishment and explanation, today’s string of events had him leaning towards a lack of trust. He’d rather set forth preventative measures than have to keep punishing Lock until bedtime. Lock didn’t say a word, watching daddy with a subdued curiosity as he collected a handful of Hot Wheels and separated track pieces.
“Play with these for a while,” Greg arranged them in front of his son, who slinked to the pile. “What do you want for lunch?”
“No food.” Lock said, pushing the demand into his tone. Greg stood without argument; he didn’t push, there was usually a genuine reason that Lock refused food, and it wasn’t like he was going to starve. He didn’t have the patience to start another conflict.
Little Holmes was left to his own devices for an indiscriminate amount of time. Pieces clicked together in the quiet as Lock developed a personalised track for his cars to travel. It had twists and turns, a mighty dip with a straight strip at the end. Lock manipulated the first few sections to drape over the couch to form a descending hill. Car in place, Lock released it to watch the flash of red race down, down, down, swerving precariously around the bends, over the dip (it even jumped!) before zooming down the strip.
When daddy came back, he had calmed significantly and seemed to be contented with the game. As much as he loathed to interrupt, Lock was desperate for a nap, more so after the terribly listless sleep he’d had the night before. As expected, Lock began screaming in protest, kicking and crying like a wounded animal. He screeched all the way up the stairs to his bedroom and wriggled with such vigour that Greg couldn’t put him down without dropping him. No amount of warning deterred the little boy, so Greg lowered them both to the floor to pin Lock.
“No! No! Don’t want!” Lock keened, face flushed and neck straining. He fought the contact with all his might, landing several hits on his target, legs kicking out uselessly under Greg’s hips. Daddy straddled him, wrestling to take hold of his wrists to avoid another punch.
“Deep breaths, follow me.” Greg soothed. Lock had no intention of listening and wrought free. He scrambled to his feet and in a fit of unadulterated temper, lobbed whatever was in arm’s reach.
Toys were the most satisfying to throw and Greg had to duck out of the way. Lock launched several dummies at the wall, still screeching ‘no’ over and over. His tantrum only worsened when he threw a blanket, for his strength wielded little more than a flutter of fluffy material to the floor, nothing like the demonstration he wanted. Daddy prowled, waiting for the right opportunity. He found it during the blanket debacle, managing to secure Lock to his chest. This time there would be no escape, not until the little boy calmed down.
It took a while, Greg hushing in his ear as he heaved and sobbed, but eventually Lock took multiple shuddering breaths and stilled. He was placed in his cot, the latch keeping him in where he was safe.
“Blankie? Dummy?” Lock pointed over his crib, kneeling at the foot.
“No, you shouldn’t have thrown them. When you learn to respect your things you can have them back.” Greg explained. Lock whimpered, Lottie was strewn looking ever so sad and alone across the room. Lestrade exited, switching off the light, the room swathed in muted sunlight trickling from behind the blinds.
Lock felt humiliated, even though his behaviour was his own doing, and slumped on his back to trace patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. He fell asleep after forty minutes, Greg checking on him an hour after he’d put him to bed. The little’s breaths were muddied by the nasally snuffles only heard when he’d been ill or crying. With a pang of worry, Lestrade left him to sleep.
When he woke, Lock saw that the bedroom still held the evidence of his ire-fuelled episode. He cringed, now well rested, and called quietly for daddy. The man arrived with a careful smile, approaching tentatively as if Lock were a wild animal he needed to tame. Holmes waited for the bars to lower before he jumped into daddy’s arms.
Greg just about caught him. “Poor thing, you’re not having a good today, huh?”
“I’m sorry.” Lock replied earnestly. Lestrade was surprised he apologised unprompted, and held him a smidge tighter.
“I know you are, but we still need to talk about it. We cannot throw things when we are angry, and we definitely can’t hit people.”
“Daddy crushed me.” Lock said.
Greg shook his head. “I sat on you before you hurt yourself. Did I injure you?” Lock blinked. No, he wasn’t injured at all. If anything, daddy would be sporting some impressive bruises on his abdomen. He shook his head. “I didn’t crush you.”
“So angry daddy. Didn’t feel fair.” That was the closest to an explanation either would receive because Lock needed time to make heads and tails of his inner turmoil.
Daddy kissed his cheek and bounced him. “I understand. I think you were just overtired. You didn’t have a very good sleep last night, did you?”
“Rubbish.” Lock agreed. He dropped his head to Greg’s shoulder and sighed. They swayed for a while, basking in the first positive close contact they’d had all day.
After a while, Greg shifted so that Lock had to sit up and look at him. “I’d like you to clean up your mess now please.”
“Okay daddy.” It was only fair, Lock thought. He was set on his feet and made a beeline for his blankets. He hung them over the cot rails, Greg sidling closer to fold them properly while he moved on to pick up toys.
The sheer volume of mess became clear the longer Lock tidied. It seemed to be never-ending; he hadn’t realised how much he had thrown until he was sweating with effort of his cleanup job. Only half of the room was cleared, and Lock felt unbelievably frustrated again. He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed. Greg was watching with a keen eye, though he remained inaudible to allow Lock to make decisions for himself. With his back turned, Lock tugged at his hair, fingers curling around chunks of hair to yank to the point of pain.
“Darling, don’t do that. Come on, you’re nearly finished now.” Greg said. Lock let go before he had to intervene and continued. It opened up a series of violent stims, each Lock’s personal retribution. He squeezed his hands into fists until his nails dug into the flesh of his palm, and when Greg turned to help him place a truck on the shelf, he bit his arm until there were indents of teeth on his skin.
The final straw was in the wail of an ambulance toy. It didn’t cease even when Lock scrambled to turn it off. He threw it away from him like it burned, clamping his hands over his ears. When it still didn’t stop, Lock howled, eyes scrunched shut. He collapsed in a heap on the floor and began to scream to drown out the sirens. Greg dove for the toy, locating the switch on the bottom. Even after turning it off Lock continued to scream.
“Mycroft!” Greg yelled for his partner, who came rushing into the room. “I need help.”
“Lights off, stay as quiet as you can.” Mycroft approached his sobbing child. “Alright love, you can stop screaming now.” Remarkably the tactic worked, and Lock cut his scream off to listen. He was met with blessed silence, the energy drained from him.