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Perfect Day
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A/N: This chapter is both an apology and a thank-you. Thank-you for being so patient and amazing; I'm sorry it's been so long since my last update. I certainly didn't intend to leave you all hanging. This is really not my best work and there are probably a ton of mistakes, but I hope you guys like it all the same.
Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.
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Sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair dishevelled, the dark profile of his face is illuminated by a ruddy, shaded glow as he tweaks the wires of his prototype, linking ideas and drifting embers of his smouldering vision with a tightened screw here, a quick snip there, hunched over a slab of metal and bolts and compact cable that shivers and thrums like an exposed nerve.
As of yet, the sample bomb is only in the earliest stages of development and remains unattached to any serious power source, running on a very low voltage. Before his life with Sherlock, Jim wouldn't have taken such measures - idly fitting the parts together like the pieces of an afternoon puzzle, with no concern for the risks involved or the safety of passer-by's. He flirted with fate every chance he got, courting with the breath of Death and blowing dandelions with a single wish.
But now he has his son to consider. The stakes are so much higher. And the consultant does his best to minimise the hazards of his job whenever possible. It has been a while since he has hand-crafted his designs, though, and this prototype may be a mere shadow of the final product, but Moriarty is pleased with the results so far. He has a good feeling about this one. It's coming together quite nicely, taking into account the fact he formulated the core foundations while rocking Sherlock to sleep and singing the tot a sweet lullaby.
Jim leans back and flexes his fingers, before referring to the rough sketches and clear-cut blue prints for guidance, pinned above his head on a large cork board alongside newspaper clippings and toothed pages of print he'd torn out of his latest delivery of books, too impatient to sort through the considerable stack and bookmark the locations of any relevant information, preferring to take what he wants and discard the leftovers.
He doesn't have much time for literature that isn't the classics and Jim has no qualms about scribbling on the crisp paper of a rare edition or the glossy surface of a chemistry textbook that is all wrong and lacks any resemblance of true scholarly thought process.
Jim is so absorbed in his work that he glances at his watch and startles at the realisation he'd forgotten to put Sherlock to bed for the first time in, well, ever.
Shit.
Earlier, when he'd gone to check on him, - two, three hours ago? - Sherlock had thrown himself over his drawing, concealing it from Moriarty's sight, and screeched at him to get out. He had assumed it was another toddler thing, where he sees Daddy working on something secret and has to do the same.
Yet when he dashes into the boy's room and skids to a stop, Jim is positively speechless at his discovery.
Slumped on the floor with his bottom in the air, drool-glazed thumb fallen by his ear and a green crayon ensnared in a loose fist, Sherlock is out for the count. His t-shirt has risen to reveal an adorable potbelly and his lips are puckered and move soundlessly as he twitches in his sleep.
Smiling softly, Jim removes the crayon from his grasp and carefully hoists Sherlock over his shoulder - where he immediately latches onto his hair, coiling a generous lock around his hand, - pausing at the sound of crackling. Forehead wrinkling, he adjusts the toddler with one arm and absentmindedly pats his back while he reaches down and picks up the - now creased - sheet of paper.
It's a drawing. Two misshapen figures walking hand in hand through a scrawl of green as a blob of a dog monopolizes the space beside them, each head distortionary large compared to their wobbly, stick frame and leaving the distinct aftertaste of incompleteness. But, still. It's surprisingly endearing. And as Jim takes in the stuttering letters reading My Daddy, he feels the creeping sensation that he's missing something and racks his brain for answers.
It hits him like a ton of bricks.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he has to shove down the sudden swell of emotion.
Tomorrow - of course. Of course, Sherlock would remember. How could he not? Had Moriarty not been so caught up in his work, he might have remembered too.
Father's day. Tomorrow is father's day - how could Jim have let the date slip his mind? Most holiday's are incredibly tedious to him, but this was the one day he thought might have registered as having some sort of significance. At least, that's what Jim had hoped. Growing up, he'd never had a dad to celebrate with. The deadbeat jackass he had certainly wasn't worth commemorating and the thin thread of DNA was the only thing tying father and son together, the debt of family and the necessity of interaction becoming less and less imperative as the conflict between them grew and grew until their bitter words and near-constant state of disagreement eclipsed any sense of blood relation.
Jim doesn't want Sherlock's idolization to be snuffed out under a weight of disappointment and Moriarty's own indifference. He needs to participate - to fully embrace the opportunity to relax and enjoy the other's company in a way his father never did.
Christ, he never thought he'd be saying this, but Jim needs to learn from his father's mistakes, because he really doesn't think he can handle making the same ones.
"…Mm...m'picture," Sherlock mumbles, lifting his head off his Daddy's shoulder and groggily looking around. Jim snaps out of his daze.
"It's just Daddy, sweetheart," he whispers, brushing a few stray curls out of his eyes. "Go back to sleep. Your picture's safe."
He carries Sherlock into his bedroom and changes him into a fresh pull-up and his footie pyjamas, even more gentle and doting than usual as he presses a tender kiss to the toddler's foot before manoeuvring the limb inside the leg hole. Jim settles down on the bed and pulls Sherlock against him, draping his blankie over his peaceful form and wrapping an arm around his little shoulders. The father pushes stiff rubber against his lips and smirks as he approves the offering, watching Sherlock cuddle Wilbur in the crook of his arm, before coming to a decision.
"Cancel my appointments," he instructs down the phone, staring at his son's slack face as he snuffles against the sucker and kneads Wilbur's floppy ear between his thumb and forefinger. "Tell them tomorrow doesn't work for me. Something better has come up."
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After shyly gifting Moriarty with the charming picture the following morning, unable to look his father in the eye as he scuffed the floor with his foot and sucked on the sleeve of his onsie, Jim couldn't resist squashing his precious Munchkin in a long hug, incredibly reluctant to let go as he cooed syrupy nonsense into his ear.
The excruciating sweetness of the moment may have gotten to him and he sorta, kinda, maybe broke the news a little too soon.
As soon as he heard about their day's activities, Sherlock instantly became a whole other level of hyper, as if activating his inner cheeky monkey that Jim has never been privy to, and he jumps and bops and leaps around the furniture fearlessly.
"Contrary to popular belief, the sofa is not a trampoline," Jim intervenes, "Down. Now!"
Sherlock steps off the cushion, but there's no time for relax because he's determined to burn off that extra energy one way or another.
Despite Jim's warnings, he spins round and around in circles in the centre of the kitchen and tumbles over after getting a head rush. Thankfully, the fall is cushioned by the slim padding of his pull-up, so the young father is saved from an outburst of snot and tears, but it only accords Sherlock less time to recover. He's up and at it again in under a minute, flipping over and giggling madly as he gazes up at Moriarty upside down.
Jim finally gets him to sit at peace after plonking him down at the table and relinquishing the confiscated plastic whistle the toddler had taken a shine to the previous week from his possession and letting Sherlock bluster and spray little droplets of spit to his little heart's content.
The hammering headache is a small price to pay for the freedom to turn to other things besides making sure Sherlock doesn't get into any more trouble. He'll throw the damn thing away later when the tot's distracted with something better.
But the franticness of the morning starts to catch up to him as he tries to juggle three tasks at once and fails spectacularly.
In his hurry, he accidentally trips over one of Sherlock's toys, which he kicks out of the way while stifling a curse, and afterwards, Jim knocks over a container of rice that pours liberally out onto the floor in his quest for a quick option to fix for breakfast.
Jim crushes a box of Cheerios in one hand and plunges another inside to unravel the clear sachet, scrunched up to protect the half-eaten cereal from going stale, as he sweeps up the white grain into a messy pile with his foot and nudges a gorging Fingers out of the way using his knee.
"Leave it. That's not for you," Jim scolds the insatiable pup, "Your breakfast is over there." He indicates the bowl of kibble and when that fails, strides over and jiggles the dish enticingly. He whistles and rolls his eyes as the mutt's head snaps up. Typical. "Yeah, that's right. Over here." Fingers sprints over so fast he skids on the tile and bumps into the bowl, before wolfing down the meat feast with staggering single-mindedness.
That leaves Moriarty to snatch two bowls from the middle shelf and shake out a generous serving, and there's a clatter of cutlery as he collects a couple of spoons and rams the drawer shut with his hip. After unscrewing the lid of the milk and adding a splash, he places it in front of the wriggling youngster.
Like a typical rambunctious two-year old, Sherlock bangs the base of the spoon against the table while bouncing in place and to Jim's displeasure, he dunks a wet hand into the milk in order to scoop out a handful of the evasive Cheerios, throwing back his head as he drops them one by one into his mouth.
He scoffs down his own portion in between firing off emails to a select few clients containing brief updates for the more urgent projects and his instructions for the day. Just because he's decided to take the day off doesn't mean his network has to suffer. Only Sebastian is granted the courtesy of an explanation and even then he skimps on the details.
[8:20] Taking the Munchkin out. All calls will be redirected to your phone and I expect you to take them. As per our agreement, your monthly paycheck will be slashed by ten percent for every call you miss and I reserve the right to shove your face in a blender should you botch anything up ;) - JM
[8:22] I don't remember agreeing to that last one, boss - SM
At this point, he is busy having a crack at persuading Sherlock to finish all of his Cheerios and letting the mongrel out for a piss and doesn't have the chance to reply until over ten minutes later.
[8:37] Honey, don't you know by now I always improvise the terms and conditions? - JM
[8:38] Do not disappoint me, Sebby - JM
There's also the chore of arranging a handful of personnel to tail them for the outing, on the look out for anything suspicious and tasked with guarding the perimeter, and also bribing the security for their planned destination, lest The Iceman catch wind of his whereabouts.
"Go get dressed," he instructs once it's clear the boy isn't planning to eat any more, having slumped back against the chair and begun rubbing his tummy with the most pitiful doe eyes in existence. "Your clothes are laid out on the bed." As Sherlock hops down and shoots off down the hallway, he yells, "And remember to brush your teeth! Don't make me do a breath-test!"
Trusting Sherlock to make himself minimally presentable without his assistance, Jim whizzes around the flat for kiddie essentials to load into Sherlock's blue elephant backpack, chucking in pull-ups, wipes, tissues, the fleece blankie, a sucker which he quickly rinses under the sink, spare clothes, a sippy cup filled with apple juice in case he gets thirsty on the way there, a mini first-aid kit and hand sanitizer. Last but not least, he balls up an extra shirt for himself and adds it to the jumble for precaution, since one time they visited a museum in Amsterdam and Sherlock got overexcited and puked on his shoulder.
As much as he does not want a repeat incident, Moriarty is gonna make damn sure he comes prepared. He'd had to buy a horrible touristy shirt from a market stall and slip it on inside the cramped cubicle of the nearest bathroom with Sherlock peeping up at him with vast, watery eyes and wobbly lips. It was sickening on all accounts.
"Those are two different socks," Jim points out with a frown when the youngster reappears and immediately tears into the backpack of riches, poking around and pulling out bits and pieces to chuck behind him and generally undoing all of his Dad's hard work.
Sherlock gives him a look as if to say, 'So?' and continues exploring.
The consulting criminal sighs, but lets it go. He knows when to pick his battles, and he also knows a lost cause when he sees one.
"Daddy!" Sherlock scowls, "'Oo forgetted my king!"
"No, Daddy did not forget your king because we're not going on vacation or moving house; we're going on a day out. So there's really no need to pack all of our belongings."
"But I wan' my king, Daddy!"
"You don't need a king today, baby, not where you're going. And what if he got broke again, huh? It's already been super glued together twice, don't push it."
During the past couple of weeks, Sherlock has developed a strange obsession with the king piece of the chess board Moriarty bought him, to the point where he carries it around everywhere and even tries to take it to bed. When Jim denied him this, Sherlock snuck the chess piece under his pillow and as such, it has a tendency to crack in half and one day Jim fears it will be irreparable. He honestly doesn't think he could cope with the fallout.
"But - but, Dadddddyyy!" Sherlock whines, the hitch of his breath leading to an onslaught of heartbreaking sniffles.
"I'm sorry, sweet pea, but you can't get everything you want. I've got plenty of stuff to keep a busy bee like you happy," Jim soothes, gathering up the shed items and showing Sherlock inside, "See? Any more and it'll be too heavy for Daddy to carry." He zips up the bag and Sherlock jerks the straps and attempts to lift it for about two seconds, before dumping it on the ground and abandoning the notion. "King will be waiting for you when you get back."
"Okay," he murmurs, "Gonna…gonna say bye." Sherlock swipes his runny nose and blinks back tears.
"That's a good idea," Jim agrees softly, lips curled slightly at the corners as he hurries off. "Oh," he shouts after him, "And don't forget - teeth!"
He runs a comb through his hair and squirts out a dollop of gel, massaging it in and raking his dark locks in place. A tug on his trousers causes him to glance down.
"Daddy - wan' that!" Sherlock demands, pointing to the colourful fruit bowl on the counter and joggling on the spot.
"What do you want an orange for?" he asks, confused. "You just had cereal."
"M'hungry!"
Oh, for Christ's sake!
"Fine. Fine," Jim grumbles irritably, refraining from commenting that had he polished off all of his cereal like he was supposed to, he wouldn't be feeling peckish now. "We don't have time for this. Here," he drops the fresh fruit into his open palms and mentally double-checks he has everything he needs.
Grinning, Sherlock digs his nails into the orange and crinkles his nose. "Ow," he giggles, as the juices dribble down to a healing graze on his knuckle. "Stingy." He covers the area with his mouth and sucks for a moment to ease the sharp tingle, before whacking Jim with the mashed up orange to get his attention.
"What?" he says distractedly, hooking the elephant backpack over his shoulder and texting his driver to let him know they're ready.
"Open!"
Chuckling and shaking his head, Moriarty peels the orange and bins the skin. He is about to head out the door when he notices.
"Sherlock!" Jim exclaims, the groan simmering in his throat leaving him suspended, caught between annoyance and amusement, "Where are your bloody shoes?"
"There," he says, pointing behind the sofa.
"This is only one shoe," Jim replies, picking it up. "What happened to the other one?"
Sherlock stares blankly.
"Great," he mutters, voice stuffed with sarcasm, "That's perfect."
Finally, after another twenty minutes spent hopelessly searching, he herds Sherlock out into the back of the black town car and wrestles the toddler into the car-seat, only to struggle to buckle his seatbelt as he writhes around and cranes his neck to look around him, cheeks bloated as he chomps on an orange segment and squirts what feels like acid in Jim's eyes.
"Sherlock," Moriarty tsks, gritting his teeth, "Sit still."
"M'bored!"
"We haven't even left yet."
Exhausted and battling a raging headache, Jim sinks into the leather upholstery and shuts his eyes, releasing a long, quiet breath. He feels as if he's been through hell and back and the day's only getting started.
Whatever possessed him to think this was a good idea? Holy crap, what has he gotten himself into now? It isn't too late to turn the car around, is it?
"What 'bout Fingers?" Sherlock pipes up after a brief minute of silence.
"Fingers is staying here," Jim responds with world weariness way beyond his years as he turns away from the window to set eyes on his cranky son.
"But I wan' Fingers to come!" he whines. Definitely not too late, right?
Moriarty kneads between his brows where the concrete tension seems almost insurmountable, permanently stamped onto his tight expression. "Well, that's too bad."
"Why?"
"Because he can't come. End of."
"Why?" Sherlock persists, apparently immune to the snappy tone.
"Because he's a dog and dogs aren't allowed where we're going."
"Why?"
"Because dogs are stupid and nobody likes them," Moriarty pronounces, voice brittle. He exhales brusquely and changes the subject with a brisk, "Finish your orange."
Then, as he orders the driver to press play on the classical CD he recycles as a night time lullaby and the refined, silky notes and beautiful melodies transcend his annoyance, Jim feels the stress bleed from his muscles. About ten minutes later, he hears a thump and glances over to find Sherlock fast asleep, hand limp and a half-eaten orange rolling across the floor. Jim really shouldn't be surprised. He almost always dozes off when they go anywhere in the car, lulled by the steady motions.
This'll be interesting an trip, he thinks, a wan smile conquering the vacant exhaustion of his face as he reaches a hand across the backseat to stroke his Munchkin's soft curls. Real interesting, indeed.
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Thanks for reading. The second part should be up soon. And remember - prompts are always welcome :)