Loathe though he might be to admit it, John thinks that he can see a faint resemblance between Mummy Holmes and Sherlock right now. The woman is every bloody bit relentless as her son when she is convinced that she's right. He'd hoped that paying for the clothing and leaving the shop would be enough to dissuade her but she'd actually followed him out onto the street, and now she's keeping pace with him as he pushes his way through the crowd towards the tube. He wonders for a split second if she's so determined that she'll actually follow him down onto public transport, a place that Sherlock staunchly refuses to go no matter what he is bribed with.
As it turns out, she won't. Mummy grabs his arm instead, hard enough to wrench him to a stop just before the stairs. For a small woman, she is stronger than she looks. "I will not let you depart until you listen to me," she says, an undercurrent of steel running through her voice. "I know what's best for my son, Doctor Watson. You have not known Sherlock all that long. You have not seen him when he's succumbed to the worst of what he can be, the habits he picked up from living amongst those people at university." She spits the word out with vitriol and rage.
"I've seen a fair amount," says John calmly. There is no point in bothering to explain to her that he thinks he has seen the worst of what Sherlock can be. He's not seen the man in the middle of a drug binge, no, but he's watched Sherlock be reckless and daring and stupid. He's watched Sherlock be afraid, and he's watched Sherlock sacrifice himself, and he's watched Sherlock laugh and love and live. John Watson has seen the worst, but he has also seen the best. His grip, when he takes hold of Mummy's wrist to forcibly remove her hand, is not gentle.
"I could make him into a great man!" she says, seemingly unaffected by the pain. "I could, if you would only let me try. He hurt you, didn't he? When he leapt from that roof? I have no idea what he was thinking, but -"
"Enough." John's voice goes low and cold. Some lines are not to be crossed, and Mummy has just sailed over one. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Some days he's even a good one. He may be a git and a bastard and an idiot, sometimes, but he is also brilliant and amazing and - and extraordinary, and I wouldn't want anything to change between us." His fingers are cold, and he remembers those days without Sherlock, days that he thought might not end. "I meant what I said. Let this go. You can't have him. I won't let you take him from me. The last person who tried is no longer around to talk about it."
He leaves her there and storms into the tube, where he knows she will not follow. He also knows that his parting sentence will confuse her because she'll think that he is referring to Moriarty. But he's not. Even Sherlock is unaware of the exact circumstances surrounding the death of Sebastian Moran. All he knows is that Moran confronted John one night and John emerged the victor. That's all he needs to know. The real truth of the matter, the disgusting things that Moran had whispered to him that night, remains only in John's nightmares, along with the shocked expression on Moran's ugly face when John got his hands around the bastard's neck.
John takes the tube back to Baker Street. By the time he walks in the door he feels slightly calmer, even ready to face another visit with Irene Adler. First, though, he has to face the consequences of being late, and those come in the form of a tiny consulting detective who launches himself off of the sofa the second John enters. John finds himself being subjected to a level of scrutiny most people can't even begin to conceive of. He bears it with good grace as he sets the bag down on the table, takes his coat off, and grabs one of the sandwiches that have been left out. Bless Mrs Hudson, he thinks fervently.
"You're late," Sherlock says unnecessarily, looking troubled. His eyes narrow slightly, reading, and then he draws in a sharp breath. "You ran into my mother."
"Yes, I did," John agrees, because there is no point in trying to hide it. He is certain that Sherlock is deducing the truth from a hundred small bits of data that John will never notice. "I'm not sure how she tracked me down, but she caught me just I was picking out clothing for you. Here, by the way. Hope it fits."
Sherlock takes the bag, but he doesn't open it. "She wanted you to give me to her," he observes, and there is a telling tightness in his voice. "What did she offer? Money? Women? Your own practice?" His hands are shaking.
"God give me strength," John mutters, setting his sandwich down on the table. Without giving Sherlock the opportunity to back away, he turns to his small friend, hooks his hands underneath Sherlock's arms, and lifts him up. Sherlock gives an (adorably) surprised squeak, the bag falling to the ground, his hands flailing uselessly for a moment before he grabs onto John's shoulders. Now that he is a little bigger and taller, he is just this side of being too big for John to comfortably hold him. John can admit, if only to himself, that he will miss this. It is easy to give affection to Sherlock when he is a child.
"John, what are you -"
"I'm going to say this slowly, so that you will understand," John says, automatically bracing Sherlock on his hip. Skinny legs wind around his waist and hold on. "I am not letting you go unless you want to. There is no price someone could offer me that's high enough. If you ever decide that you feel like growing up all over again, you're welcome to go with her. But until I'm sure that it is your decision, made without the influence of anyone else or anything else, you're staying here." He bites back the urge to add anything about how he's already lost Sherlock once, but there is a good chance it shows in his face.
Sherlock just stares at him for a long time, his eyes wide, too speechless to respond. Finally, he gives what looks like a shaky nod and whispers a solemn, "Thank you."
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