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To have quality time with his older sons, one-on-one, no less, is a novelty Greg refuses to take for granted. Their laughter is different when they’re bigger, less hysterical but just as carefree. Deeper, too, that pettish shrillness stomped on by more hearty chortles.
It can be hard to entertain teenagers, especially the younger ones, so Greg has compromised. The weather outside is frankly horrific, even he wouldn’t subject them to that for the sake of a walk to burn off energy. They’d barely be able to hear each other over the torrential downpour anyway. Instead, to tempt their interests, he’s given into a few hours’ worth of video games including snacks and drinks and a fair few bathroom breaks.
Granted, he’s no good at any of the games they select, can barely even distinguish the characters, never mind who he is meant to be fighting. After several rounds of ass-whoopery, poor ole Greg throws in the towel and allows himself a bit of a sulk, as a treat. Pout and all. Johnny takes one look at his jutted lip and freezes, suspecting they’ll be delegated to babysitting duty.
To assuage his worry, Greg growls, “I give up. Too many colours. Too much going on. How the bleeding hell can you even tell what’s going on?” Johnny relaxes, realises his father’s just in a bit of a Holmesian snit, and chuckles.
“We can play something else instead.”
“Oh! I can’t believe I forgot!” William ducks down, burying himself in a box full of consoles ready to be switched out at a moment’s notice. He returns fluffy haired and grinning. “Look what I got!”
“Is that a Wii?” Johnny asks, his voice tinged with something Greg cannot read.
“What? Will, you’ve just been.” Greg looks down not at all subtly at Will’s crotch, but his jeans are spotless.
“No, not wee. Wii! The Nintendo console.”
“Never heard of it.” He shrugs.
Will grins, plugging it in. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
Greg vaguely recognises the controller, a long white oblong with some buttons dotted along the top, but is surprised to find his son waving it around like a wand. The cursor on the TV corresponds erratically, so Will sets the remote facedown on the floor for a few seconds, staring at the screen, then picks it back up.
“How on earth did that fix it?”
“Calibration.” Will doesn’t even look at him, yet the eye roll is audible in his Duh, Obviously voice. Playful music rings through the air as they’re taken to a menu, and with a few clicks they’re into a new game.
“Wii Sports?”
“Classic!” Johnny begins dancing to the menu theme, humming along to it. “I’ve only ever watched gameplay of this.”
With narrowed eyes, Greg confirms, “you… watch people play games?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t… play the game yourself?” Confusion etches into the crease between his eyes.
“It’s fun to watch someone else do it.” Johnny shrugs.
“Right.” Greg says, as someone who does not understand whatsoever. He’s given a pitying look, the same one that any parent can translate into ‘aw, poor dumb old dad’. Revenge springs in the form of jabbing fingers into Johnny’s ribs.
“Boys! Stop fighting! We have some bowling to play.” Will snips, dishing out remotes.
As it turns out, it is weirdly fun to watch other people play. And Wii Sports is bloody brilliant, for that matter. Greg is sucked in like a toddler to toons, aiming his little ball to form perfect strikes each time. He dominates the side challenges, but the best game of all is the 100 pin challenge, if only for the destruction they all wreak.
Will is shockingly amazing at boxing, and beats Matt — some form of Mii god, whatever that means — knocking him out so he drops limply to the floor like a sack of spuds. Johnny shines in baseball, hitting home runs nearly every time, and does a victory lap of the bedroom when he thrashes his brother.
“Your pa would love the golf. All those little wind calculations and angles and distance. We should get him on this.” Greg smiles.
Will looks at him, starry eyed with a wide grin plumping up sweaty cheeks. “I thought you’d never ask!”
They move onto tennis. There are a few extra challenges they begin with, but even Will finds the tasks too difficult to get much of a high score without some decent practice, so they move onto a match.
“Put your wrist strap on dad.” Johnny indicates to the fabric loop hanging off the bottom of the remote.
Greg waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not stupid, I don’t need it.”
“How hard do you expect us to play, Johnny? We’re not actually playing tennis, you know!” Will exclaims in solidarity.
“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Placating hands raised aloft, Johnny steps back so he can crawl up the bed for a better vantage point.
Will is good. Extremely good. Not much of a surprise, really, but Greg won’t be put up by his own son. He gives as good as he gets, moving about the carpeted floor as if actually on the courts. Will curses, watching the score tick up to 15-30 in Greg’s favour. He quickly rectifies that, and within minutes they’re in a deuce.
Determination overrides any form of common sense that might have been lingering around Greg’s subconscious. Much too enthusiastically he flings his racket towards the ball-
-and the remote straight into the television.
“Shit!” The remote is so solidly in there it stays comically upright, unmoving. Around it is a halo of colourful pixels, the image stuttering. Shards of glass crackle around it, some glittering pieces floating down like paper to land on the TV stand.
Will shrieks, hands jolting up to muss with his own hair. “Dad! Why’d you do that! The TV!”
“Oh my god,” Johnny starts to cackle, bending double when his legs grow weak.
“Oh fuck’s sake.” Greg hangs his head. “Your father’s gunna kill me.”
William huffs, throwing his own controller down on the bed. “Daad! How are we supposed to play now?”
Ignoring his belligerent son, Lestrade mumbles, “unless he doesn’t know…”
“What?” Will goes quiet, seeing the shift in Greg’s expression. They are all rosy cheeked and panting, the ambient noises of the crowd still audible though the screen is flickering. It gives one small, coughing flash before the whole thing dims to black.
“Right lads, get your shoes on.”
“Why?” Holmes asks.
“‘Cause we’re getting a new TV.” Greg saunters out the room, feet clunking down the stairs.
Johnny cheers, following suit. “Really!”
“Yes, really. We don’t breathe a word of this to your father, do you understand?” He waggles one finger, but the shame in his eyes belies any real threat.
“He’ll know.” Will mutters.
Greg grabs his car keys, shouting over his shoulder, “not if we hurry.” Johnny snorts, but says nothing in response, dutifully slipping his trainers on.
Getting out the door takes remarkably less time with teenagers than it does young children, even when removing the shattered television from the wall and into the car, and some of the hasty panic recedes from Greg’s fingertips. His heart slows, and he begins to hum along to a song on the radio, if only to calm himself down, a tinge of hysteria to his voice that causes his sons to send each other concerned glances in the backseat.
The lads are quiet, and for once do not argue over who gets shotgun, as they now share the backseat, playing some kind of karting game on their handheld consoles. If it’s not the bloody whirring ones heating up the house a million degrees it’s the tinny, nonsensical noises blaring from behind Greg. He tunes it out, however, wondering how on earth he’s going to dispose of the old telly, find a new one and get it installed before Mycroft comes home.
They stop at the tip first to ditch the TV. He leaves the boys in the car where they can’t cause trouble. There’s a man wrestling with some battered drawers, so Greg hoists up the other side to get it over the railing.
“Thanks mate.” The man says.
“No worries. Mind helping me with mine?”
“Yeah, ‘course.” He takes one look at the screen and whistles. “What happened there?”
“The Wii. Blasted thing.”
The man laughs. “You’re not the first. Let me guess, you didn’t wear the strap?”
“How did you know?” Greg snorts. “Anyway. Must be off, need to get a replacement before my husband goes spare.”
“Oof, good luck. Buy him some nice flowers or summat to ease the way.” The man laughs.
“Excellent idea. See you.”
“See you later.”
Greg slips back into the car and sighs. “Right. Curry’s.”
The kids ignore him, but he’s satisfied with that so he can think up a game plan. When they arrive they obediently stuff their devices into the backseat pockets then take off for the large store, eyes flickering like candlelight in a breeze at all the modern technology glinting every which way. Curry’s always gives Greg such a headache, so he marches to the back of the shop where rows of screens play the same few animations, hunting for one of a similar price and size to their current one.
Meanwhile, the lads are examining phones and smart watches and laptops, as if any of it would be used. John is too much of a minimalist to have something so flashy, and Sherlock is attached to his current mobile, one that has been destroyed and had parts renewed from frequent impacts with concrete and such when he’s tackled during cases. They often liken the phone to a gardener’s favourite shovel: if he has replaced the head and handle multiple times, could it arguably be the same shovel?
Eventually they bore of the flashy goods and return to their father like lost ducklings. There, they find the poor man overwhelmed in a sea of screens. “Boys. Help. What do you think?”
Johnny shrugs. “They all kind of look the same to me.”
“Exactly! What am I going to do, oh god.” He buries his face in his hands like he might cry. Alarmed, Will starts scanning the labels.
“This one,” he says as he pokes his dad in the rib, “same size, brand and image quality. Suitable for wall mounting. The newer version of the model we had, so a slightly sharper image, but negligible.”
“Oh good lad, thank god for you ey!” Greg rubs his arm affectionately but yanks Johnny by the head to his lips to place a fat kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be back.”
The kids move onto the headphones section so Will cannot become overwhelmed by the flashy videos and music, waiting for their dad to hunt down a staff member. Within ten minutes they’re queuing with the new telly and five more after that Will and Greg are heaving the bugger into the boot.
“All of this and it wasn’t my fault!” Holmes whinges.
“I’ll make it up to you, alright? Would you make an old man carry this on his own?”
“It would be funny to watch.” Will admits with a wink.
“Get in the car,” Greg tuts, and under his breath he adds, “you little shit.”
On the way home they take a detour. Will looks up long enough to notice. “We need to stop in town first,” dad says.
He parks the car, coaxes the boys to follow, and drops them off at Cex. “You go in, pick out a game. I’ll be back soon. Wait for me here.”
“Heh. Sex.” Johnny snorts to himself. Will shoves him but there’s mirth in his eyes, whereas his dad rolls his eyes.
“Get a move on lads. We don’t have time to dawdle.” To their credit, the teens do move quickly, moving right to the Wii section. Though limited, they find what they’re looking for with small cheers, pay and leave in no more than five minutes.
Greg meets them at the door, a bag from the local food shop hanging off his arm. “What did you get?”
“Mario Kart.”
“Weren’t you just playing that? What’s the point in having the same game twice?” He tugs.
“It’s different. The tracks are new and you have way more characters. It’s way better.”
Johnny frowns. “Not as good as Mario Kart eight.”
“Eight? Oh sod this!” Greg flings his body dramatically into the driver’s seat, much to the enjoyment of the boys. They clamber in, huddled close to read the back of the casing, chatting about Youtube videos they’ve watched and which tracks they’d like to play.
Will really wants to try some kind of mine one, if only to crash into bats, whatever that means, whereas Johnny is most excited to play Mushroom Gorge so he can ‘boing on the mushrooms’. Greg glances back to check on Watson, but he doesn’t seem any younger now than he has all day. He’s glad they picked a child friendly game, nonetheless.
With great reverence, handling the box like a newborn, perhaps with more caution than holding his actual babies, Greg and Will carry the television up the stairs. It is laid down on a blanket, slid from the box inch by agonising inch, revealing a smooth, unmarred screen. Johnny swaps the batteries from the remote, tossing the defunct one into the drawer to be lost to time, chatting away to his boyfriend. Lestrade uses their spritely energy to the advantage of his waning tank, and to his utter relief, their current bracket, still bolted to the wall, fits the new TV. Will and he hold the TV straight so Johnny can squeeze behind and screw it in, a task that won’t aggravate his sore shoulder. He may have also gone a bit too crazy on that stupid tennis game.
Greg does one final check to ensure the screws can’t thread any tighter, chucking up a spirit level for good measure. Everything is straight and fully secure, so he adjusts it back into the original position, stepping back so Will can click it on. The screen blinks to life, yawning an introduction before connecting immediately to the Wii.
“Huzzah!” Johnny grins.
“Huzzah indeed. I’m going for a rest. For the love of god, don’t break this one.” Greg makes it two steps out of the room before he ducks his head back in, one chunky finger pointing at his sons. “Remember what I said.”
“Don’t tell pa.” The kids respond in unison, voices droning from the annoying repetition. Satisfied, their dad clomps down the stairs for a beer and some Top Gear repeats.
Hearing the front door open causes a little zing of fright to skip a beat in Greg’s heart. He schools his expression into his general happiness to see his husband, craning his neck around the couch. “Evening, baby.”
“Good evening Gregory.” Mycroft says, pausing to drop off his outdoor garb. He pads into the room quietly to greet his lover.
“How was your day?” Asks Greg.
Mycroft’s mouth twitches up. “Not nearly as hectic as yours. You didn’t wear the strap, did you?”
“You cheeky- how did you- oh never mind!” He exclaims. He drops back, pointing at a vase. “ I got you flowers?”
The sheepish blush on his cheeks is so delightful that Mycroft indulges it, long enough that Greg flops against the couch, running a hand through his wild hair. Chuckling, Mycroft bends at the waist to press a kiss to his forehead, smoothing down the locks. Head tilted back, throat exposed, Greg brings him in for a proper kiss.
From above, their son screeches: “you cheated!”
The other one, haughtily, cries back, “did not, you’re just shit!”
There’s a thump, followed by a softer one, and then a second later, Johnny yells out at the top of his lungs. “Dad, pa!”
“You grass!” Will shouts in response.
“Even as a fucking teenager…” Greg growls, tempering down the stirrings in his trousers. As he rolls off the couch to stop the upstairs brawl his husband has a good laugh at his expense.