After much internal deliberation, Sherlock settled on a silk, green-and-black shirt. It enhanced the subtle red tinges in his hair, warmed his skin tone and paired nicely with his most flattering suit. He usually preferred a monochrome palette (the unsettling affects of his stark pallor on clients and criminals wasn't lost on him and, indeed, if they saw him as inhuman, he welcomed their trepidation), but today he wanted to be as appealing and non-threatening as possible.

He was going to meet with John's sister, Harry Watson, and convince her that his genes were worthy of hers, negotiate the use of her reproductive organs, produce offspring, then part on amicable terms.

So, a date then.

Preoccupied with the task ahead of him, it took Sherlock twice as long to shave that morning. And his black curls didn't fall into place as effortlessly as they usually did. He kept running his hands through them, anxious, wondering if he ought to use more gel, but he didn't dare. He didn't want to risk leaving it stiff or unnatural looking. Maybe he was over-due for a trim?

Sherlock turned his face left and right, studying his reflection in the mirror over the sink. God. He still had spots. His skin was dappled in little faint burns. His bottom lip was blistered and purple. He grimaced. There was nothing he could do for it now.

"It's the heat," Sherlock complained. "Supposedly, the heat wave is going to end tomorrow." He looked glumly over his shoulder at John. "How do I look?"

John lifted his head from the toilet, his pajama shirt drenched in sweat. "Please go away."

"I needed to have a shower and a shave." Sherlock turned in a circle. "I'm meeting someone for lunch. Is this alright? I think I've gain some weight since I last wore this shirt."

"I don't care what you're doing or how you look." John settled his sweaty forehead on the unsanitary toilet seat rim. He drew his knees up to his chest and shivered miserably.

Sherlock said disapprovingly, "You shouldn't have had so much on an empty stomach." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you would have had a higher tolerance, besides."

"I don't exactly go carousing every night like some kid," John muttered, not even opening his eyes.

"You go to the pub."

"Sometimes. With Stamford. Who can nurse on two beers all night…." John's eyes popped open. He stopped speaking suddenly and began rocking back and forth. "Get out. Right now. Go away."

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Angelo's air conditioning unit rattled above the door, but it was a welcoming sound. When Sherlock stepped inside, he felt like he was stepping into a refrigerator. He paused at the threshold, surprised, savoring the blast of cool air. His eyes fluttered closed. It was heavenly.

"Candle for the table?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw a familiar face. "John's not joining me, no. I will have some coffee while I wait."

Billy smiled warmly at Sherlock and gestured to an open table. Sherlock saw his usual booth was occupied. Actually, most of the tables were occupied. The tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant was unusually busy.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked, quickly taking the one remaining available table before someone else did.

"The electric grid is over-burdened," Billy said, handing Sherlock a menu. "There's scattered power outages all over the city. People are taking shelter from the heat where they can."

"Two menus, please, Billy."

"Expecting someone else Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes. A woman."

"Client?" he asked eagerly. "For a case?"

Sherlock sighed. Everybody read John's blog. Before, Sherlock just knew Billy as the head waiter, and probably the young man knew Sherlock as a regular customer. Chances were, now, that Billy knew about everything about his life from The Woman to Jim Moriarty. It was unsettling, being an accidental celebrity. "No, Billy. Just personal."

"A woman, huh?"

Sherlock noticed the twinge of interest in Billy's eyes, but the young waiter was off and gone before Sherlock could defend himself. Not that Sherlock needed to defend anything, but he was fully aware of the assumptions and rumors about John and himself. For the most part, Sherlock didn't care what people thought. It was irritating enough to correct the whole of Scotland Yard on a regular basis. If he spent his days correcting people he met in everyday life, he'd never get farther than the front door. However, since Sherlock considered infidelity one of the lowest and most vulgar expressions of human weakness (lower and more vulgar than murder even, which he could begrudgingly understand) he utterly bristled at the idea that someone, anyone, thought he would ever, ever cheat.

Sherlock's coffee came quickly and he was pleased to have it. His hands went cold quickly and now he wrapped them around the warm mug. He brought it to his lips and sipped.

The blog. Sherlock had not read John's blog lately. Had John posted anything about his desire to be a father? Could he expect that John might, in the future, blog about the kids? What would become of them? Would strangers take photos? Would they be followed? Their youthful exploits…exploited?

Sherlock grimaced. He sipped his coffee and looked up.

Harry Watson was standing just outside Angelo's, right in front of the window, looking down at her phone, and then looking up again. Using a GPS on her phone for directions. An iPhone 5, newer than Sherlock's.

Sherlock quickly set down his coffee and straightened his jacket. He'd never met Harry Watson before, but there was one faded photograph in John's wallet, several years old, taken long before Afghanistan, and it was the same woman.

Harry stepped into Angelo's, looking around. She spotted Sherlock right away. Sherlock rose fluidly from his seat to acknowledge her. She nodded and quietly snaked her way between the tables.

"Harriet Watson, I'm Sherlock Holmes." He extended his hand.

Harry took his hand and shook firmly. "How do you do?" Harry, Sherlock noted with surprise, was taller than John. Yet, he concluded she was younger. Well-off, steadily employed, a professional job. Her hair was a predictable, instantly forgettable bob, colored ginger with bold with gold highlights. Fake hair color. Naturally, she was a dirty blond, like John. Her right-off-the-rack department store pant-suit oozed non-threatening, corporate career woman. She was average in every way. Like John.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Sherlock said, settling down.

Harry took the other seat across from him. She was smiling. Her smile wasn't real. It was polite. She was used to being friendly as a requirement of her job. This 'friendly-customer-service' face was second nature to her. "I'm glad to finally meet you. The famous detective." She folded her hands on the table, studying Sherlock carefully as he was studying her. "You and John have lived together for almost two years and…I've never seen you. Except your picture in the papers." There was an accusation hidden in her words.

Sherlock deflected immediately; "Don't…ask about the hat. Please." He pitched his voice to sound a little exasperated, a little pathetic.

Harry laughed.

Deflection successful.

"John mentioned about that hat, how much you hate it." Harry paused. "I didn't…realize we were meeting alone. I expected that John would be here, too."

"John doesn't know that I've contacted you," he told her. "It's John I want to talk to you about."

"Why?" Her smile became momentarily real. "Oh. Oh." Her face lit up like she'd found a winning lottery ticket.

Sherlock blinked. "What? What is it?" Had she figured it all out, just sitting there?

"That's so adorable. Dad died years ago so you're asking me. Of course you have my permission. Oh, I'm so happy for you both." Her smile had become a snicker.

Sherlock felt a jolt of irritation, both at her presumption and her insincerity. He took a deep breath to remain calm. "No, I'm not asking permission to marry John. We aren't lovers."

The real smile faltered. "Oh." She sounded disappointed. "But he's crazy about you! He goes on and on about you!"

Sherlock sighed, "Yes, I know. I've read the blog. And I, likewise, am very fond of him. Nonetheless, he is firmly heterosexual."

"And you, too?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. Oh, that was far too direct. Far too personal for a first meeting, the first few minutes of knowing someone. No, she came here with an agenda of her own. A fact-finding mission. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. Well. This was doomed to failure. "I see," he said evenly.

Harry cocked her head. "You see what?"

"Everything." He laced his fingers together and sank into his mind, all pre-tense incinerating like it had drifted into the orbit of the sun. "Your clothes are nice. Brand new, going by the factory creases. A bit overdressed for a late breakfast on your day off, no? And in this heat wave? You were expecting John, and you know how he hurts for money, ever since he was invalidated and his promising career destroyed. You know it because he had such trouble finding a place to stay when he came back. He obviously needed help. But he wouldn't accept it from you because he knew you would lord it over him. He only accepted your used mobile phone, the expensive one that was nearly brand-new, the one you didn't want anymore because it was a gift from your soon-to-be ex-wife. I suppose you like rubbing your success in John's face especially since he was probably the favorite child, the older child, the son. The straight one. The one who went to medical school and did mum and dad proud then took it a step further and went into the army, became a patriot and a war hero. I suppose you blame him for your disappointing life. Maybe if he hadn't been such a model young man, your parents wouldn't have been so outraged when you came out as a lesbian. It's possible they cut you off from financial support. And I suppose your drinking and failed marriage is John's doing, somehow, too. Along with your boring, corporate job you secretly hate." He inched forward. "After a life-time of feeling victimized and ostracized, you were really looking forward to John introducing you to me, his boyfriend, so you could finally feel vindicated, knowing you at least lived openly as a lesbian while he denied being gay over and over again. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

Harry didn't flinch, her customer-service smile staying right where it was. "You're projecting."

"I'm sorry?"

"Apology accepted." She casually picked up her menu and began to look it over. "I think I'll have pancakes."

Sherlock sat stiffly. I think I'll have pancakes. That's not what people usually say.

She added casually, "What you described sounds more like your relationship with Mycroft than my relationship with John. Banana and walnut pancakes. Doesn't that sound good?" Harry closed her menu and set it down. "Living in the shadow of a perfect older brother, the favorite child, the straight one, the one who did mum and dad proud. The patriot with the important government job. I suppose you don't take personal responsibility for your hard life or your drug addiction, either, and still resent your brother for cutting you off."

Sherlock breathed, feeling his ears burn. Goddamn it, John. "Oh. Good. Yes, you did say…"

"John goes on and on about you," Harry finished.

"And on and on, apparently." Sherlock felt naked and betrayed. He felt a flush creeping up his neck.

"We're making an effort to repair our relationship," Harry said. "Now that mum and dad are dead, we don't have the excuse of Christmas dinners to stay in touch anymore. We either have to work it out or drift apart. Thankfully, John has a lot to vent about. And I'm pretty good at maintaining eye contact and nodding."

"Soyou're reaching out to him? Lending a sympathetic ear?" Sherlock asked dubiously. "I thought you two didn't get on."

"He's got his issues. We all do. I have more to be angry about than him, but I believe in forgiving and letting go."

"How noble of you," Sherlock complimented dryly.

"I think so," Harry agreed. "But I'm not angry at John for the reasons you think. Yes, my coming out as a lesbian wasn't welcome news to our ultra conservative parents. But John was always supportive in that regard. He was…unusually…sexually liberated. Kind of had a wild side there, even from a young age. A sexual opportunist. A real dog. Couldn't stay in a relationship long term. He always said 'the heart wants what the heart wants' and crap like that. I don't think he has any clue what love is. But he didn't begrudge me having relationships with women. Not at all. In fact, he was very fond of my ex-wife."

Sherlock's smile faded.

Harry, true to her word about maintaining eye contact, stared right at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt his stomach sink down to the floor. He glanced away, licking his lips pensively. Shit. Major miscalculation. Major miscalculation. There was no way to back-pedal. He had deduced himself into a corner. Idiot. Idiot. Theorizing ahead of data. Sentiment clouding his judgment, his personal affection for John…stupid, stupid, stupid!

Harry waited patiently. Her fake-smile was becoming unnervingly serial killer-like.

Sherlock said carefully, "When John came home from Afghanistan and he couldn't find a place to live, it wasn't that he refused your help. You never offered it. Because you were still angry with him. Angry for breaking up your marriage…by having an affair with your ex-wife Clara." He hesitated. "Probably during a leave between deployments."

Harry said bitterly, "There's this video on YouTube. Have you ever seen it? It's a clip of an American soldier coming home from Iraq. There's lots of them, but this one is particularly...well. The front door opens, and this little yellow dog comes rushing out and falls at this soldier's feet, whimpering and squealing and kicking up a huge fuss, falling all over itself in excitement, scrambling to get into this guy's lap. And he kneels down to pet her, going, 'Dada's home! Did you miss me?' All the while, the wife is video taping it, crying."

"No, I've never seen it," Sherlock said.

"John's seen it, like…a couple hundred times. He had this friend, an army buddy, who'd send John these over-the-top military family reunion videos every time they had a leave. I don't think he sent it to John specifically, I think he emailed this things to everyone in his unit, with a message like, 'Wishing everyone a happy homecoming!' or something like that."

Harry paused when Billy returned to the table with a pad and pen. "Sorry it took me so long to get over here," he apologized. "It's so busy. What can I get for you two?"

"Oh, it's fine, honey," Harry purred. "I've been a server, too. I know what it's like. Pancakes, please. Banana walnut with butter and syrup."

Billy scribbled. "And you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Sherlock said coldly.

"Ignore that," Harry snapped. "Get him some pancakes, too. That man needs pancakes."

Sherlock said, "I don't want pancakes."

"Everybody wants pancakes," Harry said. "Besides, the bill is on me. I'll eat what you don't."

"Please don't eat from my plate. That's disgusting," Sherlock said.

Billy looked back and forth between Harry and Sherlock.

Harry looked up at Billy sweetly and said, "Two plates of pancakes, please. And milk for me, when you get a chance, dear, and a refill of coffee for my new friend." She beamed at Sherlock.

Billy smiled and nodded and rushed away again.

Harry turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Anyway. Where was I? Right. The video."

Sherlock said, "The video."

Harry said, "So. I'm away on business a lot. I wasn't always in London when John came home for leave. So, there was no one to greet him at the airport that time. No one to give him a place to stay. And that was typical. He's never made a big deal about it. So, he took a cab to a hotel and once he was settled in, he gets this email from his army friend and it's the video of the dog. And John starts crying. Because nobody is, or has ever been, as excited to see him come home as this dog is for the solider in the video. No one's called him. He's got no friends here, no girlfriend. Mum and dad are dead. I'm away."

Sherlock said, "So…he called your home, looking for you? And he got Clara instead?"

Harry shrugged. "I've heard…a lot of different versions in the past two years. Clara can't keep a story straight. She's said…he called, she went to his hotel to keep him company and what started out as a little friendly-family affection got out of hand. She's also told me she took him out to a pub to cheer him up and they started drinking and she doesn't remember what happened. Unlikely. I bet you anything she went over there, decked out in a teddy and thigh highs and she couldn't wait to give him come comfort."

"And what version does John give?"

Harry snorted. "Oh, John's a spineless little shit. He's never acknowledged what he did."

Sherlock put his hands in his lap, where they curled into white-knuckled fists. He was livid. He was angry at John and for John. He was angry at everything. He was angry he was sitting here, taking the brunt of Harry's well-justified hatred. He was angry that John betrayed his confidence and vented about him to Harry, telling her details of his life that wasn't his business to spread around. He didn't know where to start. He cleared his throat with effort, trying to get back on track. "And you've never confronted him?"

Harry smiled in rich satisfaction. "No. But when he was invalidated and he found out Clara and I were divorcing, he had this look on his face. He knows I know."

Sherlock said, "And he came to you, looking for lodging, and you gave him your phone instead. To rub it in."

"Three kisses. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. I hope they were worth it."

Sherlock picked up a napkin and patted the corner of his mouth. "Harry. It was a pleasure to meet you."

Billy returned to the table with a coffee pot and a glass of milk for Harry. He was about to pour Sherlock a second cup of coffee when Sherlock put his hand up. "No thank you, Billy. I'm done here. And please give me the bill."

"Oh. Yes sir."

"You haven't had your breakfast!" Harry cried.

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," Sherlock said, rising from his seat. "It was…insightful."

"But you haven't asked me about surrogacy yet."

Sherlock froze.

Harry took a drink of milk. "I'm assuming that's what this is all about, right? John called yesterday to tell me all about how he's sterile. You think I can't put two and two together? Sit down. Sit down and have breakfast."

As Billy left, Sherlock cautiously settled back down. He was dumbstruck. "Why?"

"Because breakfast is the most important meal of the day and quite frankly, you look underfed."

"If you hate your brother so much, why would you ever consider being his surrogate?"

Harry said, "Who says I hate John?"

"I do," Sherlock said. "You just called him a spineless little shit. You're accusing him of having an affair with your ex-wife. If it's true, not only would I expect you to hate him, I would say you're feelings are justified." He was bewildered. "I don't even know how you can manage to keep up the appearance of civility!"

Harry said kindly, "You've never called John 'stupid' out of affection?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I've called John 'stupid' out of frustration. And I don't believe you'd call John a 'spineless shit' out of affection."

"I can be angry with John and still love him."

Sherlock was quiet.

Harry waited.

Sherlock said, "I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Because you two aren't quibbling over petty nonsense, John broke up your marriage."

Harry sighed. "If it wasn't John, it would have been someone else. Some other woman, some other man. Clara wasn't happy. She wasn't happy with me, she wasn't happy with my job, she wasn't happy with my drinking, she wasn't happy with my friends. But, yes. It was John. And I'll never forget it. It was my own brother. He's an asshole. A prick. A selfish, self-centered, skirt-chasing, misogynistic asshole." Harry sighed. "One that I'm ready to forgive once and for all and move on with my life."

"You still sound pretty angry."

"I am angry," Harry said defensively. "And I have every right to be angry. I have every right to be angry until the end of time. For the rest of my life and beyond my death, for the remainder of the human race, when the sun expands and burns up the earth and collapses into a white dwarf and the solar system gets sucked into a black hole and the universe collapses and time itself ceases to be, I have the right to be angry until the very end of time."

Sherlock was silent.

Harry took a deep-breath. "But do you think I want to be? Do you think I want to be angry forever? Bitter? Unhappy? Cheated by life, unwilling to find any redeeming happiness, content to be miserable until I'm an old woman? Do you think I want John to be unhappy? Do you think I want Clara to be unhappy?" Harry closed her eyes. "Fuck 'em all. Fuck everyone."

Sherlock didn't know what to say.

Harry said, "Fuck 'em all. And I wish them well. I'm not going to be held hostage because other people are selfish. I wish everyone well, including myself. I wish everyone had the capacity to forgive, even if they don't deserve it, because I'm sure I've fucked someone over at some point, too, and I hope they forgive me. I hope I've never casually ruined someone else's life because I was stupid or thoughtless."

Sherlock said, "That's…an interesting life philosophy: Fuck 'em all and wish them well."

"It's served me well."

Sherlock muttered, "Um. Alright." He'd never felt so out of depth in his life. He had been certain there was nothing left on heaven or earth that could surprise him. And he felt so shaken up that he needed a Dramamine and a long nap.

"Go ahead." Harry gestured. "Go."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Harry. Your brother John and I want to have a baby. Would you please be our surrogate mother?"

Harry cocked her head expectantly. "And what can I expect in exchange for using my eggs, subjecting me to day after day of morning sickness, ruining my figure, gaining a ton of weight, stretching my skin, constant back aches, swollen feet, painful breasts, fatigue, violent mood swings, sleepless nights, all culminating to the most painful experience a human being can go through short of death, labor, the ripping and tearing of my vagina…and then, you would like me to surrender the resulting baby, the product of my pain and suffering and my DNA and all my motherly instincts...you'd like me to hand over the baby to you so you and my brother can go home to your cute little nursery and your happy life while I can go home to my empty house with my ruined body so I can sleep in my bed, all by myself, hugging my now-empty belly?"

Sherlock held his head high, even though his will and dignity were in a puddle at his feet. "I can offer my life-long gratitude and nothing else."

"I'll think about it."

Billy returned with two large, steaming plates of pancakes. He set them down in front of Harry and Sherlock. They were steeped high with obscenely large pancakes, dripping with syrup and butter.

"Oh dear," Sherlock croaked.

Harry beamed. "Oh yes."

"Enjoy," Billy said, stepping away.

"People don't really eat this…?" Sherlock hissed, curling his lip. A droplet of sticky-sweet syrup rolled off a pancake that was hanging off the plate and dripped onto the table.

Harry was already shoveling a fork-full into her mouth. "Shut up and eat. Before you is ambrosia: the food of the gods."

Sherlock pushed his plate away.

Harry pushed the plate back.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Yesss," Harry insisted.

"That plate is laden with calories, fat, diabetes and heart disease!"

Harry cried, "Calories, fat, diabetes and heart disease is what Jesus died for, it's god-given and holy. Now eat some damn breakfast, you tiny little man. Eat. Dear God."

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To be continued…