As I have predicted, Mr. and Mrs Holmes's attitude towards me was considerably less welcoming after I had defended their son. Nevertheless, they tried their best to be warm (if one could call it that) and they made polite conversation, asking me about my army days and of my late wife, Mary. I calmly answered each question, feeling as if I were taking part of an interview rather than being a guest in someone's home.

Holmes described some of his most successful cases as we ate dinner that evening. His parents listened with such disapproval written on their faces that I had to concentrate very hard on my meal in order not to snap something at then. You, the reader, should have seen this: when they spoke of Mycroft's achievements, both parents glowed so brightly with pride that it was almost blinding. When Sherlock spoke of his own successes, his parents would gaze at him tight-lipped and unmoving. Mr. Holmes then went on asking what his son's real job was. At this point the only thing that was restraining me from performing any type of action other than eating was the covert warning glances my friend kept giving me. I complied with his wishes with tremendous difficulty.

It was not until we had returned to our shared bedroom so we could retire to bed when I finally released what was on my chest.

"Unbelievable!" I cried hotly as Holmes disrobed behind the folding screen. "You may be able to survive the week, Holmes, but not I."

Holmes head appeared from around the screen. "Are you planning on leaving soon?" he asked.

His worried expression softened me. "No, old boy. I would never dream of deserting you," I assured him.

He looked relieved and disappeared behind the screen again. I heard him moved around a little before coming out dressed in a long night shirt. I smiled at him before taking my nightclothes and retreating behind the folding screen.

"So my parents are already driving you mad?" Holmes asked amusedly as I unbuttoned my waistcoat.

"Not mad per se," I replied. "Irritating, certainly. Am I being too blunt?"

"Not at all. I suggest you use this time to speak your mind. It is not healthy to keep everything bottled up, my dear Watson."

"Only if you do the same."

"You know perfectly well that I do not like speaking of my family; being under their roof brings no exception. I have already told you much more than I would normally share."

"Which, for you, one single sentence would be considered excessive information."

I heard Holmes chuckle softly and I stepped out from behind the folding screen wearing my night clothing. I felt my friend's eyes on me as I put my things away, studying me closely.

"You are still tense," he remarked.

"Really?" I said sardonically. "What was your first hint?"

I turned to Holmes and found him shaking his head. "This is what I meant by it is not healthy to keep things inside. You are taking your frustrations out on me," he told me placidly.

"I am not," I snapped, and, realizing that I had sounded childish, added, "I mean, I am not trying to if I am. Is this what our week is going to resemble?"

"If I said otherwise, I would be lying."

"Right." I sighed heavily. "We'll just grit our teeth and do this, then?"

"Undoubtedly."

I let myself collapse onto the bed. I heard the other bed's springs creak, indicating that Holmes took his place in his bed. I slipped underneath the blankets and watched my friend do the same. He turned to me with a thoughtful expression as he lay on his side.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked quietly.

He regarded me for a few seconds more before shaking his head.

"Nothing," Holmes said. "Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight," said I as he extinguished the candle's flame.

Darkness engulfed the room. Holmes turned his back to me as I placed myself on my own back, staring at the ceiling. I wondered what my friend had been thinking of when he had been contemplating me. But, being used to Holmes's secretive ways, I did not ponder over the matter for long and permitted sleep to put its claim over me.


"Wake up!"

Those were the words that had galvanized both me and Holmes. We scrambled to a sitting position, our hair dishevelled, as Mrs Holmes stood impatiently by the doorway of our bedroom. I flushed and wrapped the blankets around my torso, for it is inappropriate for a gentleman to be in that state of dress in front of a woman who is not his wife as you all know.

"Mother!" Holmes cried in outrage, covering himself up as well. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Have you forgotten? It's Sunday!" Mrs Holmes said.

Her son mumbled something unintelligible to our ears before replying, "Watson and I are perfectly capable of determining what day of the week it is, thank you."

"Don't be smart with me young, young man. You are very well aware that we go to church every Sunday. So get up and get dressed! We leave in half an hour."

With that, Mrs Holmes swept from the room. My friend sprang from his bed and rushed towards the door, closing it and locking it. Holmes leaned against the door, groaning.

"Damn, I had forgotten why Mycroft and I locked the door every night," Holmes said ruefully.

"I will personally make sure neither of us do from now on," I grumbled, slowly getting up.

"Forgive me for my lapse in memory, my dear Watson."

"There is no need to apologize, my dear Holmes."

Once we did our toilet and gotten dressed, we joined Mr. and Mrs Holmes in the landing. They were waiting for us by the door, looking elegant and fresh.

"Have you slept well?" Mr. Holmes asked, a little crisply.

"We did until Mother made her appearance," Holmes said in a very low whisper.

"Yes, thank you," I replied loudly over my friend's words.

His parents nodded and stepped outside towards an awaiting carriage. As Holmes and I followed, I poked him in the ribs. Holmes barely managed to stifle a small cry of surprise as he folded within himself.

"What was that for?" he hissed irritably, clutching his sides.

I smirked. Ironically enough, Holmes is very ticklish and I occasionally use that against him, as the reader now saw. I had inadvertently discovered that well hidden fact of his while we were conversing in our sitting room on Baker Street. As he was reorganizing his indexes, Holmes had annoyingly read my thoughts again and cut me off with a remark of his own as I spoke. To demonstrate my frustrations, I had stridden over to him and prodded him in his side. The reaction I received was priceless: Holmes had let slip a strangled gasp and jumped about five feet in the air in shock, dropping his book in the process. To this day I cannot tell which of us was more surprised, but I do recall him telling me that if I revealed this secret to a single soul he would render me with a concussion. I will deal with the consequences of my actions later.

"Thank goodness you reacted," I answered placidly. "I've begun to think you were a walking statue."

My friend harrumphed and marched ahead of me, but not without a more relaxed stride that had not been formerly present. He probably feared I would tickle him again if he did not unwind a bit.

I had not been to a Sunday mass in ages, so I had forgotten how long they can be. Nevertheless, it was somewhat refreshing (at least Mr. and Mrs Holmes were pleased by our attendance). Their son, while keeping a very respectable front, evidently wished he was elsewhere. He kept his stare focused on the priest but his eyes lacked that sparkle they got whenever his interest was piqued.

The brunch that followed was peaceful. Maybe it was because we were eating in public. There were many passing gentlemen who kept casting covert glances at Mrs Holmes, I noticed. She was a beautiful woman, I admit, with her dark hair streaked with grey and her striking blue eyes mixed with the contrast of her pale skin, attracting the attention of numerous admirers. Between revealing my friend's secret and describing his mother as thus, do not be surprised, the reader, if you no longer hear from me after this piece of my literary work.

When we returned to the mansion, Holmes led me to the vast backyard. He brought me over to a bench on the far end of the yard that was obscured by a large bush, concealing us from the world. My friend made sure we were truly alone before sitting next to me.

"That was… endurable," said he.

"Pleasant," I chimed in helpfully. "It was pleasant."

"If only we can have every single day be like this," Holmes stated wistfully.

"Are we going to have discussions in private after every activity we share with your parents?"

"What have I said about keeping things inside?"

"It is not healthy."

"Excellent, Watson. You are a formidable listener."

"I've learned from the best."

Holmes smiled appreciatively before looking out in the distance. From where we sat we could see the lovely green landscape that stretched beyond the horizon over the low fence. I suddenly had an image of Holmes in his youth exploring the fields, making early attempts at his everlasting research.

As if he read my thoughts, Holmes said, "This is where I came to perform my experiments and research the various aspects of the world."

I glanced at him. "You did not conduct them in the house?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Unless I desired to have my work ripped away from me, no."

"Holmes…"

"My parents are rich, Watson. They have social class, and very much of it. Anything that threatened to take away that privilege was a near blasphemy. Instead of playing cricket and socializing with the other boys I spent my time in my own sort of solitary confinement and studied away. I was happy but my parents weren't."

"Did anyone in that household support you?"

"Mycroft did, and still does. He is not as perfect as my parents like to believe. He has often lied to them in order to make them none the wiser on my activities."

"What would he tell them?"

"That he was helping them reform me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Really, Watson, this should be obvious."

"Holmes."

"Oh, all right. They simply forced me to join activities I had no desire to participate in. They tried to make me a product of their standards."

"But you haven't –"

"Evidently."

" – If you would let me finish. Clearly, you have not confined yourself to their expectations, but you are so much more than that. You are the best detective anyone has ever seen in years. Years, Holmes! You and your methods surpass the whole Scotland Yard, for God's sake! You are brilliant, you are incredibly talented, and if your parents cannot see that then they are the ones in the wrong, not you."

Holmes briefly stared at me in astonishment before giving me a half-smile. "I am aware, Watson," he said.

I shook my head.

"I highly doubt it," I replied. "No one can grow up in such an environment and fully believe they are worth something. It is a mistake many people make: they assume because their parents said it, it must be true."

"I am not like everyone else, in case you have failed to notice," Holmes said dryly.

I sighed, knowing that I could not convince him. But, somehow, I knew my words applied to him whether he acknowledged them or not. Holmes avoided all matters of the heart if he could so I would have not been surprised if he was lying to himself, consciously or subconsciously. But I chose to drop the subject, deciding to let my friend approach me if he ever deemed the time to be right.

Something fell onto my hand and I glanced down. A drop of water lay there and I looked at the sky, receiving another raindrop on my face. Holmes stood up and offered me his arm.

"Come, Watson," he said softly. "The weather is no longer in our favour."

I got to my feet and linked my arm through his. As we crossed the garden, I covertly eyed my friend. Now that I was slowly discovering about his past, I was finding Holmes's mask of the cold logical thinker more and more unsettling. I did not know enough to form any definite theory, but I was wondering if appearing detached was Holmes's way of protecting his heart. He clearly did not want to face it, anyhow. I was willing to help defend that heart but I was determined to do so in a more emotional way, with hopes to maybe ease it open.

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