They didn't pack any clothes or grab a toothbrush for the trip. Sherlock insisted John get inside and they were off for the three-hour drive to his family's house up north.
Sherlock drove quickly through the country roads leading up to the house. Most of the way was the two of them sitting in silence as John attempted to piece together what they would be doing once they got there.
"Do you want me to drive?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head.
"Okay, well can you at least tell me what's going on?"
He veered around a corner and entered another stretch of bright green grass and wooden farmhouses. "I need to pick up a few things."
"Mycroft wouldn't just toss everything."
Sherlock looked over with a look that made it clear that Mycroft absolutely would. "There isn't a lot left of mine left there. I took most of it with me when I moved to London."
They drove over a covered bridge and down one more long stretch of trees and sheep before Sherlock spoke again.
"We're almost there. You will stay in the car while I gather my things."
John laughed. "Absolutely not. I'm going in."
"No you are not."
"Yes," he said, "I am. Try to stop me."
Sherlock scowled but continued driving. It would take a lot more than a pouty face to keep John from seeing the house Sherlock grew up in.
It took almost four hours but they made it to 91 Chester Lane with Sherlock only getting lost five times…admitting to none. John marveled at the simplicity of the home. He wasn't sure what he imagined the Holmes house to look like but in his mind it was magnificent, sterile and set apart from the world.
The house they arrived at was small on the outside and surrounded by a menagerie of fruit trees and bright flowers. There was a path lined with white and pink lilies and apple trees blossomed with red fruit that was yearning to be picked. The front door was painted a soft copper red and had a handmade wooden sign across the front that read Home Sweet Home. The domesticity of the outside was so charming and to see Sherlock pasted on top of it tickled John as they walked towards the inside.
Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket.
"You brought a key?"
"Of course."
"But how did you know you would need it? We didn't go back to the flat." Sherlock did have an answer. He didn't need one. "Nevermind," John said.
Sherlock unlocked the door and pushed it open.
He walked straight inside and made a harsh left. John chose to the linger and take it all in. Immediately he noticed the sheer amount of pastel and knick knacks in the foyer. Every tabletop had an angel figurine or a tiny peach pot filled with beads and shells. The wall was lined with photos of her family which each picture highlighted in finely polished silver frames.
John started at the beginning and saw a tiny Mycroft in a sailor suit with a neutral, almost serious expression. He had to laugh. Some things never change, he thought. A lanky man in a suit was holding Mycroft, as a toddler. The man was just as stern and they made a terrific pair. Neither appeared to want to be in the picture. The next one, however, was a candid shot of the two of them in a study, both of them deeply reading with a beam of sunlight filtering in through the window.
Then another baby showed up. John immediately recognized the piercing blue eyes. Sherlock was a smiling child with a mysterious look in his eye as he held tight to a toy car. The next photo was a family shot. The father had his hand nervously held on his wife's shoulder. Mycroft, at about five years old, stood in front of his father with a tie on and his arms held tight against his chest. Sherlock, at about two, stood against his mother's legs and seemed delighted.
It was bizarre to watch the decline of Sherlock's smile as the years went on. What began as a deliriously happy child deteriorated to photos where he was with his brother and they shared grimaces. What he didn't see, until halfway down the journey, was a little sister. Then, the shift made sense.
Bernie looked like an entirely different species than her brothers. She was blonde with bright green eyes and a smile that burst through the frame. John could almost hear her laughing.
The only photo of Bernie was of the three children sitting on a piano bench in the living room of the home. Mycroft, at that point a young adult, sat at the end and seemed bored. Sherlock, however, had his arm wrapped around his sister and hers around him. They were both smiling and it was heartbreakingly genuine. There was something about this girl that brought out something so buried and distant in Sherlock. After Bernie, the photos grew darker and Sherlock's smile was gone.
His mother, however, seemed to try the best she could. There was something Bernie-like in her open body language. In every photo she had her arm around sons and her head tilted towards them as she brought them close.
John felt himself feel so sad for his friend. He knew that Sherlock had limitations emotionally and they had been stunted and beaten by his childhood. There was a happy person that had a brief chance to live in his skin. He'd been able to live life where he wasn't mocked and chided and women who cherished him embraced his quirks and now they both were seized away from him. His mother looked like a loving person who saw through the stubborn exterior of her son. John had to wonder what kind of person Sherlock would have been if he hadn't those women.
He walked down the foyer and saw a door open a crack. Sherlock was far in the back of the house and wouldn't be watching his every step. John slowly opened the door and saw that it led into Mrs. Holmes' room. He felt dirty for walking in but the curiosity took hold and commanded him inside.
She was immaculately neat. While the room was stuffed with photos and keepsakes it was organized within an inch of its life. He walked inside and gazed at the diplomas on the wall, the childhood art framed in the corner and a wedding picture hung next to the vanity mirror. John was taken aback by how much Sherlock resembled his father back then. It was the same mop of curly dark hair, the lanky tall frame and the stare that could wither plants.
Sitting on the edge of the vanity was a leather bound book with papers sticking out of it. There were post-its sticking out on the edges like she had been referring to it consistently. He didn't want to invade her privacy, he really didn't, but he couldn't help himself.
When he opened the book he immediately saw himself glued on the first page.
Holmes solves another! Murderer caught in 24 hours! And under the headline was a photo of the two of them at a press conference as Lestrade spoke.
The pages were filled with clippings. They dated almost ten years. Every case, every mention, was in there. She didn't miss a crime.
As John put the book down he felt a sense of grief wash over him. This woman cared about Sherlock, really cared, like no one else in the world.
"What a woman," he whispered as he petted the cover of the book with his fingertips. "You did good, Mrs. Holmes," he said with a smile.