This one shot is dedicated to a wonderful writer who has helped me tremendously over the last few months across my different works. Edhla, thank you very much for taking time out of your day to encourage me and help me grow as a writer. This one's for you, my friend :) please enjoy everyone!

Oh, and by the way, if you're looking for the ride of your fanfiction life, go and check out Edhla's work; she's written an entire season 3 AU and it's fantastic.

Also, as an aside, this story takes place within my own AU that starts with 'A Small Price to Pay for Her', goes through 'The Beginnings of Us' and up to my current WIP, 'Origins'.

Mister Mum

The loo was certainly an invention that relied heavily on mathematics.

Linda had never really taken the time to stop and think about just how much it played a part in the making of one. Geometry, fractions, decimals, hydraulics – all of these different elements had to be involved in order to make a loo work. How could she have missed such a fascinating observation for so long?

Well, then again, she had never gotten up close and personal enough with one to actually stop and make those conclusions in the first place.

She felt her stomach churn for the umpteenth that morning and gripped the sides of the bowl as her mouth, nose and throat burned and stung from the force of her retch. Just when she thought she didn't have enough energy left and that there was nothing left to expel, her body proved her wrong. Biting her lip against the pain that radiated through her abdominal walls and sides, Linda felt her body go slack in utter exhaustion.

From behind her, a gentle pair of hands gathered her hair from all around her shoulders and face.

"Thank you," she rasped.

"Are you finished?" Chris asked.

She nodded and slowly raised her head from out of the loo and took a deep breath to try and steady herself to get to her feet. She closed her eyes against the light; it hadn't been that bright and painful about thirty minutes ago – at least, she didn't think so. But then again, it was hard to think through the dull haze that was stuffing up every nook and cranny of her mind. Without much thought to her actions, she got up to her feet and felt herself slightly sway.

"Whoa, there." Chris stopped her before she could try to walk. "Come on, let's get you to bed." With a sweep, he picked her up in his arms and proceeded to carry her out of the bathroom.

"Chris, your back-"

"Is just fine, thank you," he said. If she had had the energy, she would've rolled her eyes at his attempt to be what the Americans called a 'macho man'. But in her state, she was just happy that she was back in bed and she curled up under the quilt, a violent shiver racking her body. Little pins of pain stabbed her all around her body as she feebly moved around to get comfortable.

"I'll call the office and tell them that I won't be in today," Chris said as he walked toward the bathroom again. Linda barely acknowledged his statement and rolled over to grab his pillow, bundling with it to find any ounce of warmth that she could. She inhaled the lingering scent of him and briefly smiled.

The bed sank as Chris sat down with a small glass of water and two small white pills. "Here, take these."

Somehow, she managed to swallow the rough and chalky pills and flopped back down, sighing sleepily as he tucked the quilt around her.

"Don't you worry about things around here for today; I'll take care of everything."

She opened an eye as the weight of what he said hit her. "Are you sure about that-"

"Of course I'm sure." Chris smiled briefly. "You need to stay in bed and sleep this off. Besides, it's about time that I see exactly what you do. It's just for a day; what could possibly go wrong?"

If Linda could've snort without the risk of choking, she would've, but instead, she turned and snuggled into the pillows as the heaviness of fatigue pulled her into the abyss of sleep…

Something was different.

Mycroft poked his head out from his bedroom and listened carefully to the sounds that floated to his ears from downstairs. Usually, things went like clockwork downstairs every morning; so specific and calculated that it was almost like a living soundtrack of life around the Holmes household. But the bangs, thumps and clumsy footsteps that peppered the air made him blink in astonishment.

Daddy was in the kitchen? And he was cooking?

Whatever was he doing that for?

Mycroft walked to the master bedroom door and slowly opened it, listening in to make sure that Mummy was still in bed. And indeed she was; she snored like a buzz saw and mumbled loudly between each ear-shattering sound. Which only meant one thing: Mummy was sick.

But Mummy never got sick. Ever. And even if she did, she never stayed in bed past breakfast. She usually just soldiered on through it.

This is actually bad enough to keep her bedridden.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes of sleep. He opened his mouth to say something, but paused at the loud clatter that came from downstairs and Daddy's yelp of what sounded like pain and aggravation. The boys looked to each other and tentatively walked down the stairs, peeking around the corner to see that their father was donning Mummy's usual red apron around his waist and sighing at the mess he made. What looked to be a rather large pile of scrambled eggs was scattered about the floor.

"Of course," he murmured, leaning down to pick up the pan. With a look to each other, Mycroft and Sherlock walked into the kitchen.

"Well, there goes breakfast," Mycroft said casually, startling Daddy as he looked around the kitchen and scratched his head.

"Where's the-"

"Corner." The boys pointed to the broom and dustpan and Daddy sighed.

"Well, seeing as the majority of breakfast is currently on the floor…sorry, Mike, but toast will have to carry you until lunch-" He stopped. "Oh, your lunch! I haven't even made it yet!" Dropping the broom mid sweep, he went to the fridge and ripped the door open. "What's here that I could make?"

As he mumbled frantically to himself, Mycroft and Sherlock looked to each other again. Daddy was as lost in the kitchen as a goose in a snowstorm; no wonder he only stuck to editing manuscripts and writing novels.

"Daddy-"

"A sandwich! I could make a sandwich; that's easy." He reached into the fridge to pull out the lunchmeat and the boys shared a joint sigh, sitting down at the table to feast on cold toast and jam in silence. After a few minutes of fumbling, Daddy managed to put together a sandwich of some kind and stuffed it in a brown bag with an apple.

"All right, all ready," he said cheerfully. Mycroft took the sack without a word and walked to the door to grab his bag.

"Have a good day at school," Daddy called with a wave. "Learn something new and…yes, learn something new." The door slammed shut and he sighed. "Well, that was relatively simple," he said with a nod to Sherlock, who was nibbling on a piece of dry toast. "We're going to have a good time together today, eh?"

Sherlock shrugged and nodded.

"So, what does Mummy do after Mike leaves for school?"

"Lessons," Sherlock replied. "It's Tuesday; she does maths on Tuesdays."

Daddy blinked. "Umm…well, how about we do something different?" he asked with a smile.

"But I want to do maths."

"I'm not really good at maths, Sherlock."

"Then wake Mummy up so she can teach me. It's multi...multa...mulli-"

"Multiplication," Daddy finished. "I'm sorry, but Mummy needs rest, so no maths today." He rubbed his hands together, looking to the utter mess that he made in the haste of making Mycroft's sandwich. "As soon as I clean this up, I'll find something for us to do. Uh...where's the-"

"Sink," Sherlock interrupted with a point. Daddy sighed.

"Right…right."

Linda snorted and shot up from her fitful sleep, looking all around the bedroom in a slight panic. But at the silence of the house and no smell of smoke in the air (at least from what she could tell from her stuffed up nose), she laid back down and sighed in slight relief. It felt so odd being isolated from the rest of the house, even though Chris was there and 'taking care of things'. A part of her felt utterly useless as she laid in that bed and clung to her husband's pillow, but as she fell back into slumber, the thoughts seemed to float away…

"I don't color. Coloring's for babies."

Sherlock could tell that Daddy was starting to get exasperated with each of his suggestions that were shot down.

"But you used to color all the time."

"And now I don't. It's boring," Sherlock said with a shrug. Daddy sighed.

"All right." He ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. "How about I read to you?" he finally suggested and Sherlock immediately jumped up from the couch and pulled The Hobbit from its normal place on the shelf.

"Actually," Daddy said when Sherlock brought the book back. "I want to try something different." He got up and went to the bookshelf. "Now, where is it- ah." He pulled out a cream-colored book with a spine worn from years of use. "Treasure Island," he said as he sat in his favorite armchair. "It was my favorite book when I was your age. Come up." He pat his lap.

"Wait." Sherlock ran up the stairs and into his bedroom, throwing everything he put his hands to around until he found his pirate hat, eye patch and cardboard sword. With happy hops, he flew back down the stairs. "Ready," he announced with a grin. Daddy chuckled and let Sherlock climb into his lap and with a clearing of his throat, he opened the book to the first page.

"Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey and the rest of these gentlemen have asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island…"

Linda slowly rose her head up from the pillow and took a deep breath through her nose – not completely clear, but it was enough to go with. Sitting up, she rubbed her pounding temples and winced at her sore joints. The house was just as quiet as before, which was fine...she hoped. She stood to her feet; maybe she just needed a bit of a walk around to help relax her body…

And taking a stroll gave her a chance to make sure the house was still intact with Chris in charge.

They weren't even fifty pages into the book when Captain Sherlock decided that the nasty pirates attempting to loot the booty of Treasure Island needed to be taken down to the depths of the deep blue sea.

"Arr! Die, scoundrel!" Sherlock stabbed at Daddy with his cardboard sword, but narrowly missed and hit the lamp instead; the shatter barely fazed them.

"You'll never get me!" Daddy said as he hopped to the armchair and stood tall and proud. "Haha! Take that!"

With a roar, Sherlock threw aside his sword and soared from his stance on the couch into Daddy's arms, where they tumbled to the ground. Distantly, something else loudly thumped to the ground.

"Argh, you got me, Cap'n!" Daddy cried out, tickling Sherlock's sides. The little boy laughed and begged for the torture to cease-

"What is going on here?"

They paused in their rough housing and looked toward the voice by the stairs. Mummy stood on the bottom step, her robe askew around her shoulders and blonde curls wild and frizzy around her face and shoulders. She held a balled up tissue in her closed fist and sniffled, her pink nose twitching as she surveyed the scene of wreckage and chaos before her.

"Uh- darling!" Daddy sat up. "We were- I was just- we- he- how are you feeling?" he finally asked with a nervous smile.

"A little better," Mummy said simply. Sherlock slowly climbed off Daddy and they both got to their feet to stand before her. Her eyes slid to the broken lamp by the couch.

"Daddy did it," Sherlock said with a point.

"Wha-" Daddy sputtered as Mummy looked to him with an eyebrow raised. "No, no, it was an accident, love," he said with a shaky laugh. "Just an accident – you see, I'm a pirate and Cap'n Sherlock was just trying to save Treasure Island and his booty and-" he trailed off as Mummy's eyes narrowed more and more with each word he uttered.

Sherlock and Daddy looked down to the ground and braced themselves for the scolding. To their surprise, Mummy simply sighed and shook her head.

"I'm going back to bed. This sitting room better be back the way it was when I wake up again – not a thing out of place," she stressed to Daddy, who nodded once. She turned around and went back up the stairs, and after a moment of silence, Sherlock giggled.

"Daddy, I think we woke up the Kraken," he whispered. Daddy let out a hearty laugh.

"Come on, let's get all of this cleaned up," he said after a cough.

When Linda woke up again, it was nighttime and dangerously quiet. She felt Chris's side of the bed and felt empty space. She took a deep breath…

And realized she could breathe almost completely through her nose. Slowly, she sat up and sighed in relief at the very gentle pulsing in her temples; well, at least it wasn't as painful as before. Her body still ached, but it was actually more of an overall dull haze than sharp stabs of pain. She got up out of bed and went to the door, opening it just a crack.

Down the hall, a soft glow of a light shone from Sherlock's bedroom and she walked toward it, peeking into the room to see Chris tucking Sherlock in.

"Daddy, you should be Mummy again tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Chris replied with a chuckle. "I quite like being a daddy." He ruffled Sherlock's hair gently. "Good night son."

"Night, Daddy."

Chris walked toward the door and paused at seeing Linda standing there.

"Hello there, Mister Mum," she said with a smile.

"Mister Mum…I have to say, I never thought I would have that title bestowed upon me," he said as he kissed her cheek. "Do I at least get a crown for it?"

"You're just a mum, not a queen," Linda pointed out as they walked toward the master bedroom.

"You look as though you're feeling better."

"I do. I'm not exactly there, but I think I'll be able to keep up with things well enough tomorrow."

"Ah, good." He shut the bedroom door behind them.

"So…how was dinner?" Linda asked as she crawled back into bed.

"Fine, it went fine." Chris laid next to her and sighed. "Tried my hand at making cottage pie, and I burned it." His eyes slid to her as she stifled a giggle. "Oi, at least I tried."

"Even though you know you can't cook."

"Sherlock said it's chemistry, but simplified."

"Which it is, but it doesn't mean everyone can do it."

He ran a hand down his face. "Apparently. We ended up going for fish and chips in the end." He paused. "I honestly didn't have a clue just how much work you have on your hands until today. I don't know how you juggle everything around this house – cleaning, cooking, lessons…that's a lot to keep track of." He put an arm around her. "Do me a favor, dear: try not to get sick again anytime soon."

She smiled and snuggled into his side. "I'll certainly do my best."

NOTE: For anyone curious, Treasure Island is in public domain; it was published in 1883 – well before copyright protections laws, which were passed in 1923 in the United States.

Anyways, thanks for taking the time out of your day to read!

GeorgyannWayson