@foundfamilybingo platonic co-parenting with Sherlock Holmes and Joan and Arthur Watson.
Arthur sits on the steps of the school building, staring at his knees and trying not to cry.
This boy, this 12 year old boy. Knowing him, it’s as if Sherlock’s heart is wondering around on the outside; it’s unlike any love he’s ever felt, even for Watson.
“What happened?” he asks. Arthur snuffles. “Are you hurt?”
He shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He called his mother, vague but clearly distressed and in need of early pick up from school, but her case had just hit a pivotal, time sensitive turn and so Sherlock came instead. He nods. “Let’s get you home.”
Arthur remains silent the whole way, running up to his room once inside. On the other side of the door, Sherlock hears him crying.
So he sits on the floor in the hallway and waits. And waits. When Watson gets home, he fills her in on Arthur and she informs him Arabella Ramos, former missing person, is alive and being treated in hospital.
“Arthur, honey?” She opens the door gently, Sherlock follows her in but keeps a distance. “What happened?”
It’s as if someone stabbed that heart of his with a pen-knife.
”Arthur... how could I not love you?” She lies down next to him. “You’re my son. You’re the most beautiful boy in the world.”
“What happened?” Sherlock repeats, a hitch to his voice.
”Just” —Arthur sucks in a breath, made difficult from all the crying— “kids at school.”
Sherlock sucks in a breath of his own, seeing red for a split second. “Kids can be so cruel.”
Joan’s face bares a similar devastation.
Sherlock joins the pair, lying down on his stomach. Only then does he notice his own tears.
They stay like that, a family, until long after Arthur falls asleep.