EDIT: January 19, 2017. Hi there. So I think most of us have jumped ship on this fandom, especially given the latest season we've gotten, but for anyone still floating around in these archives, I just want to acknowledge: oh my god, is this story hilarious now. Like, jeez Freddie, tag your spoilers for Season Four. Look at the title for pete's sake. This was written in two thousand and fifteen. Gatiss. Moffat. God. I was a sophomore. Anyway, have fun with this one. I'll be leaving the rest of it untouched.
East Wind, West Wind; North Wind, South Wind
A winter mist swirled about London town, the low clouds collecting in the streets and filming over the windows, cold settling into the inhabitants' bones and puffing in swirls of fog about their noses. The few pedestrians mad enough to be out in the streets this evening half-ran, half-shuffled on their way, all hands shoved into pockets lest the air chap them raw and necks retracted into scarves like turtles' into shells. Among these frozen few, a certain John Watson stamped home, his feet turning onto Baker Street by muscle memory only; his brain had shut down all higher functioning three blocks ago to keep from ruminating on just how bloody cold it was...and not to mention how bloody terrible his Saturday was going.
He'd been going to spend the weekend at Caroline's flat while her co-lodger was visiting family and rather looking forward to the weekend with his girlfriend. Having explained the weekend's plans to his flatmate that morning, Sherlock's only comment on the departure was characteristically distracted. "Really?" he'd muttered, not looking up from his laptop, "Excellent, that works well, perfectly actually, have a nice time." Then glancing up sharply, "...Wait, Caroline? The one with the spots?" before John, already exasperated, slammed the door on him.
But, in perfect accordance with his typical luck, the two days respite was cut short after they had only grabbed lunch together that afternoon. For Caroline, within a few short and merry hours, was reacting to the food poisoning she'd received at the restaurant and John was grateful that, at least, he hadn't ordered the chicken. Much though he'd offered his help as a doctor, Caroline insisted that he return to Baker Street on the grounds of not wanting her boyfriend to see her vomiting like a broken faucet. Leaving instructions for certain medicines and for rest, John ordered soup up to her flat and soon let himself out. The money he'd paid the delivery boy proved to have cut too deeply into his ready cash and once he'd discovered he'd run out, had paid the cabbie what he could and decided to brave the cold the last few streets back home.
Finally arriving at his stop, John withdrew his numbed fingers to fumble with keys, muttering under his breath as he couldn't engage the lock.
"...damn door open..." He grumbled, slamming his shoulder against the door just as the bolt slid unlocked and he fell into the foyer of 221.
Glancing about to be sure his landlady hadn't seen the ungraceful entry or, more importantly, his flatmate, John straightened and started up the steps, noting that, from the lazy humming in the kitchen and from that particular sweet, organic odor, Mrs. Hudson was administering her medicinal healers again. That question cleared, the doctor shook his head and returned his efforts to warming himself, blowing hot air into his hands and, careless of the racket he was making, stamping his feet on each landing to get the blood flowing in them properly again.
Indeed John was making such a noise that it was only just as he drew upon his front door that he heard the raised voices.
While, of course, dealing with raised voices was no anomaly when living with Sherlock Holmes, John had learned not to take the tempers of others lightly in his tenure as the consulting detective's assistant. Though fully aware that by now Sherlock knew he'd arrived, John paused outside the door to listen in and decide if his entry would either spark the client or diffuse the situation. The sound of Sherlock plucking at his violin (odd, even he knew the practice was rude to clients) was nearly drowned out by an impassioned woman's voice ticketing out a diatribe at whoever else was in the room.
"...sapphire cuff links I thought, because what else do you get for a man in sapphire—other than a tie of course but really, what says thoughtless better than tie?—but then I know he doesn't wear cuff links much, does he?-and that rather limits our options, but I can't imagine what else a practical man like him could possibly want, and it's got do with sapphires, because we are sticking to the theme this time and the forty-fifth year is always sapphires." There was a miniscule beat before an impatient: "Well?"
Another voice, a young man by the sound of it, groaned in a way that was almost lackadaisical and put in: "What about a nice blue flower vase and we call it a day?"
"That won't do at all!" said the woman. "This is a big deal and you all promised we'd celebrate them every fifth year."
"I promised nothing of the sort," said a third voice and here John started because that voice sounded terribly similar to Mycroft Holmes...
Throughout the whole exchange nothing had come from Sherlock other than a few purposefully sour notes.
"You were the one to declare," said Mycroft (because oh yes that was definitely him, who else could sound so perfectly derisive?) "On behalf of all of us that we'd send them something small every five years and we never got any say on the matter."
"I always assumed that something small just meant a gift card..." muttered the young voice.
"Of course it doesn't mean a gift card!" said the woman. "She gets earrings, of course, because she likes earrings, but what for a man on his forty-fifth wedding anniversary? Sherlock, what do you think? And put down that damn violin!"
The plucking stopped and there was a moment of silence before he spoke.
"I think we ought to acknowledge our eavesdropper before anything else."
The woman huffed.
"Now you've blown it Sherly; if we didn't acknowledge him I thought he'd leave."
John puckered his face; what had he done to deserve it this time?
There was a creak inside from a floorboard as though someone had just stood up and John assumed he was about to be let in. Absurdly, he considered turning back and leaving for a moment to keep things convenient for everyone inside, before reminding himself that this was, in fact, his home and that it was too cold outside to be worth it anyway. He was reaching for the doorknob when the young man spoke again,
"But—" He sounded slightly forlorn. "John doesn't know about us. I enjoyed being mysterious."
Mycroft sighed. "It's only mysterious if there are clues. Fortunately, we'd left none so far…To think—all that work to keep it secret and here he's at the door..."
"Oh calm down," said Sherlock, "It really doesn't matter.."
"All the same," Mycroft argued, sounding pointed. "I thought you promised he would be out."
"I did," Sherlock replied, and his voice was now much closer to the door. "But I assume he discovered how ugly Spotty is, they've broken up, and now he's back—" The door swung open to reveal Sherlock, his violin in one hand and a blank expression on his face.
"Stop calling her Spotty," John said automatically.
"No," Sherlock replied just as quick. John pursed his lips and sidestepped the detective so he could see past him and find out just who was in his apartment anyway.
Mycroft was standing near the fireplace, umbrella predictably in hand; he arched his eyebrows in a disapproving manner upon John's entrance, but did not comment. The two other people, however, were quite the puzzle.
The woman who'd been so upset about John stood near the entry to the kitchen, looking antsy as she shifted her weight from hip to hip. She was tall; somewhere in her mid-thirties; and plainly dressed in a professional pencil skirt and white blouse; her dark hair was pulled back in a bun, though, judging from the few locks that had escaped the elastic, her head would be wildly curly if left unattended. John thought she'd be quite pretty if her face wasn't clenched like she'd sucked on a lemon. To avoid her exasperated gaze and the pointedly annoyed looks she was throwing at Sherlock, John turned to see the other stranger.
He was draped over the chair typically reserved for clients, with his long legs sprawled over the arm and his head lazily lifted up to see John. Though it was from strange viewpoint, John could tell the man was indeed young, late-twenties he supposed, and he wore his curly brown hair on the long side.
"Howdyehdo?" he said, grinning expectantly. Mycroft puffed.
"Stop enjoying yourself Swynford, it only makes things last longer."
"What's going on?" John said, not paying him any attention. This was no typical client call, that much was certain; and Mycroft hadn't graced Baker Street with his presence in a few months now, so it was sure to be serious.
"Business," said the woman.
"Of what nature?"
"The professional sort." Though she answered, John kept his eyes on Sherlock and waited for explanation. There was something funny going on here.
"Sherlock."
The man put his violin to his chin again.
"Sherlock don't do it."
He pivoted slightly towards the corner and brandished the bow.
"For the love of God, answer a question for once, I've had a long day—"
Screeeeeeech.
"Mr. Holmes!"
"Yes?"
It was the young man. Swynsomething.
"Alright then, sit down," he continued. But when Sherlock offered still no more hope but remained turned stubbornly away, John set his jaw and matched him for obstinance.
"I'm fine thanks," he replied, as though the conversation were with his flatmate.
"Suit yourself," said the young man, and he ruffled a hand through his hair.
Wait.
"Sherl—"
No.
Wait.
John turned back to the fellow in the client chair. What was that he'd just done? The hair, that tic, that was uncannily familiar.
No.
Wait.
There was something to his face, wasn't there? Something off-putting about the cheekbones...and the thin lips…and that certain shade of brown hair…
John glanced back to see the woman and—both of them had the same curls didn't they? He checked back to Sherlock who now stood peering eerily at him down the neck of his instrument and watching John with curiosity, like a scientist hoping for a certain result in an experiment.
At that moment, the red flag went way up in John's mind.
He felt his pulse spike as he glanced between the four others in the room and the first waves of panic began to roll in.
"No," he said quietly, scrutinizing their expressions for any information (Oh hell, they all had identical poker faces—with the exact same hint of infuriating amusement). "No, that'd be absurd."
John stumbled across the floor and whirled about so he could hold them all in the same frame of vision (no, bad idea, they looked so much more similar now that he could see them together.) He threw up an accusatory finger and pointed between Mycroft and Sherlock.
"But that's impossible!" He growled. "I've known you both for two and a half years, you couldn't possibly..." (oh yes they could) "...how could you...?" (they'll never tell) "...but you didn't..." (apparently, they had) "...and they—" he stared at the two others as the woman crossed to stand behind the young man. "They're not." He finished lamely.
Mycroft sighed.
"I do so love when he experiments with eloquence, it's delightfully enriching."
Ignoring him, John turned to his all-too-quiet friend.
"Really John," said Sherlock, answering the doctor's unspoken question. "It isn't that difficult to figure out, nor is it particularly extraordinary to be the case."
"But—" John sputtered. "But—"
The woman puffed her cheeks and blew out a great breath, visibly gathering herself, before approaching and extending her hand.
"Allow me," she said mercifully. Her face had softened and she already seemed to have gotten over her initial frustration with John's entrance
"My name is Rosalind," she said, and it was comforting to note that she was, indeed, quite nice-looking with a smile. "I'm a professor from the University of Rome."
"You recover quickly," John noted thickly, taking her hand by rote.
Of course, if she was who he thought she was, she would have to.
She smiled wider.
"Thank you, I try. The layabout in the chair's name is Swynford and he fancies himself a junior archaeologist." John began to nod slowly—they had fine accreditations, perhaps Sherlock was only consulting them for a case. Perhaps they were visiting dignitary scholars with Mycroft. Perhaps their likeness to one another was...just...a...coincidence...?
These hopes were shattered when Rosalind delivered the next sentence: "And I'm afraid that we're the second and fourth of the Holmes children, respectively."
John's knees buckled and Rosalind instinctively shot her arm out as though to catch him but he stumbled back in time to get his own hold on the table behind.
"Do you mean…." said John staring wildly between the four—Mycroft ignoring him to insist, apparently, that John was being too slow about it; Rosalind retracting her hand and blushing, Swynford jiggling his knee and looking mildly amused as he watched the drama unfold, glancing between the doctor and the detective who was, of all things, smirking. John forced himself to look back at Rosalind who, despite her initial distaste for him, seemed to be his most comforting ally in the room right now. In any case, her eyes were the warmest and with the rug pulled out beneath him like this, he was going to rely on gut feelings more than intellect.
"Do you mean," John finally resumed, "That now there's really twice as much of the—the—" he fluttered his hand at Mycroft and Sherlock in turn, the former of whom muttered "oh yes, devastatingly intelligent rants..." while Sherlock let out a small scoff..
"The nagging!" John snapped. "And the deducing and the condescension and the narcissism and the snide little—"
"Oh please," said Swynford, sounding appalled as he rose to his full, lanky height. "Please. No, we managed to escape that part of it; we're not like that at all."
"Thank goodness for small mercies," Mycroft grumbled. Sherlock plucked a high note in agreement.
"I was never interested in playing Deductions with the boys," Rosalind said quickly, "So I'm quite pure there."
"She's rubbish at them," Mycroft corrected.
"Her mind palace is bigger," Swynford grumbled back.
"And since that's the only thing remotely interesting about Sherly and Myc, we never got along much," Rosalind continued. "They always picked at each other and I played with the baby."
Swynford grinned meaningfully on the word 'baby'.
"So you're both—?"
"Normal? Yes we do try."
"I was going to say not completely psychotic, but normal works too."
"Well," Swynford drawled. "Perhaps not normal-normal. I can do deductions."
"Hardly," Sherlock threw in.
"Only compared to these two," Swynford amended, nonplussed.
John had to wonder at how much of the young man's childhood had been spent being witheringly corrected by his older brothers. By the look Rosalind aimed at Sherlock in retribution, a sneaking suspicion told him she deserved some credit for her youngest brother's ability to take their criticism in stride.
"In any case," Swynford went on, "Even if they were horrible to me, I still looked up to my brothers and eventually began to pick up on the game—if not as well." He added when Mycroft sniffed. "Deductions have always been pretty helpful with archaeology..." at John's look, he elaborated. "As in, I can find a shard of pottery and figure out the origin within half a century, what class the owner, which wars contacted them..." he caught himself waxing and cleared his throat, blushing. "Yeah…my colleagues hate me."
"I'm familiar with that from the Yard," John replied.
"Then Rosalind never bothered with Deductions," Sherlock piped up, but when she threw him a caustic look, he added "...Though I suppose that without the extra program, she's never had to delete information off her hard drive."
"It's not a hard drive," Rosalind said primly. "It's a mind—an elegant, complicated mind. And you shouldn't describe things with computers if they transcend technology; it's so Duchamp."
"Computers are the ideal brain."
"It makes your mind palace—and you—very boring."
"You'd love to be as organized."
"You listen, I know so much more than you could possibly—!"
"Children!" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock and Rosalind shut their mouths and looked away from each other, Sherlock squaring his jaw and she blushing again.
Mycroft turned his bird's beak back in John's direction and addressed him tersely. "There. You can see now why we don't often convene or speak of each other."
"No I don't." John replied just as evenly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You and Sherlock behave just as ridiculously as this when it's just the two of you, but you don't pretend the other doesn't exist. So why?" He turned to Sherlock. "Why have I never—not once—heard of these two? Your brother and sister."
Sherlock missed the accusation.
"It's simple enough," he said, shrugging. "Mycroft and I paired off in competition while they played mother-and-baby-doll together. Their interests went to art and history and they moved where they could study that best. As it is now, with Mycroft running the country and my career in making enemies—"
"Professional Piss-Offer," Swynford put in jovially.
"—It's best we keep distance, as frequent contact could risk their safety or my having to endure juvenile comments like that one just now."
"But—they're family!"
"Not that I particularly want to, but I've never met your Harriet, have I?"
"Yes, but you know about her!"
"I knew about her within thirty seconds of meeting you, that's hardly relevant."
"Sherlock!"
"Last I heard," Rosalind said, trying to salvage the conversation, "we were listed as Estranged on most of the bad guys' profiles for us. You are, of course, working with him so there's more danger and protection in that. But if ever someone had the bright idea to take hostages for my dear brothers' cooperation, I shouldn't like to be dragged from my apartment in Italy for their purposes."
"But then, how paranoid are you all," John said, aghast. "When did you begin planning all this? Sherlock's not been well-known that long."
"Well relax," Rosalind said. "You and "Hat Man" here have only just become notorious. It began with Mycroft. Mother and Father are here where he can keep an eye on them, Sherlock starts and ends his own wars, but when Swynny wanted to go to school for archaeology in Greece, I went with him and began to teach relatively nearby for art and construction. Since then, Mycroft's become quite the big cheese, you and Mr. Detective have joined him in infamy, and we've dwindled to very little contact to keep up the appearances of despising each other. This way, we stay Estranged and out of danger. No one thinks we're incentive enough to bother us."
"So you don't hate each other?"
"Course we do," Swynford said. "But we still miss one another. And Mother and Father deserve a reminder every now and then that we exist and are capable of operating in some semblance of a family."
"Thus the anniversary reunions." Rosalind continued. "It's enough of an obligation that the villains out there don't suspect and it gives a chance to remind ourselves of how annoying we are. All of us in one room of course—this hasn't happened since Swnford got his degree." She beamed at her younger brother fondly and leant over to ruffle his hair, despite his swatting at her hand. "And now look at us. Aren't we all proud of the PhD he's becoming?"
"Of course Rosalind," Mycroft said. "Mark the passage of time by the little lamb's success, what a system."
"Refer to him as livestock one more time and you'll—"
"Hang on."
The elder Holmes' paused at the precipice of argument and turned back to John.
"I want pictures," he said quickly, before his nerve failed him.
"For God's sake," Sherlock scoffed, surfacing again from cynical and distant ruminations. "You don't think we keep them saved on our iPhones or tucked in our billfolds?"
"Or in lockets around our necks?" supplied Rosalind, and John was annoyed that she too was now patronizing him before he realized she was fiddling with a chain previously tucked in her blouse.
"No, no no, Rosalind, you've devolved!" Sherlock moaned petulantly.
"Obligation, brother mine, that's all anyone would think it was," she replied, ducking out of the necklace "And no one keeps tabs on me unless you mess up."
"Here," she said, placing the locket in John's outstretched hand. "And I know Swine's got some saved to his phone if that isn't enough for you."
"For God's sake," Sherlock hissed, collapsing into a chair to brood deeper.
John swung his eyes away to the locket, feigning nonchalance with every ounce of his self-control. The clasp was easily unclipped, and the door flicked open with the same readiness.
The picture inside must have been snapped when Swynford Holmes' was newborn. He was at the center of the photograph, wrapped in a standard hospital blanket, face screwed up as if about to wail. The three other siblings were arranged in a tableau around the baby, clearly orchestrated by a parent. Rosalind, the only one remotely happy in the picture, held the baby and beamed proudly, despite the fact that one pudgy infant hand had a firm grip in her hair. A teenaged Mycroft stood beside her, his hand gravely on her shoulder as though he were posing for a Victorian-era portrait, rather than one for the late eighties; his hair was thicker and lighter than John knew it, but familiarly slicked back in a way that did not suit his still-young body and unlined face. John quickly found the one he was most curious about: Sherlock, roughly age eight, on the floor to Rosalind's other side. The thick black curls were unmistakable, as was the character sulk; his fingers were predictably bandaged, but with childish blue and green gauze, and several teeth were missing as he opened his mouth, probably to tell off whoever was behind the camera.
There were a very many things John wanted to say just then. He would have pointed out that everyone but the little girl was being a grouse, or that Mycroft was the thinnest he'd ever seen him, or have pestered Sherlock about what he'd done this time to hurt his hands.
But all that he managed was "Cute t-shirt," and he twisted the locket around to show the Holmes' boys. Immediately, they all hissed and muttered in unison: "Hate that picture."
"Dragons though," John continued unperturbed and staring at Sherlock, trying very hard to keep from laughing. "For once in your life, you looked like an average human being. A dragon t-shirt on an eight year old."
"A hand-me-down," Sherlock said in a clipped voice.
"I've got others," Swynford piped up quickly, bounding from his seat. "Ones where I'm a tiny bit more recognizable from a pile of angry aundry."
"On your phone, Swynny?" Mycroft sighed. "Do you look at them at night?"
"Piss off," Swynford said, still dapper. "Here. That was last time we were together. There are a few."
John took the proffered phone and began sliding through the images, ignoring the light bickering that started up again as if it was white noise. These recent faces were more recognizable. Swynford was in a graduating cap and gown, holding his degree in the mandatory pose. The siblings were around him, Rosalind grinning, Mycroft annoyed to be caught with a mini-plate of lemon squares in hand, and Sherlock glaring at something off to the side. The next few were similar, then a professional-grade selfie between Rosalind and Swynford, and a dozen shots (clearly taken from the hip to avoid detection) of Mycroft greedily downing petit fours after petit fours, for obvious blackmail reasons. Then there was Swynford again, chastely kissing a girlfriend, gorgeous by the way, on the cheek. John zoomed in on her automatically before realizing that Swynford, given the family abilities, would notice and figure him out in two seconds flat. Still, it was interesting to note that the Holmes boys weren't universally asexual. He swiped past the picture of the couple and found a final shot of the graduate with two smiling older people. It was a moment before he realized who they were.
"Your parents?" He asked, holding up the phone to the others. "These are your parents? I'd never seen them either." Simultaneously, they began to nod in affirmation, then froze and pivoted back to one another, all muttering, "Right."
"So earrings for her," said Mycroft exhaustedly.
"But Dad—what if we sent him a blue cake? To his office. Leave a note saying he can share if he wants or eat it all in a sitting. He'll get a kick out of that."
"No, he's getting close to diabetes again, you know how his health is."
"When did he tell you that?"
"He didn't—I really don't think cufflinks are a bad idea though."
"Of course they're a bad idea. What about a nice warm scarf? Pretty sapphire blue?"
"Or we could drop the whole theme idea and send them on a lovely cruise to the Bahamas."
"Shut up, we're sticking with the theme."
"Yeah Mycroft, the theme. What about a really good sweater? Like a really good blue one? And maybe a gift card."
"No, no gift cards, what don't you get about that?"
They continued on like this, pacing around the room in tight patterns and whipping back to face one another whenever challenged—the brightest minds of this generation locked in a battle of wills and mental capacities over presents for their mother and father. John suddenly found himself devoid of any energy he'd had left and collapsed into the nearest chair, doing his best to slump out of their sight, still unable to comprehend that Sherlock's family—brother and brother and sister together—not only existed, but were in his living room waging their wars like it was a common battleground they'd always shared.
He watched them bicker through the rest of the evening, not stopping for food or rest, and couldn't remember having ever felt more relieved than when they finally decided—at eleven o'clock no less—on earrings, cufflinks, a blue cake, a card, a sweater, and some nice tea blends.