Set after The Empty Hearse and before The Sign of Three.
Mrs. Holmes knew the minute her son walked in the door that he was heartbroken. The shadows under his eyes, the fake smile, the slump to his shoulders, the way he held his coat tightly around him. She had seen that before. Her Sherlock wore his heart on his sleeve; that was obvious to anyone who cared to observe. As a small child, he had wailed over kids calling him names, rabbits who had been run over, and don't even get her started on the dog being put down. Still, the only time she could remember him looking like this was when Victor had taken off all those years ago. When he had decided to move on without her boy.
John Watson. She gave him a good once-over as she let him and her sons into the house. Sherlock had mentioned his name in texts and on the phone more than he talked about his cases. And here the good old doctor had up and gotten himself engaged to somebody else while the world thought her son was dead. She turned away for a minute as the boys greeted their father so they wouldn't see her begin to fume.
She took a deep breath. Well, no matter. If John Watson couldn't love her Sherlock, maybe she could at least nudge him toward proper appreciation.
Not for the first time in his life, John wondered what Sherlock Holmes had gotten him into. He and Mycroft had been guilted into visiting because they hadn't done so in three years, but John still wasn't sure how he had ended up getting dragged along. Some combination of him being invited as an incentive of getting Sherlock to come home and Mary wanting to go bridal shopping with her girl friends. Seeing as John couldn't imagine a more boring way of passing the time than examining dress after dress and flower after flower, and seeing as he was curious about where the world's only consulting detective and his British-government brother had come from, he accepted. Sherlock's puppy eyes had nothing to do with it.
John had told people more than once that they should always expect the unexpected where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, but somehow he had never thought to extend his own advice to Sherlock's family. He had pictured older versions of Sherlock and Mycroft, with the same amount of intelligence and annoying tendencies as their sons. Instead he'd gotten two quiet country folk who seemed as delighted to have company as Sherlock did to have interesting cases. He could see a tiny bit of resemblance with the mother; she was constantly snapping at her husband, and all of her degrees in mathematics had not gone unnoticed by him. But Mr. Holmes may as well have been from another planet for all he looked or acted like his sons.
The week had been a quiet one, with the five of them only venturing out to visit favorite sites around the little town or go out to eat. Most of the time, though, they had stayed at home and caught up on everything that had happened. Or rather, the four of them did while Mycroft worked on his phone until his mum snapped at him to put it away. When not conversing, they had been put to work. Sherlock's parents had no qualms about assigning chores to their sons whenever they visited. Before this week, John never could have imagined them doing any sort of domestic work whatsoever, and he had taken more than a little satisfaction in watching their mother make housekeepers out of them.
"Helping out is the least you could do, seeing as you rarely visit or even take my calls," she had grumbled. At one point Mycroft had told her he was busy, and Mrs. Holmes said, "Sweeping the floor takes two minutes, and you contributed to the mess when you ate on my table. Even you are not so busy that you can't spare two minutes for your own mess."
"I swept yesterday, and I'm busy," Mycroft said, and by this point John had been around him long enough to notice the cracks of irritation in his mask of perfect politeness.
Mrs. Holmes put her hands on her hips. "One."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, don't you think I'm a little old for that?"
"Two."
"Mother, you can't simply-"
"Two and a HALF—" and Mycroft had grabbed the broom and swept the kitchen floor faster than John could blink. That was the last bit of resistance he had seen from Mycroft, and he'd seen none at all from Sherlock. Maybe he figured he'd already given his parents enough grief for a lifetime.
Now they were on their last day. Sherlock was watering the garden and John noted with a smirk that the man was holding the hose in a position that made it look as though he were taking a rather long loo break. The sun was getting lower in the sky—not setting just yet, but getting there—and John scooted to the edge of the porch swing to watch it as he pushed his toes against the pavement and kicked off, wishing he could make the swing go faster. He probably could, but he was afraid to try, lest he break it. Nothing this family owned was cheap.
He heard the door open and turned. "Mind if I join you?" Mrs. Holmes was smiling at him, a softer smile than was usual for her no-nonsense face.
"Please." He nodded at the space next to him and she sat down, slowing the swing with her weight. She glanced at Sherlock, who had moved on to another flowerbed further away. If he'd noticed his mother coming outside, he didn't show it. John alternated between glancing at her and at the pink-tinted sky, unsure how to make conversation or whether he should try.
"He's much different this time around," Mrs. Holmes said, her eyes on Sherlock. "I noticed it when we were in London too. First visit I can remember in years where he didn't nearly bite our heads off."
John smirked. "Yeah, but he did rush you out of there pretty quick."
"Oh, I expected as much," Mrs. Holmes said, waving it away. "Honestly, I was surprised he tolerated us for that long, especially with the case Mikey gave him."
John had to put his fist over his mouth to stifle a laugh. He still couldn't believe Mycroft had a pet name.
"What is he doing?" Mrs. Holmes said, jerking John to attention. She was leaning forward and squinting at Sherlock, who had abandoned the hose and was now on all fours with his face bending toward the dirt. She snorted. "Probably found a new insect and is wanting to do experiments on it. And he couldn't even be bothered to turn the bloody hose off!" She huffed. "Well, the grass needs watering too, I suppose."
John smiled, staring thoughtfully at Sherlock. The weather was warm out here in late March, much more so than in London, and even Sherlock Holmes couldn't wear long sleeves and trousers all the time. Watching him walk around in a T-shirt and shorts had been odd, and John found himself wondering if Sherlock had always dressed the way he did now or if he had changed.
"What was he like as a kid?" John asked before he could stop himself. "Was he very different from the Sherlock I know?"
Mrs. Holmes turned back to him and her face softened. "I can't really say, love. The Sherlock you know is different from the one everybody else knows."
"Why would he be different for me?" John asked. I mean we're friends, but as far as I can tell he treats me like he does most people." For the sake of domestic peace, he restrained himself from saying like they're stupid.
Mrs. Holmes patted John's arm. She had a mother's touch. "I can't really explain it, dear. But everything about him has changed. His face, his eyes, how he talks to people, the way he holds himself. Even his father's noticed it."
John chuckled. As the week went by he was starting to think Mr. Holmes wasn't quite the idiot everyone seemed to think; to put his intelligence against that of a brilliant mathematician and two geniuses was hardly a fair comparison. In fact, he'd found himself really liking the man. He was gentle, even-tempered, kind, and patient. The perfect complement to his wife's sharp wit, cleverness, and…oh God.
Those who say there's no such thing as coincidences must lead such dull lives. Of course. Tack on the fact that John and Mr. Holmes wore the same flannel shirts and jumpers and he began to wonder if Sherlock had some sort of unresolved gay Oedipus complex. He tried to shake the thought out of his head as he noticed his hand was trembling again.
"You've been so good to him, you and your fiancé," Mrs. Holmes said, and John thought he noticed an odd tone at the word "fiancé." So sorry she couldn't make it."
"Me too," John said, grateful for a change of subject. "She would have loved it out here. Likes the countryside." He never could understand that. He and Sherlock had a love for London that went deep; nothing exciting ever happened in the suburbs. Though he'd enjoyed watching Sherlock and Mycroft get bossed around and had lent a hand here and there himself, he looked forward to going home. Not only was there little to do out here, but he was starting to grow wary of Mrs. Holmes. She always seemed to look at him as though she were thinking very hard.
Mrs. Holmes watched him carefully, picking her words with precision. She couldn't decide if the hand tremor was a good sign or a bad one. "I've wanted to thank you for some time now."
John looked puzzled. "Thank me for what?"
Suddenly all her speeches were gone. She blinked a few times, trying to recall what she'd planned to say, but something about John Watson's eyes was throwing her off. "Well, my son," she said, trying not to look flustered.
"Your…son?" John asked, tilting his head. Sherlock had told her he did that when he was trying to figure something out. "You can almost see the wheels turning hard in that idiot head of his," he'd said affectionately.
Thinking of Sherlock being affectionate made her sigh. "I don't know if I would still have my son if it weren't for you," she admitted. "You know how he is, always risking his neck for a case and…whatnot." She saw him give a tiny nod and knew she didn't have to explain just what that last bit implied.
"He's more careful than most people think," John said, though he didn't sound convincing.
She scooted closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "All the same, I think having someone to watch out for him has made a big difference. It gives his father and me great peace of mind to know he's got a friend like you."
John tilted his head. "Oh. That's, uh, good. I figured I was just, you know, someone for him to share rent with and use as a test subject now and then."
Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow. Maybe all wasn't lost. It would make sense for him to go off with someone else if he didn't know how Sherlock cared for him. Honestly, sometimes she wanted to take her son and shake him. Why couldn't he just tell John how he felt? They were both such imbeciles.
"Oh no, not at all," she said, putting on her sweetest face. "He's constantly singing your praises, brings you up every chance he gets." That was half true at best, but she doubted Sherlock would ever contradict it. "I think if it were up to him, we'd adopt you."
John smiled. "I appreciate that. He's certainly changed my life for the better."
"Really now?" Mrs. Holmes listened with renewed interest. There was always the possibility he might tell her something she could tactfully remind him of later.
John nodded. "When I came back from Afghanistan, I didn't know what I was doing with my life. Sherlock sort of gave me a purpose."
"It's a beautiful thing you two have," she said, smiling. "Lots of love, I can tell. Though not romantic, of course," she said, because John had started to shake his head. Now he just fidgeted like he was uncomfortable. Sherlock was heading back to the house and the sky was almost dark, so she needed to wrap this up quick. She made eye contact with him, working her "piercing blues," as her husband called them, for all they were worth. "I just want you to know that you're always welcome here, John. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask us. And that includes Mikey."
John cracked a grin at that last part, but she meant it. As far as she was concerned, John was a member of the family now, and Mikey was going to treat him like one.
"Thank you," John said, smiling warmly. "That means a lot. And the same to you. If anyone in the family ever needs a doctor, don't hesitate to give me a call."
"Thank you, love," she said, getting up and brushing herself off. "We're grateful to know you, John." She opened the screen door, hoping he would take her up on that offer where Mikey was concerned. That boy had given her hell as a child, and since it was clear he'd never have children of his own to give him grief, this was the next best thing. She stepped inside, sneaking a peek over her shoulder. John was still smiling, watching Sherlock. Surely now the man had to know how much he was loved. And she thought with a smirk that unlike Mary, Sherlock had a whole family to welcome John into.
Not that she was bitter, of course.
John had never felt such a mixture of guilt and gratitude at once. After becoming so used to the cold, sociopathic, I-don't-need-anyone-but-me attitude of Sherlock and Mycroft, it was odd to have a Holmes parent be so friendly and welcoming toward him. Though he thought the idea of him being able to protect Sherlock was wishful thinking; the man always did what he wanted no matter what John said. He'd thought about telling her that sometimes he felt like all he provided for Sherlock was someone to insult and experiment on, but he didn't want to sound like he was badmouthing her son.
"There's a lot of love between you two." His hand was trembling again and he found himself shaking his head for no clear reason. Love? He didn't think that was quite the right word. He knew what he himself felt, of course, but there was no way Sherlock felt it. He liked John, probably. They cared about each other. They enjoyed each other's company. But Sherlock Holmes? Love?
Sherlock joined him before he could give the matter any more thought. "What did my mother have to say?" he asked, though he seemed more interested in whatever insect he was concealing in his dirty hands than the answer.
"Just every embarrassing moment from your entire childhood in great detail," John said. He didn't want to think how Sherlock might react to what she'd actually told him.
Sherlock smirked. "That would be a very short list." He cupped his hands and faced John. "Thank you for coming with me."
"Hmm?" John had stood up and stretched, but now he froze. Typical Sherlock, jumping from one subject to another without warning.
"These home visits are always rather dull. Your presence has made it slightly less so."
John nodded noncommittally. Sherlock had been tossing offhanded compliments like that since he first came back; it was like his way of trying to make up for what he'd done. John tried not to think about that. He couldn't remember it without feeling the anger rise back up.
"Nice out here, but not much going on," he said. He didn't know how Sherlock had grown up here. The neighborhood was so quiet and you had to drive a ways to go anywhere. Crickets and nighttime frogs were the only noise. There wasn't even another house around for a mile; the place had little to no social interaction.
On second thought, maybe he could see how Sherlock had grown up here.
The inside of the house was much warmer than outside. John took off his jacket and headed to the guest room to retire. He hid a grin when he saw "Mikey" struggling to get comfortable on the couch; he had been banished there because his old room was being turned into an exercise room for his parents ("well perhaps if you'd come home more often we'd have reason to keep it," Mrs. Holmes had scolded). Sherlock's room had the essentials but was otherwise bare, as he was rarely in it. John thought that there was more than enough room for both brothers to crash in there, but somehow he knew neither of them would consider that option.
He had changed into his night clothes, brushed his teeth, and was about to climb into bed when Sherlock poked his head in. "Does Mary prefer dark chocolate or light?"
"What?" John didn't know which was more surprising: the question or that Sherlock actually had to ask it instead of deducing the answer himself.
"My father wants to know. He's making you a gift basket to take to her." His eyes rolled skyward a bit. Too much sentiment, probably.
John thought hard, but honestly wasn't sure. He could remember Mary eating chocolate bars, but had never noticed what kind. "Dark I think? But he doesn't have to do that," he said.
"I know. He insists. Early wedding present or something like that." John's stomach dropped a bit when he noticed Sherlock's gaze fall to the floor at the word "wedding."
John struggled for something to say. He hated seeing Sherlock look like that. "I'm sure Mary will love it."
"Mm," Sherlock said. He closed the door. "See you in the morning."
Sherlock still didn't seem any happier when they were getting ready to leave. If anything, he looked worse. The only time he'd smiled even a little was when Mycroft's helicopter arrived and the man had all but sprinted to meet it, obviously grateful to go back to being the British government instead of Mummy's free labor.
"I hope your fiancée enjoys this. My husband insisted on putting it together, the sentimental prat" Mrs. Holmes said. Maybe it was John's imagination, but she seemed to be glaring at Mr. Holmes, who looked puzzled as to why. John quickly took the basket, which looked like it would break in her tight grip. She seemed to have the same problem with names as Sherlock, because she hadn't called Mary by her name once. "Please come back and visit anytime," she said again, wrapping him in a hug.
"I will," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"We've loved having you here," she said, giving him a wink. He smiled, and to his surprise, Mr. Holmes hugged him too.
"Come back anytime, lad," he said.
"Thank you, I will," John said, though in truth he had no intention of returning anytime soon.
The car ride back to London was even more silent than the one on the way in. At least on the way there, John had been able to ask questions about Sherlock's mum and dad so he could be prepared. Now there was nothing more to talk about. Nothing interesting, anyway.
John sighed. Although it was nice to see Sherlock be a bit more caring and not so selfish, John wasn't sure he liked all the attention from his family. This entire week the only Holmes who had acted like, well, a Holmes, was Mycroft. Seeing Sherlock and his parents be all sweet and nice didn't feel right. He never thought he'd long for the old wit and sharp sarcasm so much.
What would it be like if Sherlock did love him? What if it was awkward and ruined their friendship? John couldn't lose that. Not again. If that meant silent car rides, then so be it.
He rested his head against the window and forced himself to think of Mary. He'd made his choice, and he was sticking to it. Nothing could or would change that.
Not even Sherlock's eyes when John looked at him.