a/n As always, a million thank you's to everyone reading, following, and especially reviewing this! And another thanks to my amazing beta for helping me keep my characters...in character!
EJBRUSH1952: I'm so glad you see it that way...and that you find it interesting! I guess this is basically all my head cannon put together in a single story...it always made sense to me that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade knew each other before hand, and that she's a sort of mother-like figure to him (like she is to everyone).
Witch by Midnight: You're request for Mrs. Hudson actually made me think of a one-shot with her, Sherlock, and John. I'll let you know when it's finished...hopefully in the next couple weeks.
.O: I'm so glad you've liked it so far! Hopefully you continue to!
Also, this chapter references a couple of events at that take place at the beginning of the story (Chapters 4 and 5): the fact that Mycroft taught Sherlock how to build a Mind Palace while they were inside of their "Closet Palace," and that after Mycroft left for University, Sherlock told him that he changed his Mind Palace into a Mind Laboratory.
There was only one more photograph, and really, Mycroft should have known it was there…that he was there. Although his tenure in Sherlock's life was relatively brief, John Watson's impact was unfathomable.
Neither Mycroft nor Mummy spoke as they stared down at the picture. Sherlock was not in this one, but Mummy and the good doctor were sitting next to each other on the couch, arms around each other's shoulders. John's smile was small and bemused, still unsure how he ended up in the living room of his best friend's childhood home. Mummy, on the other hand, was glowing, her eyes bright with delight as she pulled John almost uncomfortably close to her. Mycroft knew why. Like him, she had trouble believing John was there, that he was not a ghost or a dream that they had willed into fruition to finally, finally accomplish the impossible…make Sherlock happy. Mummy was beaming as Mycroft had rarely seen her before, exuberant to be photographed with a miracle.
Doctor John Watson was clearly less than pleased to see the black limousine pull alongside him. "You could tell Mycroft," he grumbled as he got in, "That I have been known to use a phone…oh," he finished lamely, finally realizing that is was Mycroft, not his PA, who was waiting for him. "You're not Anthea…"
"Very astute, Doctor Watson," Mycroft smirked.
"Right," John said slowly as the car pulled away, "Well, I don't know what you could possibly want to talk about. Sherlock's on a case in Paris,* but you already knew that."
"Consider this a social call," Mycroft said with a small, humorless smile, "I am inviting you to lunch."
Whatever John had expected, his blank stare revealed that it was clearly not this, "Lunch?"
"You are familiar with the ritual, I presume?"
"Right, yes," John snapped, "Well I doubt I have much say in the matter, but its 8:30 in the morning right now, so if you could just drop me off at the surgery you can pick me up in your big, black limo a bit closer to noon."
"Oh you will not be going into the surgery today," Mycroft said, "Do not worry; we have already contacted your employer."
"And that makes it okay," John said furiously, "What, exactly, are we doing then?"
"There is someone who wants to meet you."
"What, your boss?"
"In a manner of speaking," Mycroft said as he pulled a classified file out of his briefcase and flipped it open.
They lapsed into silence. Mycroft continued reading through files, pausing occasionally to send a brief email. John leaned his head against the tinted window and did not speak again until the car pulled onto the motorway.
"We're leaving London?" he asked. Mycroft did not bother responding, so John pulled out his mobile and started tapping the keys.
Five minutes later, Mycroft's phone buzzed. Smirking at his brother's predictability, Mycroft opened the text.
You are taking him to the Estate? –SH
Mycroft could practically see the fury undoubtedly radiating off his brother. Still smirking, he responded.
Mummy wished to have lunch. –MH
The furious reply was nearly instantaneous.
And you deliberately put off this meeting until I was out of the country. –SH
We thought it would be better this way. –MH
Meaning you wish to discuss private matters that I would be unwilling to delve into. –SH
Mycroft sighed; Sherlock was painfully paranoid at times.
Sherlock, this is John. –MH
He knew Sherlock understood the unspoken meaning;He would never allow us to discuss anything he thought you would find objectionable.
It took a little longer for Sherlock to reply.
Make sure he has a somewhat tolerable experience or I WILL leak the entire contents of the CIA database. -SH
Naturally-MH
Three hours later, the car finally turned onto the mile-long driveway leading up to the house. The motion jolted the semi-dozing doctor awake. He stretched and looked out the window, "Hang on," he murmured, sitting up straighter in his seat, "Is that your house? The house you and Sherlock grew up in?"
"Welcome to the Holmes estate," Mycroft said as he stowed away the last of his reports, "This has been the Holmes' primary residence for the past three hundred years."
"Quite a bit of space, you've got here," John murmured as the car slowed to a stop. He got out quickly, clearly curious, despite himself. Mycroft waited for the chauffeur to open his door before also exiting the car, taking care to remember his briefcase.
"Hang on…" John said as the car pulled away, "If this is your childhood home, then am I meeting…"
"Mycroft!" Mummy's voice carried equal measures of delight and sophistication as she descended the front steps. She embraced him and planted a light kiss on his cheek.
"Good day Mummy," Mycroft said.
"Always so formal," she murmured with a laugh before turning to John, "And this must be Doctor Watson. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you," she offered him her hand.
John shook it, "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes."
"Oh, call me Melinda, please," Mummy laughed.
"Then feel free to call me John," John said, smiling despite himself.
"Do come in John," Mummy smiled, "I had them lay out lunch for us on the patio. I hope it was not too much of an inconvenience for you to come all this way."
"Oh it was fine," John lied.
Mummy frowned, not fooled, "Oh dear…Mycroft kidnapped you didn't he? He can be very impolite like that," she shot the elder Holmes a reproachful look that elicited a genuine smile from John. "We will just have to make sure you have an extra good time then," Mummy assured him, patting John's hand as she led them to the patio.
Sherlock need not have worried about John not enjoying himself. Mummy was nothing if not the consummate hostess. In less than ten minutes she had John earnestly engaged in conversation, both laughing frequently as they discussed everything from John's time in medical school to Mummy's favorite organic fruit vendors.
"I'm sorry Sherlock couldn't be here," John said as they finished the last of their berry crumble, "he had to leave rather suddenly for Paris."
"Oh that is alright dear," Mummy said easily. She shot John a small, conspiratorial smile, "To be honest, I asked Mycroft to bring you over when Sherlock was away."
John raised his eyebrows, "Why's that?"
"I love my son dearly," Mummy explained, "But he does tend to eat up a room…I wanted a chance to really get to know you … I doubt Sherlock could have stood a ten minute discussion of football."
"I suppose not," John agreed, still looking slightly bemused.
"John!" Mummy laughed, "I had enough trouble trying to get him to eat three times a day, much less sit down and have a polite conversation while he did. Mycroft finally convinced me to leave Sherlock to his unusual eating habits."
John glanced at Mycroft in surprise, "You?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Is it really such a surprise?"
"Oh these two were thick as thieves, before Mycroft ran off to University," Mummy laughed, "Surely Sherlock you?"
"No, he didn't," John said, unable to hide his surprise. He recovered quickly, however, "I suppose it is true that he doesn't have much patience for social niceties…not enough room for manners in his Mind Palace I suppose."
Mycroft did not quite spit out his mouthful of sparkling spring water over the entire table, but it was a near thing. He quickly swallowed the offending liquid and then said, with every air of nonchalance, "His what?"
Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because John shot Mycroft a puzzled, probing look. Sometimes Mycroft forgot that the seemingly mundane doctor had over a year's experience reading Holmes facial expressions. "His Mind Palace," John finally repeated, "It's a memory technique…"
"Yes, I am familiar with the theory," Mycroft interrupted swiftly. John had repeated the essential word… Palace. Sherlock did not have a Mind Palace; he had not had a Mind Palace since that fateful day Mycroft left for University. In his rage, he transformed it to a Mind Laboratory, effectively cutting all emotional ties he felt towards Mycroft. The Elder Holmes had always assumed this change was permanent; Sherlock did not change his mind.
Why had he told John differently?
Quelling any irrational and potentially emotionally devastating traces of hope, Mycroft forced himself to resume listening to the conversation.
"He does have his own, unique habits, though," Mummy was saying.
"To put it mildly," John muttered.
Good, apparently his small lapse into the realm of emotion had gone unnoticed. Mycroft forced himself to join into the conversation, "I always found the skull to be by far his most distasteful idiosyncrasy."
"The skull's not so bad, actually," John said, a little defensively. He chuckled, "Actually, the only thing I find truly maddening is his cleaning habits."
"Or lack thereof," Mycroft noted drily. Good, he thought, maintain the pretense of dry exasperation. They must not see anything else.
Like the torrent of emotions that were currently threatening to shatter his flawless veneer.
John shook his head, "I got used to the sloppiness eventually, bit of a welcome change after the army, but what drives me crazy is bipolar he is about it."
Mummy laughed, "Well that seems like a bit of an improvement! He was always hopelessly messy as a child."
"And he usually still is," John agreed, "I don't think I've seen him wash a dish since I've met him, but there are some things he keeps perfectly, absurdly clean."
"Oh," Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Like what?"
John rolled his eyes, "His closet of all things."
Mycroft set the glass he was about to bring to his lips down on the table with a loud thunk. John glanced at him in surprise, but before he could speak, Mummy laughed, "His closet? Really?" though her swift glance in Mycroft's direction revealed her own astonishment.
"I know, it's crazy," John agreed, "But once when I was tidying up I hung his coat up in his closet, and when he found it, he nearly bit my head off."
"Did he say why?" Mycroft asked, careful to keep his tone disinterested and slightly amused. In reality, his stomach was nearly ready to regurgitate his berry crumble.
John shook his head, "Just a whole lot of shouting about how he leaves his possessions in certain places on purpose."
"Well, who can claim to completely understand the mind of Sherlock?" Mummy laughed.
"Quite," Mycroft murmured. He shook himself and smiled at Mummy, "Well I am afraid I must get back to the office." It was no good. He needed to remove himself from the situation…now…before he lost control completely.
Mummy nodded knowingly and stood, "Of course," she said, "It has been delightful having you back here, Mycroft."
John also stood, "Thank you very much, Melinda," he said earnestly, "This has been lovely."
"Oh do please come again! It is so good to get to know a friend of Sherlock's!"
"Yes, perhaps Sherlock can come next time," John observed drily as they made their way to the front door.
Mummy laughed, "If he agreed to come, but we both know he would much rather by solving crimes in Paris rather than having lunch here." She gave a short, sarcastic laugh, "Perhaps he is visiting his Father…your Father is still in Paris, is he not?"
"Last my agents saw," Mycroft shrugged. Neither he nor Mummy really cared about where Father chose to squander his life.
"Hang on," John said, "Your Father's in Paris. He is not…" he trailed off, blushing slightly.
"Dead? No," Mycroft said, "He simply cannot set foot in England without facing immediate arrest."
John frowned, "Couldn't you fix that? Sees as you're…you?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Why would I fix it, when I am the one who exiled him?"
"Why?" John asked, unable to disguise his surprise.
"He punched Sherlock," Mummy explained as if it was obvious, "Mycroft sends very clear messages when it comes to his baby brother."
"I see," John said slowly, shooting Mycroft a strange look that was not immediately dissectible.
The Elder Holmes cleared his throat, the emotions were fighting their way to the forefront again, "But we really must get going. Good afternoon, mother."
"Good bye Mycroft," Mummy said, planting a small kiss on his cheek. She turned and embraced John, "Do come again, Doctor Watson."
"I will," John assured her, "Goodbye Melinda."
They stepped outside, where the chauffeur was waiting beside the idling limousine. Mycroft slid quickly into the backseat and pulled out another file from his briefcase, though his thoughts still centered on their conversation at lunch. Sherlock kept his closet empty. He became angry when it was disturbed, and he did not tell John, John of all people, why. He claimed to place information in a Mind Palace. Surely, this was not sentiment; he had lost Sherlock's sympathy years ago.
"Well," he said, not certain if he was seeking distraction, illumination, or if he was honestly curious, "Did you enjoy yourself?" He did not glance up to see John's reply.
"What? Oh, yea…yea I did actually. Your mother's lovely…not what I expected, but lovely."
"If by 'not what I expected' you mean 'clearly incapable of caring for a child such as Sherlock, then yes, I suppose you are correct," Mycroft said drily.
"Well…yea…I did get that impression," John admitted. He hesitated, "Do she and Sherlock get along?"
"Sherlock and I have always rather viewed her as a favorite aunt rather than an authority figure, so yes; he has usually been on at least cordial terms with her."
"I see…" the silence dragged on for a couple seconds before John finally asked, 'And your father?"
"Always disinterested in the beginning, borderline abusive once I left. Hence why he has not set foot in Britain in over a decade," Mycroft said calmly.
It was nearly a minute before John spoke again: "So…you're the one who raised him."
He could not resist; Mycroft glanced up. John was staring at him, a series of strange expressions flitting across features: surprise, understanding, pity, and perhaps something like…gratitude. He looked back down at his reports, "It needed doing," he said, keeping his voice deliberately offhand.
John did not respond, and Mycroft assumed the matter was dropped. They passed the rest of the ride in silence, arriving at 221B a little after six.
"Good evening, John," Mycroft said without looking up.
"Good evening, Mycroft," John replied. The doctor hesitated, and then cleared his throat nervously. "He still cares about you, you know," he said in a rush.
The Elder Holmes glanced up. The army doctor was wearing that same, strange expression. Mycroft gave him a tight smile, "It is pleasant to think so. Until next time, John."
The doctor nodded and left without another word. Mycroft turned back to his report, trying to focus on the eminent crisis in Kirgizstan, but his mind wandered rebelliously to thoughts of empty closets, paper signs, and perceptive army doctors.
*In my mind, this is taking place towards the very, very end of A Scandal in Belgravia…so Sherlock is not actually in Paris…if you catch my drift…
Thank you again for reading!
