1

"It's a total loss, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, his eyes still scanning the wreckage of the formerly-unremarkable two-bedroom ranch house. The fire had done a thorough job, reducing everything but the outer walls to blackened, unrecognizable shapes. "The Yard should be picking up your ex-husband any minute now, though, so he won't be able to do anything further to harass you."

The woman swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. "Yes, I - thank you. I do appreciate that you caught him, even if it was too late for . . ." She gestured futilely. "For all this. I'm trying to tell myself it's just possessions." She managed a halfhearted smile which didn't meet her eyes.

"It's still a violation," John ventured quietly. "It's going to hurt, and you don't need to be embarrassed that it does. You've got every right to be angry."

"Oh, believe me, I am." She sighed. "Or I will be, once I'm not so tired. It's just - I wish-"

Sherlock smiled slightly and withdrew something from under his coat. "You wish you still had this?"

Her eyes locked on the photo album and then went very wide. "How did you . . ."

"Took it this morning while you were in the kitchen with John. It was clear your ex-husband was determined to cause as much damage as possible, and the position of the album on the table indicated it was important to you - you look through it frequently. It would have been the first thing he burned when he broke in." He offered the book to her and she took it with trembling hands.

"I can't - I don't -" She stood stock-still for a moment, just staring, then launched herself forward to wrap a surprised Sherlock in a tight embrace. "Thank you," she mumbled against the lapels of his coat.

Sherlock raised a hand and patted her shoulderblade once, awkwardly. John had never seen that look on his face before - somewhere between embarrassment and concern. "You're welcome," he said quietly. "But please don't cry on my coat."

2

Sherlock and Lestrade didn't argue. Or more accurately, when John and Sherlock got to the crime scene, Lestrade was tensed for an argument which didn't happen.

Instead, Sherlock completely ignored the body hanging from the chandelier, strode directly to Lestrade, and handed him an envelope.

Lestrade frowned at it. "What's this?"

"Tickets. Two tickets to tomorrow night's production of Terrible Truth, to be precise. There's a Q&A with the director and some of the lead actors afterward - you'll be in the second row, but that should still be close enough for your daughter to catch their attention if she has questions."

Lestrade blinked. "You . . . got me tickets?"

Sherlock shot John one of his this is so OBVIOUS glances and rolled his eyes. "Your divorce isn't going as smoothly as you had hoped, your soon-to-be-ex won't stop yelling, and your daughter won't talk to you for more than five minutes at a stretch. She's a theater major, has aspirations of writing and producing her own shows and making it big on the West End someday. She won't turn down the chance to see Terrible Truth its first week onstage, even if it means spending the evening with you. And you'll finally get to actually talk with her."

John looked back and forth from Sherlock to the detective inspector. Sherlock looked faintly bored, his spine perfectly straight and his hair artfully mussed like always, but Lestrade's body language looked like he'd just been hit by a metaphorical lorry. And - as John watched - he acquired a telltale sheen of moisture in his eyes.

"Sherlock, I don't know what to say. Thank you."

But Sherlock waved off his thanks. "Can't have you distracted from your work - this one's bigger than it looks." He whirled around, his coat flaring out dramatically behind him as he stalked over to the body. "Not a suicide, obviously, although from the backwards configuration of the knot, I'd say our killer is left-handed . . ."

3

"Are you boys going to be out all night again?" Mrs. Hudson called as they dashed down the stairs.

Sherlock plowed to a stop, nearly causing John to crash into hm. He flicked a quick glance at the front door - assessing how much time it would take to get to the jewelry shop from Baker Street and how long they had before the upcoming heist, presumably - and instead ducked deeper into Mrs. Hudson's flat. John followed.

"Not all night," he reassured her, and brushed a quick kiss against her forehead. "I know you worry."

She tsked at him. "I know I've no right, I'm not your mother, but honestly-"

"You're more than that," Sherlock interrupted. He maneuvered around behind her to wrap his arms around her shoulders in a fond hug, his tall frame towering over her smaller one.

She patted his hand and glanced up at him, a question on her face.

And Sherlock actually rocked her back and forth, both of them swaying in the gentle not-quite-embrace. "I have a mother," he said softly. "And she is a lovely woman. But I'm more lucky than I deserve to have you. Because you've been there for me, even in my rougher patches, and I appreciate that more than I can say. I know I'm not always easy to get along with, but knowing there's someone out there to actually care for me as me is . . . grounding. I need it. Need you. So don't you ever think you're less to me than that."

"Oh, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson didn't even try to hide the tears which were inching their way down her cheeks by the time he finished his little speech. "You always do have a way with words, when you want to."

"Yes, well." Sherlock gave her one final squeeze and stepped back. "John and I really do have to go foil a robbery - diamonds are practically impossible to trace once they vanish onto the black market. But if all goes well we'll be back by midnight at the latest. John has to work tomorrow."

John forced a polite smile, but inwardly he was reeling - Sherlock never showed emotion like that. Ever. And he couldn't help but feel that maybe, possibly, Sherlock was including him in that "someone to care for me" bit. It was a pleasant feeling.

"Come, John - we've only got about half an hour before they strike."

4

The young couple showed up to the crime scene just as Sherlock finished deducing the cause of the murder (kidnapping gone wrong) and the culprit (recently fired nanny). The man was on the short side, with thick auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The woman was even shorter, blonde hair in a long braid down her back and carrying a purse barely large enough for a credit card. They approached the crime scene tape, spoke with the officer there for a moment, then came around to wait. The scene was small, so they ended up only about ten feet away - close enough to overhear as the team wrapped up.

"Who's that?" John asked quietly, nodding toward the couple. Greg, Sally, and Anderson all looked up and followed his line of sight.

Sherlock glanced over. "Odd venue for a first date," he announced at a normal volume. Not that he was purposely trying to be overheard - Sherlock didn't usually go in for that - but previous experience told John he probably just didn't care. "Mid-twenties, she's got a graduate degree - mmm, psychology perhaps, or sociology? - and at least two cats. Technically still kittens."

The young woman looked startled, but she nodded silently.

"The other is-" He broke off and eyed Anderson. "Did you know you two have the same nose? From your father, I assume?"

Lestrade let out a startled laugh. "Damn, I should have seen that."

Anderson glared. "We don't look that much alike."

"No, it's mostly just the nose," Sherlock said, eyes flicking back and forth. Then, rapidly: "favors Mexican food, wears contact lenses, just out of university, difficult teen years, not fond of your parents. With reason, I'd assume. Tell me I'm wrong?"

The young man blinked. "Damn. Philip, you said he'd do that, but . . . yeah. Color me impressed."

His date squeezed his arm tighter and simpered up at him. "You needed to talk for a minute?"

Sherlock's gaze settled back on Anderson. "Better not keep your little brother waiting," he said quietly.

Anderson fixed Sherlock with a long look, but didn't say anything further. He ducked out under the crime tape, chatted with the pair for a minute, then they headed off - presumably to enjoy the rest of their evening - and he rejoined them for the last few minutes of packing equipment.

"What was that about?" he asked Sherlock once they finally were ready to go.

Sherlock raised one eloquent eyebrow.

Anderson waved toward where the couple had been standing. "That. I know you saw it. You noticed his contact lenses, for fuck's sake. I expected you to blurt out everything. Half expected you to call him my sister."

Sherlock shrugged. "He's not your sister anymore. And I didn't comment on the fact that he's transgender because his date didn't know yet. Better for him to tell her on his own time."

John blinked stupidly at Sherlock for a good ten seconds. "That's where you draw the line?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"I've seen you tell a woman that her husband was HIV positive and cheating on her with anonymous men—where were your disclosure ethics then?"

"She wasn't going stealth. Anderson and his brother already cut ties with their parents over the whole issue - no reason to cause problems here at the Yard."

"Hey." Anderson caught Sherlock's sleeve and took a deep breath. "That was . . . good. Of you. I - yeah."

Sally leaned closer, peering at Anderson's face, and frowned. "Are you crying?"

"Fuck off."

"You two are on the outs again, I see," Sherlock said. "For all your failures, Donovan, you can do better."

Then Anderson and Donovan both gave Sherlock the V, Lestrade had to intervene, and John bustled Sherlock away from the scene before anyone could start throwing punches.

5

Molly looked a mess. Granted, the basement lighting at St. Barts was dodgy at best and made even the healthiest person look sallow and pale. When John and Sherlock found her working alone late the next night, though, John would have sworn she could have fit right in with the cadavers she was examining.

"Oh, hi," she chirped with less than her usual cheerfulness when she finally noticed they were there. "It's late, isn't it?"

Sherlock stopped dead. His gaze swept her from head to toe and back again, finally coming to rest on her face. Molly shot him a little half-smile and visibly forced herself not to look away.

And then Sherlock was sweeping forward to envelop her in a hug, and she absolutely sagged against him. John stood exactly where he was, just inside the door, rooted to the ground by shock but also feeling a bit like an intruder on someone else's intimate moment. Although since this was Molly and Sherlock, the chances of that were-

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock murmured against her scalp, bringing one elegant hand up to card through her hair. "I'm so, so sorry. She loved you very much."

And Molly gave a little hiccup, followed by a shaky sigh. "How - how did you - never mind, I know you don't-"

"I could see by the drape of your lab coat that you're wearing the sundress she gave you underneath it, even though it's still too early in the year for it. Plus you're here at two in the morning, and you've been working at least twelve hours from the state of your makeup." He leaned slightly to press his cheek against her hair. "Trying to forget. Although it's hard when you work around the dead, isn't it?"

Molly hiccuped again and nodded against Sherlock's chest.

"Sorry, what happened?" John asked. Or started to ask, because Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish.

"Her mother just died, John, so show some compassion please. Molly's had a difficult day."

John blinked, then nodded. Because there really wasn't anything he could say.

"Let me walk you up to the cafeteria," Sherlock told her quietly. "I'll buy you some dinner - you haven't eaten - and the most potable coffee they have. And then you can tell me more about her - it will help you to share, I promise." He lifted his head a bit to catch John's eye. Later, he mouthed.

John nodded silently and turned to go.

"John."

He turned back.

"Thanks to you too," Molly said. Her eyes were shining, and there was a wet spot on the lapel of Sherlock's coat. "I didn't mean to spoil whatever you two were doing, but this is . . . exactly what I needed. Of course."

Of course. Of course Sherlock - who despised hugging and sentiment - of course he knew.

+1

John was barely outside the flat for five minutes - ostensibly running down to Speedy's for a snack because the kitchen was a biohazard zone again, but actually sitting in a sleek black car talking to Mycroft - but Sherlock didn't even wait for him to get all the way back up the stairs before expressing his displeasure.

"My brother makes house calls now?" he bellowed from his spot on the sofa, where he had been lying flat on his back and grumbling for nearly two hours.

John cleared the top step and trudged back into the flat, going directly to the desk to set down his rather heavy shopping bag. "Beats being kidnapped all the time."

But Sherlock wouldn't be distracted. "What could he possibly want with you today? There aren't any cases, we're not in the middle of a secret cold war, and I haven't relapsed in ages. Mycroft only kidnaps you when he wants to interfere in my life."

John cleared his throat. "I asked him to come by, actually."

Sherlock froze, then leapt up in one smooth movement. "He gave you the bag - it's too heavy to be from Speedy's. What's in it?"

"Something you'll like, I hope. I had intended to wrap it first, but . . ." John thrust the whole present, bag and all, into Sherlock's arms. "Feel free to deduce it first."

Sherlock made a rude noise and opened the bag. He pulled out the polished metal box slowly, a look of awe on his face.

"My treasure chest. I used to play with this all the time when I was young, hiding pirate treasure all over the house. But . . . why?"

John indicated the latch with a jerk of his chin. "Open it."

Sherlock did. His eyebrows drew together at the sight of the five identical envelopes inside, each with his name on it in varied handwriting.

"You," he murmured. "Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and . . . Lestrade?"

"The box was Mycroft's idea," John said quietly. "He said you used to keep your most valuable keepsakes in it."

Sherlock nodded absently, already absorbed in skimming the top letter.

"I just noticed . . . you've been particularly kind to people recently," John said. Mostly for something to do while Sherlock was reading, rather than having to just stand there and watch him. "I mean, it's not that you can't be kind at other times, but it kind of surprised me. And then Mrs. Hudson and I were talking, and I thought it might be nice to show you how your friends appreciate you, too. I haven't read them - well, just the one I wrote, of course. But I thought . . . maybe you'd like to have something tangible. From all of us." He cleared his throat, and Sherlock flipped to the second letter. "I know it's sentimental, but you keep saying you don't really have friends, and I hoped-"

Sherlock suddenly looked up, directly at John, and his eyes were wide and suspiciously misty. "John."

John swallowed and focused on the box. "I know it's not much-"

"Thank you."

John suddenly found himself enveloped in six feet of clingy consulting detective.

"I've never had anyone do something for me like this," Sherlock said softly, breaking from the hug with an awkward backwards shuffle. "I'm pants at emotions, but just - thank you."