Author's note – Oh man. This chapter got so freaking long that I split it into two. Special thanks to sherly-werly on tumblr for submitting the name "Georgina" as Mycroft's wife. Worked out quite well! Anyway, I hate to prolong the next chapter (OH GOD I'M SO EXCITED GUYS) but I will post it as soon as possible. For now, I really hope you like this. Thank you ever so much for reading and leaving comments, it really means so much and I love you all! (Of course, I would love you even more if you went and followed lostinsherlock on tumblr but that's neither here nor there :P)
Sherlock - 25; John - 27
"Brace yourself for Mycroft's children," said Sherlock, opening the door, "they're quite developmentally delayed and have taken a bizarre liking to me."
"Wonder what's wrong with them," said John. "Dunno why anybody would like you."
"Your sarcasm is hurtful, John, and I'll punish you for that later."
"Please do. I've booked us a hotel."
"Down boy," said Sherlock sternly; John smirked.
"UNCLE SHERLOCK!" cried a small boy, hurtling down the hallway and throwing himself at the man before he could so much as unbutton his coat. "You're finally here!"
Sherlock tried ineffectively to pry him off, giving John an uncomfortable smile. He patted the child awkwardly on the head. "Hello, Parker," he said warily.
Clinging about his midriff, Parker's face split into a beam as he gazed up at his uncle. "I lost a tooth, see," he said proudly.
"Oh. That's nice."
"Tell me something about teeth."
Snapping immediately into know-it-all mode, Sherlock began, "Teeth are calcified structures made of multiple tissues varying in density and hardness, and the cellular tissues that develop into teeth when you're born are from the embryonic germ layer. You lost that tooth because its tooth root began to dissolve, due to the erupting permanent tooth that'll come in to replace it."
"Whoa. Will my whole mouth fill with permanent teeth?"
"Yes, unless you get cavities, which are bacterial infections. They destroy the enamel, dentin, and cementum to demineralization, which causes holes in your teeth and inflated dental bills."
"Wow," said Parker, in awe, and turned to John. "He knows everything."
"Does he, though?" John said wryly. Sherlock scowled at him.
"Yes, of course, he's Uncle Sherlock." He gave an impish grin. "Sherly."
"No, that won't do," said Sherlock, idly swatting Parker away. "Go fetch us some tea."
With an adoring giggle, the seven-year-old scampered down the hallway and disappeared round the corner.
"Miserable little thing," Sherlock said bitterly.
"Sherlock Holmes, you love children!" said John in amazement.
"What? No, of course not. Bloody kids. Meager excuses for the insipid adults they're inevitably going to be two decades from now, if you ask me."
John chuckled. "If you say so."
A second boy, this one shorter and more freckled than the other, darted past them. He did a double take, then came by and threw his arms around Sherlock, jumping up and down in excitement.
"Tell me again how you don't like kids?" muttered John.
"I'm... glad to see you," said Sherlock in a strangled sort of voice.
"Me too! Will you do my science project for me later?"
"You know the drill."
"Slip the assignment to you at dinner, don't tell my mum."
"You've got it." This earned a mock-disapproving look from John, who said,
"Hi, I don't believe we've met."
"Is this your boyfriend?" he asked, gawking and wide-eyed, then turned to Sherlock to say, "You've never brought a boy home for the holidays before."
Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, cleared his throat, and, as John watched in utmost amusement, conceded, "Yes. This is – er – my boyfriend. John Hamish Watson." He flashed a devilish grin at John.
"You can call me John," said John, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.
"I'm Wyatt," said the little one. "I like your name."
"What, John?"
"No, Hamish. It sounds like ham to me. Can I call you ham?"
Sherlock spun the boy around with one hand, shoving him none too gently at the stairs. "That's enough. Get along, now."
Wyatt found this dismissal hysterically funny, dissolving into chortles on the bottom step. In a second he returned, imploring, "Will you give me a piggy-back ride?"
"The mere derivation of such a term is beyond my comprehension. Who, in the history of –"
John winked and nodded subtly to Wyatt, and before Sherlock could further his harangue, the five-year-old was clambering up his back.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, craning his neck to watch in distress as the boy proceeded to ruffle up his head of curls.
"You said a bad word. I won't tell Mummy if you give me a biscuit."
"I haven't got a biscuit on me."
"Well, what do you have?"
Sherlock glanced at John. "A detective's badge."
"Cor," breathed Wyatt as the silver object slid into his hands. "Who's Greg Lestrade?"
John kicked Sherlock in the shin. Eyes watering in pain, the latter said hurriedly, "Nobody important."
Greg Lestrade was an unfortunate DI with whom Sherlock suffered many difficulties. Ever since the 25-year-old started popping up at crime scenes unsolicited, and calling in tips that clinched cases that'd stumped the entire Scotland Yard for two and a half years, he and Lestrade had not gotten along particularly well (better than he did with Philip Anderson, however). The fact that he'd stolen his badge was not surprising in the least. John planned to have a stern discussion about things like stealing and law transgressions later. At the moment, though, Sherlock was being bombarded by yet another child, this one a lively girl with thick glasses and ringlets of white-blond hair. She was older than the others, and they took her orders with the terror of little brothers who knew from experience that any despicable act of disobeying their elder sister resulted unfailingly in severe pain.
"I missed you," she said, stepping away (thank god) to give him room to breathe. "Daddy's been excited."
"Oh, he has, has he?"
"I wasn't supposed to tell you, but he misses you. He's worried about you, actually," she said thoughtfully. "I heard him telling Mum."
"Worried?" Sherlock gave a loud, disdainful scoff.
"Yep. I've got to go help with the dessert now. Will you sit with me at dinner?"
"Er... yeah, alright."
"Yay! Wyatt and Parker will be livid. Give me a kiss?"
"Um, I'm not so sure –"
But she had already flung herself at him, face uplifted in expectation.
Slowly, as though it required an insurmountable degree of effort, Sherlock pecked her forehead.
"I love you!" she said happily.
"You too, Katie-cat." Sherlock froze, realizing what had just come out of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Katherine, rather."
"You've called me Katie-cat since I was born. I like it," she said reassuringly.
"Katie!" yelled Parker. "Mum wants you!"
"I'll see you soon," she said, moving to leave. It dawned on her that an unknown man was also in the foyer, witnessing this interaction, and she paused. "Wait, who are you?"
John laughed. "I'm John."
"Are you married to Sherlock?" Katie asked matter-of-factly.
"No, but I am dating him."
"Ooh, you looooove him," she sang.
"Go," said Sherlock, seizing her by the shoulder and dragging her down the corridor.
John eyed his boyfriend mirthfully when he returned. "Say nothing," snapped Sherlock. "One word and you're sleeping on the floor."
–––––
Georgina Holmes was, well, surprisingly delightful. Even Sherlock deigned to admit this; in his words, "Mycroft has, in nearly every area, exceedingly poor judgment. His choice in marriage, however, is mollifying. I have never fostered any desire to have siblings – Mycroft being sadly unavoidable – but as sister-in-laws go, I suppose she will do." This was a ringing endorsement that left John slightly speechless for the next minute, at which point he became inexplicably sad.
He could not quite put a finger on why, though he had an inkling. Watching the husband and wife whisper together, giggle at inside jokes, and exchange fond looks over the kitchen island, elicited involuntary twinges in his chest. Mycroft, generally as reserved as his brother, transformed in her mere presence: affectionate, loving, open, warm. They'd been together nearly ten years and still appeared smitten as a bloody teenage couple. Equal parts infuriating and so endearing it hurt.
Georgina effortlessly exposed a soft side in him that, strangely, a certain black-haired oddball did not complain about. This uncharacteristic restraint had, Sherlock adamantly told himself, absolutely nothing to do with the parallels (to which even he was not blind) between their relationship and his with John. True, John seemed to bring out the worst type of softness, sometimes even sodding romance, out of him. Awful thing, really. Love was destructive; his brother and sister-in-law were living proof. One radiant smile from Georgina and Mycroft nearly dropped whatever he was holding.
Not to mention that she was exceptionally accepting of Sherlock's quirks, patiently enduring his tangents about eyeballs and forensic analysis and shushing the children when they tried to interrupt. And it didn't hurt that her cooking was delicious.
"What's the word on Siger?" she asked, passing out plates and snatching Parker's hand before it dipped into the mixing bowl. "You'll eat the real thing, don't fill up on dough," she scolded him.
"Uncle Sherlock would let me," Parker whined.
"Um, no, I would not," said Sherlock, as this seemed to be the desired response. Parker stormed off to bemoan his tragic fate. "My father couldn't make it," he informed Georgina in response to her previous question. "He fractured his hip climbing a ladder."
"I'm sorry to hear that!"
"My mum's here, though," he said, and his sister-in-law did not question how he'd known so far in advance.
Despite Siger's indisposition, Violet was as spry as ever as she arrived, stamping snow off her boots.
"You're just in time," said Georgina, pecking her cheek. "The boys will be overjoyed to see you. They keep asking about presents."
"Well, I'll have to appease them, then, won't I? Thank you, darling," she said, taking the proffered stuffed mushroom. "I'm ravenous."
"There's more where that came from." The oven beeped. "That'll be the casserole." She whisked off.
"Hi," said Sherlock politely. "How are you?"
"Get over here, Sherly," said Violet, then caught herself. "Sorry, I forgot that Johnny's the only one allowed."
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, though he returned her embrace enthusiastically. "I, er, missed – haven't seen you in awhile."
"That's not my fault, it's you who won't answer your mobile half the time. I've had to find out how you are from John, which is fine –"
"I haven't really said much," John, joining them, cut in hastily. "Just, you know, small tidbits here and there. Nothing in detail. Absolutely nothing you wouldn't want me to share. I'm totally, erm. I'm not." Sherlock's lips quirked in a thin, ominous smile. You're digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole here. John blurted desperately, "I think we've heard enough, Violet –"
Violet beamed at him, oblivious to his panic, and chattered, "I quite enjoyed your email with the photo of Sherlock holding your neighbor's baby; that appalled expression was beyond hilarious. And the caption you put with it? Priceless. Babies don't break, you know, dear," she chided her son. "Not to mention that it's common knowledge to wear a towel when you're holding one, don't want baby vomit all over your best tuxedo, but it's too late now, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's quite sufficient," said Sherlock, leading her into the kitchen and tossing John a furious glare. This was not over.
–––––
"You said the kids are developmentally delayed," John whispered. "They seem fine to me."
"By my calculations they should have already been making rudimentary observations regarding –"
"Well, that explains everything." John poured gravy across his chicken.
"What do you mean?"
"By your calculations, everyone's cognitively the equivalent of a three-year-old."
Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft is at least eight."
John bit down a laugh. "They seem very lovely. Everyone. And the children adore you."
"I would prefer not to discuss their bizarre sentiments towards me, when I have been nothing but myself towards them."
"That's why they like you, then."
"Pardon?"
"They like you for you."
"I'm not dumb, John. I know that my personality has certain repulsive qualities, such that very few people feel comfortable in my presence, and still fewer genuinely enjoy my company. Perhaps Mycroft has brainwashed them for a future April Fool's day prank." He hummed in thought, wiping a speck of mashed potato off the corner of his mouth.
The thought of Sherlock and his brother engaging in things as mundane as April Fool's struck John as enormously funny. Given their equally brilliant and often twisted minds, he could only imagine what a "prank" might entail. What a pity for Violet and Siger. "I think you might want to consider the possibility that kids see you for who you are: intelligent, open, unbiased."
"I am biased. I know their father and have an unfortunate connection to him."
"You mean like how he's your brother? Family?"
"Please don't mention that again."
"You secretly love each other."
"We shall speak no more of this," said Sherlock airily. "What are your thoughts on the most recent case? The police radios were abuzz. Victim was split open and utterly dismembered." He pondered this for a moment before saying conversationally, "Ever so gruesome."
"God, Sherlock."
"Yes?"
John shook his head, choosing not to encourage his boyfriend, instead saying, "Come off it. This is Christmas dinner with the Holmes family, and it's lovely."
"Mm. Yes."
"Your bad attitude doesn't change the fact that you are, to everyone's surprise, skilled with children."
"Yes, I'm perfectly domestic, I'm sure," Sherlock drawled.
An image of Sherlock standing over a stove with a son on his hip came unbidden into John's head. Nope. That was not a thing that was going to happen. Anytime soon, at least. Was there a possibility? Wyatt hung off Sherlock's arm, tugging him towards the living room to play, and John couldn't help the rush of something just shy of longing that washed over him.
They settled around the fire, digesting before pudding, though the kids were already bouncing off the walls. Mycroft, arm wrapped snugly around Georgina, idly attempted to discipline them, quickly giving up and letting them run amok.
"They'll sleep well tonight," said their mother. "Parker, no." Parker clambered onto her lap, ignoring these protests, and curled his head into her shoulder.
"You made a wonderful dinner, darling," Mycroft said, planting a kiss on her head.
She threaded her fingers through his. "Thanks, love."
John coughed. "So," he said loudly. "D'you follow football?"
–––––
"Hello, John," said Mycroft, leaning against the balcony railing and taking a sip of his drink. "Have a seat."
"I'm good," said John, as the only available chairs were covered with a dusting of snow.
"Up to you."
"Alright." John crossed his arms. "What's this about? Sherlock?"
"My, you're a clever one. Yes, this conversation is indeed about my brother, and the nature of your relationship."
"Is this one of those if-you-hurt-him-I'll-hurt-you talks?" asked John, laughing nervously.
"Essentially." Mycroft paused. "John, Sherlock loves you very much."
His heart flip-flopped wildly at this pronouncement. "Really now."
"Oh, it's sickeningly obvious." Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "Can't keep his eyes off of you."
"Really?" He should have known at this point, but Sherlock was so much less demonstrative than the typical person that even years later, he still had his doubts.
"You know that already, though."
John took a deep breath. Composure. Good. No point in fangirling as if he had no idea that the man with whom he'd slept with for a substantial length of time harbored feelings for him. "Erm, yes. Of course."
Mycroft cast him a skeptical glance. "Right. At any rate. I'll have you know that, frankly, I have a lot of power at my disposal. And should you break his heart for no good reason, I will be regrettably obligated to harm you."
"I don't plan on breaking his heart. If anything, mine's the liability."
Mycroft looked at him confusedly. "Sherlock doesn't break hearts. He mates for life."
Mates? "Um. Come again?"
"Sherlock is physically incapable of falling out of love. It's how he's built. He loves intensely and deeply and never stops. So, if he's truly in love with you, then you're screwed for the long run. He's already set to follow you to the ends of the earth, that much is clear."
"Wait." Shit. "Are you saying that he's still in love with everyone who he's fallen for before?"
"Romantic or otherwise, yes. He is the epitome of pure, unconditional love. Wanker," he threw in for good measure.
Shit shit shit shit. John was stupid. He really ought to stop convincing himself that he was special, irreplaceable, exceptional, in Sherlock's life. "Mycroft, do you know anything about... Molly?"
"Hooper? His first and only beard, you mean. He definitely never loved her."
"Oh."
"Don't be jealous, she's married to some tosser named Tom."
"Ah." When it came to the Holmes boys, it was often best not to ask how they acquired certain information if one did not wish to face a sizable moral conflict, generally involving the age-old debate over what classified as illegal and at what point it became their responsibility to alert the authorities.
"Speaking of jealousy, you really ought to stop ogling Georgie and me."
He flushed. "What?"
"Don't play dumb. I know you see us as this ideal couple, but we aren't. We're two imperfect people who love each other and refuse to give up. Moreover, you cannot go around comparing yourself to every other pair of lovebirds out there. Apples to oranges, and all that."
"I'm... you're just so happy together," said John in frustration. "And sometimes I worry that..." He watched Sherlock through the glass door, sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, the children clustered around him as he spoke. "I worry that I don't, you know. Make him happy."
"You're an idiot," said Mycroft crisply. "John, you're his Georgina."
"Pardon?"
He sighed, as if John was very, very slow. "You bring out in him what Georgie brings out in me. The tender side, the gentle side."
"Really?"
"Don't broken-record me. I'm not one for repetition." Both men fell silent for a moment, lost in thought; after a minute, Mycroft continued, "At any rate, this is getting off-topic. My point is, I want to make sure you understand who Sherlock is. How Sherlock is. That he is infinitely more fragile than he appears."
He disliked emotion, not because he felt lightly, but because he felt deeply. A quote, by John Buchan, which Sherlock read once on the back of a book and wrote down. When John found the paper and asked about it, Sherlock explained simply that it resounded with him, that the Canadian politician put into words what he could not. "I know," John said.
"I would have sabotaged you long ago had I not thought you fit for my brother."
"Comforting, thanks."
Mycroft gave a small smile. "I know I can be... unpleasant."
"So can Sherlock, but I still like him alright."
"I apologize for my, er, actions. In middle school. I was, you know. Kind of a dick."
"You can say that again." John held out a hand. "But hey, apology accepted. What's past is past."
After a long, scrutinizing look on the older man's part, they shook hands. "Now we'd better get inside," said Mycroft. "I heard something about angel delight, and I've always room for Georgie's dessert."
Georgie. They even had pet names. Goddamn lovebirds. Then again, there was the whole "Sherly" business. So they were even, at least on that plane.
Not that he was feeling competitive, of course. Never that.