"Mother. Father."

"Mikey!"

Despite everything, John smirked. Blackmail material. Out of everything John had witnessed that day, none of it quite matched the surrealism of this scene: Mycroft welcomed home to a sunny cottage by a beaming, blue-eyed, stunningly normal couple.

Somehow it had never occurred to him that Mycroft Holmes had actual parents. Which also meant that Sherlock, in a way…

"Who's this?"

Mrs. Holmes had managed to disentangle herself from her eldest—only—son long enough to notice the teenager shifting uncomfortably on the steps below him. That nothing of his gaunt appearance was lost on her was evident by her tone, which had dropped and become something exceedingly gentle.

Mycroft smiled again, though it was pained.

"Mother, Father. I have a favor to ask."

His mother pursed her lips immediately, catching his eye.

"Of course we will, Mikey, don't be silly. What's the poor dear's name?"

"He can have your old bedroom," Mr. Holmes interjected, hovering at his wife's shoulder.

Neither alarmed nor gratified by his parents' perspicacity—they were his parents, after all—Mycroft dropped another constrained smile and stepped inside, fingers curling more tightly around his umbrella, as he cast a glance back at Sherlock. "There are a few things you need to understand…" he began in a low voice.

"You and your politics." Mrs. Holmes waved a hand. "You know Father and I don't care about that. Now then, what's your name?"

This last in a soft tone to Sherlock, who shrank back, positively alarmed at being addressed. A split second later it occurred to John that he had no answer to give. Mycroft answered for him.

"He doesn't speak, Mum. I thought I'd leave his name up to you."

His mother's piercing blue eyes—so like her son's—softened, and John found himself wondering, in a bit of a daze, how parents like these produced such a world-controlling git for a son. It was clear both were brimming with questions, but had the sense not to voice them immediately.

"Come and sit down then, both of you," was all Mycroft's mother said, stepping back from the door. Both parents seemed to recognize instantly the importance of not crowding their newest tenant. Mr. Holmes senior, whose resemblance to his son was obvious—tall, well-built, with chestnut hair that showed traces of gray at the temples—had already retreated to the kitchen, from which the clank of cups and saucers could be heard. It was a transparent tactic; yet John, knowing Sherlock as he did, found himself approving.

With another wary look at Mycroft, the teenaged Sherlock allowed himself to be coaxed inside. He paused on the threshold, surveying the room. Unseen a step behind him, John did the same.

The cottage was—there was no other word for it—cozy. It must have been utterly bewildering to Sherlock, whose only memories up to this point consisted of white-walled government facilities, wizard cells, and possibly Mycroft's own grandiose home. The front room was not particularly large, and fed directly into the kitchen. Wide bay windows, however, counteracted any impression of claustrophobia that the oddly angled ceiling and floor-to-ceiling shelves might otherwise have given. Sherlock let his eyes trace the room—a neatly upholstered blue sofa, honey-colored coffee table, two comfortable armchairs beside a small stove in the corner—but his eyes lingered longest on the bookshelves. John, noticing this, let his own eyes sweep over the titles. Here, at least, it was easy to see the mark of the Holmes parents on their sons: the bursting shelves held everything from Darwin to Hobbes to a well-worn copy of Moby Dick. Sherlock's eyes lingered on a thick and very dry-looking tome entitled The Dynamics of Combustion before a light touch on his shoulder brought him sharply back to reality. His sudden start and the panic in his eyes sent Mrs. Holmes stumbling back hastily, exclaiming, "I'm sorry, dear. I was only asking if you'd care to sit down?"

Sherlock merely stared at her for a few wide-eyed seconds, a tremor running through his frame, until Mycroft's steady voice came to him from across the room.

"It's alright."

After a moment he nodded, not meeting her eyes, and made his way to the sofa, settling on the edge beside Mycroft. The awkward silence was dispelled by the arrival of Mr. Holmes and tea. The floral scent spiraled through the air, causing John to wonder suddenly whether he'd ever detected odor in a memory before. He'd learned in medical school that even the recollection of odor not present was difficult or impossible for most people. But given that this memory belonged to Mycroft Holmes, no level of detail was really a surprise.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"If, as I take it, you are amenable, he'll be staying for an undetermined length of time. Extra security will be provided, but in a low-profile manner. I can't share any further information at present."

Gazing past her son to the teenager half-curled on her sofa, his mother nodded. Mr. Holmes murmured a soft affirmative; clearly the stipulation was not unexpected. John found himself wondering how many such situations they had encountered before, and whether Mycroft and his parents weren't much closer than he let on.

"Do you communicate, dear?" his mother asked, passing the sugar to her young guest. She made the movement deliberately slow and Sherlock, though clearly startled at the question, managed not to fumble the tiny dish. His gaze slid sideways to Mycroft before he nodded once, briefly.

"When the mood strikes," said Mycroft drily. Sherlock glared, eloquent in his silence, and Mrs. Holmes beamed.

"I think we'll get along fine," she said to Mycroft. And in an undertone to Sherlock, "He needs someone to take him down a peg or two every once in a while, doesn't he?"

To everyone's surprise, Sherlock was startled into a tiny smile. Aware of the eyes on him, he dropped his gaze to the bowl in his hand and deliberately spooned sugar into his tea. One…two. Mycroft was the only one who didn't look amused.

"I'll be going, now," he announced looking around for his jacket before realizing that it was draped over his arm. The brevity of their only son's visit was clearly not usual, as Mycroft's parents made only token protest.

"Mikey, you've only just got here—"

Unnoticed by everyone except John, Sherlock's face lit in unholy glee at the nickname.

"I'm sorry, Mother," said Mycroft rather pompously over his father's shoulder, allowing himself to be pulled into a brief embrace. "But I really must be going. Events in London have been rather …fast-moving as of late. Whitehall specifically. I really can't afford the time away."

His mother merely nodded, pursing her lips again, but by her shrewd expression and the way her eyes darted briefly to the side John knew she was making the leap between the 'excitement' and her unexpected guest. Mycroft read it too, but said nothing. Merely paused, eyes lingering on his charge, who was watching his departure with a not-quite-perfect approximation of the later Sherlock's expressionless air.

"I will be in touch about the additional security," he said at last. "Certain precautions of your own will be necessary. In the meantime, do take care of him."

His mother rested a hand on his arm. "Of course, Mikey," she said quietly.

Mycroft tucked his umbrella in his arm, paused again with one foot in the doorway and dropped a meaningful glance back at the young man.

"And do try to behave, won't you?"

The look the teenaged Sherlock gave him was so full of wide-eyed innocence that John had to choke back a laugh. It was no wonder Mycroft hadn't bought into the deaf-mute routine.

With that farewell the elder Holmes brother strode out into the sunlit winter afternoon, and John felt himself pitching forward as the scene changed…