A/N: Oh dear. -csf

II.

My sons have been very circumspect indeed, as we await John's arrival. Mycroft has a permanent scowl and keeps pleading secretly at his father "to stop this nonsense". Sherlock has retreated somewhere in that Mind Château – or Villa, or Manor, or Palazzo – of his. To me he seems genuinely frightened, and it puzzles me.

I know my youngest son. His cases have him hiding in his mind recesses often, but I haven't given him the case's details yet. No, this is about emotions that Sherlock is unsure how to deal with. Yet he was so keen to have John join us, just a couple of minutes ago! Is he seriously so concerned I tell John what a cute baby Sherlock was, gurgling saliva bubbles and humming himself to sleep in his crib?

He really was the most precious little thing, and look at him now, looking positively afraid in those grey-green orbs.

He's got my eyes and his father's hands. I always thought it was rather becoming to his personality traits. He's got my brains and his father's courage. He'll have this case all figured out before long.

Too quickly, in fact; I rather want to participate and have some fun. That notion will rather alarm Sherlock, so I must appeal to John Watson instead.

Sherlock will give in to John. And John is a nice, approachable man with few relatives left, I'm sure I can get him on my side with ease.

Mummy Investigator-In-Charge? Mycroft will be livid, the poor dear. I may have to ask Mycroft to go to the shops for me, or go fetch the papers from the local newsagents. That way he won't be here for the worse of it. He'll try to send his PA and I'll tell him to do the legwork himself.

The doorbell rings. One firm ring, polite yet clear and assured. That will be John. Sherlock perks up at once, surfacing to look intrigued at the front door. Mycroft has gone to open the door.

'Sherlock, dear, what is it?'

My son hesitates – frankly! – and quickly folds under my gaze. 'Half a second too long. John used his right hand. He only does that when his shoulder is hurting... or he's carrying something?' he adds hopefully.

Mycroft unlatches the cottage door, revealing an expectant army doctor, polite, freshly shaven, carrying a bunch of supermarket tulips. Pruned two days ago in Amsterdam just before bloom, travelled by lorry overnight, crossed Calais yesterday at noon, arrived at a shop in London before dawn, currently limp for all the time John spent in stuffy transportation to get here. For the sake of the tulips alone, Myc should have sent him one of his chauffeurs.

John's smile wavers as he watches my face attentively. Something in the way he glances furtively at Sherlock in recognition tells me he's matched something in me during my deductions with Sherlock's own micro expressions.

Mycroft leans over to John in fake understanding and says: 'Welcome to Hell, John.'

I thoroughly approve of John's immediate arrogant smirk; he's a man who's seen the war first-hand. The Holmes shenanigans and Mycroft's dramatics are hardly a match for a real war.

John will keep us all in check.

Mycroft loses his supervisor smirk as he sees he's been caught, quickly deflecting with 'I'll put the kettle on for you, Mummy, shall I?' Always the dutiful son.

John comes over with a healthy handshake to Mr Holmes, the father. John is like that. Honest, open, straightforward. This family will eat him alive, if he's not careful.

'I really appreciate your invitation, Mrs Holmes', he lies smoothly, 'but I'm curious as to why I you asked me to come?' He further looks at Sherlock, with an endearing uncertainty in his big round cobalt blue eyes.

'There's been a murder at my book club', I explain.

He reacts as if book club murder is an everyday occurrence. Well, it will be, if you only read crime novels, but we also study prose, poetry and biographies.

Sherlock says smoothly: 'Mummy insisted we investigated, John.'

The doctor straightens his shoulders, in an instinctive response to a call for action. 'It'd be our pleasure', he lies politely, quickly shooting another is-this-the-Twilight-Zone look at Sherlock. John is really so transparent.

He clearly thinks he's getting all those looks by me. I think I understand dear Sherlock's affection a bit better now, this is strangely endearing, and it makes one want to protect John. A simple, honest man like John will need plenty of protecting. A lifetime's job.

Mycroft remembered his manners and fetches tea with his father. Sherlock finally gets off the sofa and it's only to rescue John's battered, dusty jacket and doctor's shoulder bag from the antique silk Regency chair by the door where the visitor has left them. It's meant to be a decor piece, not a convenient piece of furniture, according to the insurance company. Meanwhile, John is politely explaining how he took the first train after work, having just finished an extra shift at the surgery. He really needed not explain what is so plain to observe. The lingering scent of disinfectant in his clothes, the pen ink stain on his left index finger (clearly left-handed), and the chaffed patch of skin on his neck from the identification lanyard are such obvious tell-tale signs, I should be insulted by the inane, childish talk of the obvious, yet it's delivered in the confident, near cheerful tone of a conversationalist. It nearly distracts me from the way he quickly scrutinises us all in turn as well. John is a doctor, a very good doctor, if he deduces his patients like that on a regular basis. I bet he's done his conclusions over blood pressure, oxygen levels, alertness and allergies. Restricted pool of information, but definitely promising. I can see why Sherlock felt some affinity with this young man after all.

'Don't flatter yourself, Mummy, John was concerned you might be in shock', Sherlock whispers at me as soon as John leaves the room to go wash off the road's dust.

Is that... jealousy of John's attention?

My pedantic son is possessive of a short army doctor. This really is so much more fun than regular Christmas get-togethers.

'Sherl, darling, those tulips need a vase, they are almost as dead as lady Wilhelmina's butler.'

And sometimes I know just what to say to cheer up my son.

.

John Watson is politely confused as to why he's been handed a well thumbed book, a phone lit with a picture of an exotic plant, and a framed picture of Sherlock Holmes at the age of three. He sips his tea and awaits explanations. No, he eloquently demands them in his silence. He sits there with careful expectation before a room of proven geniuses. John will not be intimidated by the collective IQ power. In fact, he uses it as support for some plain English explaining to be done.

We all try to speak at the same time. He raises a palm, demanding a halt, without tension or moving another muscle. Absolute mastery of command, or careful defusing of an explosive mix. John turns to my husband – clearly picking out the easier target – quietly asks the unexpected:

'So what is your super power?' and he smiles a disarming grin. 'Mrs Holmes excelled in the mathematics, Mycroft cleans up British politics, and Sherlock rights wrongs and saves lives by using his brains.'

'What makes you think I've got one?' Sherlock's father smiles openly, before winking at me.

'That there', John retorts easily. 'Everyone in this room is being overly careful that I am the Mensa grade exception, but they don't do the same for you, Mr Holmes. You let these three take centre stage, yet you are the one Mycroft turns to when asking for something. No one with a disadvantage can hold their ground so well. I can only assume you too have the thing.'

'The thing?'

'Being capable of near mind reading, thinking faster than the speed of light, memorising whole libraries full of data, never taking the obvious for granted. I mean the deduction thing.'

'Well, I wouldn't say that, my lad—'

Mycroft cuts in with a long sigh, and an eye roll to boot: 'Oh, please, father. Just reveal the state secrets, there's little left that Sherlock won't already have told John.'

Mr Holmes quickly ticks the spoon at the dainty porcelain edge of his teacup. 'Let's say, John, that I have retired early. I rather feel that being the cleverest one in the room at all times is rather defeating.'

John frowns slightly. 'Defeating?'

'People lack a certain sincerity when they are constantly guarded against you, generally speaking. They either resent you, or want to impress you, which is little more than to fight you in a wits battle. It can be quite relentless to be constantly guarded against the rest of the room, indeed the world. I never wanted that for our sons, I wanted to give my sons the opportunity to be just like you, John.'

'Like me?' John looks surprised. 'To squander their gift? The world needs them, needs all of you.'

'You're too kind, John.'

'And you didn't answer my question.'

'No, I didn't, did I?' he chuckles, wiggling bushy eyebrows, and something in his smile is so like Sherlock's that it hits John like a lightening bolt. That small, quiet, sincere smile that Sherlock always tries to hide from John because it's far too honest and vulnerable.

Momentarily derailed, John allows Mummy Investigator-In-Charge Holmes to take over.

'Honestly, John, anyone can see the book is our book club reading and the plant in the picture is where strychnine is extracted.'

'And Sherlock's picture at three?'

'He was the cutest toddler, don't you think?'

'He was trying to eat a bar of soap, by the looks of it.'

'He never did like bath time until his teenage years, where finally he'd spend ages in his morning shower.'

'Mummy, please', Sherlock begs for mercy, his face a deep shade of red.

'Oh, no, don't stop her now!' Mycroft gloats from his chair. 'Do explain your excessive use of hair conditioner.'

'You wouldn't know, would you?' the detective mocks coldly, combing his luxurious hair with his long fingers.

John clears his throat loudly, hoping to cut through the genius statics in the room. 'You were reading The Talented Mr Ripley. Isn't that a crime novel?'

'Yes, but Ripley doesn't poison them. Not literally, at least. One could say he poisons their minds, or perhaps it's Dickie who poisons Tom's mind. What do you think, John?'

'Err, probably not related to the butler's death. Do you always read crime novels?'

'Oh, no, it's usually insipid paperback romances. Edwina struggles to budget for more than one book a month, she's got painkillers addiction, she needs to put a lot of money aside for that.'

'I could have a word with her. There are NHS programmes—'

'Oh, no, she has an addiction out of style, not neurosis.'

John blinks, as if I just said something odd or inappropriate.

Poor Sherlock, living with a judgemental flatmate, all the time. A mother always worries.

Sherlock signals to John for a quick word in private. Mycroft enquires his father over those cheese crumpets. I'm left wondering how much longer until we capture the killer... and what then what do we do with that person?

.

'Nice cottage, Sherlock', John says, politely, as they step outside. He eyes a long row of cypresses up the road, their dark, tall, silhouettes marshalled in a smooth curved wall at the property's entrance. He's not even looking at the stone cottage, with its low roof, tall chimney, lace curtains and Sherlock's childhood memories of countryside holidays.

'You don't mean that', the detective deduces easily. John looks back at him, stunned. Sherlock reviews his statement. 'Your mind is not in the house, but thinking of Mummy. You are mentally tallying me against her. I resent that, by the way. Me and her, we are not the same.'

The doctor smiles softly. 'No more than Harry and I are alike.'

'Your sister is a self-destructive alcoholic.'

'Yes. She's also got boobs. In lots of other aspects we're alike. It's fun to play comparisons, but family doesn't predetermine us, Sherlock.'

The dark haired man closes a wooden gate behind them, leading John onto a herb patch next to the kitchen.

'I wasn't afraid you'd think that.'

'What were you afraid of, then?' John asks in a mere whisper, sitting by Sherlock's side in an old dry tree trunk situated a few meters from the house.

Sherlock watches an insect's zigzagging over the thyme before saying briefly:

'I dislike not being the cleverest in the room.'

John smiles brightly. 'And how would you know how that feels like?'

His friend blushes slightly, refusing to face him. John feels smug about that.

'Your father never told me his expertise area, how he is better than the rest of us. Astrophysics? Coding? Bio weaponry?'

Sherlock shakes his head and focuses on the doctor at last. 'Well, my father is very much like you, John. He's not got our IQ, but he grounds us all.'

'No way!'

'And he always beat us at dominoes. It drove Mycroft to insanity, I believe.'

John grins at that.

'Thanks for having me over.'

'Not at all, I needed a doctor on call. Mummy absolutely insists on being included in this case. She wants to watch the autopsy - and Molly is not very good with the breathing ones.'

'Uh, Sherlock, I would really advise against it.'

'I think Mummy is clever enough to make her own decisions, don't you think?'

'You mean you can't say No to her.'

'My mother wants to know my work better, how can I refuse?' Sherlock states, a stoic look of resignation impressed in his pale features.

John is silent for a couple of minutes, looking into his own memories. 'Alright', he says at last, 'I'm sure your mother will be very proud.'

Sherlock snorts.

.

TBC