Work Text:
It had taken young Theodore Watson three years and eleven months to fully grasp the concept of birthdays. It was not necessarily the concept of his own birthday that he had grasped, but of other's. Through a small celebration with one of his friends down the street he'd learned what was expected of a friend and guest. He'd been fascinated to the point he'd asked for the birthdays of everyone he knew, including his own. I'd pulled out my appointment book and read off all of the birthdays he asked for. Like most children, he became obsessive with this new knowledge and had requested an appointment book for himself specifically for birthdays despite the fact he could not read or write. Mary had taken his blank notebook and asked how he would like the birthdays listed to which he simply stated "in order." Her eyes had cut to me questioningly, but I had no answer as to his specifications. Mary decided to nearly write each birthday in order of day and month rather than name or year. When she finished, she began reading off each one, but was stopped nearly immediately.
"Mum. Uncle Sherlock's birthday is before mine," said Theo as he looked at the complete list.
"It's two days before your birthday," said Mary, "the sixth of January."
"How old is he?"
"Forty-five," said I, having an easier time keeping track of Holmes' age due to only being two years older than him.
Theo's eyes widened considerably. "He's so old!"
Mary hid her face behind her hand but I could see the laughter dancing in her sapphire eyes as she looked at me. I raised my eyebrows slightly in response, silently reminding her that she was not so far behind that our son would not think her as ancient as Holmes and I. After all, she must remember as well as I how ancient anyone over the age of ten had seemed when we were that age. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but her humor was by no means diminished.
"Your father is forty-seven," said she with a mischievous smile. "Do you think him old?"
"Yes."
I debated the merit of asking him what he thought of her age, but before I could come to a decision, Theo had moved on from marveling at my age to a more exciting topic.
"How many days until Uncle Sherlock's birthday?"
"Twenty-seven days," said Mary.
Every day after, Theo would ask how many days were left until Holmes' birthday. For several days he'd pondered over what present to give his godfather, asking questions of Mary and I whenever the notion struck him. Never had I kept better track of Holmes' birthday than when we were approaching his forty-sixth, for I can tell you precisely how many days remained before Theo had made up his mind as to what gift to give him. There were nine days left until Holmes' birthday, eleven until his fourth year, when he'd decided he would make a pipe holder. He'd heard, from one of the older children he played with, that the potter, Mr. Johnson, would allow children to make their own pottery with parental consent. He'd begged all of two minutes before I had consented to go with him to make the pipe holder on Saturday.
This, of course, meant that I was awoken before the sun had begun its ascent by Theo's knees digging into my thigh as he shook my shoulders. Mary, who had been resting peaceably behind me, groaned quietly and pushed at my back from my good shoulder and begged me to take Theo wherever he desired. Had our positions been reversed, I would not have done any differently, so I grabbed Theo and stood to my feet.
"You must be quiet and patient, Theodore," said I at a whisper. "I will get ready and then help you dress, but you do not want to wake your mother."
"Yes, dad," he whispered as well as he could.
I dressed with care, fighting the call of Morpheus that was a mere few feet from me. It would be simple to lay back down, but my boy was excited and I could no more deny him than his mother whom he favored with fair hair, regal brows and a soft nose.
Mr. Johnson was patient with Theo who had wanted little help in making his pipe holder. Several times clay flew everywhere despite my best attempts to keep him on task, but Mr. Johnson had laughed and encouraged me to keep the wheel spinning and for Theo to place his little hands back on the clay. The end result was rather misshapen and I'd offered to smooth it out more, but Theo had refused, proud of his creation. I'd had a lifetime of experience in choosing my battles, and so I called upon it to concede to his whim. Mr. Johnson explained he would need to work out the rest, but we could return to paint it tomorrow. I paid the man and thanked him for his aid.
The next day was, in almost every respect, exactly the same as the previous where we ended up spattered with paint instead of clay and received a call from a stranger nearly as soon as we'd returned home.
I held Theo's hand as I answered the door and was surprised to find a old vicar stooped on our step. His white hair curled atop his head and wiry beard neatly groomed. His nose was that of an old drinker and eyes were bloodshot as if he'd just been in the drink, though I could smell no sign off of him. Theo had wrenched free of my hold before I could drag him behind me and leapt at the man excitedly.
"Uncle Sherlock!"
The man's eyes cleared instantly and he straightened with the boy on his hip. "Hello, young Theo! How do—ow!" Theo had ripped the beard off and Holmes' free hand rubbed his chin. "Please be gentle with me."
"Sorry."
Holmes was rather quick to forgive Theo for all his faults, though I take it that was only because he was a boy after his own heart. "I accept your apology. Now, as I was saying. How do you always know it's me?"
Theo grinned proudly and ran a finger gently across the bags under his eyes. "Your eyes are always the same even when they're not."
Holmes' eyes gleamed with pride. "We've the makings of a fine detective with this one, don't we Watson? I wager Scotland Yard would benefit from having such a keen set of eyes."
Theo beamed with pride. "Are you on a case?"
"I am. And it seems you are on the way to a bath."
"Indeed we are," said I as I took my son into my arms.
Holmes chuckled as he took back his fake beard. "Both of you, it seems."
"The spare room still has a spare set of clothes," said I as I walked away.
Though Holmes stayed past supper and held his godson, his mind was miles away. His eyes were not unlike that of a hound tracking a faint scent searching for a fresher trail. He was, at least, attentive enough that Theo could not tell that he was not entirely present, for he'd hand over a sweet and ruffle Theo's hair whenever asked.
It was fortunate that his case had come to an exciting conclusion the eve of his birthday. His celebratory mood followed him into the next day and he'd arrived promptly at three o'clock, much to the impatient delight of Theo who had been hounding us for the time every five minutes or so.
The front door opened and Holmes had called, "Halloa!" It was the most effective summoning for Theo possible because he'd ran through the house until Mary had called him to walk. He shuffled his feet quickly, which was at a pace we could keep up with easily.
"Hullo!" Holmes bent down and hauled the boy up to sit on his hip as natural now as it had been unnatural the first time.
Theo hugged him around the neck with a beaming smile. "Hullo, Uncle Sherlock! Happy birthday!"
The expression of pure surprise on his face was one I'd seen few times in our acquaintanceship and it had made me proud to know my son could manage such a feat. I could not tell if he was surprised because it was his birthday or because Theo had known it was his birthday.
"Thank you," said Holmes after a moment, eyes brighter for only a second before he grinned and hugged the boy tighter.
"I made you a present," said Theo, wiggling until Holmes had set him on his feet. He grabbed Holmes' hand and dragged him after himself. "It's in here!"
I smiled at the bewildered detective and whispered, "Happy birthday" as he was dragged past us by the nearly four-year-old. Mary had ducked forward whilst he was straightening slightly to kiss his cheek and say a quiet, "Happy birthday."
We followed the pair back to the sitting room where Theo rushed behind my chair to grab the brown paper package he'd wrapped himself (Mary had barely salvaged it so that it was entirely covered). Holmes sat in his usual place on the settee, tracking the boy as he approached with a beaming smile. The corners of his lips twitched upward.
"There you go," said Theo whilst placing the present in his godfather's hands.
Holmes unwrapped his gift with care and pulled out the lopsided and dented pot painted in red, green and yellow. The rim was thick and uneven, the bottom flat and thin, and colors haphazardly brushed on, but I thought it impressive for the boy's first attempt.
"Thank you, Theo," said Holmes as he turned the pot every which way. His gray eyes darted to me questioningly, which said to me that even his great skills of deduction could not help him make heads or tails of the gift. "Now, let me see… It's made of fine clay and painted with a… flat brush."
I took pity on him at the third glance for help and mouthed, "Pipe holder."
His brows twitched downward in brief confusion, but I knew he had read my lips correctly. He turned back to Theo with a bright smile and declared, "It is clearly a pipe holder."
Theo bounced beside Holmes' knee. "Do you like it?"
Holmes' eyes softened and he ruffled Theo's hair. "I love it. No doubt you'll have a career in whatever you set your sights on."
"I wanna be a detective like you."
His gray eyes watered as he scooped the little boy into his arms and held him close. I heard a quiet sniffle and still I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I looked to Mary and found her gaze so soft that I knew instantly that my eyes had been true.
I supposed even the great detective wasn't immune to a child's love.