This is a short Sherlock fanfic/flash-fiction piece I never got around to fleshing out. As noted, I have seen no more than two episodes of BBC’s Sherlock, and I don’t wish to see any more. Despite this, I do enjoy putting Sherly and John in situations that would most likely be deemed “boring” by the former and, understandably so, “awkward” by the latter. This is one of them.
(by Allison Rose)
“….And these are my niece and nephew,” Mrs. Hudson was saying, an arm around each child’s shoulder. “Mark and Linda.” They were both eight years old, with light brown hair and inquisitive green eyes.
From where he reclined on the sofa, Sherlock glanced at the boy’s shoes. The T-rexes on his socks that peeped out above his muddy trainers suggested that Mark was an aspiring paleontologist. Linda, on the other hand, was a little harder to place. Her dainty but mismatched socks (one knee sock had a different elastic band at the knee) contrasted greatly with her canvas high-tops, and the logo of a Beatles T-shirt peeked out from behind the straps of her flower-print jumper.
“John’ll take care of them,” Sherlock replied in a bored voice. John just smiled shyly at the children from the armchair. John Watson, a former army doctor, was awkward around women and even worse around pre-adolescents. Sherlock would enjoy watching the man make a fool of himself.
Mrs. Hudson looked a little uncertain of her own decision to let the tenants of 221B Baker Street watch her charges for the day, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I’d best be off to meet Tish,” she stammered, heading towards the door and swinging her handbag over her shoulder. “She’s always late, but I must set an example for her….”
“Goodbye, Auntie,” Mark exclaimed cheerfully.
“‘Bye, Auntie,” John echoed rather stupidly.
“She’s not your auntie,” Linda muttered sharply.
“I’m sorry, what?” John asked.
“I said she’s not your auntie,” Linda repeated slowly, as though she was speaking to a young child.
Sherlock chuckled sardonically — a rare occurrence — and sat up, propping his feet on the coffee table. “You’ve got your hands full, John.”
“Yes,” John sighed. “I suppose I have.”