John practically flew up the stairs of 221B after work. He rummaged through his closet for over an hour in search of something decent to wear. Truthfully, he hadn't the faintest idea what outfit would be best suited for this occasion. If Sherlock and Mycroft were any indication, the Holmes family would not be typical in the least.
He finally settled on an old button down and some work pants. Not too formal, not too casual. he thought he might also work on his hair and, to his immediate regret, glanced in the mirror to do so.
'Jesus Christ.' He thought, 'Harry was right; I look like a nightmare.'
John hadn't spent as much time on personal grooming of late. He guessed it was because he no longer had anyone to impress, and he no longer cared if anyone was. Tonight, however, he made a special exception.
At six twenty, he walked outside the flat, scanning the street for the Mycroft-like vehicle that was supposed to be picking him up. He felt like he the star of a bad soap opera, preparing to meet the parents of a secret lover. Except the secret lover was now dead, and he wasn't actually a lover. He sighed and looked again up the street, just in time to see a glossy black town car pull into the street.
It slowed in front of the flat and Mycroft rolled down his window. "Positive?" he asked, giving john one more chance to escape.
John nodded once. He wouldn't miss this for anything. He wanted to feel closer to Sherlock, and he felt this was the only way. Climbing in, he realized that this could be his only opportunity to learn things about Sherlock the man never would have shared with anyone. Although this sent a rush of adrenaline through him, he also hesitated. Would Sherlock want him to know his family? Would he want his family to know John? Of course he wouldn't, but that never stopped john before.
He slammed the door shut, and sat a little straighter, feeling more confident about this meeting than he was when he initially accepted the invitation.
It wasn't until the car came to a screeching halt in front of the Holmes residence that John realized he had fallen asleep. His eyes flew to his watch; eight forty-six. "Jesus," he said aloud to Mycroft, "Where do you live?"
"In there." He nodded to the gigantic and somewhat menacing manor in front of him.
"I can see how you and Sherlock became so dramatic."
Mycroft ignored him and left the car, taking long strides to the front door and closing it behind him.
John pursed his lips and followed suit. The house, if you could call it that, was at least three stories tall and about as wide as Baker street. Again he hesitated, now intimidated not by the prospect of Sherlock or his family, but instead by the sheer size of his home.
Mycroft suck his head out of the door. "Doctor, are you coming in, or would you prefer the porch?"
John stepped in. the inside was not at all what he imagined. The furniture in the main room was scattered and mismatched, and by no means extravagant. No paintings or photographs hung on the walls, and the fireplace was cold and unused. The only defining features it had were an impressive thirty foot tall bookcase stocked to the brim with literature and textbooks, a massive crystal chandelier, and a winding staircase that met at the front door. Mycroft looked bored, but John was rather impressed.
"You grew up here?" He muttered, surveying the place.
"I'll get mother. The sooner this is over with, the better." He left John standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands borrowed in his pockets. Just then, a frazzled looking woman with intense eyes and grey, flyaway hair came up behind him, making him jump.
"You must be John!" she yelled at him. she wore an alarmingly pink dress, bunny slippers, and a white apron flecked with what looked suspiciously like blood.
"Yes, hello." He nodded, trying to look more pleasant than alarmed, "Are you Mrs. Holmes? Sherlock's mother?"
"Yes. well, not really anymore. He doesn't need me. Or rather, he didn't." she stared into space for several minutes.
"Ah, there you are, mother." Mycroft came back into view, this time accompanied by a surly old man, with no hair and a big gut. He had on a fine suit complete with bowtie and cummerbund. He grimaced at john and settled into an armchair, looking drowsy.
This was a bad idea. John felt it now, and, whether it was because of the insanity of his mother, the bordem of his father, or the smug look on his brother's face, John felt close to tears, and almost broke down in front of the entire family when a boy of about fourteen of fifteen slid down the stair rail.