A/N: Thank you so much to sweetmarly, Resrie71, and LittleLizard098 for the wonderful encouragement so far! I(/we) love and appreciate it!

Hopefully you like where we take things :)


John grumbled unhappily as the alarm beeped loudly in his left ear. Slapping his hand over the pesky device, John sat up and rubbed at his face tiredly, giving a dramatic yawn as he pulled the covers back and pottered to the bathroom for his morning routine.

Once he was showered and shaved, John knocked on the adjoining door to Sherlock's bedroom, pushing it open and stepping into the dark room, made darker by the black-out curtains.

"Hey, it's time to wake up," John hummed, carefully nudging Sherlock, "So wake up."

"No," Sherlock said grumpily, pulling the cover over his head.

"Yes. There will be coffee and eggs on the table in ten minutes. Make sure you're ready," John threatened as he left the room, leaving the bedroom door open spitefully as he clicked on the radio in the kitchen, knowing how much Sherlock hated the music on the station which John preferred whilst he was cleaning or cooking.

It didn't take long for John to have breakfast ready. He was midway through the chorus of 'I will always love you' when Sherlock came into the kitchen and clicked off the radio.

"I was listening to that," John complained with a scowl.

"No you weren't; you were drowning it out with your caterwauling," Sherlock grumbled as he took his seat at the table and sipped his coffee.

"You're perky this morning," John replied, eating his food and looking over at his friend, "Worried about the reunion?"

"No," Sherlock lied, "it's fine. It's just a lot of idiots I once knew. Why would I be worried?"

"It's okay to be nervous, you know," John replied, tilting his head, "It's totally understandable."

"Do you have the papers?" Sherlock asked, putting an end to the conversation.


The journey to the Holmes Manor had passed in a blur of grey as they went through London, and then leading to green as they left the city. John relaxed in the large saloon car alternating looking out of the window and checking his facebook before finally nudging Sherlock, who had been silent thus far.

"Everything alright?" John asked.

"Yes. Stop asking," Sherlock grumbled.

John huffed, rolling his eyes and settling back in the seat. The rest of the journey was tense with an awkward silence until the car rolled around a small bend in the road and onto a private, winding driveway.

"Fuck me," John breathed, looking out of the window at the large stately home, "Is this your house?"

"No. This is Mummy's house," Sherlock responded, but John could see the strain slowly building once more.

"But you lived here? As a child?" John continued to ask, seeming to be stunned at the sheer size. It looked like something from an old documentary he had watched about royalty.

"I had lodgings," Sherlock answered, avoiding the topic before giving the briefest smile when he saw his mother, who had come to greet the car. John looked over at the woman, a short, stout, but kind looking woman with a bob of silver hair and the sparkling eyes of a mother excited to see her youngest child after a long absence.

"Mummy will ask questions. Be as vague as possible," Sherlock warned, turning to look at John, "And don't ask questions about my childhood, as she will insist on getting the photo albums out."

"And that's a bad thing?" John asked, but was immediately stopped by the warning glare which Sherlock sent his way, "Okay, no baby pictures."

"My darling!" Mrs. Holmes cooed, throwing her arms wide open and grabbing Sherlock into a tight and unavoidable hug. John watched with a warmth in his chest as Sherlock returned the hug, resting his chin on his mother's head, "I've missed you, my darling boy! Your father is in the rose gardens, he wouldn't move until he removed all of the pesky greenflies," she tutted and rolled her eyes, "You know how he gets."

Sherlock pulled back, stepping to one side and gesturing to John, "Mummy, this is John Watson."

"I know, silly boy," she tutted, walking to engulf John in a motherly hug that momentarily had John remembering his own mother, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John," John smiled, "Thank you for allowing us to stay."

"Oh pish and nonsense!" Mrs. Holmes chuckled, "Couldn't miss the opportunity to see my boy. He hardly ever visits you know, John."

"I've heard," John replied, turning to pick up their bags only to see them already disappearing into the house with the staff.

"Come on inside, I'm sure you have a lot to tell us!" Mrs. Holmes tittered, grinning widely, obviously ecstatic that her youngest son was home.


A few hours later saw John full to the brim of heavenly homecooked food, and amazing scotch which Mr. Holmes had insisted on pouring for them. Sherlock was curled up on the small sofa, his toes buried under Mrs. Holmes' legs as he read through her most recent thesis, making soft humming noises of agreement which made his mother smile.

"So, John…" Mr. Holmes began, taking a seat in his overstuffed armchair, "We have refreshed the room which used to be Mycroft's. He doesn't use it anymore and it's basically a guest room. We just didn't want to open the guest wing…it's an awful lot of effort, you see."

"No, absolutely not. Not sure what I would have done with my own wing anyway," John chuckled, "I'm sure Mycroft's room will be fine."

"They replaced the mattress," Sherlock spoke, looking over the top of the documents he was reading, "after they found him in the middle of doing unspeakable acts with the gardener's son."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes hissed, but her eyes sparkled as she tapped him on the shoulder, "You shouldn't have known about that! You were only ten!"

"Still old enough to understand why Mycroft was walking with an oddly wonky gait and wincing whenever he sat," Sherlock mumbled, smirking at John.

"You are an utter terror, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Holmes mumbled, "I often wonder if you were found in a hedge. You're no child of mine," she teased playfully.

"It's only Mycroft. He doesn't count," Sherlock waved away, "I think the mortified shame of mummy walking in on him in such an - intimate position has stopped him dating ever since."

"No, he is dating," Mr. Holmes answered, "He's bringing him up to meet us next month when they get time off. He says that his boyfriend is extremely busy. High profile job, from what I hear…"

"Who?" Sherlock shuddered, "Who would lower themselves to sleeping with that bag of arseholes?"

"Sherlock!" John barked, hiding a smile.

"Oh…oh what was his name, dear?" Mr. Holmes asked, tapping his chin, "Graham…or Gareth…"

"Gregory, dear," Sherlock's mum replied, "Gregory Lestat."

"Sounds dull," Sherlock hummed, noticing that John had gone silent and slightly pale, "John? Whatever is the matter?"

"Are you sure it was Lestat?" John asked, feeling a flutter in his stomach. Sherlock was going to overreact if he was correct in his assumption.

"What else could it be?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Lestrade?" John winced, "Gregory Lestrade. He's a detective Insp-"

"Inspector!" Mrs. Holmes interrupted, "That's the one. Lestat, dear me. That was the vampire wasn't it?"

"Le...Lestrade?" Sherlock blinked roughly, before baulking and glaring at John as though it was his fault, "Lestrade?!"

"They've been friends a while," John answered, "Although Greg hasn't told me in person, he did hint that he was seeing someone..."

"I feel like I might vomit," Sherlock gagged, "Lestrade is allowing himself to be – defiled by my oaf of a brother. I thought he had sense…I thought he at least had taste!"

"Sherlock, that's not very nice," Mrs Holmes tutted, "he's been a good brother to you."

"He's been a pain in my bottom for as long as I can remember," Sherlock answered, lip pouting and arms folded.

"You used to follow him around the gardens, your chubby little legs trying to keep up with him. It was adorable," Mr. Holmes commented, looking off wistfully, "Mycroft was obsessed with Robin Hood before Sherlock was born; refused to take off his tights even for bed. When Sherlock was born, however, Mycroft allowed Sherlock to join in. We have photos somewhere..."

"No, that won't be necessary, will it, John?" Sherlock glared as his father stood up, moving to the large bureau in the corner.

"No. No it's – er..." John said, not wanting to be a bad guest as he looked at Sherlock pleadingly, "I don't want to be a nuisance."

"Not at all!" Mr. Holmes scoffed, pulling out the albums and moving to John's side on the other sofa. After sitting down, the older Holmes began pulling out photos and smiling, handing a few to John, "Oh look, there he is in the orchard! He was picking apples with Mrs. Henson, can you remember?"

"No," Sherlock sulked, watching as his mother rolled her eyes.

"Ah, this is the one," Mr. Holmes said as he pulled out a larger, colour photo. It showed a small, slightly chubby ginger-haired boy in a full Robin Hood costume and pretend bow and arrow. John estimated that Mycroft was around ten, perhaps a little younger, but it was Sherlock who drew his eye. The toddler was standing behind Mycroft, his face split in a giant gummy smile whilst dark curls tumbled over his face. Sherlock was adorable, but his costume made him look even cuter. A flower garland around his hair, and a long green tunic fashioned into a dress.

"You were..." John smiled, grinning at Sherlock.

"Maid Marion. Yes," Sherlock answered moodily, " She insisted," he said pointing at his mother, "Although I should have known; cross dressing runs in her family."

Mrs. Holmes tapped Sherlock on the hip and tutted, "Uncle Rudy was a lovely man. He always bought you thoughtful gifts."

"He did make a rather elegant rocking horse," Sherlock begrudgingly admitted before waving his hands, "Enough! Enough of this."

"Oh and this one," Mr. Holmes cooed, "Sherlock in the paddling pool."

"Father!" Sherlock shouted, outraged and scandalised.

"What? Oh stop over reacting! John is a doctor, he's seen it all before. And a soldier. I remember my national service…ahh, those boys never did stop getting naked," Mr. Holmes sighed, "He's probably seen countless male bottoms, so I don't think John will be traumatised by this."

"I hate you," Sherlock mumbled, although John wasn't sure if Sherlock was aiming that at his father, or John himself.

"This is one of my favourites," Mr. Holmes smiled, running a finger across the school portrait. Sherlock's features were obvious, although his hair was far more auburn than it currently was today, "Sherlock's first day at Saint Benedict's."

John looked over at the photo and smiled; Sherlock looked so young and innocent, his puppy fat cheeks colourful and healthy. The uniform that John could see in the picture looked expensive, obviously a private school.

"Oh, is this where we're going for the reunion?" John asked, watching as Sherlock nodded in silence.

"He had a dreadful time of it there," Mrs. Holmes answered sadly, "Terrible children. Awful. Almost feral, I would say."

"That one boy, what was his name?" Mr. Holmes replied, tapping his chin, "Jones? Ronald Jones!"

"Ronald James," Sherlock corrected.

"Yes, him. Awful boy. I wish I could have given him a good punch up the bracket!" Mr. Holmes complained, "The way he used to talk about our Lockie, calling him all sorts of names and making accusations. They said he was gay, you know, John. Like that was an insult!"

"It was in the 90's," Sherlock said, his voice low and obviously upset, "AIDS and HIV."

"You were a little boy! You didn't know anything of that life…well...except what Mycroft was found doing. But I don't even think you understood it. You were so innocent," Mrs. Holmes said, stroking a hand through Sherlock's curls, her eyes going soft.

John felt a blaze of anger going through him as he looked at Sherlock looking broken and dejected, "I heard a little about it. Sherlock said it was bad..."

"Quite," Mr. Holmes said sadly, "I often had to attend the school. Pick Sherlock up with a bloodied nose or split lip. Or after having food tipped over him. He was in a dreadful state, but we told him: you have to stay there, otherwise they'll win. They'll think what they said was true."

"And you have done quite well for yourself now, my love," Mrs. Holmes soothed, "Consulting Detective, on the telly and in the papers."

"Which reminds me," Mr. Holmes said as he reached down to another album, pulling it open and showing John a collection of newspaper cuttings and photographs put into one album. Sherlock and John were in each photo, sometimes with Greg, other times by themselves. Sherlock sometimes was wearing his silly hat but John noticed that in every photo, it seemed that John was staring up adoringly at his friend.

"That's lovely," John said, allowing Mr. Holmes to put the albums away before they changed the topic of conversation.


Sherlock was lying on his bed, attempting to read when the soft knock came on his bedroom door. Checking he was decent, Sherlock called out permission to enter and smiled when John stood awkwardly in the doorway, wrapped in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

"Hey," John said, "can I come in?"

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, sitting up against the headboard, "Is the room comfortable?"

"It's bigger than our flat," John joked, nodding, "It's fine, yeah, thanks."

"Good..." Sherlock trailed off, not entirely sure what John wanted, "So, er..."

"I'm sorry about the photos," John said rapidly, closing the door behind him and moving to the edge of Sherlock's bed, "I didn't want to look rude in front of your parents and…I was a bit curious. You always seem like you were born at 30; I couldn't imagine you as a kid."

"Boringly human," Sherlock responded, rolling his eyes, "but it's fine; I know you weren't being malicious."

John crossed his legs, fussing with the fraying edges of his robe as he considered his words, "It was really that bad?"

"It really was," Sherlock admitted with a small, sad sigh.

"Point out Ronald James," John insisted, his Captain voice firmly in place, "I'd like to have a word."

"John, it's been twenty years. He's probably forgotten all about it," Sherlock grumbled, refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Well, get some sleep. It'll be a long day tomorrow," John smiled, reaching over to squeeze Sherlock's hand, "You know where I am if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock asked, puzzled; he was back in his family home, safe and content with his stomach filled and his adoring parents not far away.

"Well…just incase," John shrugged, but for a brief moment there was an emotion in John's face that Sherlock couldn't place. It was gone as quickly as it arrived and John stood as he moved back to the door, "Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."


A/N: Check out more of KittieHill's works by searching her on AO3 - she is brilliant!

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