Hi! I have never request for a fic, I don't have imagination jajaja but I love so much yours parentlock in special; "Anything can happen", "Love is like", "A little Holmes" and I fall in love with "It Takes The Whole Of London". May be, it's possible you writte something for me. Thank you very much!
For some reason, I don’t have your AO3 username written down, but I saw this and decided to write one more Parentlolly fic just for you (well, and @strangelock221b since she wanted a Sherlolly fic). Hope you enjoy!
Nighttime Routines - Sherlock goes through various bits of his nighttime routine with Hamish, with the help of his wife.
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“All of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it wisely or foolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired from the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but being suddenly smit with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship, married besides, and the father of a family.” Sherlock paused in his reading to look at his young son, who was nowhere close to sleep yet, instead hanging riveted on every word his father said. “Hamish, you really should be attempting to sleep.”
“But it’s almost done, Da!” he said, nearly bouncing in his bed. “And look. Mum brought Mary.”
Sherlock turned to look at the doorway and saw Molly standing there, holding their newborn baby. “Mary was a little fussy and we know how your voice soothes her,” she said. “I thought she’d like to get a taste of Treasure Island as well, even if you’ll have to start it all over again at some point.”
“But he’s almost done!” Hamish said with a pout.
“She means when Mary is older and can appreciate bedtime stories,” Sherlock said, giving his son a smile and reaching over to ruffle his curly brown hair. “I already read this book to Madeline when she was younger, before she got too old for bedtime stories.”
Hamish made a sound between a scoff and a snort. “No one is ever too old for bedtime stories.”
“There may be a day you don’t think that, dear,” Molly said, sitting at the foot of his bead and adjusting her hold on Mary. “Alright, Sherlock. Go ahead and finish and then you, young man, need to get some sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow. The first day of school and all.”
“Don’t wanna go to school.”
“If you go to school we’ll have a chemistry project when you come back,” Sherlock said.
Hamish’s eyes got wide with glee. “And biscuits?”
“I’ll make biscuits, but only if you sleep,” Molly said.
“I like Da’s biscuits better,” he said.
Sherlock chuckled as Molly fake pouted. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make the biscuits, but with your mum’s help. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine,” Hamish said with a definitive nod as Molly held back a chuckle.
Sherlock picked the book up again and then adjusted his spectacles. “As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he spent or lost in three weeks, or to be more exact, in nineteen days, for he was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a great favourite, though something of a butt, with the country boys, and a notable singer in church on Sundays and saints' days.”
“Why don’t we go to church?” Hamish asked.
“Because I’m not particularly religious, and your mum is, and we thought we’d wait until you were older before you made the decision yourself,” Sherlock said. “Madeline doesn’t go, but you could choose to go with your mum maybe even now. After all, you’re in school. You’re a growing boy who can make some of his own decisions.”
“Can I go to church with you this weekend, Mum?” Hamish asked, turning to his mother.
“Of course,” she said with a nod. “Your father’s almost done. Don’t we want to let him finish?” Hamish nodded and this time it was Sherlock who needed to hide his smile.
“Of Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one leg has at last gone clean out of my life; but I dare say he met his old...” Sherlock paused. “His old love, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint. It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another world are very small.”
“You were supposed to say another word,” Hamish said.
“I was, yes,” Sherlock replied. “But it’s not a good word to use and I chose to make a substitution. When you’re older you can read the book on your own and see all the words I substituted.”
“Maybe tomorrow?” Hamish asked.
“School first, chemistry experiment and biscuits next. Then we’ll see.” Sherlock turned the book to his son. “One last paragraph. Shall we go on?” Hamish nodded and then settled into the bed as Sherlock spoke again. “The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears: ‘Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!’”
With that, Sherlock closed the book and placed it on the nightstand next to his son. “Now then. Kisses from Mummy and Dad, and then sleep, understand?”
“Alright,” Hamish said, a yawn escaping from him, followed by a frown. “I’m not tired.”
“Play pretend,” Molly said, getting up and kissing his forehead.
Sherlock nodded. “As your mum said, play pretend. We can do an autopsy in the morning if you play dead.”
“Really?” Hamish asked with a smile.
“Absolutely. I’ll fill out the real forms and everything,” Molly said. “We’ll do a tickletopsy.”
“I like tickletopsies,” Hamish said, his eyes fluttering closed as Sherlock leaned in and kissed his forehead before pulling the covers up higher. Try as he had to fight it, Hamish was out by the time his parents got Mary situated in Sherlock’s arms and the light off, leaving his pirate nightlight on.
“He fought hard,” Sherlock murmured as they headed towards their bedroom where Mary’s crib currently was.
“He did. He fought a brave fight, but sleep always wins.” Molly leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Matilda was hovering nearby for a bit. I don’t think she’s completely outgrown bedtime stories, but maybe we should invest in books on audio so she can choose her own stories.”
“That might be a good idea,” Sherlock said with a nod. Once they got into their room he tended to Mary while Molly got in bed again. After a few moments, Sherlock joined her and pulled her close, his lips near her ear. “And would you like a bedtime story too, dear wife?”
Molly laughed softly. “A bedtime kiss would suffice just fine, husband mine,” she said, turning to face him and kissing him softly. Sherlock never minded his family’s nighttime routines, never had, but his own personal one with his wife of getting a bedtime kiss was his personal favourite.
