A/N: Sorry it took a few days; enjoy! :D

Chapter Thirty-Six

John did not know what concerned him more: the quaint, picturesque cottage that the driver had stopped outside of; the imposing sight of Mycroft, a kindly-looking blonde-haired woman and a man who looked disturbingly like an older version of Sherlock standing outside the recently-painted black front door; or the lack of their youngest son waiting to greet him. He stared from behind the tinted window and out to the scene in front of him – whoever had arranged the front garden clearly had a green thumb, there was a perfect array of blooming flowers, plants and bushes – and felt, not for the first time since he had climbed into the back of the car, the familiar jolt of butterflies at whatever he was about to enter into and the seemingly impossible idea that he was about to meet Sherlock's parents.

To John's complete and utter bewilderment, the presence of Mycroft was actually reassuring.

As the driver came around to open his door for him (as if he needed assistance) the woman – Mrs. Holmes – began to hurry down the path towards him, all flapping hands, flowing sleeves and a genuinely warm, welcoming smile; her husband followed her, looking down at the path as he walked with a small, fond smile of his own, the expression clearly a response to his wife's enthusiasm. John had seen that smile before upon Sherlock's own face, funnily enough in response to his own thoughts of the very same woman. He knew before he'd even slipped out of the car and into her oncoming path that he would, whether he wanted to or not, love her.

Her arms were around him and squeezing him tight before he'd even had a chance to look stand up straight.

"So nice to meet you, John, I've heard so much about you from my boys -"

Mycroft began to walk towards them with an eye-roll, hands in his pockets. "No need to exaggerate, Mummy, he knows very well that you didn't even know of his existence before yesterday."

She shot him a look from under lowered lashes, pulling away from John and tutting. "I don't know, wherever did you learn those bad manners from? Certainly not me or your father." She turned once more to John, the same warm smile offered to him that she had worn before, utterly changing her; she was beautiful. He accepted and returned the smile gratefully if not a little awkwardly, about to speak before she continued. "Take no notice of Mikey, he's just hungry."

"Mikey?" The moniker escaped before he could stop it, a grin twisting his lips up as he looked towards the now death-glaring Mycroft and let his amusement show without a hint of regret. He quickly schooled his features into a more appropriate smile as he forced his attention back to Mrs. Holmes, however, a strangely powerful determination to be liked by her welling up within his chest. "Mrs. Holmes, it's so good of you to welcome me into your home at such short notice, can't thank you enough."

"Nonsense," she said with a wave of her hand, looping her arm through his and starting to pull him up through the gate and towards the house. "Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of ours -"

"Any friend of Sherlock's is an impossibility," Mycroft muttered, still glaring at John; Mrs. Holmes tutted at him again.

"Dinner will be ready soon, so you can take that grumpy look off of your face," she admonished, quickly switching her attention to the tall man waiting halfway down the path. "Tim, get John's suitcase for him, would you?"

John quickly reached out with a firm hand, meeting Sherlock's father's eyes with as respectful a smile as he could muster. "Mr. Holmes, good to meet you."

Timothy Holmes gave him a small smile in return, grasping his hand lightly and giving it a small shake. "And you, John. Forgive my wife, she tends to get a little excitable meeting new people."

"Oh, get on with you," blustered Mrs. Holmes, nudging him with her elbow as she passed. "And don't lose his suitcase! He's a forgetful sort, my Tim," she said quietly to John as she continued to practically drag him towards the front door, "so he needs reminding every now and then not to accidentally misplace things. After all, what would you do without your suitcase?"

"You aren't wrong," John said with a polite laugh, watching with a somewhat apprehensive gaze as she fumbled with her door key; she eventually managed to get the door open, pushing the door wide and dragging John through into a beautiful kitchen, Aga stove and huge fridge-freezer amidst a myriad of country-style kitchen counters, the most amazing smells coming from the oven – John's mouth instantly began to water, his stomach growling all too loudly as it reminded him cruelly that he hadn't eaten more than a few handfuls of stale cornflakes in five days.

It did not go unnoticed. "Don't worry dear, dinner will be ready in half an hour or so – you do eat meat, don't you?" It wasn't really a question, clearly she assumed he did; even if he had been a vegetarian he wouldn't have been able to tell her to her face regardless. "Roast chicken stuffed with sage, onion and rosemary and all the trimmings. I wasn't sure what to cook as Sherlock hasn't breathed a word about you -" her eyes darted to his and suddenly widened, " – not that it's surprising, of course, he doesn't talk about anyone! I'm sure he's just being secretive as always, just like their father. I'm more of an open type myself."

John was momentarily overwhelmed. "Mm, yes… oh, yes, me too. Absolutely. It sounds wonderful, Mrs. Holmes, thank you -"

"Oh, no, you must call me Wanda," she said with a wave of her hand, bustling around and putting various pans filled with water on to boil, "no need to stand on ceremony with us. Like I said earlier, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of ours."

He found himself hesitating, the question on the edge of his tongue. It spilled out eventually. "Is Sherlock not here?"

The quickest flash of concern, rapidly masked by another smile. "He's up in his room having a nap before dinner. Poor thing hasn't been well, though I'm sure you know that."

He nodded quickly. "Yeah, course. Course. But he will be at dinner?"

"Believe me, John," Mycroft drawled as he walked in from outside, "even if he is at dinner it won't make the slightest bit of difference. He's, shall we say, vocally challenged at the moment."

"You leave your brother alone," Wanda lectured lightly, shaking her head as she placed her hands on her hips; it sounded very much like something she said often, a natural response. "Now, Mycroft, why don't you show John up to the guest bedroom so that he can get settled in? There's an en-suite bathroom attached, dear, so you needn't worry about your privacy."

Christ. He'd never been in an en-suite bathroom in his life. "That's very kind, thank you."

"Just need Tim to bring your suitcase – Tim! Tim, where's John's suitcase?"

Mr. Holmes ambled in, looking very content indeed. "Sorry about that, I got chatting to Carl. Did you know that his daughter's expecting another baby?"

"Give him his suitcase you old fool," Wanda chastised with a fond smile, flapping at him with a dishcloth and turning to the large sink full of washing up, "and stop gossiping like an old maid. Honestly, John, he's worse than I am!"

Sherlock had been completely and utterly right: Tim and Wanda Holmes were the most ordinary, happy, open people he had ever come across in his life and he could not for the life of him figure out how two such down to earth people could have possibly raised two sons so completely different from themselves. It wasn't until he noticed Mycroft tapping his foot impatiently at the bottom of the stairs that he became aware of how intently he was staring at them both, mouth partially open as he watched their simple, easy banter. He cleared his throat quickly and reached out for his suitcase from Tim, giving him a quick smile and thanking him for his trouble before turning around to follow a very bored-looking Mycroft up to the first floor.

"Your room is right at the end," he said in his classic monotone, not even looking at John as he spoke. "I'm sure you'll find everything you need already set out for you – towels and such."

John stared at the door. "Right. Thanks." He forced himself to take a step towards it, legs stiff as his mind raced and he wondered which of the three doors he was currently passing belonged to Sherlock. "I'll, uh… come down once I've settled in."

"No rush," Mycroft said, turning on his heel and making his way to the opposite end of the hallway, "unless you particularly want to be interrogated by our mother as to the nature of yours and Sherlock's… friendship."

Don't rise to it, just keep walking…he forced his legs to keep moving, reaching the door with a deep exhale of breath and twisting the doorknob until the door released itself; he pushed it open gently, slipping inside and taking hesitant steps into the centre of the room and waiting until he'd set his suitcase down before he allowed himself a proper look at where he was to stay for… well. However long Mycroft was planning on holding him hostage.

It was a lovely room. On the left wall as he walked in there was a dark oak double bed furnished with throws, cushions and bedding in varying shades of deep green and brown, pillows plumped and ready for his head to sink into later that evening; on the wall directly opposite him there was a cottage-style window that somehow managed to let in a lot of light considering its size, edged either side with curtains that seemed to match the bedding perfectly. At the end of the bed was a huge wooden chest – he would fight his curiosity, it wasn't his house to snoop around! - and on the wall opposite the bed there was a door which no doubt led to the en-suite bathroom. Behind the door there was a large set of wooden drawers the exact shade of oak as the bed, on top of which lay a pile of fresh cream towels and decorated with a few candles that looked as if they'd never been touched, let alone lit.

All in all, the room was beautiful. Perfect, even. John felt dirty just standing there, a ragamuffin in his tatty old jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.

He craved a shower.

Unsure as to whether he was supposed to put his clothes away in the drawers or not, he zipped open his little suitcase and took out the few toiletries he'd brought along with him, cautiously entering the en-suite and trying not to feel too much like a pauper amidst the shining white porcelain suite within – the shower was a veritable beast, the cubicle surely big enough for two people, so many buttons and settings on its power system that he felt, not for the first time since he had arrived, daunted. Never before in his life had John felt so exceedingly common, and if it were to ever happen – not that it would if Sherlock truly was intent on ending their friendship – he knew that inviting Sherlock to his home would be incredibly embarrassing and he'd feel almost ashamed to show him his small, unimpressive home and his simple, dull life.

John pushed aside these thoughts; it wouldn't do him any good to dwell on it when it was unlikely to ever happen. Instead he splashed some warm water onto his face, rubbing it hard with a towel before refreshing his deodorant and changing his t-shirt to the white shirt he'd hurriedly packed at the last minute; on top of this he put the grey jumper he had worn to Sherlock's the last night he'd seen him. It smelled vaguely of the beef bourguignon he'd been cooking that night but hopefully with the smells of Wanda's chicken it wouldn't be noticeable.

A light knock on the door interrupted his self-conscious staring in the bathroom mirror – why wasn't his hair lying flat?! - and made his stomach jolt awkwardly beneath the layers of this clothes; what if it was Sherlock? Did he even know that John was here? Would he be secretly pleased? He forced these thoughts away as he barrelled out of the bathroom and strode towards the door, hand wrapping itself around the doorknob and twisting it, pulling it open with a thrill of apprehension -

Mycroft stared down at him, lip curling as he looked John up and down and acknowledged the fact that John had changed his clothes. "Mother would like to know whether you'd like white or red wine with dinner."

"Er..." John reached behind his ear and gave it a little scratch. "White? White goes better with chicken, right?"

The smirk upon Mycroft's face deepened. "This isn't a test, John, you don't need to try and impress anyone."

"Yeah, well, right now I feel so out of place I'm pretty sure impressing your parents is out of the question." He looked away from the eldest Holmes brother, fingers playing with the hem of his jumper. "Should I come down?"

Mycroft stared at him for a moment. "I was rather hoping we could have a... chat."

John looked up, staring right back. "A chat? You don't chat."

"I thought it would be prudent to speak with you before you see Sherlock. To... prepare you."

Jaw locking and leaning back slightly, John found his arms rising to fold over his chest – defensive, unwilling. "Right. It's that bad, is it?"

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he is absolutely furious at me for inviting you here – he was rather explicit." Mycroft couldn't seem to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. "Needless to say he was rather dramatic about the whole thing but, I suppose, under the circumstances it's not too surprising."

"So he doesn't want me here. I'm not exactly shocked."

"You need to be aware of his current mental state, John," Mycroft pressed, eyes darkening in his obvious concern, "it's not as simple as either you or I could hope. It's not simply a case of being rejected -"

"I didn't reject him," John interrupted quietly, arms falling to his sides as his fists curled, "not once did I infer to him that I didn't return his feelings."

"From what Sherlock has said to me it sounds as if you were rather particular in your phrasing upon your confrontation in Greenwich Park; there was no mention of considering alternatives to your, ah, friendship."

John glanced away. "At the time it wasn't really something I'd considered. I was more concerned about how he was feeling than what my head was doing."

An eyebrow rose; Mycroft looked as close to surprised as his stern face was capable of. "Are you trying to communicate to me that you do, in fact, return them? Have you had an epiphany in your distance?"

John glanced away. "No. No, I'm not saying one way or another. But I've... allowed myself... to think about it. About how I might feel."

"And?"

"And..." John sighed, suddenly wishing he had just let Mycroft carry on talking about how bad the situation was. "I don't know, Mycroft, it's complicated. He's my best friend. I don't really know how to differentiate between the feelings I have and the feelings he has and all this pressure from all sides to figure it out isn't exactly helping. What's important to me right now, as it was before, is that he's all right and understands that no matter what way this goes I'll still be here."

Mycroft was eyeing him closely, reading him just as fluently as his brother would have. "I can't pretend I understand what either one of you is currently experiencing but I can see that it's perhaps more difficult for you than you're letting on."

John pursed his lips, maintaining his steady gaze. "Like I said. Unimportant."

"Well, if that's how you wish to be -"

"It is."

Mycroft straightened up slightly; he was not oblivious to how guarded John had become, yet clearly he still wanted to press the matter – to John's relief, he did not. "Then one more word of warning: Sherlock does not want you to be here. He is... delicate. Do not expect a warm welcome."

John forced a shrug, feigning nonchalance despite knowing that Mycroft would not be taken in by it. "Good thing I'm wearing a jumper, then."

- X -

The dining room was beautiful, simple, cosy; the wooden table looked as if it were hand-cut, crafted purely for the sake of it being in this room, the chairs almost mismatched but fitting in perfectly with the genuinely comforting aspect of not just the dining room but the entire house in general. Every room that John had seen so far seemed to have an over-abundance of objects within them, but rather than feel cluttered it just felt... well. Homey. Like the sort of home he couldn't help but never, ever want to leave.

He settled down in the seat he was guided to by Wanda, still all flapping hands and warmth, noting with some concern that he was sitting next to an empty chair; worse, a chair that was clearly waiting to be filled. He watched in quiet panic as Mycroft settled in the chair opposite him, Mr. Holmes walking to the head of the table and sitting down with a smile and a gentle comment on how wonderful everything looked – and it did. It looked magnificent. The chicken was golden, potatoes crisp, vegetables steaming and vibrant; better yet there was a huge gravy boat full of the thickest gravy John had ever seen in his life. It looked... amazing.

"Mrs. Holmes -"

"Wanda, dear!"

"Wanda, yes... this looks wonderful. You really didn't have to go to so much trouble."

"Nonsense," she said with a wave of her hand, pouring white wine into her husbands glass, "I adore cooking, not to mention this lot have been on at me to do a proper roast for the last few weeks. I tend not to do them when the weather gets a little warmer but, as it's a special occasion..." She glanced up at him and gave him a big smile. "Sherlock should be here soon – Mycroft, did you tell your brother that dinner was ready?"

"Yes Mummy," Mycroft said, sounding very bored indeed. "He informed me that he was getting changed into something more appropriate." He glanced at John. "He's been in his dressing gown since the moment he arrived -"

"When I have nowhere to be it hardly seems necessary to clothe myself as you deem appropriate, Mycroft," a deep voice said from the archway leading from the dining room into the kitchen, causing John's stomach to do an odd sort of skip; he found he could not look towards the voice, instead focusing intently on the tureens of food in front of him. "Not all of us feel it necessary to wear suits all day, every day."

"Ah, Sherlock – did you nap well?" Wanda was beaming at her youngest.

John allowed himself to look at the young man from the corner of his eye; he was dressed in a deep purple shirt and his usually black trousers, hair damp. He looked younger, somehow.

"For the most part." Sherlock made to sit down next to Mycroft. "Though I would appreciate it if next time those who decide to have conversations upstairs would perhaps have the decency to keep their voices down -"

"No, dear, you're next to John. See? You're the only one drinking red tonight."

All pairs of eyes drifted to the empty seat next to John; John tried to keep his face neutral.

Sherlock did not move. "I would rather sit here, Mother, if that's quite all right with you."

"Nonsense!" Wanda looked up and at Sherlock, then John, then back to Sherlock again. "Surely you want to sit next to your friend?"

"He's not -"

"Stop harassing him, Wanda, and sit down next to John. At least this way they can at least see each other." Tim gave John what he clearly thought was a reassuring smile. "From what I've heard it's quite rare for these two to be out of each other's sight!"

Oh, god. "Wanda, is there anything else that needs doing? Can I give you a hand pouring the wine?" He was determined not to look at Sherlock, determined not to invite even more awkwardness than the blatant elephant in the room already was. He started to stand. "I can -"

"You sit down, you're a guest!" She practically ran around to his side of the table, using the wine bottle to nudge him back into his seat. "There, that's better – a whole glass for you, dear, or just half?"

"Half is fine," he said quickly, knowing how rapidly wine affected him and not wanting to embarrass himself. "Thank you."

As Mrs. Holmes sat down next to him and proceeded to pour both him and herself a glass of wine, Mr. Holmes leaned forward and started to spoon some peas onto his plate; Mycroft did the same with the cauliflower, Sherlock reluctantly reaching out with a large fork to pierce some already carved chicken and slipping it onto the edge of his plate. Instantly the sounds of cutlery against china and the clinking of glasses filled the room, a comforting sort of hush falling over them as they filled their plates and sipped at their wine. Eventually Mycroft broke the silence.

"So, Mummy – are we expected to attend the village ball on Friday?"

John was almost sure he'd misheard. Ball?

"Of course," she clarified brightly, pouring gravy over her vegetables, "they'd send out a search party if we didn't! John, dear," she turned to him slightly, handing him the gravy boat, "you'll come too, won't you?"

John almost choked on his chicken. "Sorry, sorry -" Tim quickly handed him a napkin and a glass of water that seemed to have materialised from nowhere, " - thank you. Sorry. No, I'm fine, it's all right – what's the village ball?"

"Oh, it's all good fun," Mr. Holmes said contentedly, raising his glass to his lips and taking a sip, "everyone in the village gets together at the village hall, has a dance, listens to some live music, it's the social event of the season."

It sounded like something out of an Austen novel. Wanda was nodding enthusiastically as she cut into a potato.

"It really is a wonderful night. There's usually a band of sorts, jazz or classical, sometimes both; everyone dresses up, all the ladies in their evening dresses and the men in tuxes -"

"It's terribly tedious," Mycroft interrupted with an eye-roll, leaning over Sherlock to pick up the tureen of peas. "Yet we're expected to do it every year, heaven forbid we miss it."

"Ignore him," Wanda advised a currently slightly overwhelmed John. "It's wonderful. You'll absolutely have to join us."

Mycroft was suddenly smirking. "Oh, well, yes – he couldn't possibly miss it, not this year of all years."

Sherlock's eyes flitted to Mycroft, murderous.

Wanda, however, looked delighted. "Oh, goodness, of course! Sherlock, you would have let me forget, wouldn't you? You did promise Henry that you'd do it this year, after missing last year."

"Really, Mother, isn't it enough that I'm going?" He did not look happy in the slightest as he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. "I don't see why it's necessary -"

"Nonsense, you're a village celebrity!" Whatever they were talking about it was clear that Wanda Holmes was not going to let it go without a fight. "They were so disappointed when you couldn't perform last year."

At that, John raised his head and found himself staring for the first time at Sherlock; the genius avoided his eyeline completely, but that didn't stop John from feeling like he was holding a live wire and all too close to being shocked. He heard the raucous laughter of Harry in his head and violently kicked at it. "Perform? You're going to perform?"

Sherlock did not look at him, nor did he answer. Wanda did it for him.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock performs every year! Mycroft too, sometimes!"

"Please, Mummy, don't bring me into this," Mycroft grumbled with a sigh, meeting John's eyes with a 'don't you dare mention this revelation to me in public' look, "I haven't played the piano for at least two years, I've practically forgotten."

Tim was shaking his head, chewing thoughtfully. "Those sorts of things you don't forget, it's muscle-memory. Do you play an instrument, John?"

He had never felt so under-qualified to be sitting at a table in all his life. "Er, no. No, I'm not even slightly musical -"

"Don't listen to him, he hums up a storm when he thinks no one's listening."

John's eyes flew back to Sherlock's, shocked; the dark-haired teenager was staring right back, a momentary flash of surprise in his own silvery eyes as he realised he had not only referred to John at a time when he was clearly trying to feign knowledge of his presence but had done so in what could only be defined as passively fond tones. Sherlock quickly tore his gaze away, adding without missing a beat:

"He's tone deaf, though, so it's hardly a pleasant experience."

Wanda tutted at him. "Don't be so rude, Sherlock. Do you sing in a choir, John?"

He found himself choking again, this time on a pea. "Oh – oh, christ, no. No. I really can't sing, Mrs. Holm- Wanda, I couldn't sing a straight tune to save my life."

"Perhaps you're not suited for the straight life," Mycroft mused quietly from across the table, taking a calm sip of his wine; John felt as if the pea were still lodged in his throat. Tim passed him another napkin.

"Thank you – sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me -"

"You could fill a Bible," Sherlock muttered unnecessarily. John decided he wasn't going to look at Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

Wanda took control over the conversation, clearly sensing some tension. "So, John, yes – the village ball, you really should come. Have you ever heard Sherlock play his violin before?"

Images of Sherlock holding his violin in the dining room flooded his mind. "No. No, he hasn't. I didn't even know he played until last week."

"Pardon?" Wanda practically shrieked the word, so incensed as she was. "Sherlock, you didn't tell John you played?" She didn't give him a chance to speak. "Oh, well, he's been playing since he was a child, you've never heard anything like it."

Clearly she adored her youngest son. "I'm sure he's very talented."

"He is," she said confidentially, leaning over to top up his near-empty glass (god, he really did drink when he was nervous) until it was practically to the brim, "he is and now you'll get to hear him at the village ball!" Her face was practically splitting in two she looked so happy.

But there was a problem that none of them had considered. No one but John, of course. "It sounds lovely, really, but I um... well. I don't have a tux with me. I don't even own one."

"Oh, that's not a problem – I'm sure we can find something for you." Wanda's determination was terrifying.

"Yes, that's... I'm not exactly tall."

Every pair of eyes was suddenly on him, sizing him up: so this is what it felt like to be a door-mouse surrounded by gazelles.

Sherlock spoke, his tone mocking. "I'm sure one of your dresses could be altered, Mother. How about that muted blue one you wore two years ago? It'd go perfectly with John's eyes."

It didn't make a damned bit of difference that Sherlock was mocking him; the allusion that he had stared into John's eyes often enough to know their colour was too intimate. No one else noticed, naturally – Wanda set to waving her hand at Sherlock and telling him not to be rude, Tim chuckling lightly and mumbling something about liking that dress, Mycroft... well, smirking – but John found himself yet again with his eyes zipping up to rest on Sherlock's suddenly taut face, his apparently 'muted blue' eyes unable to look away as the very slightest flush coloured the skin around his friend's razor-sharp cheekbones.

He looked away. "As much as I'd love to wear what I'm sure is a beautiful dress, I really don't think your friends would react kindly to me wearing something they've already seen. Maybe something in mauve?"

Wanda and Tim both laughed, the former pink-cheeked and clearly in high spirits. "Well, we'll just have to take you into the village and see what we can rustle up for you."

Again, John felt hideously embarrassed. "I'm not sure I can afford -"

"Don't be silly, we'll just hire out a nice one for you!"

"No, really, you don't have to do that -"

"Of course we do," she argued, shaking her head and clearly closing the topic of conversation, "and that's that. We can head into the village tomorrow."

Leaning over to grab the bottle of wine, Tim gave John a small smile, noting his need to be rescued from his enthusiastic wife. "So, John, Mycroft tells us you're studying to be a doctor?"

John nodded his thanks, putting down his knife and fork and reaching out for his glass. "I'm in my pre-medical year at the moment, doing modules in Biology, Chemistry and Physics. I did completely useless subjects for A Level so I've got a bit of catching up to do."

"I think it's fantastic," Wanda said warmly, eyes flashing up to offer him her trademark smile, "to be willing to put in the work for such a worthwhile career. Your parents must be very proud."

"Mum's thrilled. Can't stop talking about it, constantly reminding the neighbours."

Wanda and Tim exchanged a look. "And... your father?"

John did not miss a beat, not wanting to make the dinner awkward – well, more awkward than it already was. He did not look over to the cause of the awkwardness, instead taking another sip of the crisp white wine and shaking his head. "Oh, well, I'm sure Dad's proud too -"

"John's father is a relapsing alcoholic," Sherlock cut across him bluntly, "so I doubt he thinks much of anything about it."

Three pairs of eyes flickered to the youngest Holmes, shock crossing both Wanda and Tim's expressions and mere exasperation spasming on Mycroft's at the words so briskly uttered; John continued to eat as if Sherlock had not just revealed a hugely personal piece of information to his perfect parents at a time when it was highly, devastatingly inappropriate, trying to force down a mouthful of chicken and cauliflower so that he could speak. "Mm, excuse me – yes, Dad struggles with alcoholism," he verified, still refusing to look at the young man who was supposed to be – in his eyes at least – his friend, if only so his anger could remain subdued enough to continue this conversation, "but he's going to group sessions and working through it. I'm sure once he's back with us properly he'll be able to vocalise how he feels about my career choice."

The awkward silence that met his words was broken by Wanda, seemingly determined to smooth things over. "Well. We all have our trials, don't we? No one's exempt, there's always something going on close to home -"

"Oh, goodie, absolutely - let's talk about my heroin addiction," Sherlock interrupted sarcastically, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Remember when I overdosed and had to be hospitalised? Or how about when I failed all of my exams at Brookling Manor? Oho, isn't it fun to take trips down memory lane? That coma, that was a real bunch of laughs!"

John's jaw tensed, hardly believing what he was hearing.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned, eyeing his brother over the edge of his wine glass, "enough."

"Couldn't agree more," Sherlock said in agreement, pushing his chair back and standing, "may I be excused? I've rather lost my appetite."

"No, sit down," Wanda said in a shaky voice, enthusiasm suddenly sucked dry and her hand trembling slightly as she put her wine glass on the tabletop. "Please, Sherlock. It's our first dinner as a family since you got home."

"Apologise to your mother," Tim ordered quietly, his own eyes on his wife rather than his youngest son. "And do as she says. Sit down."

There was moment of hollow quiet as every person in the room waited, silent and still other than John who picked up his wine glass again and took a few sips in order to keep himself from saying something he would regret; slowly Sherlock lowered himself back into his chair and turned his head slightly towards Mrs. Holmes, meeting her eyes at the last moment. "I'm sorry, Mother. That was insensitive of me."

The tone of Sherlock's voice was almost overwhelmingly similar; John found himself gripping his wine glass a little tighter as he recognised it from just under a week ago, the same timbre and gentleness that he had heard as he had received his own apology from the curly-haired genius. He fought the urge to look at him, powerful as it was.

"Apology accepted," she said with a forced smile, glancing sideways at John – he realised that she was probably hideously unaware that he knew of Sherlock's habit and was now incredibly embarrassed; he suddenly wanted to hug and reassure her, the wine probably partly responsible for the influx of warm feelings towards her. "What I was going to say was that my sister developed a rather strong liking of the painkillers she got after a back injury from falling from a horse. It very nearly became a problem."

There was a very awkward silence, but John was too distracted at the idea that Mrs. Holmes was so determined to show him that she wasn't judging him or his family that she would tell him something so very personal to her own family; he reached over without thinking, resting his hand on top of hers for a moment. He didn't miss Sherlock's eyes narrowing in his periphery, nor the way he stared at the easy contact as if something was on fire.

"It's difficult, but you can get through anything with a good support network." John wasn't just trying to reassure the woman; he was directing his words very much towards the man on the opposite side of the table to him. "That's what family and friends are for."

Wanda turned her head slightly and offered him a wavering smile. "Yes. Yes, I couldn't agree more."

Sherlock looked away from the two of them, eyes still narrowed.

"Well!" Tim placed his knife and fork neatly on the edge of his plate, leaning back in his chair and offering the room a smile of pure contentment. "I don't think I could possibly manage dessert for at least another half an hour after that feast!"

- X -

When the knock came to John's door as he began to climb into bed, he knew.

"Come in."

A moment of hesitation before the doorknob turned, the door slowly swinging open as John stood by the bed with his hand resting on the duvet cover that he'd been in the process of pulling back; he tried to suppress the sudden surge of something disturbingly powerful welling up in his abdomen as he saw Sherlock standing there on the threshold, still wearing his clothes from dinner.

The young man took a small step into the room.

John forced himself to look at him. "What's up?"

Sherlock did not meet his eyes; John couldn't blame him. The intensity in the room had rocketed within seconds. "I felt it would be appropriate to... apologise for my behaviour at dinner."

John's eyes shifted away for a moment, his head spinning. "Come in properly, then. Close the door."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, "I can't do that."

Exasperation replaced the unidentified emotion in his chest. "Fine. Fine. Apology accepted, then."

"John -"

"It's fine, Sherlock, you've apologised and I've accepted. You can leave now."

Sherlock finally brought his gaze up to meet John's, though the reluctance behind it was obvious. John could barely stand to look at it.

The silence stretched between them until it was painful.

"So." John pulled the duvet cover across the bed and looked pointedly at the door. "Goodnight, then."

Sherlock did not return the sentiment. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, hand reaching out and closing the door quietly behind him as he left John to the tension left behind.

Two hours later and John found, for the first time in five days, that he could not sleep.