AN: This chapter is quite long, friends. There was a lot I tried to accomplish in it, and I still didn't get to where I thought I wanted to. I am happy with it though. It just means this story is going to be a little longer than I anticipated. Thank you all for your wonderful support in this little thing, I feel truly blessed by your kind words.
John feels, fluff, and Mycroft ahoy, dears.
xxHoney
John sits in the plush armchair in his therapist's office, staring out at the bleak December rain through the wide windows. Christmas was coming up in a few days, and he still needed to get a turkey…
"John?" Dr. Thompson says, jolting him back to the present. "You're doing it again."
"Sorry, what?" He fidgets in his seat, straightening his posture like an errant school boy caught out in Catholic school.
"Any time I try to ask you about a topic you'd rather not talk about, you disengage from the conversation entirely."
"Well, you could try changing the subject," John says cheekily before he can stop himself.
Thompson smirks, but it's a rather patient look, all things considered. "That sarcasm is just another defense mechanism," he says with a tone of voice alluding to the fact that John's antics are nothing new to him. "I get paid for the hour either way. But if you want this to work, you've got to try a little harder."
"No, you're right. Sorry," John says, properly chastened. "You were saying?"
"I asked you about your mother," he says, his tone softening. "How old were you when she died?"
"You mean when she killed herself?" John snaps, the twisted violent thing in his chest breaking open suddenly.
"You're still angry about that," Thompson says. It's not a question.
"Of course I bloody —" he cuts himself off, breathing through his nose for a count of ten. "I don't want to talk about my mother."
"You've got to talk to someone about this, John. Sooner or later."
"You just wrote 'still has trust issues' on your paper," John says, avoiding the matter.
"And you're reading my writing upside down. See what I mean? These walls are never going to come down on their own."
"Well given what happened with my last therapist —" John starts.
"I am aware about the breach you experienced in privacy, and I don't know how many times I can tell you that there is no sum of money that could make me violate that trust with my patients. But I can't prove it to you. You are just going to have to take my word for it," Thompson says, snapping his notebook shut perfunctorily, staring at him.
John blinks in surprise. "Are we…done?"
"That's up to you. Like I said, I get paid either way," he says pointedly, taking a sip of his tea, eyebrows raised over the rim.
"You're not like other therapists I've met," John mutters even though he's just a little impressed in spite of himself. Here was this man, affable, unassuming, and most likely half John's age, with a maddening ability to cut right to the quick of John's bullshit. He continues to look at John expectantly. "Dr. Thompson…"
"Please, call me Daniel. I feel like we should start over," he says. In a show of good spirit, he tears out the page of notes he was just working on, and throws it in the bin behind him. It's got one of those novelty basketball hoops over it, and it makes John snort. God, he felt old.
"Daniel. Right, yes. I've got trust issues, and a temper, and PTSD, and I would appreciate it if we didn't talk about my mother quite yet," John says, taking the olive branch.
Daniel nods, crossing an ankle over his knee and curling his knuckles into a loose fist as he rests his cheek against them. "What would you like to talk about?"
The question is so odd given his experiences with therapy it surprises a laugh out of him. "What, seriously?" Daniel shrugs, a mild smile on his face as if they were just having a friendly chat in a café or something.
"Sometimes we don't need to be psychoanalysed. We just need someone with an ear to listen."
"From therapist to Agony Aunt?" John says wryly.
"If you like. I feel like taking it easy on you today," Daniel rejoins.
"Oh good," John snorts. Daniel grins, and John can't help but grin back. "If your goal is to make me feel like an arse, then you might be on to something."
"Really? Well then it must be Christmas," he says.
"Just continue to be a little prat, and your already half way there," John says without rancor. "I mean, Christ I could be your father."
"I'm not as young as I look," Daniel says. "I just act it. Age is a state of mind, really."
"Right, okay Yoda. Drink your ginger tea and get back to me in a decade when you've caught up to the rest of us and your joints are falling apart," John says.
"I'm thirty-six, you codger," Daniel says.
"Wh — really?" John says, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "Got any more of that ginger tea?"
Daniel laughs shaking his head, but he gets up and pulls a mug off the shelf anyway. He pours water into the mug from his electric kettle and lets the herbal tea steep, the bright fragrance filling the quaint office. He hands it to John, and flops down into the armchair affecting the same casual posture as before.
They sit there in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping from their respective cups. The tea isn't half bad, and it warms his hands where he cradles the mug between his palms. Maybe it's the fact that he's now more at ease since Daniel got rid of the notebook, but before he knows what he's doing, words start to tumble out of his mouth.
"I never wanted to be a father," he says looking back out the window over Daniel's shoulder. "I swore after all that my Old Man put me and my sister through that I would never have kids. I always figured it was selfish of my parents to have us."
"Were they young when they had you?"
"Yeah. My mum was barely twenty when I came along. God, they had no idea what they were doing," he says bitterly.
"It's been my experience that no one does. Life, in general, is a day-by-day thing."
"That's a generic platitude if I've ever heard one," John says, rankled.
"Ah, but it only irritates you because it holds up. Would you say you are any more knowledgeable or prepared than your own parents when it comes to Sherlock?" Daniel asks.
"I'm not a bloody abusive bastard, if that's what you mean," John snaps, his defenses rising again.
"That wasn't the question, John. I only asked if it was fair to assume your parents should have had it all figured out simply for your sake."
"Now you're starting to piss me off," John says, breathing through his nose.
"Oh shut up, John!" Daniel says, snapping out of his aloof posture, his face suddenly avid, hands tense on the armrests. "I'm supposed to piss you off, yeah? Now, answer the bloody question!"
"YES, alright?!" John explodes. "Yes, they were supposed to be better! Goddammit, they were being irresponsible arseholes bringing children into the world when they were only children themselves!" He gesticulates wildly, some of the hot tea sloshing over the brim of his cup. The burn of it hitting the back of his hand clears the red from his vision, and he curses vividly before setting it down on the small table in front of him.
Daniel gets to his feet, opening the small fridge near his desk and taking out a can of soda. He hands it to John, who takes it grudgingly before pressing it against his heated skin.
"John," Daniel starts again, his voice low and mindful. "I am not trying to give you the wrong impression, because you're right. You are absolutely right. They should have been better for you and Harriet. That's what all parents strive towards; being better every day."
"Do you have children?" John asks gruffly.
"I have two, yes," Daniel replies. He nods to the book case where a photo of two girls with brown hair and green eyes like his smile out of the frame. "Isabela, and Juliet. They are my life." John purses his lips, looking away. "The point I am trying to make, is that it is impossible for us as parents to have everything figured out. I mean, suddenly you are in charge of this tiny human's physical and emotional needs when — and I don't know about you but — half the time I can't even tell my own arse from my elbow on a good day." Daniel chuckles at his own joke, and John finds the corner of his mouth twitching despite it not even being that funny.
"On the flip side of that coin, however, it's also not fair for us as children to expect our parents to be infallible when it is clear they are so terribly flawed."
"I never — I never wanted them to be perfect," John croaks out. "I just wanted them to be parents."
Daniel nods, easing forward in his armchair, hands clasped together. "You were let down in a big way as a child, John. No one is begrudging you the anger you must feel. But they are a part of you. They shaped who you are for better or for worse, and whether or not you want to be, you are their son, and with that come all those pesky demons you try to shut away in boxes. But what you don't realise is this: if you don't let go of the hurt you sustained as a boy, it will end up seeping into the relationship you are trying to forge with Sherlock.
"You're so afraid of repeating what your father did to you, that you will never stop seeing Sherlock as anyone other than yourself. And then when you do make a mistake, when you do let him down — and you will if you haven't already — the failure and the fear will paralyse you. And then where would Sherlock be?"
John swallows hard, finally looking up at Daniel. "I thought you said you were going to take it easy on me?" he says weakly.
"I lied," Daniel says, eyes full of guileless compassion when he smiles softly. He sits back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.
John takes a deep breath, hands shaking.
"My mother killed herself when I was nine years old, and Harry was seven. She poisoned herself with her own insulin, and I have never forgiven her, and I am not sure if I ever will. And I can admit that I am angry, all the time — always have been. And without that anger, I don't know who I am. Who I should be. For Sherlock."
"This, right here John. This is a start," Daniel says, and John lets out a broken laugh, wiping a hand over his face. "It's a start."
-oOo-
John decides to walk the twelve blocks from his therapist's office back to the flat. His leg is giving him a little trouble, and he figures the exercise will be good for it.
The rain has let up, thank goodness, but the sky looks heavy and dark, and John wonders if they will actually get a bit of snow in time for Christmas. He wonders if Sherlock has ever seen snow, and muses that maybe he does have a subject to write about in an online blog after all.
When Daniel suggested it, John had dismissed the notion entirely. No matter how you put a spin on it, it was basically like keeping a diary and he most definitely was not a fourteen-year-old girl, thank you very much.
Besides, he's so sick of himself on a daily basis, why would he keep a sodding historical record of his petty thoughts? Isn't that what a therapist is for? Daniel said having an outlet such as writing would help sort John's residual anger and help him come to grips with all that's happened to him. It makes sense John supposes, yet he can't help but remain dubious.
Although, writing about Sherlock wouldn't be so bad. Like a scrapbook of sorts.
The thought surprises him so badly that he actually stops dead in his tracks on the pavement. A scrapbook. How was this his life now? Three months ago, the words 'John Watson' and 'scrapbooking' belonging together in the same sentence was utterly absurd, and now…well he could always sign up for a Mummy Message Forum, couldn't he?
A giddy, ridiculous feeling swells up within him, and John suddenly finds himself laughing. Whether or not it's some sort of catharsis from all of the emotional upheaval of the past two hours, John can't deny that his laughter is taking on a slightly desperate edge to it, and he just might be attracting attention. Which only makes him laugh harder, and he has to catch is breath against the wall of a shop building before he can string two coherent thoughts together that didn't start the cycle of hysterics all over again.
"Scrapbooking. Christ," he gasps, picturing the tawdry stickers and bizarrely shaped scissors Harry used to use to cut out photos when she had picked up the hobby as a teenager. His giggles abruptly stop when he realises that he actually doesn't have a single picture of Sherlock in his possession.
Well, that just wouldn't do.
With this sobering thought, he marches up to the next newsstand he comes to and purchases five disposable cameras as well as a packet of M&M's for good measure.
-oOo-
"Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson?" John calls down the hall to 221A, shutting the street door with his foot.
"Up here!" comes the chorus of voices from upstairs. John tosses his jacket over the banister, before jogging up the stairs with the shopping he picked up on the way. He can hear the telly, shaking his head when he recognises Treasure Island playing again for the umpteenth time. (He's going to wear out the tape at this rate, and John figures he will have to replace it with a DVD copy before long.)
The sight that greets him when he pushes open the sitting room door is a jovial one, and has him grinning from ear to ear.
Mrs. Hudson has procured a wiry Christmas tree from somewhere and set it up in the corner in front of the window. It's quite a sad looking tree, lopsided and shedding pine needles despite the fact it was plastic. However, it looks cheery enough, especially since it is done up with the fairy lights already.
"Hi, John!" Sherlock pipes. He beams at John from his position in Mrs. Hudson's arms as she hoists him up to hang a shiny red bauble on one of the higher branches. "Mrs. Husdon got us a Christmas tree!"
"I see that," John chuckles, and Mrs. Hudson sets him down on the floor. He runs to John full tilt, and slams into his knees with a hug that has John stumbling back slightly.
"I missed you."
John strokes a hand through his hair before scooping him up into a hug himself. "Thank you, Mrs. H. You didn't have to do that." He's a little chagrined that he didn't think of it himself so close to the date. But there's Mrs. Hudson again, his magnanimous savior as always.
"Nonsense, dear," Mrs. Hudson says with a smile, cheeks rosy. She finishes up with the last of the red baubles. "This was just collecting dust in my hall cupboard. I've gone to my sister's the past few years, and this year it just seemed too much of a bother to set it up in my own flat when there's no one to truly enjoy it." She comes over and picks the shopping up off the floor where he set it, and commences to put the groceries away. He learnt early on not to make a fuss when Mrs. Hudson wants to make a fuss over them, so he lets her in silence despite her claims that she really wasn't their housekeeper. "Show John what we did, love."
Sherlock wriggles until John sets him back on the floor, and grabs John around the wrist, tugging him towards the tree.
"I helped Mrs. Husdon —"
"Hudson," John corrects mildly.
"— Hud-son put the branches on, and put the base together with these plastic feet, and we fluffed the branches up to look like a real tree, and then we had to untangle the fairy lights!"
"Really?" John asks with the right amount of enthusiasm as Sherlock takes him around the tree.
"Yeah! And when we plugged them in they didn't work at first so we had to find the rotten bulb, and it would have taken a long time I think, but I found it before she did because it was a bit black on one side from being burneded out, she said. And I got to put the new one in and look, John!" Sherlock says, eyes wide and filled with awe as he looks up at the tree. "Look."
"I'm looking," John chuckles.
"Isn't it the most beautiful thing you ever saw?" Sherlock says, voice full of the reverence especially reserved for children during this time of year. John swears that his heart can't possibly grow any bigger for this little boy, but it sure does try when he looks into Sherlock's rapt face.
"It really is," John says, holding Sherlock's little hand.
"Show him what else you did," Mrs. Hudson says taking a seat in the red armchair with a cup of tea. Her eyes twinkle knowingly in the soft firelight.
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaims, and runs into the kitchen. John watches him stand on tiptoes and snatch something off the counter. "Close your eyes!" Sherlock commands.
"What? Me?" John says, sitting down across from Mrs. Hudson. He scoots the armchair forward a little to avoid being poked in the back of the head by a bristly tree branch.
"Yes, it's a surprise!" he hollers. Mrs. Hudson chuckles a little deviously into her tea cup, and mystified, John complies.
"Okay. They're closed."
"Swear?"
"By Long John Silver's beard," John replies. John hears Sherlock's little feet patter back into the sitting room. He can feel him hovering in front of him, little whuffs of breath coming slightly from his left.
"Go on, love," Mrs. Hudson says.
"Hold out your hands," Sherlock instructs. John complies obediently, and feels a smooth, flat object placed in his palm.
"Can I open my eyes now?"
"No, guess first," Sherlock says, pressing into his knee. John smiles when he can feel him squirm with excitement. He rubs the object between his fingertips, frowning.
"O…kay, um…" John says. It's round with a series of ridges on one side, and a piece of yarn run through the other. "What is this?" John chuckles.
"Open your eyes!" Sherlock says, clearly not patient enough to let John try to figure it out. He looks down at his hand, and sees that it's a little baked plaster ornament in the shape of what else — a skull.
"Look at that!" John says. It even has oval shaped divots for eye sockets painted black, and little flat teeth at the bottom. "Did you make this all by yourself?"
"Mmhm. Mrs. Hud-son helped me roll it out flat, and then she put it in the oven, and when it came out I got to paint it." Sherlock pokes his finger into one of the eye sockets to demonstrate. He turns it over. "And see? I asked her to help make sure I spelled everything right."
John blinks, staring at the words carved into the back. In Sherlock's wobbly handwriting it says, meRRy chRist-mas john Love sheRLock, followed by the date.
"Do you like it?" Sherlock asks, suddenly shy.
"I love it," John says, voice a little gruff, and Sherlock gives him a radiant smile. "Come here." He pulls Sherlock into his lap, hugging him fiercely. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck in an equally tight embrace before pulling back. He smiles, and plants a big kiss on John's cheek.
"Boys," Mrs. Hudson sing-songs. Their heads turn in tandem, and she snaps a picture with one of the cameras John bought, the brief flash leaving a trail of spots in his vision. Sherlock squawks in surprised fascination. "I hope you don't mind. I found them in one of the bags, and took the liberty."
John laughs, bubbling over with so much happiness he can't possibly contain it anymore. Sherlock slides off his lap, trying to get a better look at the camera. "What would we ever do without you, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh, you," Mrs. Hudson blushes, handing the camera to Sherlock. He brings it up to his face on the wrong side of the view finder, more copying Mrs. Hudson than actually knowing how, and presses the button. He frowns when nothing happens. "Here, love," Mrs. Hudson helps him wind it up, showing him the little dial in the corner. Sherlock watches, and brings the camera up again, pointing it at John. The flash goes off with a little click-snap! and Sherlock laughs his bright, effervescent laugh.
"I took your picture, John!"
"Well done, Bones," John says, and Mrs. Hudson claps her hands. John gets up, lifting Sherlock and planting him on his hip. "Help me hang this." He holds the ornament by its string.
Sherlock winds the camera up and snaps a picture of the tree, expression adorably serious, before he tucks it into the crook of his arm. He turns his attention to the ornament, and puts a finger up to his lips. His head swivels to the tree and back in contemplation, before he declares very scientifically, "There," pointing to a space in the centre.
John agrees, and loops the yarn over a sturdy looking branch. He steps back so they can look at the tree in all its glory together. Sherlock takes another picture, and sighs, tipping his head against John's. Mrs. Hudson comes to stand beside them.
"Lovely. Just lovely," she says, folding her hands in front of her.
"What do you say?" John prompts, kissing Sherlock's temple.
"Thank you Mrs. Hud-son!" Sherlock says on cue.
"You're welcome, little love," Mrs. Hudson says, tugging his chin. "Well, I'll let you boys to your evening. Just shout if you need me."
John pecks her on the cheek, and she squeezes his free hand before making her way downstairs.
The credits to Treasure Island are rolling, and the fire is crackling in the grate, and John is more at peace than he has ever been in his life with Sherlock in his arms staring at their Christmas tree in wonderment.
He never wants to forget this memory; the wistful look on Sherlock's face. He wants to cherish it always, and keep it tucked close to his heart.
He smiles ruefully to himself. Perhaps a scrapbook isn't such a silly idea after all.
-oOo-
John is in the middle of washing up the dishes from supper when Sherlock tugs his trouser leg.
"This one is empty," he says, holding up another camera.
"Already?" Johns says. Sherlock nods, curls bobbing, and gazes at him with a hopeful expression. John sighs in mock exasperation before wiping off his hands. "Put it with the others," he tells him, and goes to retrieve the fourth out of the five he bought.
He turns around from the counter to find Sherlock gazing at his little prizes all lined up on the table. "When can we take them in?" he asks.
"Soon," John says, handing him the new camera. "Now this is the last one. We have to save one for Christmas Day, all right?"
"Mmkay," Sherlock agrees, resuming his scientific inquiry of photographing everything in their flat, starting with another picture of John. He wanders back out into the sitting room, absorbed in his little experiment.
Before John can get back to the washing up, the buzzer rings.
Frowning, he looks down at his wristwatch. It was going on nine o'clock, and quite late for visitors. It rings again.
"Sherlock. I'll be right back, okay?" John calls out before he ducks into the hall. Warily, he descends the stairs telling himself he is being paranoid for wanting to take his gun to answer the bloody door.
The second he opens it, however, he thinks that his paranoia is warranted.
"What are you doing here?" he snarls.
"Good evening to you too, Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes says, tapping the tip of his umbrella against the stoop. "May I come in?"
"What for?"
"Because it's cold out, and the polite thing to do when one has a guest is to invite him in and offer him a cup of tea."
"Yes, for a guest. You're not welcome."
"How about a show of good will, Doctor? I am doing you a favour by showing up now instead of Christmas Day, wouldn't you agree? I have it on good authority you are planning a small 'get together' with close friends and relatives, and despite what you think about me, I do know when I am imposing." John scoffs at this, but Mycroft ignores the derision. "What with the Korean elections so close…well. Suffice it to say there is no need to worry that I will darken your doorstep on that happy day."
"I wasn't worried," John bites out even through he is inwardly cringing at himself for how childish it sounds.
"Of course you weren't," Mycroft says, giving him a flat, sour smile. "Now, let me in. I have a gift for Sherlock." He pats his breast pocket.
"I'll give it to him," John says, holding out a hand.
Mycroft clenches his jaw at John's pugnacity, looking off and down to the side. He huffs a weary sigh out through his nose, the action seeming to deflate him somewhat. Suddenly, he looks both younger and older than his twenty-five years, the tension around his eyes and mouth familiar to John on a visceral level. It's an expression he finds on his own face when the reality of his responsibilities weigh heavy on him, the evidence bleeding through the cracks when his defenses are wearing thin.
"I'm not trying to threaten you, Dr. Watson. I know I can be…heavy handed at times. A tactic that works quite well in politics, but not so well in other scenarios I have come to realise. However, I am asking you as one gentleman to another, if you will let me see my brother."
"And if I refuse?" John says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Then I will have no choice but to leave, if that is really what you wish."
"It is," John says abruptly. Much to his astonishment, Mycroft actually nods stiffly, and adjust his collar.
"Very well. Sorry to intrude."
And before John can blink properly due to his ogling, Mycroft is descending the few steps to the pavement, no doubt headed back whatever dark enigmatic place from whence he came. It's in that moment, and in the defeated set of the younger man's shoulders despite his regal posture when John realises he only wanted to see if Mycroft would actually heed his own words. Because deep down there is a part of John that aches in some sort of twisted mutual capacity. He knows what it's like to be that worried, older sibling with the urge to defend and protect. and years from now he doesn't want Sherlock looking at him with betrayal in his eyes, asking why his only brother was denied to him due to John's own insecurities and bloody-mindedness. So, it is with much ambivalence he calls out to the man before he can get too far.
"Mr. Holmes! Wait." Mycroft pauses on the pavement, in the middle of putting on his leather gloves. He looks back a John, inclining his head. "Wait. Just…come in for a cup, and see Sherlock. I've no right to keep you from meeting him."
Mycroft regards John for a moment as if his acquiescence is more unprecedented than his refusal. He nods, coming to some sort of conclusion, and offers his hand to John conceding the tentative truce John is willing to accept.
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Call me John," he says, showing Mycroft into the flat. "Let me just —" he indicates the stairs, "tell him he has a visitor."
"What have —? Have you told him anything about me?" Mycroft asks, voice going strangely quiet.
"Not as such," John says rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't really know what to tell him, to be honest. This whole thing is a bit…"
"Delicate?" Mycroft suggests.
"Yeah. Yeah," John says nodding. "Er, feel free to hang your coat. I've got the fire going so it's a bit warm up there," he says, indicating the peg by the door. Mycroft nods, removing his claret coloured scarf, and John is grateful he's allowing him to take a moment to prepare Sherlock alone. He takes the steps two at a time, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him.
When he enters the sitting room, the endearing sight of Sherlock surrounded by a dozen or so open text books loosens the tension in his bad shoulder. This was their home; their safe haven that Mycroft Holmes was about to be standing in. They could handle this.
Sherlock shuffles forward on his knees to one particular book open to a page about wooly mammoths. He raises the plastic camera to his face, and snaps a picture. John kneels down next to him.
"John! Look!" Sherlock says pointing to the photograph. "These elephants have fur."
"I see that," John smiles. He moves the book to the side and grasps Sherlock's free hand. He brings it up to buss his knuckles with his lips, more so to rally his own courage. "There's someone here who wants to meet you, Bones."
Sherlock looks at him, expression shuttering minutely. "Who is it?"
"Do you remember the nice man who gave us a ride after that day in the park?"
Sherlock frowns, nodding. His eyes flicker warily over to the door where Mycroft Holmes has made it up the stairs and is standing just on the threshold of the sitting room.
"He's not a nice man," Sherlock whispers.
"He's…" John falters, unsure how to respond. "He's not a bad man."
"You don't like him," Sherlock says. It sounds a little like a question, and so John tugs him closer.
"That day was a tough day, yeah?" John says, trying to find the easiest way to convey his treacherous relationship with the British Government. "I was agitated, and scared for you. Regardless, he helped us, and he wants to get to know you." John looks over his shoulder, and nods at Mycroft.
Hesitating only slightly, Mycroft makes his way into the sitting room, stopping about a foot away at first before coming the rest of the way and hunkering down into a graceful crouch so he is eye-level with Sherlock.
"Hello, Sherlock. My name is Mycroft Holmes," he says, extending his hand. Sherlock looks down at it dubiously, and doesn't take it. After a moment, Mycroft lets his hand fall to the side, and for all his stoic persona, even he can't hide his disappointment. He's about to get back to his feet when Sherlock takes a tentative step towards him. He looks at John for reassurance and John smiles encouragingly.
Sherlock reaches out his hand, and Mycroft stills just as it comes in contact with his cheek. John ties to hide his grin at the abashed look on Mycroft's face, and he rues the fact that there is no way he could possibly take a picture without the other man noticing.
Sherlock tilts his head to the side getting a good look at Mycroft, and brings his other hand to his face as well, framing it in his small palms. With his finger, he traces Mycroft's eyebrows, and trails down his hawkish nose, resting the tip right in his philtrum.
"You're last name is the same as my last name," Sherlock says quietly.
"That's right," Mycroft says around Sherlock's fingers.
"And your lips do the same thing as mine," Sherlock says, dragging his finger down. "And your chin."
"What would you deduce from this?" Mycroft says. He extends his own finger and brushes Sherlock's right cheekbone in a sort of awkward reverence. John suddenly feels like he's the intruder, and looks away for a moment.
"Deuce?"
"De-duce," Mycroft corrects. "It means to arrive at a fact or a truth by reasoning or logic."
"Oh," Sherlock says, angling his head to the other side and looking at Mycroft in a new light. Sherlock's eyes rove over Mycroft's face yet again, sudden understanding breaking over him like a wave. He takes a startled step back. "John?"
John nods, but makes no move towards him. "It's all right."
Warily, Sherlock turns back to Mycroft, brows knitting as he tries to process this new information. What ever conclusion he draws, he seems to accept it for the time being, and he stoops to pick up the disposable camera he left on the floor. He winds it up, and brings it up to his face.
He lowers it for a second. "Don't move," he tells Mycroft, pointing at him with a serious pout to his lips. John can't help but laugh a little when Mycroft self-consciously adjusts his tie.
The flash pops off, and pleased, Sherlock tugs Mycroft's wrist to sit cross-legged on the floor with him while he shows him the book with the wooly mammoth.
"I'll make some tea," John says, marveling at the sort of trust and acceptance children are inherently built with. Especially, he muses, this child who has been betrayed by the people who were meant to keep him safe. John couldn't even muster up that kind of forgiveness, which as he discovered today, should have at least been tempered somewhat by time and loss. There's a lot he could learn here, he thinks as he prepares the tea.
"Mammuthus primigenius," Mycroft was saying when John walks back into the sitting room with two cups of tea. Sherlock is looking at Mycroft with rapt concentration. "Kingdom: Anamalia; Phylum: Chordata; Class: Mammalia."
"I didn't know how you take it, so there's only milk. If you want sugar, help yourself," John says, taking a seat in his armchair.
"This is fine, thank you," Mycroft says, immediately setting the cup down on the floor next to him, concerned like he is with watching Sherlock as he flips through the book. John's not offended, however. He understands how Sherlock can occupy all of one's fascination.
"What about this one?" Sherlock says, placing the book in Mycroft's lap.
"Aptenodytes fosteri. More commonly known as the Emperor penguin."
"Emperor penweng," Sherlock says, nodding seriously while he brings the camera up to his face and snaps a picture. Mycroft goes to correct him, but thinks better of it and smiles a soft smile that he probably isn't even aware of. John can relate to this, too.
"Do you like taking pictures, Sherlock?" Mycroft says, reaching into his breast pocket. He pulls out a sleek device — a mobile, John realises. It's a fancy state of the art touch screen model, no doubt one that's probably not even on the market yet, and it is incongruously encased in a squishy, neon green case. John immediately sees where this is going.
"I don't think…" he starts, but trails off at Sherlock's delighted giggle when Mycroft shows him how the camera works.
"The phone is loaded with a number of ebooks, and a few puzzle games I thought he might like. Oh, and your number is pre-programmed into his contacts so he can call you if he needs to."
John scowls at this. He wants to know how Mycroft Holmes even has his number, but then thinks on how stupid that train of thought is when dealing with the man who practically invented all things 'cloak-and-dagger.' What he says instead is, "And your number as well, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. Should the need arise."
"Presumptuous of you, isn't it?" John says, trying not to sound put-out and most likely failing.
Mycroft gives him a tight smile, and John can feel the tentative truce between them fading. "Would you expect anything less, Doctor?"
John's response is to scoff at this, getting to his feet. He trusts he doesn't have to convey his point in the gesture.
"Ah," Mycroft says, rising likewise, not even a wrinkle in his impeccable three-piece suit. "It seems as if I have worn out my welcome." He looks down at Sherlock who stiffens where he sits, grasping the too-large mobile in his little fingers. He thrusts the device towards Mycroft, in a likely attempt to relinquish the gift before it is snatched away. It is a learned behaviour, and one that causes John's heart to ache. "That's yours, Sherlock. You are meant to keep it."
Sherlock only slams his eyes closed and shakes his head as if battling the cruelty of this concept.
John kneels down, and clasps his thin shoulders so he will look at him. "Sherlock."
"I don't want it, John," Sherlock says. "I don't want it, I promise."
John swallows, guilt making his throat tight when he realises he's the cause of Sherlock's distress. He clearly wants it more than anything, but having picked up on John's disapproval, he feels like he's not allowed.
"It's a present, Sherlock. It's perfectly all right to keep it. Look, it's got that skoodo game you like just for you." Sherlock searches John's face, holding his breath as if he can't believe what he's hearing. After a moment, he finds the assurance he's looking for and he relaxes.
"Su-do-ku," Sherlock corrects him with a weak smile. He holds the phone to his chest, looking down for a moment. "Are you sure?" His pale eyes flick over John's shoulder to where Mycroft is standing.
"Absolutely," John says.
Sherlock holds out his arms, and John picks him up.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock mumbles, still holding the phone close to him like a treasure.
"You are welcome, Sherlock. Happy Christmas, and I will be seeing you very soon," he says. The veiled threat in his words is not lost on John. "I'll show myself out. Good evening, Dr. Watson."
John doesn't reply. He simply watches as the man makes his way out of the flat, only breathing a sigh of relief when he hears the street door close.
Sherlock copies his sigh, and tilts his head so it rests against John's while he fiddles with his new toy. Something with little cartoon birds and a slingshot.
"How are you doing, kiddo?" John asks after a moment. Sherlock thinks, letting the screen of the phone go dark.
His brow furrows a little, and he plucks at the collar of John's jumper. He sighs again, and doesn't answer, but makes no move to be put down.
John dips his head to press against the crown of his messy curls, feeling as if he and Sherlock are on borrowed time.
A sudden draught of wind whistles through the creaking panes of glass, frigid and tainted with the East.
John shivers.