Chapter Text
There is a certain Saturday approaching promising to be the warmest day of the year - so far. The sun is finally rearing its weary head to take a look at the earth for a weekend, before it returns to a restful slumber, warming the world with a weak, watery light. Mycroft intends to spend it lounging in the glorious beams, and Greg agrees, just not quite in the same way as Holmes had imagined.
“No,” Mycroft says, “absolutely not!”
“Aw c’mon, it’ll be rad!” Greg whines.
“Rad? Oh, now you’ve lost me entirely. Cancel it all.”
“But pa’, it’s gunna be radical!” Jawn raises a Shaka and waggles it around, poking out his tongue for good measure. The poor lad cannot sit still for the life of him, and he hops about the kitchen no matter how many times his bum is directed to a seat. After a while, they give up.
“The only thing ‘radical’ is this idea of your father’s. A boat ride, seriously?”
“Not just any boat ride,” Greg rolls his eyes, “a hired boat!”
“Still lost, darling,” Mycroft replies haughtily.
Younger Holmes, who has so far kept quiet, cradles his chin into his hand and speaks up. “Could be nice. Just us four.”
“Ay, see! Even William agrees. William!” Lestrade looks chuffed that he’s convinced their in-house teenager without so much as an on-the-knees begging.
“Will, Will, Will!” Jawn agrees loudly, pouncing at his older brother. He climbs into his lap, wriggling limbs until he can embrace chest-to-chest, tugging at springy curls. “Boat, boat, boat!”
“Three against one, Mycie. Bad luck.” Daddy blows a raspberry for Jawn’s sake, who cackles and copies, slobbering all over himself. He uses Will’s shirt to wipe his chin dry, oblivious to the scowl of disgust as Will picks at his shirt to pull it away from his skin.
Mycroft puts his head into his hands. “God help me.”
***
“Now, boys, I want you on your best behaviour,” papa says, twisted in his seat to regard his backseat sons, “any lip out of either of you and we go home.”
“I’m always on my best behaviour,” Will says, affronted. He’s far too cool for the rest of them, as made clear by his topknot bun and black sunglasses. He looks ready to kick back on a beach in Australia, not go for a boat ride in Hyde Park.
“I’ll be radical.” Jawn promises with a raised pinky. Papa’s link with his own pinky is a lot less enthused than daddy’s, who urges them all out of the car for their adventure. Despite the weather there are not many people out, and Greg dashes ahead to hire their boats.
Which Mycroft scoffs at. “You call these boats?”
“Theys float on water,” Jawn points out, “and they got seats.”
“I suppose you’re right, kiddo.” Papa sighs. He fishes in the boot for their backpack full of snacks, spare clothes, towels and pull-ups for both kids, even if Holmes is a teenager today. One must never be underprepared; he has learned the hard way as a parent. “Hold hands please, boys.”
It has also come with experience that even though Mycroft detests bringing the littles into public spaces, he has stopped minding the stares. His heart comes from a place of worry that their privacy will be compromised, as either one of them (or Greg, for that matter), could be recognised from their media appearances. However, he deems today all right, due to a lack of crowds, though Jawn is still happy to wear a face mask until they sail off. Jawn takes the hands of each Holmes sibling, skipping in the middle of their trio, to where daddy is waggling his fingers at them. He looks delighted, and Mycroft can only dread as to why.
“Said ‘cause it’s so empty we can have an hour. Usually packed by now apparently. When the sun’s out so are the crowds.” Jawn breaks free from their grips to plunge himself at daddy’s middle, who hugs him back without even a stumble. He pats the top of his head before pulling the child back. “Shall we go see? Are you gunna pick our boat out for us?”
“Yeah!” Jawn races ahead with daddy, them both giggling, and the Holmeses have to wonder who the actual child is.
Mycroft turns to his other child, intending to reassure him that should he become overwhelmed, they will get off the boat, but Will is watching after them with a smile, and papa has a feeling it won’t be needed. Well, maybe Will won’t, but Mycroft isn’t holding out hope that this will be the wonderful experience they’ve spent all week convincing him of. The boat is more of a plastic monstrosity, garishly red and bobbing against the Serpentine river. It hardly looks suited to carry their weight, but a handler no older than twenty-five assures them it is, offering a hand for them to use as support. They are given a short safety spiel then sent on their way for the next sixty minutes, free to explore the space as they wish.
“Will, you sit at the front.”
“Papa sit wif Jawn?” Little Watson asks, wiggling about. It sends the boat rocking and Mycroft cannot restrain his instinctual urge to grasp at the sides of the boat and hold on for dear life, although he is in no real danger.
Through gritted teeth, he says: “that’s right. Sit down properly. You heard the nice man. What don’t we do?”
“Stand up!” Jawn recites proudly, chest puffed and everything. He receives a beaming smile for his efforts and a rewarding stroke of his hair that he leans into, before settling back into his seat as told. The rocking stops, and Mycroft is able to breathe again.
“Good boy.”
Will giggles, swivelling in his place with more grace than his excited baby brother. “I wonder why you want to sit at the back, hm?”
“To be with my lovely Jawn, is all.”
“Yeah yeah, sure.” Will laughs. He and his dad are on the front row, which is, coincidentally, also where the pedals to power the boat are located. At the back are reclining seats, and even more coincidentally, it is exactly where papa performs the famous daddy move of ‘resting his eyes’, sunhat dipped low over his brow.
“Papa sleep?” Jawn peers at his silent papa, wondering how he could have dozed off so quickly, but the man simply hums noncommittally.
Daddy snorts, and with a shake of his head, declares that: “he might be soon.”
Jawn cannot be upset by the notion of papa missing a single second of their expedition, as he is given control of their vast journey ahead. Captain Jawn, he reminds them, the one who makes up all the rules and has a trusty crew and a mighty ship. They shall head for the ocean, he exclaims, pointing to the long stretch of river ahead of them. He sits back, copying papa’s laidback position, releasing a pleasurable ‘ahh’ as though he has taken a wonderfully refreshing sip of lemonade on a hot summer’s day.
“Like father like son.” Will snorts, using his gangly legs to power ahead. Combined with Greg’s thighs of steel, they are off like whippets, powering on to their destination, in search of… something.
***
Jawn huffs like a horse and flops back. “There’s nothing here! Where the treasure?”
“The treasure isn’t just on display, you muppet. It’ll be hidden somewhere.”
“Don’t call you brother a muppet, you bananahead,” daddy chides in jest. He cranes his neck to look back at his stropping toddler. “Jawn, perhaps there are beasts that protect the treasure.”
“Captain Jawn!” Whinges the child. He is close to tears, audible in his voice, and daddy slips into damage control.
“Deep breaths kiddo. Follow with me now.” Daddy beckons him forward and places one hand on Jawn’s sternum, where he can feel, as expected, a racing heart, and the other hand around his back in a soothing pressure hug. They follow the breathing exercise together until Jawn is calmer. “Such a good boy, that better?”
“Sorry dada.” Watson scrubs at the prickle in his eyes, but his hands are removed and kissed.
“Nothing to be sorry for, squirt. Now how’s about we pay those rabid aquatic beasts a visit? You never know what we might find!”
“Okay,” Jawn sniffles. Will offers out a hand and he takes it, their fingers intertwined regardless of the awkward angle as four legs pedal as fast as they can towards a bevy of swans and ducks.
Not even Watson has had the heart to wake Mycroft from what is obviously a well-needed slumber, all talking with their indoor voices (Jawn did not even argue that they are, in fact, outside) and being careful not to deliberately rock the boat. They may be considerate, but the curious birds most certainly are not, and flock to them in search of their own treasures. One mallard battlecries, bringing forth its own paddling of ducks, all of which decide it is pertinent to announce their names for the aquatic register. The sheer volume attracts the attention of a family on land, who bear witness to Mycroft lurching up with a yell. He is surrounded from all angles by clacking beaks, sure he is stuck in a feathery nightmare. He yells again for good measure, doing little to drive away the troves of quacking moorhens, the larger swans bravely stretching their necks to have a gander for food. Jawn giggles so hard he begins to snort, stuck in an endless cycle until he is breathless and his belly aches. He laughs so hard he nearly topples from the boat, shrieking quite like papa, which only starts off another chain of cachinnation.
“This is quite unwelcome.” Mycroft scoffs in his most poshest voice. He is just short of bribing the enemy with cash when Will fishes out a bag of grain and seed from the front pocket of the backpack and chucks a handful of it away from his side. The birds race after it, leaving Mycroft free for a moment, who is only partially grateful. “Right, own up. Which one of you devils brought bird food?”
“I did. Knew there’d be birds.” Will shrugs, pouring some into Jawn’s cupped hands. The lad throws it all up in the air, most of which clatter back into the boat and bonk him on the head. He giggles, accepting more whilst daddy shows him how to throw it properly.
“Out, not up. That’s the trick.” Jawn nods seriously, and then… throws it directly above his head with an amused ‘uh oh’. Daddy barks a laugh and ruffles his hair. “You are an absolute penguin, aren’t ya daft boy?”
“Not a penguin, a ducky!” Jawn proves his point by quacking at the top of his lungs. Undeniably adorable indeed, however he is rather good at speaking Quackenese, as the conglomerate of feathered friends return de novo, beaks awaiting. Mycroft leans into the centre of the boat, prepared to fence the bastards off with the arm of his sunglasses if necessary.
“We’re surrounded! Load the cannons!” Jawn orders, thrusting out his palms.
“Aye aye, Cap’n!” Will pours more grain into Jawn’s hand, who extends his arms out of the boat and then throws it. This time it lands directly into the horde of rabid animals, who proclaim their thanks, though one quacks rather angrily at having an unasked-for seedy shower. He shakes his head to rid of the seed and swims closer to peck at Jawn’s fingers.
“Agh, I’m under attack! The kraken eatin’ me!”
“The most harmless kraken I’ve ever seen,” Mycroft retorts snootily.
“Oh yeah? Stick your hands out then, see how brave you are then.” Will snipes mirthfully, tongue poking out briefly.
“That is most unsanitary. Jawn, no, don’t eat- oh.” Mycroft claps his forehead with his hand and looks away from the grotesque scene.
Watson splutters in disgust. “Ew, tastes gross. No wonder he bite me! Quick, we must retreat! Man the sails, all hands on deck!” Jawn crows, urging them on with a karate chop. Wet seed drips sluggishly from his palm, plopping into the water to be gobbled up by a singlet. As commanded the frontmost crew mates speed-pedal away, their thighs burning with the efforts, but their plans are thwarted by the dark shadow of twenty-odd hungry monsters making chase.
“Cap’n, we need a new plan!”
Jawn fumbles for a moment, twisting every which way for ideas before his eyes flash like a lightbulb has gone off above his head. He snatches the bag of seed from the centre console, clutched by the bottom, and swings his arm in a wide arc. It scatters the remainder of the bird feed in a crescent, though he accidentally drops the bag behind him in the process. Mycroft snags it just in time as they speed away, birds distracted sufficiently. Jawn claps wildly, his laugh somewhat maniacal. “We lost them! Good job team!”
“You saved our lives, Cap’n, and for that we will be truly and eternally grateful.” William declares, bowing at his leader. Jawn holds out a hand for him, but instead of a reverent kiss his arm is abducted by papa, who furiously scrubs at his seeded skin with a wet wipe.
“You look like a sodding burger bun.”
“I don’t taste good, though! Don’t eat me! We got ‘nough snacks to go round, cook!” Jawn screeches, attempting to yank his arm free. He succeeds and celebrates for a single second until his other arm is snatched for the same treatment.
“I’m the cook, am I? Typical. Don’t know why I put up with you lot.”
“Cap’n, our cook doesn’t seem too appreciative of your leadership. Shall we have him walk the plank?” Greg tuts.
“Hmm,” Jawn taps his chin thoughtfully, “perhaps we can come to a comrise.”
“A what?” Papa stares at him blankly.
“Comrise!” Jawn repeats, his expression showing how obvious the answer is.
“A com… oh! A compromise?”
“That’s wot I said!” Jawn yells, crossing his arms, a knot forming between furrowed brows.
“My apologies, Captain. What are you requirements?”
Jawn takes a deep breath, and Mycroft knows he shall regret this game before he’s even spoken. “Juice, an’ snacks, an’ massage later, an’ erm… a… uhm…”
“Stay up late and watch a movie!” William suggests.
“Yeah, that!”
“What’s a movie?” Asks the cook. Jawn regards him with widened eyes, in complete shock. He looks around at his other crew mates, but they just blink back at him.
“A movie? Papa stupid?”
Daddy forgets to tell him off for that, barking a laugh so loud a nearby dog joins in. Papa schools a smile and pretends he is utterly confused. “Never heard’a one. I’m an old pirate, y’see.”
Jawn understands the game now and jumps right back into it. “Aye aye, me old man.”
Daddy has to hold onto Will for how hard he is howling. A second dog joins their new band, and not even Mycroft can stay in character anymore. “You little bugger! Get ‘ere! I’ll show you old!”
“Jawn’s a better negotiator than your lot. You should have him hired.” Will says, patting the latter’s knee.
Jawn swats away papa’s tickling fingers, growling at them all. “No! I’m Cap’n, not a n’goshater.”
“Nailed it.” Daddy high fives him, one arm clutching his side. “I think I just lost a stone laughing. God, I got a stitch.”
“You will have stitches when I’m done with you,” papa warns, but he is smiling. “Now get me off this damn boat. Nightmares, all of you.”
“Hour’s not up, yet. Got ten minutes to go.”
“And by the time we get back that ten minutes will be done. Time’s ticking, soft lads. Tick tock.” Papa waves a dismissive, manicured hand at them.
“Cheeky git,” mutters daddy.
“Pompous arse,” adds Will.
“Ooh, alright Queen Mycie,” Jawn sings haughtily. “We at your service, my leash.”
“That’s liege to you, rotten Captain.” Papa sticks out his tongue and buries his head inside his sunhat, ducking down for a few more precious minutes. They haven't even gotten to noon yet.