The room was warm, filled with thick red fabric and glowing candlelight, roaring fireplaces and surprisingly charming family portraits. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes talked of nothing but joy, of fond memories and proud parental moments, but Dr. Watson was always the only one to respond.

Sherlock lumped himself into the corner chair, the furthest from the fireplace, despite his obvious shivering. He nodded politely to everything that was said and even let his father hug him; weak attempts at grins were offered and, rarely, even the occasional syllable was uttered, but nothing more.

He was getting thinner. John knew the thought was redundant, but the thinning frame which seemed at its limit only shrunk each day. And here, surrounded by love and support and the most picturesque of scenes, the detective had never looked so small.

"Do you remember that time, Sherlock, that time it snowed on your birthday? You and Mike threw snowballs at each other and sled down that hill like nothing mattered in the world. Couldn't have been more than ten years old." Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself and put an ignored hand on her son's wrist. "Hopefully this Christmas we'll see something similar."

Sherlock clutched his cup of tea and took his first sip of the evening. John watched, miserable, as the man skillfully bounced any contact away. Nothing was allowed to penetrate his private world—even worse, it seemed that the chosen route of focusing on the positive wasn't helping.

But if Sherlock got his genius from anyone, it was his mother. She turned to John, invited him into the kitchen, and spoke mutedly as she eyed the door. "I know what you're thinking," she began. "We know what we're doing; trust me. Give it time. When Sherlock was just a boy, discipline wouldn't do. Most stubborn child in this world, I believe, and I'm certain you can trust it. But ignore the problem and act as though everything is fine? He couldn't stand it. Sooner or later he'd just burst. Sometimes by crying or yelling, but usually with a meek apology and plea for resolution. He'll come around, John, and tell us everything he needs to. There's no point in asking, is there, when we don't even know what needs to be said."

The right side of John's mouth curled into a smile. Sherlock certainly was the type that couldn't cope with an unfinished melody; it stood to reason that leaving things unresolved would compel him to cooperate. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one in the world to understand him," he confessed. "I forget that you and Mr. Holmes know him better than I do."

"I wouldn't go that far. That mind's an odd one—beautiful, yes, a gift to us all, but odd. He's been this way since day one and I've yet to fully understand what's going on in that funny head of his. Even more so, I can't begin to fathom why he's chosen to open up to you. Accepting care, letting someone in…it isn't exactly Sherlock, John. Whether I should count you blessed or cursed, I can't tell."

They shared a look, knowing that they were part of the elite group granted access into such an enigma. "What was his childhood like, if you don't mind me asking?"

Mrs. Holmes laughed and busied herself with the kettle. "Oh, John, you don't want to know the half of it. The teacher's notes, the detentions, the fights. Never fit in, of course. No surprise there, the poor dear. He eventually convinced himself that he didn't like people. That's what we do, isn't it? We pretend we don't want what we can't have.

"So I was there for him as much as a mother could be, as was his father. We had Mycroft already, you know, and with the eight year difference…well, Mike could relate to Sherlock more. No two people were ever more similar nor more different."

"But they can hardly be in the same room," John said.

"I should think not. Sherlock never got over disappointing his older brother, and Mike didn't have the tact to explain that he still cared."

"Sorry. Disappointing?"

Mrs. Holmes washed her hands and joined John at the table, resting one of her hands on his. "I forget that you don't know. Sometimes I think you know everything there is to know about him."

John waited.

"You know he's struggled with addictions like this for ages. Since he was fourteen, actually. He'd blame boredom, or the rejection from school, but I think that really he just didn't know how to handle emotion. That mind is fragile, John, and he chose to treat fire with fire. What is the pang of denial compared to a chemical high? It was escape. It is escape. Why he started using again, I don't know."

"Mycroft was angry with him for succumbing to such a low habit," John reasoned.

"Well, sure, that was part. I don't think Mycroft had the same emotions as Sherlock. He could handle them better somehow. Of course he didn't approve of the drugs, but…" She paused as if just now remembering how personal the story was. Her voice lowered to just above a whisper as the slightest moisture filled her eyes. "When Sherlock was seventeen, things got to the lowest I've ever seen. Mycroft found him attempting to…"

John squeezed her hand, knowing the end of that sentence but not able to process it himself. Sherlock had mentioned suicide before, but to actually attempt it?

He hadn't known. What would he have done differently had he just known…

"Mycroft was always the one who found him, somehow. We did what we could," she continued, now composed. "It happened again when he was twenty-two, then…well, not too long before he met you."

"Mrs. Holmes, I…" He cleared his throat and blinked a tear away, humbled at the weight of her statement. "I don't know what battles he's facing right now. He won't let me in, but I'm knocking. I can only hope that one day he'll answer. But know that I will never stop trying to reach out, to help. If that involves being gentle or screaming, fine. Whatever it takes. You have my word."

She squeezed his hand back and let herself smile. "If anyone can help him, it's you."