The morning came quickly for Harrison, who found himself unable to fall back into the blissful obliviousness of slumber after the unexpected visit from his eldest brother. Instead, the puzzled man lay on his back with his hands behind his head of tousled locks, watching the blank ceiling become a haphazard design of warm yellow stripes as the sunlight seeped through the cracks in the curtains and threw itself across the dull white paint.

Sighing, he rose up from his mattress, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He strolled to his small kitchen, filled a kettle, and set it on the stove to boil. Harrison enjoyed doing certain things the more traditional way, in contrast to the high tech life he led.

His head buzzing with the possibilities of what Sherlock could want to speak to him about, he dressed absentmindedly. His arms reached for clothes that were always there, and put them on in the correct order without any conscious thought needed, leaving his keen mind to wander.

Hearing the kettle whistle across the flat, Harrison made his way to the kitchen, taking a quick glance in a mirror as he passed and straightening his necktie. He poured the water carefully into a fat teapot, the steam curling in pleasantly warm tendrils over his face, fogging his glasses. Waiting until his vision was restored, he set the pot on his small bistro table and plucked his mobile from his pocket.

No missed calls. No texts. No mission updates. No alerts or emergencies. No terrorists. No agents. No M.

No rush.

Though he thrived in the urgency and importance of his occupation, Harrison was certain he would enjoy his time off. As long as all went well with Sherlock.

And that part of the day could get very interesting.

Sipping his scalding earl grey cautiously, he scrolled aimlessly through various news sites on his laptop, barely even skimming the articles. It seemed today was fairly uneventful for the rest of the world.

Sighing as he realized he was only putting off the inevitable, Harrison rose from his chair, downing the last gulp of his tea too quickly and pausing for a moment to register the painful burning in his throat before moving on.

Allowing himself a last content glance around his peaceful flat, he grabbed his jumper from its hook on the wall and opened the door to the damp yet bustling atmosphere that could belong only to London, England.

Because the tube reminded him of a rather unpleasant chain of events connected to the previous M's death, Harrison chose to take a cab to his brother's residence.

After only several turns, it began to rain, just a light drizzle, but rain nonetheless. He hoped the weather was not a omen of what the day held for him before he remembered he didn't believe in that sort of superstitious nonsense and that it rained in London extremely frequently anyways.

"Just here," he instructed the cabbie, handing him payment for the ride and waiting until the vehicle came to a full stop to swing open the door.

"Idn't this where that detective fella' lives? Ah, what's 'is name?" the cabbie said, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Sherlock Holmes," Harrison offered. The old cabbie's expression lightened when he realized his passenger was correct.

"Oh, a'course," he chortled. Suddenly the cabbie's face fell, a shadow of seriousness crossing over his weathered features. "You know, I never believed 'e was fake. Not for a minute." The young man was silent, his eyes clouded with memories.

"No one did," he muttered inaudibly. He shook his head and exited the cab, his eyes inspecting the so very ordinary door that apparently led to the flat that his older brother inhabited. This visit would certainly be interesting, if nothing else.

After rapping solidly on the door with cold knuckles, ignoring the available buzzer, Harrison absentmindedly observed the people hurrying past him or entering the bakery to his right as he waited. The youngest Holmes considered himself to be a patient person, and, knowing his brother wouldn't put visitors very high up on his list of priorities, even ones he had sent for, was prepared to be kept lingering on the sidewalk for a rather lengthy period of time.

But he was determined to speak to Sherlock today. In fact, he found his curiosity heightening as the seconds ticked by. How was his brother faring since his return from the dead? And what of the former army doctor turned blogger, John Watson, the man whose name always accompanied Sherlock's in the paper? He had doubted for a while if John would last until Sherlock reappeared.

Harrison felt the drops of falling water collect in his mass of curls and trickle down the back of his neck and behind his ears. As he removed his glasses to wipe away the rain that blurred them, he heard a deadbolt slide back and quickly placed them back on the bridge of his nose. The door swung in and he came face to face with a familiar short, blond man in a striped jumper that Sherlock would've unceasingly teased Harrison for if had it hung from his own spindly frame.

"Oh, um, good morning," the man said, clearly surprised by the appearance of the young man. He tilted his head just barely and furrowed his eyebrows, perhaps trying to work out why he felt like he should recognize this unexpected visitor.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." The man hesitated for a moment before extending his arm.

"You know my name-," he said distractedly. Harrison took his offered hand and shook it with a polite firmness. So this was the man known by some as his brother's sidekick. It was satisfying to finally see him in the flesh and not just in print.

"Yes, is Sherlock in? He sent for me. Actually, he sent Mycroft to my flat in the middle of the night." John still seemed puzzled and his eyes kept flickering from Harrison's hair to his shoulders to his hands to his eyes and his cheekbones. He almost chuckled at the older man's apparent perplexed state.

"-Sherlock? No, he's at St. Bart's...do I know you?" The young Holmes let a chortle escape his thin lips.

"No, we haven't been properly acquainted, unfortunately. Holmes, Harrison Holmes." John barely kept his jaw hinged on as he jutted it out in obvious shock, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows.

"Holmes, did you say?"

"Yes, I did." The falling raindrops suddenly fattened and began splattering down rather noticeably on Harrison and his practically soaked jumper. John, still speechless, took a step back from the threshold.

"I'm going to kill him," he spat, waving the younger man inside. Harrison knew exactly who he was referring to.