It was now an hour until the party, and Sherlock was stood in his hotel room, straightening his jacket in the mirror. The invitation had stressed the point that formal attire was to be worn, and so Sherlock had resignedly fished out his sleek black dinner jacket and bow tie from amongst his wardrobe in Baker Street in order to look presentable at the party. He had to admit that he was anxious about meeting John's parents, especially his father, and he wondered whether they'd like him. He wasn't expecting them to; after all, not many people did, but for some reason he hoped they'd at least enjoy his company.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted Sherlock from his thoughts, and he quickly gave himself a once over in the mirror before moving over to the door and opening it to reveal John Watson stood before him, dressed in a dapper grey suit and black tie with shiny black shoes.

"Ready to go?" he asked Sherlock.

"I – yes. Wait," he called as John turned to leave. The doctor looked back at him. "You're not going to wear your dress uniform?"

John hesitated, "Ah, no. It would probably be best if I didn't."

Sherlock frowned. "Really? He's got a problem with what you wear?"

"Er, kind of. I haven't seen him for twenty years, so I don't really want to do anything to aggravate him, you know?"

"No, I don't know." Sherlock replied, "It's not up to your father to decide what you can and can't wear. If I were you I'd–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter. Can we please just go and get this over with?" Right. This wasn't about Sherlock. He just needed to step aside and let John stand in the spotlight for once.

"Of course." Sherlock said, following John out of the hotel room and down the long corridor until they were stood outside on the pavement and waiting for the car that had been sent to pick them up by John's mother.

"Nervous?" the detective asked.

"Extremely." the doctor answered

"Scared?"

"Very."

Sherlock paused, thinking a little, "Excited?" he asked.

John smiled slightly, "Definitely."

At that moment their ride pulled up, and Sherlock and John got into the back. Sherlock watched his friend from the corner of his eye as the doctor leaned back a little against his seat in an attempt to relax, though from the way he was clutching the armrest and bouncing his right leg up and down all revealed how tense he was. He could see John taking deep breaths every so often, and he noticed the way his mouth was set in a thin line, clearly showing that the doctor was playing out the worst scenarios of how this evening could go in his mind.

Sherlock reached across and placed a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently, "John," he said softly, "It's all going to be fine, I promise."

John looked across at him, his eyes twinkling as he attempted a smile. "You can't know that, Sherlock." he muttered, looking out the window and avoiding his friend's critical yet empathetic gaze. "What if he still hates me?"

"He's never hated you." Sherlock said firmly, "Perhaps he hasn't been the most attentive of father's, but that doesn't mean he despises the sight of you. I'm sure he's got his reasons for shutting you out, you just don't know them."

"If you were in my position, Sherlock." John began, still watching the scenery fly by outside the window. "If you had been invited to this anniversary dinner, knowing your father would be there and would most likely ignore you, would you still go?"

"No." Sherlock answered truthfully, "I've done nothing wrong, so I don't see why I should have to be the one to try and make amends. But you have a hell of a lot more compassion that me, John. Out of you and your father, you are by far the better man for at least giving this reunion a go."

The doctor said nothing, though his gaze had now travelled down and had rested on the floor, looking at the flecks of dirt and dust that decorated it.

"You said you were excited to see him," Sherlock continued, "Most people would have said no at that question. They would be dreading seeing their parent again after all they'd been put through, but as well as feeling that, you're also eager to talk to him once more. If your dad still ignores you after tonight, John, then he's lost a remarkable son."

John finally looked up at him, gratitude gleaming in his eyes. Before he could say anything, however, the car pulled up outside John's parents' house. The doctor took a deep breath before stepping out the car and waiting on the pavement for Sherlock. When the detective joined him, the two of them walked up the few steps and stood outside the door.

In his hand, John held an elegantly wrapped gift, which inside contained a diamond encrusted carriage clock. He could feel the object weighing heavily in his grip, and at that moment he wished for nothing more than to throw the clock aside and bolt down the street, getting as far away from this house as possible. The comforting hand on his shoulder, however, kept him grounded.

The front door opened to reveal a short woman, perhaps slightly taller than John, with her long blonde hair tied back in an elegant bun. Laugh lines decorated her aging face, but the soft make-up she was wearing complimented her age greatly. She was wearing a long, navy blue dress and a silver necklace hung around her neck. Upon opening the door, her eyes immediately flew to John, and a beautiful smile graced her face.

"John, honey, it's been far too long." She took a few steps forward and pulled John into a tight embrace. The doctor wrapped his arms across her back and hugged her just as tight. When they moved apart, John gave her a warm smile.

"Hi, Mum. It's great to see you too."

Ruth Watson was unable to wipe the smile from her face. "Dear me, look how much you've changed. You're so handsome and trim in that suit."

John rolled his eyes and brushed aside the comment. "Mum, this is my friend, Sherlock." he moved aside and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, who smiled graciously at her.

Without hesitation, Mrs Watson stood in front of Sherlock and pulled him into a hug also, circling her small arms around his wiry frame. John met the detective's eyes over his mother's shoulders, and gave him a pleading look, asking him to play along. Sherlock cast him a reassuring glance as he tenderly patted her back.

Finally, Mrs Watson let go, but kept her hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Any friend of John's is a friend of the Watsons. He's told me so much about you." she said fondly, and Sherlock could tell she was already thinking of a Christmas present to buy him.

"Well, come on in," Mrs Watson babbled, waving her arm towards the open door. "Everything's set up in the garden, so if you want to just head on through and grab a drink..."

"Thanks, Mum." John cut her off with a smile as he presented the wrapped gift to her, who accepted it with a peck on the cheek, and then lead Sherlock inside the house and through the hallway.

Photos were hung up on the walls, and as he walked by them, the detective could see pictures of John when he was about twenty, with a smile on his face in every one, though in some of them they seemed a little forced. Deciding it would be best not to ask his friend about them, he carried on out of the corridor, through the small kitchen and into the garden.

Unlike the rest of the house, the Watsons' garden was very large. White circular tables along with gleaming white chairs had been placed around the outskirts of the lawn, whilst a temporary wooden floor covered the middle. Also, wooden beams had been planted around the perimeter, with yellow fairy lights dangling from them. A large, overhead trellis hung above their heads, and a number of white paper lanterns made the place look all that more picturesque. Amongst the tables sat around twenty people, all chatting to each other, and other guests were dancing and laughing on the dance floor, swaying to a brass band, who were playing a jovial tune in the corner. Ball gowns and dinner jackets were all Sherlock could see, and his heart beat faster at the prospect of filtering through these peoples' disguises and finding out about their real life. John could see the twinkle in his eyes, and steered him towards an empty table, the both of them sitting down as they took in their surroundings.

Before either of them had the chance to say anything, a young woman around John's age, bounced over and plopped herself on a seat next to John. She was wearing a short red dress, and her blonde hair which hung in ringlets around her shoulders gave a perfect contrast to the blood red lipstick she was wearing. A rosy pink tinge accentuated her cheeks, and she giggled as she clutched at John's arm.

"Johnny, it's been soooo long since we last had a proper chat! Where oh where has the time gone?" she asked in a sing-song voice.

John grimaced, "Harry, this is Sherlock. You remember me talking about him?" he gestured over to his friend, who was studying John's sister intently.

Harriet Watson smiled cheerfully at the detective, "Of course I remember your little friend! My, my, isn't he handsome! You've scored, Johnny!" She let out a high-pitched giggle and rocked back in her seat, still clinging onto her brother. Said brother sighed and placed his head in his hands. Sherlock smiled sympathetically.

"Harriet, this isn't a way to treat your guests. Learn some manners, girl." a deep voice said from behind Sherlock. The detective could see John immediately tense, though he didn't raise his head, and Sherlock knew within seconds that George Watson was stood behind him.

Harry blushed a little, seeming to sober instantly. "Sorry, Dad." she muttered, then turned her gaze over to John. "Good luck, buddy," she muttered quiet enough for her brother and Sherlock to hear, yet not so loud that her father would hear. Soon she stalked away, seeking out another drink from the kitchen.

A large hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder roughly, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry 'bout that, son." The gruff voice said as a tall man, nearly as tall as Sherlock, stiffly sat on the seat next to him. He had short, grey hair, and exactly the same hazel coloured eyes that John had. Frown lines were prominent on his face, though his general being suggested a happy life. Sherlock gave a small smile to him.

"What's your name, then?" Mr Watson asked.

"Sherlock Holmes." the detective answered.

"Sherlock? What kind of a name is Sherlock?" the elder man scoffed.

Oh. There's an opportunity here, he thought to himself. A way to perhaps, maybe, fix the strife between father and son.

"Well, what kind of a name is Hamish?" Sherlock shot back. He could see John, out the corner of his eye, stiffen, but he kept his gaze firmly on the man in front of him.

George Watson, too, tensed. "You got a problem with that name? I'll have you know that my father was called that, and I don't take kindly to people insulting my family."

Sherlock held up his hands in a placating gesture, "No offence intended, sir. Just thought it was a strange name, is all."

Mr Watson grunted, "It's a traditional Scottish name, actually, and one I am proud to be associated with."

"Is that why you used it as John's middle name?"

John now had his hands clenched into fists in his hair, and Sherlock was aware that the doctor really wasn't happy as to where this was going. Mr Watson, too, frowned and looked across at Sherlock accusingly.

"You're a friend of John's?" he asked sceptically. Sherlock nodded.

"What, you're here instead of him?" Before the detective could answer, Mr Watson had already continued talking, "Hmph, it's not surprising, I suppose. I never really thought he'd have the guts to show himself here. Bloody typical, I tell you. Not that I'm complaining, mind you." Ah, didn't quite go according to plan, then.

A cold laugh sounded from across the table, "Can't even recognise your own son, huh Dad?" John asked icily, lifting his head from his hands and looking at his father.

Mr Watson hesitated for a split second, before regaining his composure. "You're looking well, John." he said stiffly.

"So are you. Happy anniversary." Sherlock looked from the two of them nervously.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw. Both John and Mr Watson were watching each other with guarded expressions, neither of them even attempting conversation. Finally, though, George spoke up.

"So you're not in the army anymore? What happened, got bored?" There was a slight trace of smugness in that last question, and Sherlock looked at Mr Watson in shock.

John shook his head incredulously, though he seemed unsurprised. "No, Dad, I got shot, as I'm sure you'll be happy to know."

Mr Watson tutted, "You never were good at stealth, and your reflexes were quite frankly appalling." he muttered.

"Hmm, you would've thought I'd learnt after failing to duck out of the way of one of your swings, wouldn't you?" John retorted.

Mr Watson said nothing, merely pursed his lips in annoyance and brushed the comment aside. "Still a doctor then? Managed to actually keep someone alive this time?"

The ex-soldier paled. "So you don't bother to learn the reason I'd been sent back home, yet you know the number of soldiers who died whilst I was treating them? Nice to know you have faith, Dad." John stood up from the table after shooting an apologetic look at Sherlock, before striding away to chat to some more guests.

"He was always sensitive as a child." Mr Watson muttered. I don't blame him, Sherlock thought. "Bloody useless."

The detective frowned, "Your son's a very good and experienced doctor, sir. He's patched me up plenty of times, I can assure you."

"I never said he was a bad doctor, he just doesn't seem to know what he's doing a lot of the time."

"Well, considering that the last time you saw him was when he was twenty, I'd say your opinion is very inaccurate."

The elder Watson glared at him, but said nothing. "What about you, then? What do you do?"

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock answered, waiting for the jab.

"Consulting? What the hell does that mean?"

Sherlock sighed, "It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." he smiled to himself, remembering the first cab ride conversation with John. The doctor's next words had then been–

"But the police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock looked at Mr Watson, letting the grin spread across his features. He could see John hovering in the background, nervous to see where this would go, yet also watching with interest.

"When you first sat down next to me, you squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring manner. At the time, your daughter Harriet was making fun of John, and so you thought it necessary to intervene, having seen this dozens of times."

"I wasn't making fun of him." Harriet said as she swayed over, John close at her elbows should she trip.

"Yes you were. Don't interrupt." Sherlock snapped. "Anyway, like I said, this meant that you had seen Harry approach people in a drunken state before, and it was safe to assume that you are ashamed of her, which is perfectly normal for a parent of an alcoholic, but what wasn't normal was the way you comforted me instead of John. Your son was the one being harassed by his sister, yet you still came to me, knowing that Harry had commented about me. This implied that you knew John was sat there, as you did not seem at all surprised when he spoke to you. That and the fact you freely spoke about him in front of him reveals that you also have a strained relationship with him.

"What are you imply–"

"I said don't interrupt. Despite the tense relationship, however, there are plenty of photos of John in the hallway back through the kitchen. I noticed in one of the photos that John was wearing his army uniform, and going by his age – which must have been about twenty – it suggested that he was perhaps weeks away from being deported. So even though you're not that fond of him, you can still bear to see his face every time you walk down that corridor. That means you're proud of him. You're proud that he's in the army, but also jealous of him."

"Jealous?" John asked, "How so?"

"Isn't it obvious?" John raised his eyebrows at him, "It's because he was unable to get into the army himself when he was younger. Going by the way you sat down stiffly earlier on, I'd say it was an injury to your hip that occurred during your childhood and never really recovered from."

"He fell out of a tree when we were teenagers," Ruth Watson confirmed, standing next to John and watching Sherlock deduce everything about her husband.

"Which proves my point." Sherlock said, shooting a look of annoyance at Mrs Watson, "John was a highly respected medic over in Afghanistan, but the more success he gained, the more envious you grew. You could have been all that – perhaps not a medic but certainly a good soldier – yet you've been hindered by one little injury. That one little injury has caused a rift between you and your son's relationship, and I suggest that you stop being so immature and be proud of your son for once. So, you see, you were right."

"I was right?" Mr Watson growled, fists clenched, "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock finished, standing and moving next to the doctor.

"Extraordinary." John breathed. Sherlock smirked.

Mr Watson also rose to his feet, still looking furious. Sherlock didn't pay any attention to this.

"The adult thing to do would be to apologise to your son." Sherlock commented offhandedly.

"Piss off." Mr Watson snarled, winding back his left arm. Having seen this, John quickly shoved Sherlock back and stood in his spot, raising his hands to stop his father, but he was too late and instead received the full force of George Watson's fury in the shape of a fist. The blow was powerful enough to send him staggering backwards, but luckily Sherlock was there to catch him and stop him from falling to the floor. The band stopped playing, having witnessed the scene, and the other guests gasped in shock.

Sherlock gently lowered John into a sitting position on the ground before crouching in front of him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, gently wiping the blood from the gash along John's right cheekbone.

"I'm fine." John muttered, and then looked up at his father. "What's that, three now?"

"Son..." Mr Watson murmured, staring at him in shock.

"Get out of my sight, George." Ruth Watson said firmly, crouching next to Sherlock and fussing over John.

"But Ruth–"

"Go away, Dad. Learn some manners." Harriet growled, mocking his earlier words as she emerged from the kitchen with an ice pack in her hand.

Reluctantly, Mr Watson trailed back into the house, and everyone focused their attention back onto John. Harry returned from the kitchen seconds later and Sherlock snatched the ice pack from her and held it to John's cheek, an apology gleaming in his eyes.

"Sherlock, it's fine. I'm fine. It's not your fault."

"John's right, sweetie," Mrs Watson said, "You would have been the one on the floor if John didn't get in the way. Plus all of those things you said were completely true; anyone could see it for themselves. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a stroppy child to sort out." She cupped John's other cheek and planted a kiss on his temple, before going into her house.

Five minutes later and John, Sherlock and Harriet were sat at one of the tables, the doctor still holding the ice pack to his cheek. A quiet cough caused them all to look up.

"John, I apologise for hitting you." George Watson said, looking into his son's eyes. Sherlock noticed Mrs. Watson stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her husband with firm eyes. He wondered if she had forced John's father to apologise.

"I realise also that it was inappropriate for me to try and even attempt to punch your friend, and I'm aware that if I had succeeded, I would no longer have a son to speak of." Mr Watson hesitated a little, before going on.

"But I will also tell you that I am truly sorry for any grievances I may have caused you during the past. Mr Holmes is right; I am very proud of you, and were it not for my silly little grudges, you would have been made aware of that fact a long time ago."

John smiled up at him, "Thanks, Dad." he mumbled. Mr Watson nodded, before ambling off again.

"Did you get that on recording? I don't think I've ever heard Dad apologise for anything before." Harry said with a grin, before she too walked off, though not before giving John a light hug.

Sherlock looked at his friend, "So, do you think today was a success?"

"Yes, I would have to say it was. Aside from the fact that I saved your hide again. I'm going to have to start making a tally, you know."

"I don't get into that much trouble..." Sherlock argued weakly.

"Hmm, let's think. There was the time with the Chinese postman, as well as the Dominican snail. Oh, and don't forget the gluten-free cannibal–"

"Yes, yes, you don't have to go on and on about it, Mr Show-Off." Sherlock said with a smirk.