Families are a pain…

Mycroft arrived with his assistant, a briefcase and a slight frown to his face. It was the frown that worried Sherlock: Mycroft only looked like that when he was contemplating doing something for Sherlock's own good, a situation that never ended well between the brothers. John made tea, which Sherlock accepted, Mycroft declined and the assistant ignored. Sherlock wondered if she ever did anything other than text, but didn't want to know enough to actually enquire.

"I assume this is about the Morstan situation?" Mycroft asked: his voice cool and collected. Sherlock lured John to sit beside him on the couch, well within arms reach, just in case Mycroft had ideas about separating them. After the cuddle he'd shared with John only last night, he was worried that his brother would try to separate him from his friend again, even though the situation was hardly comparable.

"Yes," John said quietly, "We think that someone is targeting and killing the former children of the foster home that Harry and I went to after Miss Morstan attacked the family."

Sherlock shot John a quick look – that was a telling verbal tick right there. Technically the only person that had been attacked was John. The damage done to the rest of the family was mere collateral. John shot him a look in response – the visual equivalent of 'Yes? Problem?' that he used on Sherlock whenever they were in the middle of a crime scene or interview or just watching rubbish telly at home.

Mycroft was watching this by-play with narrowed eyes, which made Sherlock nervous. He wouldn't stand by and watch Mycroft send John away this time, which meant that he'd have to oppose his brother, or prove that…

"I won't be sending John away, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone had taken on a condescending tone that the younger brother hated; "I think you know why. As to the Morstan situation, the surveillance I keep on you both has shown no unusual scrutiny from outside forces."

"Do you know where Miss Morstan is?" John asked quietly and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I do," he confirmed, "And she is in no condition to be running around killing young men and women. She was released from prison straight into a nursing home that cares for people with dementia. In addition to which, she was involved in a rather nasty confrontation during her prison term which left her with enough physical and nerve damage to make walking any distance or actually holding anything in her dominant hand almost impossible."

Sherlock felt a primitive flush of satisfaction at that announcement, which immediately confused him. Why he should be pleased to know that someone who had tried to hurt John when he was a child had been hurt by someone else was beyond him – it was not logical. John frowned beside him and for a moment Sherlock wondered if his flatmate had discerned his thoughts as the Holmes brothers were wont to do.

"I'd say I was sorry to hear that," John sighed, "But I don't think I am. Does that make me a bad person?"

"Merely human," Mycroft replied with a sniff and Sherlock shot his brother an impatient look. There was nothing mere about John, "However I believe there is someone in this little domestic drama that you have overlooked."

Sherlock's frown turned to one of concentration and then cleared mere seconds later.

"Her child," Sherlock felt like the thickest man on the planet, "Mary Morstan was pregnant when she went to prison. What happened to that child?"

"Children, Sherlock. Mary Morstan bore Hamish Watson a set of fraternal twins, a daughter named for her mother and a son named for his father. They were taken from her and placed in the charge of their father, Hamish Watson. I take it that you were unaware of your half brother and sister, Dr Watson?" Mycroft looked at John with some interest and Sherlock shot him a look; then moved to wrap his arms around John in an awkward hug, which his roommate leaned into indulgently then sat up once more. Sherlock had read somewhere on the internet that significant others liked to hold hands in shows of support so he captured one of John's hands in his. Mycroft smirked.

"I was unaware of them, yes," John muttered: his tone sharp. Sherlock watched his friend take a deep breath and then continue to speak in a normal tone. It was a masterpiece of emotional detachment, "Dad was ordered to have nothing to do with us once the divorce and the court cases were done with – he sent mum child support payments, but I never saw him again. He died while I was over in Afghanistan. I didn't even apply for leave to attend the funeral. He financed my studies after mum died, but he never came to my graduation or my passing out parade in the army – I told him about them but he didn't appear. I suppose he was too busy with little Mary and Hamish."

"They are twenty four years old now. Mary Watson is a veterinarian, her brother Hamish is in graphic design. Both live and work here in the city: in fact Hamish Watson lives just around the corner in Kensington," Mycroft informed them.

"I don't want to meet them," John informed the room at large, "They have their own lives. I don't need to be a part of them."

He pulled his hand free from Sherlock's and left the room, going upstairs to his bedroom and closing the door behind him. Sherlock waited a moment, but when there were no further sounds he turned to glare at his brother.

"And I suppose you think that was amusing," he snapped quietly, "John takes family seriously, god knows why, considering the family he ended up with. I assume you mentioned them because they were relevant to the killings?"

"Hamish Watson is," Mycroft nodded, "He seems to have inherited his mother's instability. Mary Watson is a very level headed young lady, dedicated to her work with animals and never once involved with trouble. I doubt the woman has ever had a parking ticket, let alone committed a felony."

"You'll leave the details here for me," Sherlock ordered, "I'll look into them myself."

"I have also sent this information to Scotland Yard," Mycroft tossed a folder onto the coffee table and stood: his texting assistant moving to his side as if attached by a string, "They can at least do some of the… leg work for you."

Sherlock shot him a seething glance and nodded, not willing to prolong this discussion any further. Mycroft gave him a final, knowing smirk and nodded, collecting his assistant with a glance as he left.

"Have fun Sherlock," Mycroft's voice floated back up the stairs to him, "I'm sure you'll manage…"

Sherlock blushed beet red, glared hatefully down the stairs and returned to the front room to go through the file. It wouldn't do to appear in John's room while his face was still red. John was no Holmes, but he was good at understanding emotions when he saw them.

To be continued

Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine

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