This fanfic was inspired (sort of) by the BBC's Sherlock, season three opener The Empty Hearse. This is my first fanfiction ever, so please do tell me if I've gotten anything wrong or have offended anyone by doing so. It's all part of the learning process. Thank you :)

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The scene starts in 221B, Baker Street, London. John has just popped around to check on Sherlock, he hasn't had a new case for a couple of days and we all know, especially John, how Sherlock gets when he's bored.

He doesn't knock, he doesn't need to. One swift key movement and John giddily makes his way up the seventeen steps, hearing something, or better yet someone. John scrunches his face up, Sherlock, with company? That voice, it wasn't someone he's never heard before, no. He'd definitely heard this voice before- oh, but wait. There's another one. Two voices. Two voices that were annoyingly unfamiliar in that John couldn't quite put his finger on who they were.

"Sherlock?" I called out as I twisted the door knob and entered sheepishly into the room, startled for just a moment.
"Oh, er, sorry. Is Sherlock not here?" I asked, with a hint of surprise in my voice, knowing too well the answer. They laughed as they looked towards the couch. I shot my head sideways a little and of course, there he was. Dressed in his pyjamas and wrapped up in his dressing gown, curled up facing away from the rest of the world.

"Come in dear! Oh do join us for some tea, won't you?" Mrs Holmes' soft voice interrupted my thoughts; I couldn't help but hesitate before I spoke. I could hear the sincerity in her voice, so comforting- the exact opposite to Sherlock and Mycroft, I thought.

"We've brought custard creams with us seen as we know how reluctant Sherlock is to go food shopping." His father shot me a devilish smile; I saw instantly where Sherlock got his charm from. I cleared my throat and spoke hastily as I walked across the room to join them, "Uh yes of course, custard creams are my favourite."

Sherlock muttered something into his pillow, but I was infatuated with the two beings sat so close to me: The Holmes'. Sherlock's parents. Sherlock Holmes' sweet and kind-hearted parents. I always had a mock up idea in my head of what Sherlock's parents would be like, it's fair to say I never imagine them so, so ordinary.

"So um... So you're Sherlock's parents, right?" I swallowed nervously and carried on, "I uh, I don't think we've been properly introduced yet. I'm John- sorry- Dr John Watson."
Mrs Holmes chuckled delightfully, laying her hand gently on her husband's shoulder as she did so. "Why yes dear, we know that. Of course we know." Her eloquent tone lingered in the air leading my thought into a whole new territory- had Sherlock told his parents about me?

Mr Holmes interrupted quite abruptly, "You're Sherlock's boyfriend no?" Mrs Holmes quickly elbowed her husband in the gut, widening his cheeky grin, possibly trying to hide something from me- "partner! You're Dr Watson, his friend." She intervened. I tilted my head, unsure of what to make of what just happened. Mary had told me I did that quite a lot.

I opened my mouth to speak but only gibberish came out, I was briefly taken back to Irene Adler's living room for a moment when the exact same thing happened to Sherlock. I shook it off and cleared my throat, "Um.. What you just said, that thing, what did you..."

Sherlock splattered his words out quickly as he jumped effortlessly up off of the couch "Oh for goodness sake can't you people stop interfering with my thoughts for just one second!" Amazing.

"Now, now petal, you know your father. We see all these things on the news, you've never once had a partner, or even a friend-" Mrs Holmes continued, followed by her husband, "Then John shows up out of the blue, and you move in together-" It was one after another.
"And you know Mycroft dear; he always has a lot to say about you." I heard Sherlock's eyes roll to the back of his head as he let out a groan. I had to intervene, "You know I'm not gay, just in case anybody still needs confirmation. I am engaged, to my girlfriend, Mary. Not gay. Not."

Mr and Mrs Holmes exchanged an audaciously viscous glance at one another and they simultaneously took a sip of their tea. All I could think was how is this still happening. I'm engaged to Mary for Christ's sake- a woman- Mary. I wasn't bloody gay!

Mr Holmes chuckled. "Mycroft was right... He does get testy now doesn't he! I can see why you protected him for those two years Sherlock." He let out a snigger as he took another bite of his custard cream.

I didn't have to look at him, I felt Sherlock tense up and stiffen from across the room. His words came out quicker than I had ever heard him speak before.

"Right time to go don't you think? It has been lovely these moments we've shared, ones to remember I'm sure. I need to go and change I have a very busy day ahead of me preparing for John's wedding and I have prospecting clients who I really shouldn't keep waiting don't you agree? I'm sure you and Mycroft have another dinner date arranged for tonight where you can chatter unsuspectingly about my life and all things that don't really concern you."
And with that, he darted out of the room, leaving a part of him still here. I could feel him as if he'd just brushed his body against mine.

I settled my cup down and shifted uncomfortably in my seat before standing up. Perhaps this wasn't the best idea; I knew I should have called first. Mr Holmes sighed and unwillingly got up too, followed by his wife. "I'll just go check on him", Mr Holmes announced. He knew he said something wrong. He knew he had said too much.

But me? Why me? Why would Sherlock have to fake his death for two years, for me? It didn't make sense. I couldn't put the pieces together. I didn't even know where to start. Confused and feeling sort of uncertain about what had just happened, I made my way to leave when Mrs Holmes grabbed hold of my arm, "John. Please, stay for a moment won't you?" The purity in her eyes was hard to argue against, yet I don't know whether I sat back down willingly or if Mrs Holmes lowered me back into my seat.

My thoughts were all over the place. Sherlock left for me. Sherlock darted out of the room. He was embarrassed. He is never embarrassed. Sherlock had to leave to room. He was fidgety and had an element of disillusionment about him. I had never seen Sherlock Holmes behave like this in all the years I have known him, nor had it even occurred in my head that he ever could. Then there were his parents. Sherlock's parents. They were nothing like I ever imagined or expected them to be like. His father was very warm and at ease, his hair was untouched like he just got out of bed and his clothes were casual yet smart. He had a very yearning feel to him, he reminded me more of a teddy bear than anything else and his wide-spread smile was oddly hard to look away from. Yet, it was the charismatic Mrs Holmes who reminded me the most of Sherlock. The look of knowledge and wisdom in her eyes, her tingling presence and posture reminded me exactly of Sherlock. She wore a lavish, long coat and had her collar popped up, just like Sherlock. She had a way, just like her youngest son, of looking right at you and making you feel obliged to do whatever it was she said.

"I apologise for my husband John," Her voice was soft, "we didn't expect to meet you like this, and well, he eats his words rather frequently. He is human after all." She scoffed with a glittering smile plastered on her smooth face, a small part of me could see where Sherlock learned the tiny craft he had of understanding human emotions.

I swallowed, hard. A part of me wondered why I was so nervous.

Mrs Holmes took a deep breath before she spoke again, "In all honesty, we thought you would have known by now."

"Known what?!" I heard the harsh tone of my voice; I tried to calm myself down as best I could.

Her head tilted somewhat faintly, her eyes slightly narrowing "Why he did it, John... It was for you, it was all for you."

My jaw displaced itself and my mouth fell open. I could feel my mouth watering, absorbing all the moisture it could and I felt dizzy. Really dizzy. Suddenly it was as if my life were a movie, and everything was in slow motion as Mrs Holmes reached for my hand delicately, as if trying not to alarm me. My eyes rolled to the back on my head for a moment, and then back forward. It was all for me, her words corrupted my mind. But why. I am nothing special. I'm just your average man who returned home from Afghanistan and needed a place to stay. Why would Moriarty rest all of his plans on me, John Watson. Nothing ever happens to me. I'm ordinary. Yet, Sherlock did it, for me. The thought was too complex to wrap my mind around unless... Unless...

"John?" Somewhere in between the dust particles and the random words that kept on yelling at me from somewhere inside my deluded head, I heard Sherlock's husky voice as I opened my eyes.
"Are you alright John?" Sherlock's voice was thick. He sounded like he was now the nervous one.

Ever since Sherlock mischievously surprised me at the restaurant, as if suddenly appearing from nowhere after two years, back from the dead, he hadn't been my Sherlock. Or at least, not the one I remember.

He was dare I say it, more human. Of course, he is still Sherlock Holmes, the world's only brutally brilliant consulting detective. The man who knew all those things about me the first time we met. All about my sister. There were times I didn't even think he were human, but he was- he is- the best man, and the most human... Human being I have ever known, and ever will know. Seeing him this was... It was strange. I wasn't quite sure if I liked it or not.

"Did they leave?" I breathed. It was a rhetorical question, clearly, but I felt like it broke the ice a bit.

"Yes." Responded Sherlock instantly, without seeming to have moved his lips. His hands were pressed firmly together, placed under his chin- the signature Sherlock style (I always thought).

He appeared to be deep in thought, as if, for the first time, words had failed him and he couldn't make sense of the thoughts inside his head. I realised I was lying down on the couch Sherlock was earlier just sulking on, had I passed out? Had Sherlock cogently made his parents leave and then carried me over into the couch?

I sat up, suddenly aware of an aching in my lower back. Sherlock was shaking; he spoke with his eyes still fixated in front of him, as if he were staring off into space or wherever Sherlock's extraordinary mind takes him.
"I am sorry, John. My parents, I think they forget that I am- that myself and Mycroft, function a tad differently than they do. I am imperishably sorry."

Sherlock was still locked his position, his face was hard, cold. This is more like the Sherlock I remember.

I sighed, and he instantly deducted what I was about to say.

"Don't." He let slip, his rough voice filling the room. His guarded posture and hard hitting stare was almost menacing. Menacing to anybody but me.

"Sherlock," I signed again, my voice barely loud enough to hear, but of course he would. "What... What did they mean? Your parents, when they said-"

"I heard what they said. I have ears of course I heard it, I may be slightly off my game but I heard them. They are ludicrous, listening to Mycroft just being he's the oldest. Just because he calls them more than I do and sees them more than I do- I knew I should have gone to Les Mis. I knew it. Damn people. He is their first child, the smart one; of course they listen to anything he says. Then they come here and have no consideration for me, or for you, they just swoop right in and make tea and eat biscuits without any consideration or thought into what they say."

"Sherlock-" I interrupted speaking more piercingly than before. He was shaking, physically shaking and he appeared to be sweating lightly. His tone sounded like he was deducing, but he wasn't. Just speaking his mind, as always. My voice seemed to alarm him though; again he stopped talking, his mouth frozen while the rest of him shook. My mind darted back to The Hounds of Baskerville case, when Sherlock was betrayed by his own sight due to a drug in the fog, he honestly believed he saw a gigantic hound, and he was fearful. He felt terror. But more than that, he felt doubt. Sherlock had always, always been able to trust his instincts, yet there he was, sat only a meter away from me, shaking in fear and being deceived by his own eyes.
In that moment I felt like we were back in Baskerville, but only for a brief instant. Because we weren't back in Devon, we were in London. On Baker Street, flat 221B. Back at Baker Street.

Here, my eyes weren't deceiving me- Sherlock was scared. Scared of his feelings perhaps? Everything I learnt from Sherlock, everything he taught me, everything I saw and listened to, everything I witnessed- it was real. That was the main thing Sherlock had taught me. Trust your own instincts, he once told me. Trust what you can see, what you can hear and smell and deduce.
I must have watched this man do hundreds upon hundreds of deductions, every one (give or take a few) spot on because he trusted his own instincts, so he knew. I didn't just watch him make those deductions for noting; they affected me and changed me. I picked up things from watching him. I picked up the sly way he secretly scanned every room he entered instantly. I picked up the way he half smiled when he deduced something he knew was interesting (Sherlock interesting, anyway). Everything that I am, everything that Mary thinks I am- that I think I am- it's all down to this man sat across from me. He is... Brilliant. He's like a drug.

Give him a puzzle and watch him dance.

Moriarty's voice strangely came into my head, relaying those words over and over until his voice silenced, and there was nothing but the sounds of London. I looked back at Sherlock and we briefly locked eyes for two seconds before he looked back away. That was all I needed.

They were right.

Sherlock's parents. What they said. They. Were. Right.

Suddenly it was if the noises of London, the beeping of the cars, the inevitable noisiness of the busses, the sound of Mrs Hudson chatting away to Mrs Turner from next door were all coming from a thousand miles away. And what remained in that eccentric, muffled silence was only Sherlock. The man whose phenomenal mind and outstanding abilities had changed my entire life. At that moment, my triumph was not understanding why Sherlock had done it, but simple clarity. The realisation that we had always been meant for each other and every instinct to the contrary had simple been a denial of the following truth. I was now, and would always be in love, with Sherlock Holmes.