CHAPTER 3

It was not a good morning for Sherlock. His fever had passed, but the fatigue John had warned him about threatened to force him to turn on his heels halfway down the stairs and back to the comfort of his bed. Even his mind seemed to be on a slower gear – it was as if he had to pause at every door to fiddle for the right key before getting into the required trivia bit in his mind palace.

And it didn't help that he now had two people in the apartment to be vigilant about. John he could handle – he was fairly set in his ways, and mostly oblivious to the more subtle happenings of the universe.

His sister was another matter. It was strange seeing her after such a long absence, and Sherlock was having difficulties in deciding how to relato to her. It was her, but somehow not exactly. People changed, grew, were traumatized by the terrible things that happen to every human being at some point. Alice did not seem as close as they had been back then. She was one of the few good things about the times that he liked to think he'd put past him. Sometimes they came back to irritate him. Like Sebastian Wilkes with his snotty tie, smug smile, pretentious office, subtle clues of overcompensatory promiscuity and a barely-in-control cocaine habit. Sherlock wondered whether John had realized to any extent that Sherlock had so yearned to throttle Wilkes with his ugly tie the very second they entered his office. Well, at least he had the satisfaction that he could have.

He had to keep vigilant. If he didn't, Alice might give John a glimpse into all those things that he liked to keep hidden. His failures. His greatest deficiencies. Some of which John knew of, but not how he'd once worn them on his sleeve instead of going on the offence before anyone else had the chance to notice them.

And worst of all, Alice, dear, sweet Alice, who had never lost confidence in his ability to learn and to find something beyond an existence of science, work, and notoriety, might try and convince him that he could have more. So much more. If he just dared to try and put his mind to it. Or maybe not. Maybe the opposite? Just forget himself for a second? Stop overanalyzing things?

Never. He had once risked everything for something as fleeting, irrational, and counterevolutionary as feelings and he would not be so pedestrian as to err twice in the same game.

Still, he had to admit it was good to see her. For a second Sherlock wondered if he might pick her brain like he used to at university to get some aid in analyzing certain things, certain behaviours of John's that he was somewhat unable to understand or decipher. Or some of his own.

No. Stop it. Focus.

He took a deep breath and slouched downstairs, wrapped in a sheet. He'd left his trousers downstairs. Maybe John had taken them to the laundry pile. Drat. He'd have to ask John to fetch him some fresh ones. Couldn't be bothered himself.

He was surprised to find the kitchen table surrounded with people. Alice was nursing a cup of tea, John was spreading crumbs all over the floor with his toast-making and DCI Lestrade (Graham? George? Gulliver? Irrelevant.) was standing by the sink, rinsing a mug.

Sherlock felt slightly underdressed for the occasion. He slumped down onto the couch.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," quipped Lestrade.

"Mm." Sherlock turned on the television. The news. Something about a flower fair in Greenwich. Delete immediately.

"We agreed to let Greg in since you're feeling better. He's promised to behave and not drag you out into the rain."

The tv was immediately switched off. "Case?" He had not dared to hope. John had put his iron fist down and since he was now able to team up with Octavia Alice, Sherlock did not bother to argue. He'd spent the past week mostly in his bedroom, occasionally wondering down to engage in small talk with Alice or partake in John's attempts at cozy evening meals. If he hadn't been so bloody tired he would've died from boredom already.

A few nights ago, he'd caught an exchange between his sister and his flatmate. They were discussing him. He didn't like it. Alice knew better than to overindulge in any embarrassing stories – at least that's what Sherlock hoped since any sibling of Mycroft Holmes could be expected to value their privacy and honour. John, on the other hand, wrote a bloody blog about him. "Spectacularly ignorant"1" That one was never going to be forgiven.

Judging by the faint occasional clinks of glass, they were drinking wine. Sherlock's congested nose had already cleared enough to allow him a whiff of tannic acid and sulphuric terroir. Red then.

"Have you noticed how he looks like he's having a brainwave when he catches himself experiencing some sort of feelings?" Alice was smiling, judging by her tone.

"Apart from bored, irritated, angry, indignant, riled up or downright manic?"

"I meant towards another human being, John."

John mulled over this for a moment. "True, actually. He looks both a bit disappointed and somewhat fascinated at the same time."

"He watches all that carefully. Doesn't like it."

"Has he always been like that?"

Alice's tone was now more serious. "No. He used to be just slightly cautious, not completely closed-off. He's been trying to live by the credo that he doesn't need anyone, that relationships of any kind are beneath him like he's some new step in human evolution, but that's not how he was born. He used to be fascinated by anything he couldn't understand and would strive to learn everything about it. He was most frustrated to realize that there was one field of study, one science that completely eluded him – social interaction. Mycroft tried to convince him it's a good thing."

"Sherlock gave me this speech back when we met, that he considered himself to be married to his work, that relationships were not his cup of tea. The way he behaved with Irene Adler actually spoke of the same – I think he saw her more as an equal, a challenge, a riddle to be solved, than a potential girlfriend."

"Irene Adler? That's the one you wrote about in your blog post?"

"The very same." A sofa cushion fell to the floor by the sound of it. Sherlock shifted his balance and a floorboard creaked. John and Alice luckily were engrossed enough in their dialogue not to make anything of it.

"I really can't picture it, my brother falling for a dominatrix."

John sighed. "He was actually kind of mean to her at the end. She did beat him up with a riding crop, drug him and embarrass him a few other times."

"I think you must've left the more salient details out of your post, John."

"That I did. I have to live with him, you know. I'd like to keep breathing. Though I think Mycroft would get to me first."

"You're wise not to trust him. Mycroft's brilliant with people – that's how he got to where he is, but totally ruthless. I actually think it's him who couldn't hold any kind of healthy relationship. He does seem to fair quite alright without such nonsense, as he puts it. I, on the other hand, tried to help Sherlock out with all of it. Be a bit of an interpreter. I tried, but I couldn't go everywhere with him, translate everything people did or said. I wish I could have. Still, unless I became his full-time assistant or something, he was going to have to learn some things on his own. I'm sorry he had to do it with such drama."

John plonked his glass down. "You keep referring to something that happened back then, before you left. But won't tell me exactly what. We've been through some tough times, me and Sherlock – are you absolutely sure it would change anything if you just told me? I'm pretty damned sure he won't."

At that point Sherlock had cleared his throat and walked downstairs, unable to stiffen a yawn. "Your incessant prattling is making too much noise. Isn't it high time Alice headed back to the Dorchester?"