I'm back! I made it through finals, it's actually a miracle. I know it has actually been forever since I updated last, but I decided to create a scene that I sort of alluded to in the last version of the story. So, I had to recover and then do a lot of thinking to try and make it just right. And during that time, I resumed work on a playlist for these two.

If you read Shattered before, you know that I would occasionally put up little 'mini-lists' at the beginning of a chapter. I decided to make a mix of songs that first inspired this story with some of the new that I listen to now. I'll keep adding as I go, or maybe trim it down - it all depends. But I would love if you would send me songs that remind you of Sherlock and Katherine! That would be such a treat for me.

I'm on spotify under lightinside17 and the playlist for this story is under 'the mini-lists' if you guys want to take a peek and give it a listen!

I hope you guys are all well! And also, ForeverSunshine13, I hope you survived your finals! Thank you so much for wishing me luck with mine. I hope to hear from everyone in the reviews!

-lightinside

10.

Eventually, having gathered enough courage, Sherlock and I ventured back inside to face the chaos that was bound to ensue. My mother worked tirelessly in the kitchen, shuttling up and down the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's residence so often that it was a wonder her head didn't spin completely off her shoulders. Sherlock disappeared to his room the second we'd walked in and I was left to straighten and dust for the guests.

While Sherlock and I were fond of "character," my mother said drily, there were some people who might be allergic to it. With a near-silent huff, I dutifully wiped down every surface that wasn't within what my mother had deemed her workspace. Each time I would drift a little too near, she would shoo me away, cheeks covered in flour with her apron about her neck.

"I'm making Magic." She said, smiling a little. It was the first time I'd seen her so herself since the funeral. "Go get busy."

Magic was what my father called her apple pie. It had been his favorite of her confectionary creations since I was a girl. I knew the only reason she was rushing to make it was because he'd promised to come to dinner. I very nearly had the decency to feel guilty for having already eaten pie once that day, but knew that when the time came, I would eat more because it would make my mother smile. And she hadn't smiled in so long.

I smiled back as best I could despite the sudden opening of the ever-present hole in my chest. I tried to breathe, tried not to think of my brother. "Alright." I said. "What's next on my list, Mum?"

"Go get yourself ready." She said. "I've got everything else under control." I watched her eyebrows lift as I opened my mouth to protest. "And don't you argue with me, Katherine Watson. I'm perfectly fine."

I lifted my hands in surrender. "Okay, I'm going."

Getting myself ready was certainly a commitment of epic proportions. My mum knew that, as did Sherlock. Especially tonight, I knew I needed to look my best. I wanted to support my parents for their first meeting since Mum returned from Paris. I wondered if she'd invited Sylvia for the evening, but surely she would have mentioned it beforehand. I retreated quickly and quietly to my room, shutting the door on the sound of my mother making Magic. This was an occasion which I had tried very hard not to think about in detail. I would dress appropriately, eat very little, smile and nod, and fall in to my bed at the end of the night. But as I dug patiently through the large volume of clothes contained in my closet, I felt a clammy sweat break out on the back of my neck.

I would be meeting Sherlock's brother. He would be meeting my father. I chewed my lip as I pulled down a few options and slung them across my bed. How would this go? Sherlock didn't seem thrilled that Mycroft was attending this little soiree. Did that mean he would be in a foul mood the entire evening? I tried not to think of that as I studied the dresses I'd chosen – all of them old and worn probably once each. I sighed and snatched the one I liked best off the bed. It was blue, surely no one could complain about that even though it was meant to be a pre-Christmas dinner.

I began shrugging off my jeans to be sure that it fit, at least, just as the door burst open. In peeked Sherlock as I tripped in surprise, pulling the dress with me to keep myself decent. I landed smartly on my ass and winced, imagining that I had broken my tailbone. Words failed me as I stared him down, furious with pain.

"This is the second time since my mother arrived that you've managed to startle me straight into the floor." I snapped, scowling with all my might.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you decent?"

"It was my understanding, detective, that you were supposed to ask that question before you entered someone's room." I quipped drily. I never made a move to rise from the floor, knowing that my jeans were around my ankles. I hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice, but the second I saw his mouth quirk up at the corners, I knew he had. "Wipe that look off your face, Holmes, and get out so that I can get dressed." I reached for a blanket to try and hurl at him, but the door shut before I could manage it.

Five minutes later, apparently thinking he'd allowed me adequate time to get dressed, Sherlock knocked on my door. I ignored it for a moment, adjusting my hair around the bodice of my dress as I twirled to make sure the skirt wasn't bunched up around my waist in the back. Stranger things had happened. I'd once walked out of the loo on a date with toilet paper stuck to my jeans. The guy I'd been with had been either too oblivious or too malicious to let me know and so I'd walked around London for forty minutes waving a white flag from my bum. I promptly lost his number.

The skirts rustled against the floor as I moved toward the mirror to study my face. As I coated my lips with gloss, Sherlock knocked again. I smirked into the mirror. "Come in, Sherlock."

He bustled in, closing the door behind him with a swift backward kick of his leg, and plopped on my bed without once looking in my direction. Sherlock laid an arm directly over his eyes and sighed theatrically, something that was not out of the ordinary.

"Pull yourself together." I laughed softly, looking at his reflection behind me even as I finished my makeup. "It won't be too terrible. If you don't quite feel up to making conversation, you can just stuff your face instead."

"Funny." He monotoned.

"As I am always." I replied easily. "You just don't usually appreciate it." I turned to face him and the sound of my dress whispering against my feet as I moved must have caught his attention. He peeked at me from underneath his arm. I pretended not to notice when his eyes went wide. "Sit up." I told him, hiding the blush that threatened to creep down my neck. "You'll wrinkle your suit before anyone ever sees you in it."

He ignored my comment but sat up. "Have you always had that dress?"

I looked down at it, frowning immediately. "For a while, yes. I didn't have time to shop on short notice. Is it bad? Is there a hole or something? Is it too formal?" I caught sight of the exasperated expression on his face and pressed my lips firmly together to keep more questions from spilling out of them.

"It's nice." He said finally. "You look very nice."

I blinked. A compliment? Did he just compliment me? It was all I could do not to gape like a fish as I stared at him, processing what he'd just said. "Thank you." I managed finally. I felt my ears start to burn as he continued to look at me. Heart hammering, I turned back to the mirror and pretended to fuss over my hair again.

Sherlock seemed to take the hint and stood, rubbing the back of his neck before loping to my door. He left without a word. As soon as the door shut, I sat on my bed and put a hand to my heart. For some reason, I felt out of breath. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to catch it. Heavens, if Sherlock complimented me twice, I'd have to be sent straight to the hospital.

I gathered myself as best as I could, checked myself once more, and strode out into the hall. The party was already beginning. The smell of baking apple pie wafted through the flat as my mother answered the first knock on the door, inviting Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper inside. I couldn't contain my relief. At least Mycroft hadn't arrived yet. Sherlock stood off to the side and through the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him throw back a finger of whiskey.

I embraced Molly in a hug, genuinely excited to see her. We spoke animatedly, catching up while Mrs. Hudson helped my mother finish setting the table in preparation for everyone else to arrive.

The chatter increased in volume as Lestrade breezed in, politely carrying with him a very decent bottle of wine. Behind him came Dana and Charlie, who I greeted with a grin so wide that Charlie began teasing me, saying that I would split my face in two. He was too tall now for me to ruffle his hair and so I rolled my eyes instead. He really was just like Dana. As I waited for Sherlock's brother to make an appearance, and my father, Dana pulled me off the side. She nursed an impressive glass of wine while discreetly making eyes in Lestrade's direction.

"Stop that." I said, sighing. "He's more than ten years your senior."

"And very nice-looking. Good taste in wine." She murmured, still looking at him from underneath her lashes. Lestrade was blissfully unaware of her predatory stare, deep in conversation with Charlie. I'd known for a while that Charlie wanted to join the police force. I supposed he was taking his opportunity to create a connection.

"I'll vomit if you keep this up." I promised her and gently took the wine from her hand so that I could take a large sip for myself. "Just because you decided to stay in town does not mean you have to bed the D.I. in my flat."

"Please." Dana scoffed lightly. "I haven't yet stooped so low."

"Now isn't the time to start." I reminded her. "And I'm keeping your wine. You certainly don't need it."

"That's rude, Katherine." She said, but there was no bite to her tone. Her attention was still fully not on me. I muttered something about checking on the food and excused myself, downing her wine on the way to the kitchen. I plopped the empty glass in the sink and took a moment to breathe, wondering how Sherlock was faring. I dared a glance out into the living room and saw him at Molly Hooper's mercy. Though he looked a little empty behind the eyes, he wasn't ignoring her. And he wasn't uncomfortable. That was some small victory, I supposed.

I smiled absently to myself just as another knock came at the door. I walked to open it, not waiting around for someone to hear it. "Got it!" I called, though I was sure no one was paying attention. Only Sherlock. His eyes were fixed upon the door and the person who materialized beyond. I could barely say hello or offer to take the man's coat before Sherlock was beside me, nudging me out of the way.

"Mycroft." He said by way of greeting. He never moved or invited his brother inside, only looked at him. I tried not to stare, but who could help it? Mycroft Holmes cut a formidable figure in a tailored suit, eyes blazing with keen intelligence, lean fingers grasping an umbrella that rested lightly on the floor next to his feet. I saw immediately that he made it a habit to look down his nose at people, Sherlock included. His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile, had it not been frighteningly cold.

"Brother mine." He said. "Will you keep me out on the stoop all evening or shall I come in?"

"The stoop is that way." Sherlock said tightly. "Feel free to haunt it, if you must."

Oh, dear. I stepped in then, picking up the skirt of my dress so that I didn't trip over it as I budged Sherlock over. "I'm Katherine." I said brightly, introducing myself though intimidation danced along my spine. I could hardly stand to look Mycroft in the eye. It was almost as though I were prey in the claws of a great cat. I forced myself not to shudder. "May I take your coat? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes, please come in and make yourself at home."

Mycroft said nothing, only sneered. He looked past me and met Sherlock's withering gaze. "How domestic."

I thought Sherlock would slug him right there on the doorstep. Mycroft, with two words, had made me feel impossibly small. This time, I couldn't fight the blush of embarrassment that colored my cheeks and burned its way down my neck. I didn't open my mouth again, for fear of stammering, and meekly stepped aside to let Mycroft swagger into the flat. Sherlock's jaw twitched, fury coloring his eyes as he stood rigidly and watched his brother pass by without another word.

I let out a shaky breath and fought the urge to reach out for Sherlock, to try and calm him in some way. He looked as though he might leap across the room and gut Mycroft with glee if goaded just a bit more. I decided it was best to let him work through it on his own. We were barely friends. I had to remind myself of that. His issues with Mycroft were his business. Not mine.

No one had noticed the exchange, as they were busy filling their plates with hot food. I wished that I could, but I was still waiting for one more person. I left the door open this time and hovered near it as I picked at a dinner roll – the closest thing to dinner I would allow myself until everyone had arrived.

Sherlock was never too far from me, which I noticed but did not comment on. If I moved six paces toward the kitchen to speak to Dana, he would move three and strike up tentative conversation just behind me. If I walked to the kitchen, he was leaning on the wall just outside of it pretending to sip wine even though I knew he never drank it. I had the thought that it might have been unconscious, but then I saw the way he stared at his brother. He was setting a boundary. He was keeping Mycroft away from me. I was so grateful that I felt weak.

It was then that I noticed my father. I rushed for him with open arms, smiling brightly as I noticed he held flowers in his hand. White roses. He chuckled warmly as we embraced, holding the flowers so that the thorns avoided pricking my back. When I pulled away, he held them out for me.

"Flowers for my flower." He said, winking at me.

"Dad." I laughed. "They're beautiful, thank you."

"I passed the shop on the way and couldn't resist. I realized how long it had been since I last brought you flowers. Your graduation. It's rather inexcusable of me."

I sighed, beaming at the roses in my hand. "It's been a while since anyone brought me flowers. Thank you." I said again. I looked around, searching the mass of bodies for Sherlock and found him watching us quietly a few feet away. I motioned to him and turned back to my father. Surprisingly, Sherlock appeared at my elbow a few seconds later.

"Dad, this is –"

My father stuck out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume. I've heard much about you, son. It's good to finally meet you."

Sherlock took his hand and shook it firmly. "And you, sir."

I thought I might faint from shock.

"I know you must be a good chap, or my Katherine wouldn't stay here." He said with an undertone of warning that only a father can truly pull off. I scowled at him lightly, worried he would provoke an acerbic reply from my flatmate.

Sherlock hummed. "Katherine is very patient."

I smiled. "Well, I do try. And he is." I added pointedly to my father. "Very good. Don't try to scare him."

"Just doing my job." My father replied with a grin. And then the grin vanished. I turned around to see what had robbed him of his good cheer and found my mother standing behind us, wringing a dish towel in her hands. She still wore her apron, having just retrieved the pie from the oven to cool.

"James." She said. Her voice was barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and seemed to force herself to try again. "It's good to see you."

And though there was conversation all around, I suddenly couldn't hear anything that didn't involve my parents. Sherlock seemed to notice the way I stilled. His eyes locked on me and stayed there as if he worried I might lose consciousness.

"Caroline." My father dipped his head in acknowledgement. He tried to smile, but it turned into more of a grimace until he finally gave up. "You look well."

"Can we talk?"

All the light left his eyes. "I think we need to."

My ears perked up and I found myself holding my breath. This didn't sound like the divorce, or the possibility of one. It sounded worse somehow. Much worse. Without a word, my mum stepped in front of me and led the way out of the flat and down the stairs. She didn't try to take his hand, didn't even look him in the eye. My father slouched after her, hands in his pockets. Something was wrong.

I saw all of this. And Sherlock did, too. Even Dana, who had been chatting with Mrs. Hudson, was eyeing me worriedly as I crept to the door and cracked it behind me. I could hear the low sounds of conversation carried up through the stairwell. From the sound of it, I had already missed a lot. I would feel guilty later, I decided. It was punishment enough, whatever I might hear.

"Caroline, please. I don't want to know what happened or how it happened or why. I think I know why. But realize that when I try to understand, when I attempt to even imagine it… I'm ill, Caroline. I'm absolutely ill over it all."

My mother was in tears. I could hear them plainly, even at the top of the stairs. "I'm so sorry, James. So deeply sorry. I don't have any – I can't – there isn't an excuse. I won't insult you by trying to come up with one."

"Having Sylvia give him the number to the house – our number, Caroline."

"I know." She sobbed. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

"Would you even have told me?" He asked. "Is this why you've been hiding out here, why you haven't come home?"

"I'm so ashamed."

"Thirty-five years of marriage. Everything I've done was for us, for our children. You're a good woman. I don't deserve you. That's what I tell everyone – my Caroline is a good woman. They don't know you like I do – am I wrong?"

"No." My mother's voice was strangled, as if she couldn't breathe. Neither could I. "No, James. No."

"Then please," my father's voice cracked. "Please, darling, don't make a fool out of me."

I couldn't listen to any more of it. I slipped back inside the flat as inconspicuously as I could manage. My dress was too tight, the room was too small. I couldn't breathe. Their words echoed in my head and I realized that as deep as they cut, neither of my parents had ever raised their voices to each other. My father wasn't angry – he was broken. They both were. Dana made a beeline for me as soon as I showed my face back in the living area, but I waved her off and rushed quietly down the hall. I thought I might be sick, but the shock ebbed, and the anger didn't come. I wasn't surprised by my mother's infidelity, and I didn't know why.

I took a deep breath. And another.

Another side-effect, I thought. John was gone and everyone in my little world was losing their minds. I had to force a breath in that time. An hour later, the party had dispersed and the last of our guests had trickled down the stairs and into the street to call taxis. Dana lingered just long enough to insist that I call her the next morning. I nodded even though I knew I wouldn't. Charlie hugged me a little bit longer than necessary, a sign that he'd sensed something was wrong, too. And then they were gone with everyone else.

Sherlock watched me from his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't." He said suddenly.

I paused in the middle of picking up plates left around the flat. I already had several in my hand and looked at them tiredly before I addressed him. "Clean up?" I asked.

"Yes. You're quiet."

"And that's a problem?"

"It's alarming."

"Sherlock." I said, hauling the plates to the kitchen. I began washing them as he walked in behind me, carrying a few stray wine glasses.

"Did your mother finally leave us?" He asked, always a little too blunt.

"I don't know."

He opened his mouth to ask me another question I didn't have the answer for but seemed to stop himself. When it seemed he would try again, I decided to flip the conversation so that he was the star instead of me.

"Tell me about that little display with your brother." I said, refusing to explain my mood. I couldn't bring myself to say the words out loud. Not yet. "That was interesting."

Sherlock had no retort for that. Wordlessly, he put the glasses on the counter within my reach to be washed. And when I looked up, he was gone. I sighed and cut the water off, watching my hands drip into the sink for a moment before I dried them off.

To my left sat my mother's creation – her Magic. It was half-eaten, enjoyed, but not by my father. I suspected he didn't know she'd made it for him. He never even made it into the kitchen. I refused to look at the pie until I'd made sure my flowers were situated nicely in a vase. Then, I covered it and picked it up and placed it gently in the fridge.

I abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen in darkness after I flicked the light off on my way to bed. Sherlock was sitting again, this time with his violin as he readied it to play. I muttered a 'good-night' and fled to my room where I shoved my dress back into the closet and crawled into bed in my warmest pajamas.

I forced my eyes closed, though I didn't sleep. The dull ache in my chest throbbed, but never blazed as it almost always did. I felt inexplicably alone, even with Sherlock right down the hall.

As if he could sense this, Sherlock began to play. And the melancholy music that drifted through the flat, the kind that made me think he could see straight into my soul, kept me company all through the night.