A/N: Starting with this chapter, you may notice dates don't 100% match to canon.
The summer stretched before them, long and silent, and there were times when Sherlock felt as though he was going out of his mind. As expected, there was no sign of Moriarty, even though he spent several long nights searching fruitlessly for some sort of clue that might tell them where he had gone. Exasperating, yes, especially since the man had been so close and Sherlock had just let him get away. That wasn't to say he regretted taking that damn vest off of John as soon as possible, but he would never forgive himself for not having made certain that Moriarty was unconscious before doing so.
John seemed to understand Sherlock's preoccupation far better than Sherlock had expected; for the most part, he went to work at the surgery and came home and forced food into Sherlock when he could and gave up when he couldn't. He urged Sherlock to take the more interesting cases that came in and not focus all of his attention on finding Moriarty, tempting though it was to do just that. And when Sherlock got truly manic, John was not above pinning him down on the sofa and methodically massaging the tension from Sherlock's body until he gave up and fell into an exhausted sleep - something he had learned from an ex-girlfriend, he claimed, though Sherlock had his doubts.
It was nice, Sherlock gradually discovered, to be around someone like John Watson, who knew when to push and when to give, who accepted experiments all over the place and strange things in the refridgerator and had a dark sense of humour that seemed to match Sherlock perfectly. John matched Sherlock perfectly. For the first time Sherlock was actually beginning to put stock in the whole soul mate theory and he wasn't sure how to think about that. He'd spent most of his life denying the possibility that this would ever happen. But nothing confirmed reality as much as the one thing Sherlock had been dreading the most: a visit from Mummy.
Not long after the case of "The Speckled Blonde", as John had chosen to call it in his blog, the two of them returned to the flat after eating a meal at Angelo's at John's insistence. Still riding the high from the case, Sherlock had agreed without too much argument. He'd spent most of the time watching John eat but he had managed to consume enough that John was happy, which in turn made Sherlock happy. There was a smile on his face all the way up to the point where he opened the door of 221b and spotted the woman sitting in John's chair. Sherlock stopped short and John ran into him.
"Sherlock, what are you - oh." John peered around him and blinked. It wasn't hard to guess the reason for Sherlock's sudden pause: the intruder was an older woman in her early fifties with neatly cut dark hair that had a hint of silver, well-dressed and proper, a small smile on her face. And then John saw her eyes and Sherlock could tell the moment that it connected.
Is that your mother? he asked, sounding torn between horror and amazement, his initial belief that the woman was a client fading away.
Unfortunately.
"Sherlock!" Mummy Holmes rose, somehow managing to make the one word sound both affectionate and scolding.
"Hello Mummy," he muttered, planting an awkward kiss on her cheek.
"And you must be John Watson. I've heard so much about you from Mycroft. It's lovely to meet you, dear. I didn't think I was ever going to get the chance, waiting for Sherlock to introduce us. I had to come all the way into London." She made no effort to hide the disdain in her voice. Mummy did not like London and she hated that both Sherlock and Mycroft had chosen to live and work there.
"It's nice to meet you, too," John said slowly, glancing back at Sherlock. You don't have to be so horrified, you know. It's not like she's going to chase me away.
Sherlock huffed - as though he would have been afraid of that! - and retreated, curling into a ball at the end of the sofa and sulking while Mummy cooed over John and asked him all sorts of questions about his family and the army and his life with Sherlock. Her eyes took in everything while John talked and John must have realized what she was doing but he didn't seem to mind, likely having become used to the feeling of being analyzed after living with Sherlock for so long. Once or twice he looked over at Sherlock and smiled, seemingly not put out by the scowl he received in return.
He typed out an angry text to Mycroft and sent it. Then he sent another text to Lestrade demanding a case (something, anything, that would get them out of the flat) only to receive a text telling him to piss off. Mummy left the room to visit the bathroom, and there was no need to worry about her poking through their bedrooms as she'd likely done that long before the two of them had come home.
Sherlock, John said and he was amused, the feeling leeching over their bond and turning Sherlock's sulking fit a shade lighter in spite of himself. It's not that bad.
You don't know her, John. Where do you think Mycroft and I learned it all? Sherlock demanded and felt a flash of satisfaction at seeing John pale just a little at the implication. John had no idea, not really. Mummy had chased a good many men and women away from Mycroft over the years, the ones she deemed weren't 'suitable', and although John was worth more than any of them and probably wouldn't leave regardless he didn't want… well, he just didn't want.
John's face went soft as he sorted through this flood of information and emotions and he stood up, moving over to sit down next to Sherlock. He picked Sherlock's feet up and then placed them in his lap once he was seated. He was getting quite good at interpretation. Look, you git. Even if your mother didn't approve I told you I wasn't going anywhere. It's not just because we're bonded, Sherlock. I like this, what we have together. It's good. His hand squeezed the arch of Sherlock's foot warmly. I'm not going anywhere.
John… Sherlock stared at him helplessly.
"Sherlock. We're meeting your brother and his husband for dinner." Mummy stepped into the room, a satisfied little smile on her face. One would have thought that she'd heard the whole conversation they'd just held. Honestly, Sherlock wouldn't have put it past her. He pouted again as she held up a finger. "I don't want to hear any complaining. We're going."
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