Mummy Holmes

by Iva1201

ooooo

John reaches 221B Baker Street, tired from his longer than usual shift in hospital, and is slowly climbing up the seventeen stairs leading to their flat when he hears them speaking for the first time. The voices obviously belong to Sherlock and Mycroft – but they seem to speak civilly to each other for once and he cannot help it but wonders… Deciding to not yet open the door to their flat and disturb the unexpected peace behind the threshold, he stops on the top of the staircase, curiously listening in on their conversation. It takes only a moment for his peace of mind to shatter…

"…our Mummy is on the way to Malta you mean to say, do I understand you correctly?" Sherlock validates some information given to him previously by Mycroft, clearly upset. "In a wooden box with insufficient ventilation, locked in an overheated cabin of a ship usually used to transport cows, goats and sheep your men are currently unable to localise due to intense storms by Spanish shore… Are you sure you wanted to say that it was not the means of the transportation but rather the most likely lacking way of opening the case in its final destination that troubles you?"

Mycroft clears his throat. "Sherlock," he reprimands his younger brother. "There is no need to be overdramatic. Yes, I am indeed the most worried about the treatment the case would suffer in La Valetta. We do not have any control over the security and police staff there after all. Even if I would be indeed as powerful as you like to think me, I would not be able to control the weather and other state's police or secret service employees."

"I see," Sherlock most likely nods in answer, full of disappointment, John thinks, not at all understanding the calm behaviour of the brothers. From what he has overheard so far, their mother was kidnapped, sent to an island in Mediterranean imprisoned in a wooden box for heaven's sake! And they, rather than to plan how to free her the fastest way possible, evenly discuss how incompetent police and secret service staff in Malta is! John shakes his head in disbelief, about to open the door and give them his opinion when they start speaking again and he leans to the door for the second time that evening to hear more.

"…Mummy will not be damaged badly, brother dear, even if the good people of Malta mishandle the opening process," Sherlock says now. "You cannot exactly think that they would really hurt someone who was already dead for some time."

John now clearly hears the smirk in Sherlock's voice and starts to tremble in sudden rage and deep disappointment. Sherlock's mother is closed in some sort of a wooden casket, hopefully still alive. His heartless flatmate however suspects she will die before reaching the final destination of her "trip" – the island state of Malta. Sociopath, indeed. If not a psychopath after all… Anderson and Donovan were right in the end, he thinks sadly, the thought cutting in his heart. These are words of a person who doesn't care for the others, who doesn't give a damn about even their own mother! How the hell can Mycroft listen to this rubbish and not say or do anything? Or is his more sociable front exactly that – a facade only?

Upset and deeply hurt, his own mother in front of his inner sight, John thrusts the door to their flat wide open with a loud bang, starting the brothers.

He is marching towards Sherlock with military resolve. "I can't quite believe you, Sherlock Holmes," he almost shouts, his eyes throwing daggers at the younger man. "I believed you to be a good man, somewhere there, deep inside." John pocks his finger into Sherlock's chest so hard that his friend, now probably a former one, gasps in pain. "A pity I have to agree with Donovan now – you really are a freak."

The cutting insult barely out of his mouth, John turns from the astonished Sherlock towards his no less dumbfounded brother. "And you, Mycroft Holmes! I cannot believe I have ever trusted the nonsense that you would care for your family. You worry constantly, do you? No, I do not buy the rubbish any longer. You two are exactly alike – self-centred, egoistical bastards who do not care for anyone but yourselves." John is now holding Mycroft by the lapels of his immaculate suit and is practically shaking him in his rage.

Mycroft is as stunned as Sherlock before. His only reaction however is to stare at his younger brother and ask, his voice suddenly annoyed: "What have you done now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock, still bewildered by John's uncharacteristic behaviour, does not answer vocally, but prefers to mouth back: I haven't done anything. The detective eyes John now as he does his suspects, trying to deduce him – and falling. Long shift in the hospital – tired – no shopping bags, hence no annoying experience with the Tesco – no date tonight, thus nothing could have gone wrong on that front either – ?

John notices Sherlock's silent answer to Mycroft, tuned well to his flatmate these days, and nods his head sadly. "No, you haven't done anything and that's exactly the point here," he says and sighs. "I should have never moved in with you. Would have saved me a lot of trouble – not to speak of the uncalled for emotional attachments. Yeah, I see now why you would try to avoid the sentiment at all costs..."

Suddenly very tired, John drops in his armchair, covering his face with his hands. He looks defeated and Sherlock, who is still watching him as a hawk, feels a sudden and unexpected desire to help his flatmate. The detective walks towards John, slowly and unthreatening, and finally kneels in front of John. Mimicking John on his own bad days, Sherlock reaches for John's hands and covers them with his own, slowly removing them from John's face.

"What has happened, John?" He asks, the deep voice gentler than John has ever heard it. "Have I – or Mycroft (he wouldn't put it behind his brother) – done anything to upset you?"

John is now looking straight in Sherlock's confused eyes. The detective clearly doesn't understand what might be wrong, he thinks sadly. A quick look at Mycroft, who is now standing just a few feet away from them, confirms that the older Holmes is no wiser. John sighs, deliberating one of his hands from Sherlock's grip to run it resignedly over his face. "It's your mother, for heaven's sake!" he exclaims finally, shaking his head in disbelief. "How the hell you do not care?"

Sherlock turns to Mycroft, hoping to find an answer to this new mystery by his usually well informed sibling. Mycroft's face is white in worry now and he speed dials one of the frequently used numbers. The phone rings just one or two times and then the call is picked up.

"Hello Mummy," Mycroft says, his voice calm as ever despite the worry still lining his face. "Yes, I am well, thank you. – Sherlock is fine, too. – Yes, I will tell him to call you. – Yes, why I am calling. Dr. Watson expressed his worry that you might be in danger. – Yes, John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate, I believe you have already met him. – No, he is not one of my agents. – No, I am not paying him either! – Why I am not paying him? I told you he refused my every attempt to compensate him for his troubles with Sherlock. – No, I am not paying him to spy on you either! Nor does Sherlock! – Yes, I will give him to you; we are just in Sherlock's flat. Please, enjoy your trip to Mediterranean. I hope the weather is lovely."

Throughout the whole conversation, John is still, listening to Mycroft's answers to whatever Mummy Holmes is asking on the other end of the line. As the conversation goes on, he almost starts to believe he is wrong and Mummy Holmes is safe back in the family ancient country home. But then Mummy asks to be passed to him – and Mycroft says his parting words: Enjoy your trip to Mediterranean. John's fury awakes anew, his anger rising as soon as Mycroft mentions the weather. How very British!

Mycroft obediently passes the phone to John then. It seems that the British Government has a superior after all, John smirks, taking the offered devise from him.

"Hello John, lovely to hear you," Mummy Holmes greets him pleasantly.

"Hello Mrs. Holmes, yes, John Watson here," he replies. "I hope you are well."

"Splendid, John, thank you. It is just a bit too hot here right now and there is a heavy storm coming, I believe. Also, the ship's air-conditioning is not working at the moment. But they tell me it should be fixed soon. … But that is not important now. My son says you have some concerns for my safety, John. As that is usually his job – or why I would be here right now – may I ask you what worries you?"

John gasps. Mummy Holmes, a fragile looking lady in her early seventies, is clearly on the overheated ship Sherlock spoke about earlier, lost somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean. And she asks him what worries him? Sherlock said she might not live to even see the shores of Malta – and John should not be concerned? On the top of it, she even admits that Mycroft has to do with her trip. He sighs again, murderously eyeing his two companions, taking his time to form as polite answer as possible.

"Do not take me wrong, Mrs. Holmes," John replies finally, his voice soft and reassuring, "but based on what I have heard, I am under the impression you might be ill or even in danger of dying. Don't you feel dehydrated, overtired and most likely nauseous? Perhaps a little headache? Cramps in your legs or arms? Do you have enough space to move a bit?"

"You think I might have been poisoned, John?" Mummy Holmes wonders on the other end of the line. "Yes, I can move a bit for you – and no, no strange feelings, I am glad to say. Just a little bit of headache, but that is most likely the storm… Do your concerns have to do anything with that terrible Moriarty person Sherlock is having troubles with? If yes, do not worry, please, Mycroft got me a nice cabin on this ship and I am perfectly safe, I believe."

John counts silently backwards to calm down. He shouldn't shout at Mrs. Holmes. It is not her fault, after all. Except that she gave birth to those two bastards. "But the box, are you alright with the box? Do you not think it is a bit extreme?" he decides finally to say.

Mummy Holmes starts laughing at the other end of the line. "Oh, John, you are such a dear young man. But no, I do not think it is extreme. John, you must understand I used to work in similar area Mycroft does these days. These "extremes" as you describe it were part of my daily life at one point. But thank you very much for your worry; it is very much appreciated. … If it is all, I will have to say my good-byes now, I believe it's time for dinner now. Please, give my regards to my sons. I hope to see them in La Valetta on Sunday. You are invited too, should you be interested. I am really looking forward to when they will open the casket."

John is about to say something, to stop her from ending the call, especially after her last sentence. But the line disconnects. He lowers his left hand with the phone still firmly clutched in it. His posture screams defeat and while he stares at the floor, he whispers: "I do not understand you Holmeses. I really don't."

Sherlock is still looking puzzled at him, but it's Mycroft who breaks the silence. "How do you know about the box, John? I haven't even told Sherlock yet. Have you been contacted by Moriarty? Is he after our mother now?"

John stares at the older Holmes in disbelief. "You spoke about the casket with Sherlock earlier this evening when I returned from work. I couldn't help it and overheard you speaking of your mother. I clearly remember you –" John points at Sherlock "– to mention 'our Mummy' and you –" John points at Mycroft now "– to say that you have no control over the police and secret service agents in Malta. Your mum made it absolutely clear to me that she doesn't need my help, but let me say you two this – despite all your, no doubt exceedingly amusing, games with London's criminals (he looks at Sherlock pointedly) or the world terrorists (he gazes at Mycroft), I cannot fathom why you would feel it necessary to put your own mother, your Mummy as you like to say, for Heaven's sake!, in a wooden box and ship her to Malta on some ship designed not even for human transport! I request you two to immediately stop this nonsense and save your mother's life as long as it is still possible by removing her from this situation." The last part is said in John-Watson-the-military-Captain's resolute voice and holds a hint of command.

The brothers listen to John in awe, speechless for a while. As soon as John stops speaking, however, they look at each other and suddenly burst up laughing. John gapes at them, not recalling to have ever heard Mycroft laugh – and able to count the few times Sherlock let go like this on the fingers of one hand.

"Oh John," Sherlock finally takes mercy on him. "I am afraid you have misunderstood us. We are not shipping Mummy to Malta against her will."

"And there is also no wooden casket in which she would be closed in, Dr. Watson. She was only discreetly provided with a simple wooden box with a few weapons of her choice to be able to defend herself should the need arise," Mycroft adds. "As to her current lodgings, I booked her one of the largest cabins which were available on the cruiser she undertakes her trip through Mediterranean in. It just so happens that the final destination of this trip is Malta as well."

"As well as what?" John asks tiredly, simultaneously considering if to call Harry he needs to kip on her sofa again or rather to go to a hotel for tonight. He shouldn't sleep under the same roof with a crazy-gone Holmes, he thinks.

Sherlock gives him his real smile now, enjoying himself as it seems. "As well as the mummified Egyptian female from 1st century before Christ from our family's collection of curiosities our great-great-grandfather put together in late 1880s. Mummy, meaning our mother now, decided to lend our Egyptian "Mummy" to her close friend living in La Valetta, the capital of Malta, who is organising an exhibition of Egyptian artefacts there."

John stares at him in disbelief again. But his face is less concerned now. He looks towards Mycroft, who nods affirmatively. "Yes, John," the older Holmes confirms, "our family is so lucky – or perhaps cursed? – as to have our own Egyptian 'Mummy.'"

John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then he too starts laughing, not able to get out a word for long time. "You bastards, I fell on it completely, and you have not even intended to have your fun with me," he manages finally. Then he sobers. "I shall probably call your mother now and apologize," he offers. "No need to have her worried."

"I shall take care of it, John," Mycroft smiles genially. He then fishes in his pocket and pulls out two envelopes, one labelled Sherlock and the other John. "Here are your plane tickets to La Valetta for Saturday morning and the invitation to the exhibition opening. I shall join you Sunday afternoon."

"Thank you, Mycroft," John accepts his envelope and looks at Sherlock giving a polite nod when accepting his. "I shall probably apologise to you both," John tries then, but is stopped by both the Holmeses raising their hands to halt his next words and saying almost simultaneously: "No need to, John."

Sherlock adds then quietly: "I do not remember if I have ever apologised to you for anything at all. I most likely haven't. And they were no misunderstandings."

Mycroft nods in affirmation: "No, you wouldn't, Sherlock, would you? But then I might have not offered my excuses to John either. Hence, should you insist on your apology, let me make my amends first, John." He fishes in his other pocket and finds the small notebook John remembers well from their very first meeting.

Going through his well-used notebook, Mycroft starts to recite: "Dear John, please, accept my profound apologies for my first attempt to kidnap you – for getting your patient notes from your therapist – as well as from your rehabilitation centre – as well as the military hospital back in Britain – and the field hospital you were originally treated in in Afghanistan – and your service records – as well as your study records – and your school records – and the list of your girlfriends – as well as Harriet's partners – and the list of your usual baby-sitters – and …"

It is John now who holds his hand up to stop the stream of the words. The doctor is laughing. "Stop, Mycroft, please, have mercy! I do not want to know if you are aware which mark of pampers my mum used when I was a baby. Or what was my first word. … I do not need you to apologise to me. And, since you insist, I shall not burden you with my excuses either."

Mycroft nods satisfied, closing the obnoxious booklet and hiding it once again. "Thank you, John, much appreciated."

The Government official gathers his umbrella then and is about to leave. His hand already on the flat's door, he turns one last time and says, a wide grin on his usually sombre looking face: "Thank you for a pleasant evening, Sherlock, John. I can assure you that both Mummies Holmes are looking forward to see you on Sunday evening." He is out of the door next, and John – as well as Sherlock, judging by his incredible expression – cannot quite believe the man would be humming one of the Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance marches on their staircase. But there is simply no other explanation to the sounds reaching their flat now.

John snickers. "I clearly have a very bad influence on you two," he says.

Sherlock smirks back: "Yes, you obviously do, John. But perhaps it's not such a bad thing. It's not good if your only amusement is catching London's criminals or fight the world terrorists, I believe."

John gives him a wide smile back: "Yeah, that would be a bit not good, really." He leans back in his armchair now, making himself comfortable and sighs in pleasure. "It is good to be home," he says contentedly.

Sherlock reaches for his violin. Tuning it, he absently agrees: "Yes, indeed." And he starts to play the melody Mycroft hummed in the staircase earlier.

THE END

A/N: I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. (-: Please, review.

Not beta-read. I apologize for all remaining mistakes.