Author's Notes: Anthony is sixteen! Our little boy is growing up, and that fact is not lost on his family. Here's another chapter for my brilliant readers! Please enjoy, share, and review!

Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Five

It was an average summer. John started working again and went out with Sherlock on weekends to take on various cases. They still hadn't figured out the London Dam case, which John knew was very frustrating to the detective. Sherlock had banned him from writing about it in his blog, asserting that the criminals behind the murders would catch on and remain a step ahead of them. Eventually, Sherlock channelled his frustration into new cases, and by the time summer was letting out, the Dam case was becoming a cold one for the Yard.

One evening, a week before school was resuming, Anthony came out to the patio to tell John and Sherlock, who were lounging there after day of solving mysteries, that he was going out.

"There's a grad party-thing happening tonight."

"But you're not a graduate this year," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, but Tal invited me."

"Who is Tal?"

"Anthony's girlfriend," John answered, and Anthony made an annoyed face at him.

"Girlfriend?"

"No," Anthony said, adamantly. "She just...she's taking me, so I'm allowed to go."

John was in an amused mood. "Anthony took her to the prom a few months ago."

"Dad!"

"First I'm hearing of it," Sherlock stated, also finding the humour in Anthony's reactions. The teenager seemed thoroughly irritated by the two mens' behaviour.

"Oh, I remember when I was young and dating," John reminisced, to his son's horror. "Don't you, Sherlock?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and he appeared genuinely confused. "Oh, never mind. How late are you planning on being out?" He asked Anthony.

The sixteen-year old shrugged. "Dunno. Nate doesn't want to stay too late, though, I'll probably just go home when he does."

John nodded his approval, ever trusting in the Thorpe family. "Is that what you're wearing?" he joked to his son. The teen huffed and left them. "They get viscous as they get older," John told Sherlock, who was grinning.

"I think you ended up with a decent one, though."

"He'll do." The two men started into a long conversation about Anthony's accomplishments, and the courses he was taking in school the next year. Then they chatted about Lestrade and his wife, and about Mrs. Hudson looking to sell the Baker Street building. They chatted for a long time, but eventually, John's mind returned to their first subject. He eyed Sherlock, who was still sipping away at a glass of brandy John had brought out for him earlier. "You know, I've never asked you about that."

"About what?"

"You...and girls."

"I'm quite certain you have."

"No," John's mind was a bit fuzzy, he himself working on a drink. "I mean, when you were a teenager. Or at University. Surely there must have been someone."

Sherlock shrugged. "None that I can recall."

"You can't just erase an old girlfriend, Sherlock."

"Well...I do seem to have a memory of one girl at University who was rather convinced that we were together."

"Why did she think that?"

"I suppose I never told her that we weren't..."

John smirked. "So, you were a heart breaker?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. John laughed. "See, I just can't imagine going your whole life and not having...anyone."

"How do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"Why, Irene Adler."

"I was absent for three years, John, and for a couple of long periods after that. You don't imagine things might have changed since the Woman?"

John's eyes widened a little dramatically, the drink enhancing his reactions. "What do you mean?" Sherlock took a sip of his brandy. "Was there?" Sherlock placed his glass down next to him and gave John an unimpressed look. "Ah," John sighed, "I guess not. Ever been kissed?"

Then, to John's surprise, Sherlock nodded. "I would imagine so. Hasn't everyone?"

"I'm not so sure about you. You don't actually remember anyone?"

"No one in particular, no. But I'm quite sure it occurred...on a few occasions, in fact." John Watson laughed. The drink in his hand was nearly empty, and since he had not consumed alcohol since his illness had begun, it was running through his veins quite speedily. "I believe you're drunk," Sherlock, who had been worried about the man drinking at all, informed him.

"I most certainly am." John downed the rest of his drink in one go. "Now, tell me about all these girls you're kissing."

"Kissed, John."

"Kissed."

"I can't seem to recall any of their names, but for one. Heather...something. I knew her my entire childhood."

"Ooh, first love."

Sherlock made another stone-cold face at him. "Anyway, I remember that we were twelve, and that it was rather...wet."

"And that's your only memory of snogging...anyone?"

"Yes. I suppose the others are filed away."

"Nothing memorable? Important?"

"I've never had anyone like that."

"See, that's what I don't get. Because you liked Irene Adler. I know you did."

John, in his stupor, had not recognized that he was touching upon a sore subject with Sherlock, who cleared his throat and waited a minute before speaking. "I saw the Woman a few months ago, as it were."

"Did you? When?"

"While you were...how shall I put it? Incapacitated?"

John frowned. Every now and then he would remember that he had missed out on three months of that past year. "She finally called you?"

"It was the other way around, actually."

John bit his lip. "Could I ask why?"

"It was your birthday. I found it necessary to have some sort of company that day. Someone in whom I could...confide."

"And you picked Her?"

"She came to mind. Besides, she had gone through a loss a while earlier, as you recall."

Right. Martha Jensen. "And did she...did it help?"

John and Sherlock hadn't sat down and discussed the prior man's absence since he woke up from his coma. John assumed that his friend had been strong throughout the entire ordeal, having been the one to look after Mary and Anthony. Neither of them gave him any indication that Sherlock had ever really broken down, although he had known how lonely the man must have been without him around. John knew what it felt like to think Sherlock was dead, and he imagined that it would be a similar feeling for Sherlock to think that he was dying. He hadn't expected to ever talk about it, though.

"She proved herself to be quite...encouraging." Sherlock swished his drink around in his glass. "I required her honesty."

"What do you mean, honesty?"

A pause. "She was the only person fully willing to articulate the possibility of...of you not coming back. It wasn't a secret, of course. Everyone knew that you might not, and everyone secretly thought that you wouldn't, but she was the only one I could think of able to actually state it plainly. It was what I needed to hear, at the time."

"Sherlock, I-"

"-There's no need for that. You're here now. That is all that matters."

"Right." John half-wanted to get another drink for himself, but in his health, he knew that it would be unwise. "You know, I never thanked you for what you did. Taking care of my family...it was too much for me to ask of you."

"It was a given. You needn't have even asked."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I would the same for you, you know...if...well, you get it." John scratched his forehead, annoyed by the order of his words.

"I expect you would," Sherlock was already answering, but he had an amused look on his face. "Tragically, you will never have the chance. Unless, of course, Mycroft decides to start leeching off me." He chuckled, and finished his own drink.

"Have you never wanted a family of your own?" John was at that point in his buzz where he no longer had a filter, and he allowed every question that came to mind to roll off his tongue.

Sherlock considered the enquiry. "You asked about Irene Adler, earlier," he stated. John nodded, curious as to where his friend was steering their conversation. "It might come to you as little surprise that, all those years ago, I considered her an...option."

"I'm a poor man."

"What?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused.

"Mrs. Hudson and I made a bet on that. Looks like I lost."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smirking. "I won't say a word."

"Continue, please." John waved a hand out in front of them, still over dramatic in his drunken state. Sherlock complied:

"As I was saying...for the first time, I was imagining a life of...partnership, with that Woman. Not during our case with her, though. It was afterwards, after I got her out of a spot of trouble."

"When the rest of us thought she was dead."

"Yes..." Sherlock trailed off, as if he was reminiscing. "Well, I came to the conclusion that it would be unwise, obviously."

"Why? Why unwise? She likes you...liked you...no, still likes you. I'd be pretty sure of that."

"She is not a heterosexual, John."

"No...but you're not exactly a...humansexual, so it would sort of work out between the two of you."

Sherlock rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and placed his chin in his hand. "Do go on," he insisted, and John had the slight inkling that he was patronizing him.

"Well, you could have a lovely, sexless life of her committing crimes and you pretending to solve them. She'd flirt, you'd...work, and it'd be a grand old time."

"Sounds enthralling," said Sherlock ironically.

John shrugged. "Well, I've thought about it, and I think it would be a perfect marriage."

"Now we're married, then?"

"Just think of that wedding!"

"I refuse to do anything of the sort." Sherlock sighed. "How did we get here, again?"

"You were telling me about all your childhood girlfriends."

"Oh, right. How unwise of me to do so."

They sat in silence for some time, looking out at the garden in the moonlight. John could hear Mary messing around inside the house, probably preparing the coffee-maker for the next day or adding recipes to old cookbooks. It made him a little sad to think that Sherlock Holmes would never have the experience of sharing his life with someone...until it dawned on him: Sherlock was spending his life with him.

"You're like an open book when you're inebriated, did you know that?" Sherlock was already telling him.

"I thought I was always an open book, to you."

"Yes. But you should be well-aware by now that I came to the conclusion you've only just made...some time ago."

"And you're happy with that?"

"With this?" Sherlock gave a sighing chuckle as he opened his palms out around him, indicating his entire life in one gesture. "I've learned to be quite grateful for what I have, John."

"But you don't want a wife? A child?"

Then Sherlock really did laugh. He went on doing so for some time, despite the fact that John had not joined him. "Oh, well, those..." he cleared his throat. "As for a wife, you know my feelings on the matter. I'm glad to see you so fond of yours, and you know that I adore her as well-" John grinned: Sherlock rarely expressed his love for Mary, though it was clear to see. "-but I shall never take one. And, as for the child...well, I think I'd be hard-pressed to create one so acceptable as yours."

"Oh, so he's just acceptable, now, is he?"

"Forgive me. I should say: exceptional."

"I tend to agree with you," Mary had come out onto the patio, and she immediately took a seat on John's lap. "Nice to hear you speaking so well of me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked a little embarrassed, but said, "I would expect the same from you of me." He then spasmed, as if realizing something he'd just said. "Oh the topic of Anthony...I'm not saying, of course, that...I am well-aware that I'm not his...I would take any credit for him being-"

"-You should," John and Mary said in unison. Mary continued for both of them. "He wouldn't be him without you, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock looked pensive. "I just hope I've helped prepare him in some way for...well, you both already covered so much, there wasn't much else I could teach him."

"You don't realize how much you've done for him, Sherlock Holmes," Mary said, and before she could continue, she was interrupted by the phone ringing inside the house. Excusing herself, she went inside to answer it.

John peered at Sherlock, a man who he had never seen look so content before. "What you said before," John started, a glint in his eye, "Does that make me your wife?"

Sherlock let himself look amused by the thought, but as he took in a breath to deliver his retort, they each heard Mary yell from inside the house. Never before had John become so sober so instantly. He leaped out of his seat and both men raced into the house. Mary had the phone pressed to her ear, and she didn't look scared: she looked angry.

"You're telling me you don't know where he is?" she was reprimanding someone on the other line. Eventually, she dropped the phone from her ear and handed it to John.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Chris' voice came through. "Mr. Watson, I...we were all on the waterside, and then he...Anthony went somewhere. He's alone, and I found his mobile, and..." the teenager's voice dropped, and when he finished his sentence, John wanted to crush the phone in his fist:"...he's sort of...drunk."