John chose his time with Sherlock equally as carefully, perhaps more carefully than he had with Mycroft. It was an extremely delicate balance, with Sherlock.
John needed him to be distracted enough by something else that, when John brought up the subject, Sherlock couldn't give it all of his considerable focus but only partially focus to John. But not while doing something important, like one of his experiments, and obviously not on a case. In either circumstance, John knew Sherlock would stop what he was doing and bend all of his attention to John talking about him talking to Mycroft.
He didn't want Sherlock to stop on a case because those were critical. And he didn't want Sherlock to stop in the middle of an experiment in case something exploded.
Nor did he want to catch Sherlock unawares during some rare down time, reading or watching crap telly. Certainly not while watching Doctor Who – any interruption of that would make the situation all the more volatile for John.
There was only one time that John could think of that this would work properly.
They were at the park, with Josephine, who was on the swings.
Part of John kept expecting Sherlock to grow bored with dealing with a baby on a regular basis, but he never did. John hadn't yet worked out what it was – nor did he imagine he ever would. He didn't imagine it was really about the changeable nature of babies, how they didn't stay the same for more than a day or two at a time. He thought it was more to do with Josephine herself, who was turning out to be quite bright and had some kind of mysterious attachment to her eccentric uncle.
It wasn't as though Sherlock felt this way about other children. Often, John had to remind Sherlock not to comment on the mediocre intelligence of other children – well, what he thought was mediocre, which was a very broad category when judged by Sherlock Holmes – especially as compared to his niece. Nor to point out to the parents of other children that their offspring were not that fascinating and only doing every other child on the face of the planet could do: run about madly and not listen to anyone.
Of course this never applied to Josephine.
It made John fight down a grin each time – Sherlock sounded precisely like a haughty father himself, only able to see Josephine's obvious greatness.
Although, John had to admit, she was better behaved and generally brighter than the other children on the playground, at least that day, and he felt he was somewhat less biased than Sherlock, for whom no child was interesting but Josephine.
Sherlock was pushing her in one of those baby swings that was like a small basket, not just a bench seat. John always expected Sherlock to get bored with this as well, but somehow, it never happened. He stood beside his husband, hands in his jean pockets, watching idly as Josephine swung back and forth, grinning and laughing. Sherlock was concentrating on her, probably calculating all sorts of things like wind speed and air resistance and kinetic and gravitational forces and how high she was swinging and her reactions. And how long she'd been on the swing, because there were almost always other children waiting, and Sherlock always pushed it a bit too long, confident that Josephine, of course, deserved more than anyone else.
It was the perfect time. Sherlock would not break his full concentration away from his niece while she was on the swings, but he could give John enough of his attention that they could carry on a conversation.
"Out with it!" Sherlock suddenly said and John remembered that Sherlock could keep an eye on him as well as Josephine. "Whatever it is you're mulling about your brain, just ask me."
John nodded. Time to get it over with.
"Would you talk to Mycroft?" he asked.
Sherlock blinked, then narrowed his eyes somewhat at John, before glancing back at Josephine. John had been right – he didn't fully take his attention from his niece, keeping his stance positioned so he could keep pushing her in the swing, but returning his glare to John.
"No," he answered.
"Well, then, would you listen to him?" John asked.
This was the crux of the problem, John thought. Mycroft talked at Sherlock instead of to him, and Sherlock never really bothered to listen.
"Also no."
John sighed.
"Well, you may have to," he said. "He's coming over this evening."
"What?" Sherlock hissed.
"I invited him to."
"Why would you do that, John?" Sherlock snapped, but his attention was still torn. As angry as he was going to be later, when they were not at the park, at least John could sort of ease himself into it.
"Because I'm tired of how things are going," John sighed.
"You're tired –" Sherlock started. "This is another one of your well-meaning but ultimately cocked up schemes to get me to get along with Mycroft, isn't it? Why do you insist on playing at us being a family? You know perfectly well what he's like!"
"I do," John agreed. "And I'm not playing at anything, Sherlock. You are family. You can't dodge that forever."
"I was doing a perfectly good job of dodging it, as you put it, until you got it in that ridiculously small brain of yours to invite him for – what? A tea and a chat?"
John ignored the comment about his mental abilities – he knew Sherlock didn't really mean it. Well, he meant it, but he didn't generally point it out to be a git, even if that's what he was doing now. And he was doing it now to retaliate against something unexpected being thrown at him, something he did not like. As far as insulting defence mechanisms went, John had endured much worse in the army.
"There could be tea, I suppose," John conceded. "But there will be a chat."
"And if I refuse?" Sherlock said, giving him another glare of narrowed grey eyes.
"Then Mycroft can chat and you can listen," John sighed.
"I am capable of removing myself from the flat," Sherlock pointed out. "You and Mycroft can sip tea and chat all you want, then."
John didn't bother pointing out that he'd done this only a handful of days before. The less said about that, the better.
"You could," John agreed.
"But what?" Sherlock snapped. "You'll refuse to do the shopping? You'll make pointed comments on your blog? You'll resume sleeping upstairs?"
"No," John said simply. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought of these things – that and a score of other small threats he could make to try and get Sherlock to do as he wanted. But none of them would work.
If he didn't do the shopping, they'd just go hungry, or at least he himself would – Sherlock would probably not notice. He could make remarks on his blog all he wanted, Sherlock could easily get into his laptop and delete the post or make snide remarks back in the comments section, which John really did not want. As for sleeping upstairs, he only did that when Sherlock was utterly distracted with work or too keyed up to sleep and let John be.
But, ultimately, even if he could have done any of these things he'd thought of, he refrained, because doing them, forcing Sherlock into talking to his brother, would be a bit too much like acting the way Mycroft did. John didn't need to foster that kind of resentment – he had enough of it as it was between the brothers.
"No?" Sherlock demanded. "Just no?"
"Just no," John agreed. "You're thirty-seven. If you decide to remove yourself from the flat, I can't stop you."
Sherlock managed to glare at him, narrowing his eyes, and keep his attention on Josephine at the same time. Thankfully, she was distracted from their argument by the sheer toddler joy of being in a swing.
"So what then?"
"Nothing, Sherlock," John replied. "I can't force you to talk to him."
"Too bloody right," Sherlock growled.
"I can ask, though. Jo's time is up, I think."
Sherlock gave him a sharp look, but slowed the swing, expertly scooping the girl from it and settling her onto his shoulders. Josephine gave a crowing laugh, fisting her small hands into his hair for purchase, which made Sherlock wince slightly. She grinned from her perch above John, clearly enjoying the ability to see so much farther than her normal view of about two and a half feet off the ground. She beamed down at John and he smiled back up at her, raising one hand, which she caught for a moment. They couldn't walk like that, but he liked the brief contact, plus he could see it was annoying Sherlock for no good reason.
John was still trying to keep him good and mad, not let him slip into cool anger.
"Ready for some lunch, Jo?" John asked.
"Okay," she replied, nodding. Sherlock scowled at him, probably just for good measure, John thought. As though he'd forgotten in less than a minute that Sherlock was angry.
Then Josephine leaned forward and planted a kiss on Sherlock's head, right near his hairline. She was getting better at it, but still resorted to open mouthed baby kisses most of the time, which looked like this one was.
Oh yes, try and stay angry now, John thought, fighting off the smile from his lips, but he was certain Sherlock had noticed it.
Equally certain, too, that Josephine had unwittingly drained away some of Sherlock's frustration. It made him chuckle to think that no one Sherlock had ever faced, not even James Moriarty, had wielded as much power over Sherlock as an eleven-month-old baby.
Not even Mycroft, come to think of it.
Some days, John wondered if even he himself was secondary to Josephine. But then Sherlock would get that glint in his eyes and push John into their bedroom, or onto the couch, or against the wall (or into an alley, if they were out and Sherlock decided shagging John was not going to wait), so John didn't worry about it too much.
He tossed around the idea of having Josephine there for the conversation with Mycroft – it might make Sherlock more inclined not to vanish, but John was also unwilling to have his niece around his brother-in-law.
Plus, it would distract Sherlock and he would not listen to Mycroft for different reasons.
They took Josephine for lunch at a nearby café, where she happily ate some scones with cream, licking the cream off first before munching on the scones themselves. Sherlock sipped a tea in silence, giving John the occasional glare, which John responded to with a cocked eyebrow of his own. Sherlock huffed at him silently and redirected his attention to Josephine. For a moment, John worried the iciness he was trying to avoid had pushed him out, but Sherlock shot him another glare, which actually made John feel better.
After lunch, they returned Josephine to her father, since Tricia was at the hospital all day that day, but Henry had been out only for the morning. John was glad about this, actually – Tricia would have immediately picked up that something was going on, especially since she knew about John's meeting with Mycroft. She was adept at reading both of them, especially when they were together, and John didn't want to have to get into it.
They walked home in silence, John's passive – more or less – and Sherlock's sulky. John was glad about that, too. It meant Sherlock wanted John to know he was angry and wanted John to do something about it. John didn't, only because he was uncertain as to what to do. Leaving it be, letting Sherlock stew, seemed like the best option. It would keep him hot and bothered – not in the way John preferred, obviously – which would keep him from getting much angrier.
At home, Sherlock vanished into the kitchen and began pulling out equipment, clattering about. John let him go, sitting down with his laptop and reading the latest comments on his blog.
"You're not bloody posting about this, are you?" Sherlock snapped a few minutes later, not emerging from the kitchen.
"No," John assured him. "Just reading the BBC." He had just switched sites and was catching up on the news.
There was no reply and John didn't expect one. He wondered what would happen if he did post something on his blog, but that would be pushing it. Besides, what would he say? Sherlock is angry because his dangerous brother is coming to chat with him this evening? If you don't hear from us by tomorrow, please alert the police?
Yes, that would go over well.
He got up after awhile, when he noticed that the noises from the kitchen had suspiciously subsided and went to the archway, peering in. Sherlock shot another glare at him – John was beginning to think that's all his husband could do at the moment – then returned his attention to what he was working on. John thought it best not to ask where he'd got that human hand and how well it had been hidden that John hadn't noticed it.
"I'm going to have a shower," John said.
"Do you think you can do so without inferring inappropriately in my life?" Sherlock enquired coolly.
John chewed on his lower lip, pretending to give this serious consideration.
"Um, yes, I think I can manage," he replied, a smile twitching at his lips. Sherlock looked up again, eyes narrowed, his expression dark. John left it at that, ducking away into the bathroom.
He striped down and stepped into the warm spray. Even with the hot summer temperatures outside, he still enjoyed a warm shower. John stood there for a few minutes, just enjoying the sensation, then reached for his shampoo, lathering a small amount onto his scalp, closing his eyes against getting any of the lather on his face.
A moment later, the shower curtain was pulled back and when John managed to open his eyes and turn around, Sherlock was in the shower behind him, hogging all of the spray, towering over John, his grey eyes bright, arms crossed over his bare chest.
It wasn't fair, John considered. It was difficult to hold his own against Sherlock at the best of times, least of all when he was gloriously naked.
Well, I deserved this, John thought.
"Will you at least let me rinse my hair?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock replied and John could tell he wasn't kidding. "Why did you do this?"
John pushed a hand through his hair so it was off his forehead, some of the lathered shampoo coming off on his hand. He was a bit chilly now, being denied the hot water from the showerhead, which he knew Sherlock was enjoying, in no small part because John wasn't getting any at all.
"Because Mycroft needs to set things right with you," John said simply.
At this, Sherlock looked surprised and almost uncrossed his arms, catching himself at the last moment, giving John another glare for good measure.
"What?" John asked. "Did you imagine I'm not on your side about this, Sherlock? This isn't about you being a stubborn ass, which, by the way, you are, but Mycroft is worse than you." Sherlock snorted, but John ignored it. "He needs to talk to you. He's your brother. That isn't going to stop being true, even if you want to dodge it, and him, for the rest of your life. And you know he's not going to let that happen. But at very least, he owes you – something, I'm not sure. Probably not an apology, if only because he won't give it. But some respect, and maybe to actually listen to you about some of the nonsense that he's pulled lately."
Sherlock stared at John a long moment, long enough for John to start feeling uncomfortable under the steady gaze of the unreadable grey eyes. John shifted, knowing that was precisely what Sherlock wanted of him, but unable to stop himself. How was it that after almost three years of marriage, Sherlock could still discomfit him that way?
And why was it that John never wanted that to change?
"And you expect Mycroft to do this?" Sherlock asked.
John laughed shortly.
"I don't think I could ever expect any reaction from Mycroft, Sherlock," he replied. "You're hard enough to read most days yourself despite how well I know you, and I am most emphatically not shagging your brother."
"I should hope not," Sherlock replied coolly, raising an eyebrow at John. "I rather think he has his own arrangements about that at the moment."
"You're probably right," John said. He didn't mention Angela's involvement in this, but given what they'd seen in Edinburgh, John would have guessed the same thing as Sherlock had, on that limited evidence alone. "Besides, you're far better looking."
At this, the corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upward but he got it under control quickly, keeping his expression severe. John crossed his own arms over his chest, not in irritation, but to try and keep himself warm.
"I just think you should try," John said. "It'd be nice, maybe, not to have this hanging over our heads all of the time?"
"And how would letting Mycroft into our flat make that any better?" Sherlock demanded.
"I don't know," John admitted. "And nor do you, not until you try it."
"He is my brother, John. I have lifetime of knowing him to base this on."
John raised an eyebrow at that – Sherlock had unwittingly echoed Mycroft's words about knowing his brother. Two peas in a pod, they really are. Except peas don't get homicidal like these two could, he thought.
"Like I said, it's up to you," John replied. He didn't feel particularly good about having Mycroft in the flat, even though it had been his idea. He hoped his brother-in-law wouldn't take this as an invitation to start breaking in again whenever he pleased. John didn't have the patience for that, and their tea supply couldn't keep up.
Sherlock held John's gaze for a long moment, inscrutable, tapping one finger against his bicep, then gave a brief nod.
"Fine," he said.
"We can always kick him out if he gets too insufferable," John replied, feeling relieved.
"I will rely on your army training to assist me in that," Sherlock said coolly.
"Absolutely," John agreed. "Now, can I rinse my hair?"
Sherlock grabbed him and switched them places so quickly that John didn't have time to react, sputtering under the sudden spray. He tried to raise his hands but Sherlock's were already in his hair, pushing his head back, rinsing the shampoo out quite roughly. John tried to breathe around the spray, sputtering again, and Sherlock released him so he could duck his head, wipe his eyes and take a deep breath.
"You've pinned me quite nicely in a corner," Sherlock observed in a low voice that sent a tremor down John's spine.
"Yes," John admitted. He felt himself being pushed up against the wall, the sudden shock at the cold tiles after the hot spray jarring his muscles, making him open his eyes fast. Sherlock was pressed against him, looking down at him, grey eyes still bright and piercing. He gave John a quick, aggressive grin, grasping his hair, tilting John's head further back, leaning down.
"My turn," he murmured, before catching John's lips and swallowing his startled gasp.