By seven o' clock in the morning, Sherlock was out of his room, showered, having consumed a breakfast of another cuppa and a half piece of toast. He'd taken the lemon from the kitchen and took it down familiar hallways until he came to Mycroft's bedroom, where had he sat the fruit down in front of the door and strode back through the hallways to the lounge.

Mycroft was already dressed in the usual black, three-piece suit when he strode into the lounge later. "Sherlock, why was there a lemon in front of my bedroom door? I suppose you'll be pleased to know that I almost tripped over it."

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, but his lips twitched towards a twisted version of a smirk. He pressed his back more firmly against the sofa and folded his legs more comfortably beneath him. "Because you're sour and never seem to leave."

"The travelling lemon? Now?"

"I saw an opportunity." Sherlock looked up. "I also saw the paperwork that one of your assistants slipped through my door around five. I've marked the ones that are promising, although I'm sure you realise that they are out of my price range. Even between the money from consulting and John's work and Mary's legacy, we won't be able to support ourselves in places like these." He held out the files to Mycroft.

"Yes," Mycroft said absently, taking the files and fanning them briefly. "I am aware."

"And why is there nothing in Central?"

Now Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking up at him. "Sherlock, how many vacancies do you think are in Central London? The ones that are vacant are for good reason; if you thought these were out of your price range, you'd be long expired before he had a chance to pay me back for one there."

Sherlock tried to batter back the irritation, but it showed through flared nostrils and tense shoulders. He knew it was true. The consulting business was lucrative enough to keep him at Baker Street, only because of the deal he and Mrs Hudson had had, but having to start over like this meant that he had no wiggle room. Central London was expensive. But Central London was home to him.

"I'm not looking forward to having to pay you back at all," he muttered instead of voicing his thoughts aloud. "Alright, let's get a visual. I'm sure you have camera activity at all of the properties you watch." He rolled his eyes as he stood up.

Mycroft's eyes were following him, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, just headed for the doorway.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Mycroft asked shortly.

"Shut up," Sherlock retorted.


Looking at CCTV footage of flats - or houses, some were actual houses - wasn't the best way to start a morning. Nonetheless, Sherlock sat next to Mycroft silently and set to the task of scanning through each. Neither of them said a word, which Sherlock was fine with, except for the occasional, resounding "No" when Sherlock happened upon a flat he didn't like.

He knew, almost immediately, when John was coming. He heard his footsteps in the otherwise silent hall. He was probably eating one of those raspberry and chocolate scones that had been on the countertop in the kitchen. John liked chocolate scones. He liked raspberry jam. So, of course he would like a raspberry chocolate scone. Why was he even thinking about this?

John cleared his throat. "Morning."

Well. Great that someone wanted to talk.

"I've narrowed it down to three different places. Mycroft will show you CCTV footage for the possibilities I've picked out. Two are single-level flats, the other is a duplex in the country," Sherlock said, spinning around in the swivel chair. "Figure out which one you could live with, because it's the one we'll be living in." He stood, drawing himself up to full height and strode from the room without another word.

No nonsense. This was the way that he was going to handle it. No nonsense and no feeling.

Now, he was going to get his already-dry-cleaned coat from the entranceway, grab a cab, and head off to check out the places in person. He wasn't staying with Mycroft longer than he could help it, so: reconnaissance. He also wanted to go back to Baker Street and inspect the damage...

"I hope you weren't planning to inspect those flats without me."

Sherlock's fingers fumbled around his coat. John was, literally, his shadow. Sherlock knew this, after ten years of living with or near him, but this... was it always this bad? Or was John just hovering because he thought Sherlock needed it?

He shook his head slightly, chasing away the flicker of annoyance and that strange brush of anger, continuing to button up his coat. "Of course not," he said smoothly, looping his scarf around his neck. "Why would I do it without you?" He turned and pulled the door open, striding off down the street to find a cab.

John never responded, and he didn't say anything even when they were both tucked into a cab. Sherlock was eternally grateful that he wasn't speaking. He didn't know if he was doing it for his benefit or just because he didn't feel like talking, either, but John usually liked to pry. Well, he had before he had gotten married, anyway, and after Sherlock had come back, things had never been the same, and after Mary had died, John hadn't been in a state to talk at all.

Sherlock had done a lot of coaxing John to actually live those first few weeks after Mary had died. Of course, it hadn't been talking more than was warranted - Sherlock hadn't felt like talking then, either -, but if John refused to leave his bedroom for more than forty-eight hours, Sherlock was there, literally dragging him out of his bed and even one morning going as far as trying to undress him to get him into some clean clothes before John had snapped out of it and stormed into the loo to do it himself.

And then, of course, Sherlock had gone home and took a too-hot shower that had scalded his skin and proceeded to flat-out sob while he was under the confines of the water, where no one could see that he was emotional about the whole thing. Because he had to be Sherlock in front of John during those dark days. John needed Sherlock to be the same person he always had been and that did not mean letting John see into that depressed part of his mind that had mourned Mary and the child more than John seemed to sometimes.

Sherlock had, naturally, never told John had bad things had gotten on his end after Mary and the unborn Watson daughter had died. He had never told John just how aware of where he kept his gun he was, and how aware he was of how many rounds he kept in it. He just... had never wanted to entertain the conversation.

And speaking of Mary, or thinking of her, anyway (which were things Sherlock didn't like to do, because he invariably ended up feeling sentimental), John had just instructed the cab to stop. When Sherlock glanced up, he found that they were outside of a tea shop that John and Mary had always frequented. They had all gone there one afternoon, together, and Sherlock had gotten black tea with orange zest and Mary and John had shared a raspberry-jam filled pastry, where John had gotten jam on his lips and Mary had leaned in for the kiss that would tickle Sherlock's emotion with amusement as John got flustered and muttered about 'Mary, we're in public!'.

But, bringing up the reminder of Mary's death - and John's daughter, but Sherlock really went into hysterics if he thought that way, and he had, one night, so upset that he'd ended up making himself sick, a sinus infection from crying that he told John was a cold and John hadn't been in the right state of mind to question it - was hardly beneficial when they had just lost their flat.

Sherlock turned his head away from the tea shop and went back to texting Mycroft, not moving until John come back. When he did, Sherlock simply took the lemon tea John had bought him, didn't say a word of thanks, and continued to text. He'd throw it out at the next stop. Wasn't that it wasn't appealing. He just didn't drink tea from this establishment anymore. Dare he say too many memories.

It was a long day.

In the end, they ended up settling on the duplex. John liked it best - and Sherlock didn't have to even ask which John liked best because Sherlock could read it his body language and how much time he spent looking at each room, planning out their new layout if this would really become their flat - and Sherlock didn't care. As long as he had somewhere to stay, that wasn't Mycroft's house, he didn't care. It was just a flat, after all.

By morning, Sherlock would have everything set in motion. The flat would be furnished, thanks to Mycroft. Still, technically, the furniture wouldn't be theirs. The teacups wouldn't be theirs and they would have the taste of Mycroft and his attendants written all over them, but it was a flat.

That was all that mattered. He guessed.


And this is one time where Sherlock isn't sure of anything.

I do not own Sherlock. The travelling lemon belongs to John Finnemore. Thanks for reading!