The windows of 221B were bright when John and Sherlock pulled in front of the building, and Sherlock thoughtlessly paid the cabbie and barreled out, heading straight towards the door. John thanked the driver and followed Sherlock.
The scene that met John when he stepped into the flat was one he never thought he would be privy to. Sherlock hovered by John's chair, his arms crossed defensively over his chest as he stared at Mycroft, his eyes narrowed.
Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair, his umbrella leaning against his knee. Jack was snuggled in the crook of his arm, his head resting on Mycroft's chest, his attention full on the book held in Mycroft's hands. Mycroft didn't look up from the book, but his ears coloured bright red and his voice faltered as he recited the words on the page. Jack squirmed impatiently in his arms and Mycroft cleared his throat and continued: "...And sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him...and it was still hot."
"Nostalgic," Sherlock said, his voice sounding more gruff than usual as he looked down at Jack and Mycroft. "You can still recite it by memory, can't you?"
Mycroft snapped the book closed and handed it to Jack, who smiled up at Sherlock and held out the book. "Wild Things, Sherlock! Uncle Crofty brought me Wild Things. It's got your name in the front."
"What are you trying to accomplish?" Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft sighed, lifting Jack from his lap and placing him on the floor. Jack promptly scampered off to Sherlock's room, where it sounded like construction was taking place.
"Leave him alone Sherlock," John said with a frown as Mycroft wrapped his hand around the handle of his umbrella. "He's making a peace offering, gift horses and all that. Would you like some tea, Mycroft? I was just about to make some."
"Mrs. Hudson kept me in tea in your absence, but it seems to have run out," Mycroft said, motioning to the set up on the kitchen table. "Thank you. I appreciate your ample hospitality, John."
John filled the kettle and pulled out three clean mugs, deciding to make one for Anthea and not waste a perfectly good cup of tea on Sherlock. He would just ignore it. "Did Mrs. Hudson also keep you in biscuits, Mycroft? I do notice that only crumbs remain on the saucer," Sherlock drawled, looking far too smug than was really necessary.
Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin smile. "Your son has a particular fondness for custard creams, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson knows that and sent some up. She was unaware of Anthea's own fondness, it was a happy coincidence."
"You were always more fond of Jaffa Cakes, weren't you?" Sherlock said offhandedly, shrugging out of his coat, tossing it on the sofa and turning to go into his room without another word.
John brought Mycroft his cup with a small smile and a muttered "Sorry" before going to deliver Anthea's tea. Sherlock's room was in the strange limbo of development where it was more messy than John had ever seen it, even if most of the mess was discarded packing and displaced items. Sherlock was hovering over Anthea's shoulder like an overgrown bat, and Jack was in the corner with Wiggle the Pickled Pig reading him Where the Wild Things Are by memory.
"I brought you tea," John said to Anthea, holding it out to her. Her hair was pulled in a high knot and she was dressed relatively casually in a crimson jumper and black trousers. She put aside her screwdriver and took the mug from John with a slight nod. "I do hope Mycroft is paying you handsomely for this."
Sherlock scoffed, and Anthea rolled her eyes. "It would go much faster if there wasn't a Holmes standing over me telling me that the directions are unnecessary and I would be perfectly fine disregarding them."
"You could have it assembled in half the time," Sherlock said, and Anthea tensed visibly.
"Sherlock..." John sighed, massaging his temples. "Take Jack up to get ready for bed and leave Anthea alone. When she's done you can come in and put things where you want them. Until then, you aren't allowed in here."
"Jack isn't bothering me, I was complaining about the other Holmes," Anthea muttered, and Sherlock sniffed petulantly and walked over to Jack.
"Come on then, it's time for bed," Sherlock said, and the boy frowned but climbed to his feet.
"Do I have to have a bath?" Jack all but whined, tucking his book under his arm.
John sighed, and Sherlock's lips twitched. "No story if you don't have a bath."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Can Wiggle sleep with me?"
Anthea chuckled to herself and John sent her an exasperated glance. "Jack, you can't have that jar in bed with you, what if it leaks?" John asked, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Jack wasn't deterred, and Sherlock picked up the pickled pig.
"It shouldn't leak, I had it sealed," Sherlock said, and Jack bounced on his toes. "But just to be safe, the pig stays on your side table and isn't allowed in your bed. Agreed?"
Jack squealed and did a squirming happy dance. "Yes! Agreed! Did you hear that Wiggle? You get to sleep in my room!"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "The pig can't hear you Jack, nor does he sleep, he's..."
"Shut up," John snapped, and uncharacteristically Sherlock minded.
Anthea put aside her tea and stood, hanging up the final shelving unit and trying to hide her smile. "I should be done fairly soon, I just have to set up your tables. If you want to help you can take out the rubbish, Sherlock."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and ushered Jack out of the room. "I'll help," John said, but Anthea waved him off.
"Not necessary, I knew it would clear him out faster than anything. I believe Mr. Holmes wanted to speak with you," Anthea said, making quick work of the rubbish left behind.
John watched her for a moment before leaving the room, picking up his tea from the kitchen before joining Mycroft in the living room. Mycroft's tea was untouched, and John sank down in his chair, taking a long sip of his own cooling tea. "You know you can't buy our forgiveness," John said, stretching out his legs. "Although your attempt is appreciated and noted."
"It is the only way I have ever been able to garner Sherlock's forgiveness, I scarcely think I will be changing strategies at this point in our lives," Mycroft said dismissively, lifting his umbrella and studying the tip thoughtfully. "But I quickly recognized I cannot pander to you. I don't have time to deduce the proper methods, so I shall just ask. What must I do to convince you I have reconsidered my position on you raising Jack?"
John frowned at his tea, shaking his head a bit. "You don't have to convince me, Mycroft. I understand why you were concerned, I am too. But really, if there is something inside of Jack that makes him...different, then Sherlock is the most capable person I know to help him understand it. If it's possible to understand. You did the best you could, Mycroft. Sherlock's...I wouldn't say he's grateful, but he's a better person because of you. And that's what counts."
Mycroft's face betrayed no emotion. "You are mistaken," he said, looking down his nose at John. "Sherlock is a better person because you don't demand it of him as I did. You expect it of him, and when he falters you are there to set him back on the correct path. You see the good in people first and foremost, Dr. Watson. Naive of you, but essential when dealing with Sherlock. He demands an audience and I was simply a critic. People, I regret to say including myself, have seldom seen the good in him. I quickly realised I was making the same mistake with Jack as I had with Sherlock."
John stilled, every inch of him surprised by Mycroft's candid admission. The information was relayed as one would recite passages from a textbook, but the weight of Mycroft's words settled heavy in the room. John nodded, licked his lips nervously, and shifted in his chair. "Right. Well, forgiven. Sherlock's...he's being difficult, but he understands too."
Mycroft's brow furrowed. "When it comes to my feelings toward Sherlock, I don't think it is ever appropriate to say that he 'understands', Dr. Watson."
Swift footsteps sounded on the staircase that lead to John's room and Jack appeared clutching a stuffed pig- a recent gift from Molly after John had informed her of Wiggle- and looking forlorn. "Sherlock says I have to say goodnight to 'Thea," he moaned, squeezing his pig tightly.
Anthea emerged from Sherlock's room with a surprisingly bright smile, burdened with rubbish as she was. "I'm all done anyway Jack, which means it's time for Mr. Holmes and I to leave." She turned to Mycroft and added, "I've already phoned a car, sir."
"Excellent," Mycroft said, and stood. John followed in suit and crossed to the door to open it for Anthea.
"Why don't you say goodnight to your uncle, and when Anthea comes back you can give her a hug as well?" John suggested.
Jack hesitated, eyeing Mycroft apprehensively. "But Sherlock said..."
"Never mind what Sherlock said, Uncle Mycroft was kind enough to bring you a new book and read it to you, remember? You may hurt his feelings if you don't say goodnight."
Mycroft cleared his throat. "It really isn't necessary John, I under-" but he was cut off when Jack threw himself bodily against Mycroft's legs, wrapping his arms around them and squeezing. He looked down at the boy's head and lowered a hand to his back, a slight quirk to his lips. "Sleep well Jack, and make sure Sherlock takes good care of his laboratory."
"I will Uncle Crofty," Jack toned before releasing him. When Anthea reappeared at the front door Jack bounded over to her, and she knelt down to envelope him in a hug, her Blackberry clutched loosely in her hand.
She smoothed down the boy's pajama top and stood, her eyes on Mycroft. "They've arrived, sir, and I have correspondence for you to review."
Mycroft nodded and hooked his umbrella over his arm. "If Sherlock requires anything else, I'm sure he won't hesitate to have you text me his requests," he said, amusement alight in his eyes.
"Thank you Mycroft," John said, ushering Jack back upstairs before seeing them out.
When John had finally changed into his usual sleep attire -a t-shirt and boxer shorts- and climbed over Sherlock into his usual place, Jack was already close to sleep, even as he curled into John's side.
Sherlock was staring at them openly, but his eyes lingered on John's face most of all. He finally said, "You had Jack bid Mycroft good night."
John sighed, closing his eyes. "He loves Mycroft. Mycroft loves him."
Sherlock shifted a bit closer to John. "You must understand, John. Your relationship with your sister isn't what anyone would consider functional."
"But she's still my sister and I love her. I don't have to like her, and I don't most of the time."
Sherlock watched John breathe and listened to Jack's soft, snuffling snores. John thought Sherlock had maybe fallen asleep, or was content with ending the conversation there, but that was not the case. "It's easy to like someone, you have control over that particular sentiment. But love..." he trailed off, turning on his side to face John as he watched the quivering shift of John's shirt caused by his gentle heartbeat. "Love is something you don't control. A person worms their way in without your permission, makes room for themselves, and refuses to leave. It's completely out of your control, isn't it? Mycroft doesn't have to be so smug about it. It's not like I can just..." he waved a hand vaguely and fell silent.
John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock's face, angular and strange in the darkness. He slid his hand closer to Sherlock's, his fingers curled loosely against his palm. Sherlock stared at it, his eyes unearthly bright, and carefully laced his fingers together with John's. "Go to sleep," John whispered, and watched Sherlock until he closed his eyes.
They fell asleep with their hands intertwined.