Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and the Godtiss.

Sherlock is mad. It is a fact that is readily accepted by man, like saying gravity exists and that there's a rainbow after the rain. Usually, whatever mad idea he has is instantly stopped by his older brother, to Sherlock's annoyance and to London's relief. However, there are days when Sherlock slips out of Mycroft's radar, thanks to his many helpful homeless individuals who are, ironically enough, paid with Mycroft's money. There is also the fact that Mycroft Holmes is still young, has a family of his own, and is, unfortunately in this situation, British.

London isn't the one grieving this time. Victor thinks this is alright. The city deserves one day of being Sherlock-free. The unfortunate city which has to suffer for Sherlock's consequences is, at the moment, New York City.

Victor really hates this place.

Sherlock knees are no longer the colour of human flesh. They are covered in gargantuan purple-yellow bruises that look like they belong in a cartoon. They must be painful, Victor thinks, and he winces when Sherlock jumps up and tries to scale the wall once more, his lithe body slamming hard on the ground when he falls.

"Got it!" he yells triumphantly, his gloved hands cradling a slightly bloody hammer. He's sitting on a heap of trash, his trousers rolled up to expose his now bleeding knees, but he's grinning almost manically. Victor looks at the abrasions on his wrists which look even worse than they actually are because of his pallor. The sight of them makes him extremely nervous. Out of habit, he looks at the street lamps but none of the CCTV cameras swerve their way. Victor has no idea who the American Government is but whoever they are, they have no interest in a skinny seventeen-year-old with a murder weapon in his possession.

"We should catch up with the others, Sherlock," Victor attempts. He is thinking of the Metropolitan Museum where the rest of the class is and of their hotel room and the tiny, oyster-shaped bars of soap in the very nice loo of said hotel room. He is thinking that he has his father's old camera in his hands and that Sherlock's network of homeless individuals does not have an American branch. He isn't thinking about how the muscles of Sherlock's legs, despite their bloody state, are wonderfully defined and how Sherlock's cheeks are flushed from the exertion of trying to reach the murder weapon. Victor isn't thinking about that. Shouldn't be thinking about that, rather. Sherlock is his friend, Sherlock is not interested, Sherlock is bonded to someone else.

Sherlock is really frustratingly good-looking.

The tiny ringing sound from Victor's pocket distracts Sherlock from the hammer. He doesn't drop it but he sets it down and outstretches one hand to Victor.

It is John. It can't possibly be anyone else. Sherlock is jumping up and down again, manic with his find, as he tells John about the murder weapon. "A hammer, John! No, don't be daft. It's a high school student. Shop class. Don't they take that?" Sherlock bounds out of the alley, his phone still pressed to his ear. Victor wants to roll his eyes but he can't because Sherlock will know and then Sherlock will ask and Victor can't say that he's jealous of John.

He's met John a few times because of his role as 'that kid who's been Sherlock's roommate for years'. Victor isn't sure if Sherlock is his friend or not. Sherlock doesn't have friends. He tolerates people and apparently Victor isn't half as annoying as the rest of the populace. He isn't John, though. Victor isn't saying that he's better than John but all of his original thoughts about Sherlock's mate flew out the window when he finally met him.

He's average. Smart, yes, but not Sherlock smart. He likes outdoor sports and billiards and rock music. He is short, as well, practically a head shorter than Sherlock and Victor. Everything about him is normal and it irks Victor that John still gets Sherlock despite his blandness. To Victor, John is boring. To Sherlock, however, John is a puzzle that can never be solved. "I used to hate him," a very tired Sherlock had told him once, "but he's always there and it's not easy…to hate someone who's always there."

Sherlock is wrong about that, Victor thinks. Victor's brother Julian is always in his presence and Victor hates him with all his heart. Julian with his clandestine cocaine addiction and his smarmy demeanour and that strong scent that screams arrogant Alpha. Victor hates him mostly because Julian knows. Every time he thinks of Sherlock, he can hear Julian talking to him, teasing him.

Can't have him, little brother. I can, though. Won't even have to lift a finger and that kid will be begging for me to snog the lights out of him.

"Victor!" Sherlock snaps, startling him. The camera nearly slips from his hands but Victor manages to get a good grip on it before the threat becomes real. There is a flash from the camera, one that makes Sherlock scowl. The sight of it makes Victor tuck the camera to his chest even though he knows Sherlock won't hurl it in the air. Before, maybe, but Sherlock is seventeen now, almost eighteen, actually, and while he is childish, Victor knows he won't put himself in a situation where someone can tell him he's being childish. At least, not without reason.

"Take pictures later," Sherlock reprimands, phone still pressed to his ear. He shoots the camera a glare that Victor imagines is enough to melt steel.

"I like taking pictures," he points out.

"Idiotic hobby," Sherlock mutters under his breath.

Victor's finger slips or perhaps it's his willingness to live that slips because the camera flashes once more. Sherlock hisses—actually hisses—but he doesn't do anything else because he's still talking to John. It is hilarious to see how much Sherlock will do for John. It is painful to see how much Sherlock will do for John. Victor wishes for a moment that he can be selective when it comes to emotions, but he's not Sherlock.

"Sorry," he says. He's not even sure what he's sorry about. About liking Sherlock even though they're sometimes-friends-because-they're-roommates or about being jealous of John. Victor is sure of one thing, though, and it's being sorry because he took Sherlock's picture again.

"You're thinking too loudly," Sherlock complains.

Victor says nothing and tries very hard to think more quietly.

"This isn't something you can get out of," John says, "nor is it something I want you to get out of."

"You always get me out of things!" Sherlock complains from the other line. John has no idea if Sherlock knows that he's just made a sexual innuendo, and John is very thankful that Sherlock is currently hundreds of miles away. Sherlock is ignorant like that and when he says certain things, it is either John becomes very aware of what nature can do to his pants or he thinks about that night when he had chocolate on his nose and Sherlock was telling him to clean it up. They've never talked about it after and John still isn't quite sure what happened that night. Sherlock, John thinks, is an onion when it comes to communication. You peel one vague conversation and find another layer of a vague conversation beneath. It should be tiring, and it is, sometimes, but John is patient.

They were definitely not talking about chocolate that night.

"I don't want another big party, John," Sherlock hisses. "So what if I turn one year older? It's not a big deal. Tell Mycroft."

"Tell him yourself."

"John, I am approximately three thousand six hundred and seventeen miles away from my fat git of a brother. My date of birth is five days away from now and I will arrive two hours before the morning of that accursed day. Also, Mycroft refuses to listen to me."

John huffs a quiet laugh. "And you think he'll listen to me?"

"He likes you. You plague me with your views on morality and you pay too much attention to my physical and emotional health. He likes that."

John rolls his eyes. "Sherlock, if your brother actually liked me he wouldn't leave his kids with—wait, I don't nag you!"

"You do. Sherlock, eat something already. Sherlock, stop experimenting on my jumpers. Sherlock, stop texting me during an exam. Sherlock, stop walking around in just a sheet and put your clothes on—"

"Okay, I get it," John grumbles, although he has to argue against that last part. Sherlock wearing nothing but a sheet isn't something John wouldn't like to see every day.

Stop, it, Watson, before you do something embarrassing in front of your friends.

From the corner of his eye John can see Bill making lewd gestures and Mike laughing in the background. John flips them off, earning a glare from an elderly lady who, to John's annoyance, is more furious by his raised middle finger than Bill's demonstration of what seems to be a step-by-step procedure on how to suffocate a hotdog sandwich. Life is so unfair.

"You should be here," Sherlock is saying, "I found a murder weapon and Victor's taking pictures of it."

"You're on a field trip," John mutters, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock will know and he'll never hear the end of it. "You should be sightseeing, not taking the job of the police."

"The only reason why I even joined is because of New York's latest serial killer and—"

"Don't," John warns, "go chasing serial killers. Anymore. At least, not while you're there and Mycroft's in Russia or wherever."

"Nagging."

"Not nagging. I'm just…worried." John wrinkles his nose at that last one. For a moment there is no reply and John begins to really worry. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that. Perhaps Sherlock doesn't want him to worry. Or maybe—

"Oh," Sherlock says and that's it. Just an 'oh' that can mean anything. John wants him to elaborate but before he can even open his mouth, a bundle of colourful straws is thrown his way. It's surprisingly heavy for something made of plastic.

"Oi!" Bill yells. "Stop flirting with your boyfriend and get your arse over here, Watson! "

"Piss off," John mutters, restraining the urge to shout back as several people in the diner have turned to look at them. "Listen," he says to Sherlock, "I have to go and deal with them—"

"Paging John Watson! There will be more time for phone sex later."

Beside Bill, his cousin Max laughs and manages to make a mess of his shirt by snorting soda out of his nose. The table erupts in howls and jeers that, if left alone, would no doubt bring the manager from the back. John quickly says goodbye then does his best to silence the others.

"Seriously, mate," Patrick, the only person at the table not taking medicine, says as he hands John his drink, "you were taking forever."

"They're a lovey dovey couple," Bill says rather sombrely. "And John's a pathetic love struck bastard. Not that I blame him of course. I've seen the kid and wow!" Bill smacks his upper arm. It's an Alpha thing, the arm smacking and headlocks and the bum slapping. John doesn't hate it but it gets tiring when it's done one too many times already. John makes an exception for now, though, and returns the playful punch with one not so playful. "Seriously, Mike and I saw him in John's birthday last year. A bit annoying but once you get past that—it's like that kid is God's gift to mankind."

"You lucky bastard!" Max gives him an Alpha punch as well, his fist landing exactly where Bill's was a moment ago, numbing John's whole arm. "Got laid yet?"

"We're not like that," John snaps. "We're not even…I haven't even kissed—god!"

Mike laughs. "Okay, okay—enough about John's sex life."

"Lack of," Patrick corrects.

"Sod off, all of you," John growls. He's not like them anymore; he doesn't think of sex every day of the week. He used to, of course, but then Sherlock had to grow up and become a little less annoying and extremely good-looking. John has no idea when he stopped wanting to punch Sherlock in the face and started wanting to wrap his arms around him and never let go. It's all so confusing. Sherlock will be doing another one of his weird experiments on John and he'll make cutting remarks about John's intelligence and something in John's mind will just go gurk because Sherlock will give him that smile, the one that makes John turn into a pathetic love struck bastard. Sherlock can be knee deep in animal carcasses and John's brain will still go gurk. It is inevitable; it's almost as if it's turned into one of the laws of physics. It will be the death of John Watson.

Bill rolls his eyes at Patrick. "You're one to talk," he says. "You haven't had anyone in months."

"The students here are not good enough for me," Patrick answers lazily. "That's why I'm going for a soldier, remember? People love men in uniform."

John glares at him. He remembers his father, the warm press of his lips against John's forehead as he clutches a ragged teddy bear, Harry clinging to his leg and crying loudly. He remembers a black box and the smell of white lilies and two soldiers folding a flag and laying it over the coffin. "That's insulting," he says in a flat voice that silences Patrick.

Mike puts a hand on his shoulder. "Patrick doesn't mean it like that."

Bill tries a grin but it's tentative and not at all like the over-confident ones he often uses. "It's just one of the perks. But Patrick and I are doing this for queen and country, you know? Someone's got to protect the old geezer."

"And you know my family, John," Patrick says. "We're army brats." There is something more to that. John can tell from the way Patrick's eyes darken and when he sees Max and the others tense, John knows that it's not only him who notices. But it's Patrick's problem and it's not an Alpha thing, to go talking about each other's problems. John wishes for a moment that they were in a bar. Alcohol's far from being a solution but it's the only thing that they can offer Patrick without having to talk about whatever it is he has on his mind.

"Yes, fine, whatever." His voice is light, playful, and it seems to work because the others begin to relax. "Just don't get shot."

Bill snorts. "Tell that to Patrick. I'm going to be protected by a red cross."

"Good for you." People die, John wants to say. Soldiers die and innocent people die. John's father died and if Bill and Patrick aren't careful, John might lose his friends, too. He's not entirely sure what's more horrible—his friends dying or his friends killing. John knows Bill's reason is bull. It's not about saving lives for him. It's all about getting that adrenaline rush most of them crave.

"I'd tell you to join as well," Bill says as he squirts ketchup over their fries. It shouldn't look like blood but somehow it does. The thought doesn't disturb John, though, which should be more disturbing. "But there's no way we're letting you go abroad when you haven't even solved the problem to your bloody love life."

And there it is again. John wants to slam his head against the wall. "Will you guys stop pestering me about Sherlock?"

"Can't," Max says as pushes his glass up the bridge of his nose. It slides back down again. "We're your friends and we have to see that our Johnny's happy. Also, you talk about him all the time. It's kind of hard not to mention him."

"What the fuck do you want me to do?"

"Grow a pair and stop dancing around each other," Mike says. John looks at him incredulously. Mike is capable of swearing. He is a guy, after all, but he's the one who shouldn't be swearing. Not when he's the only one saner than John in their group. "Seriously, John. So what if he's three years younger than you? He's not a little kid anymore and you're expected to get together, anyway."

John glares at them. "You're going to track my every move." They will never stop. John knows this. It is an unspoken rule among them, to help even when help is not needed. John doesn't need their help and he definitely doesn't want it but they are stubborn and they will probably send him a hundred texts asking him about his progress. Mike is okay but he must keep the rest of them away from Sherlock or else Very Bad Things will happen.

"Of course we are. We want to attend your very posh wedding where there may be men and women who might be as fit as your fiancé and we'll want to be godfathers to your babies."

"You don't want my future children," John mutters. "You hate kids."

Max shakes his head and sighs dramatically. "But they'll have your nose and your big ears and they'll call us 'uncle' and we'll be there to corrupt their childhoods and teach them how to prank their daddy."

"You lot are awful. You shouldn't be allowed near children." John leans back and swallows half of his drink. "I'll have Sherlock's brother-in-law arrest all of you. You'll never get out."

"I'll seduce the officers."

"Don't," Patrick says. "You'll make them sick."

"You're smoking again. I can smell it all the way here." Luke sniffs the air then makes a face. "Menthol? Gross."

Greg blinks at him. "I'm pretty sure that I should say 'hello' first but what the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Luke shrugs, or at least tries to. It's not easy to shrug when you're lying sideways on the cold marble floor of Greg's kitchen with your hands and feet bound by belts and your face covered in paint. Were he any other person, Greg would be shell-shocked. But he married the British Government and he has children who have the same genetic material as one Sherlock Holmes so Greg is part of the madhouse now. This? This is normal.

"My godchildren are adorable," Luke says wryly. He wriggles for a moment, looking a lot like a giant worm, before he stills and looks at Greg for a long time. "Any time now."

"You're being punished by God," Greg tells him as he gets on one knee and tries to free Luke. "This is for giving me the wrong pills."

"Don't be daft," Luke says as Greg hauls him to his feet. He looks like he belongs in a tribe with the paint and the skull earrings. "You wouldn't have them if it weren't for me."

"Yes, I'm pleased," Greg answers darkly. "I'm very pleased that you took your dad's job even though you didn't know anything about medicine and I'm very pleased that you gave me the wrong pills which could have easily killed me."

Luke gapes at him then groans in frustration. "I gave you antibiotics!"

"The thought remains. Mycroft wanted to skin you alive for it."

"Mycroft wouldn't do that. He loves me."

Greg blinks and stares at Luke. He's one of the few friends of Greg who hasn't dropped the punk façade after uni. His hair is a myriad of colours and he's wearing ripped jeans and a shirt featuring The Ramones. He has tattoos and piercings in places where piercings should never dwell. Luke is, in short, the epitome of the punk scene.

"Transitive relation," Luke points out when Greg just stares at him. "Mycroft loves you, you love me—"

"I don't love you."

"You're my second cousin once removed."

"Twice," Greg corrects and Luke shoots him a glare.

"Fine. Twice removed, but the thing is I'm family and you're supposed to love your family."

"Um."

"Also," Luke says loudly as he walks towards the sink, "may I remind you that I've been at your side since we were kids and that I was present in your pre-bonding ceremony. I have pictures."

"And Mycroft hated you from the start," Greg retorts. "You ate the last piece of cake."

'Wonderful day, that was. The most tragic incident of whence gallant Sir Luke Rochewell battled the great Mycroft Holmes with a fork for the frosting-coated hand of a most marvellous cake."

"Poetic." Greg rolls his eyes and Luke grins at him before plunging his face under the faucet. Greg hands him a towel. "Where are they by the way?"

"Taking a nap," Luke says, his voice muffled by the towel. He dries himself quickly and when his face pops up again, it's clean and paint free. "Hopefully taking a nap. I was sleeping and when I woke up I was already tied up and covered in paint."

Greg counts from one to ten. It works. Almost works anyway. A bit of anger still slips out when he says, "I told you not to sleep."

"I told you not to have me babysit them!" Luke argues. "This is your fault for taking a full time job even though you don't need it."

"I want to," Greg argues back. This is beginning to sound like that old argument between him and Mycroft about his job. Greg hates it. He loves his job, loves his co-workers, even loves the paperwork. It makes him feel independent, makes him feel like something is his and his alone.

Luke sighs and thankfully doesn't push it. Luke doesn't understand. Greg doesn't expect him to. He's the same age as Greg but Greg has a family now so he seems younger. He's always been naïve anyway, always doing the stupidest things and expecting Greg to get him out of trouble. But he's Greg's best friend and while he doesn't understand everything, he knows Greg. "Right," he says and he puts on The Face, the one where he pretends to be older than anyone else in the room. "Let's go find them, then."

It's easy to find the twins. They're only two and as menacing as they can be they are undeniably quite attached to Greg. Or rather, Greg's leg.

"Those were my favourite trousers," Greg says as Luke helps him detach the first one from Greg's leg. "Hello, Beatrice, you got paint on your daddy's clothes again."

Beatrice just wraps her arms around his neck. Cross finger painting out of their activities. There's paint in her hair and her clothes and there's chocolate around her mouth. Cedric is in the same state. He's on the floor, tying and untying Greg's shoe and if Greg isn't careful, Cedric might get the idea of tying both of his shoes together. It's a little hard to think of them as Mycroft's children but they look a lot like him with their auburn hair and freckled skin. They are physically tiny Mycrofts but inside, they are small versions of Sherlock. "It's something we all go through," Mycroft had told him. "They'll grow out of it."

Greg didn't dare point out that there is a possibility of an exception to the rule. Sherlock exemplifies that. The thought of raising two Sherlocks is horrifying. Greg prays that if not both, then at least one, will grow out of it. It's already hard finding a babysitter brave enough to last more than three hours with these two.

"I can't wait until you two are old enough to restrain yourselves."

Luke stares at them. "I can't wait until they're old enough to argue about who was planned and who wasn't. The look on their faces when I tell them neither of them were. Wouldn't miss that for the world." He kneels until he's at Cedric's eyelevel. "Both of you exist because of me," he says seriously. "Therefore, you shouldn't tie me up anymore or put paint on my face."

Cedric blinks then smiles at him before sneezing in his face.

"Airports are boring," Sherlock says to Victor who is fiddling with his camera. Again. "There's nothing interesting here."

"People," Victor answers without looking at him.

Sherlock looks at people passing by and counts ten adulterers, three divorced, six newlyweds, and two pre-bonded. Victor is wrong. The people here are not interesting. They are normal, disgustingly so. Sherlock is so bored. And Victor, damn him, is paying more attention to his camera than to Sherlock. For the umpteenth time, Sherlock wishes for John's presence. At least John is never boring. He wraps John's scarf tighter around himself and slumps further down his seat.

Waiting is boring. When travelling with Mycroft, Sherlock never has to wait, but Mycroft's influence doesn't extend to the JFK airport. If it does, then Mycroft sure isn't doing something about it. New York, Sherlock has found, is quite boring. The criminals here are just like those in London, only stupider. Sherlock is tired of them, tired of their American accents and Time's Square and the smell of McDonald's. He wants everyone go away and to stop smelling so unfamiliarly. He wants to go back to London and continue his experiments or go to John's flat and pester him nonstop.

"Go walk around for a bit," Victor tells him. "It won't be long now."

Sherlock glares at him but does as he says. It is either stay and be surrounded by Sherlock's idiotic peers or walk around and be surrounded by idiotic people. The latter is a better option. At least they won't talk to Sherlock.

They are looking, though. Young Alphas are looking his way and even some Betas. Sherlock glares at them.

"Look at that lad over there. He looks a bit like you."

Sherlock turns around and sees a woman with red hair, obviously from a bottle, looking at him with an amused expression on her face. A secretary, he thinks, happily married with kids. Sherlock's eyes move to the man beside her.

Mycroft.

But it's not Mycroft even though he smells a bit like him. The man doesn't have Mycroft's face. He's tall though and he's wearing a suit, darker than the ones Mycroft prefers but almost in the same style. He's pale with brown hair and blue eyes and a face that Sherlock is sure would be like his once he gets older.

"Mr Holmes!" one of the teachers accompanying them yells. "We're leaving now."

He barely hears her. Sherlock remembers a photograph hidden in the skull in his father's office and a boy smiling at the camera. Sherlock hasn't thought much about him, not since Father left. He doesn't know him. He only knows his face and half of his parentage. Sherlock doesn't have his backstory. He can't even seem to read it. He doesn't have a name either.

The woman looks at her watch. 'We'd better go Mr Adams."

Adams. But he's a Holmes. It's undeniable. His smell, his features. But why—

Ah, of course. Why would a bastard have their name?

The man smiles at him. "You should go as well."

Sherlock stares at him.

The man sighs and looks at him amusedly. It's strange. He looks more like me than Mycroft does.

"It's Sherrinford," he says quietly so that the woman doesn't hear, before he walks away with his secretary alongside him.

Victor walks up to him, still fiddling with his camera. "We're about to leave now," he says. He looks up. "Who were you talking to, anyway?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No one."

A/N: The John/Sherlock will start SOON. I am being a fucking tease.