A/N: Still on the topic of family members to our heroes, I guess. Before Mary, after Mary, or an alternative timeline. I always aim for an undetermined time; could be today, ten years ago, or 1895. But, generally speaking, today. Or thereabouts.

I could still add more to this, if it shapes up nicely. -csf


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Kindly remind my son Sherlock

to turn his phone on for me. RH

I was on my way home from the surgery one day, early in January, when I got the first text. I read it, and then reread it, and I stupidly muttered to it "I haven't got him here with me", and "he's in real trouble now", finally neatly wrapped with "how does Sherlock's mother have my number?"

At first I thought it must have been a genuine mistake, maybe she intended to text Mycroft and she was being a bit haughty by stressing my son, instead of your brother, or just Sherlock.

Then I got suspicious and mentally reviewed both Sherlock's parents' names, and confirmed the initials would indeed belong to his mother. His father's initials being TH, I think – and Mycroft never quite forgave them for naming Sherlock with an initial closer to their initials in the alphabetical order. That reminded me never to bring out the Christmas brandy next to Mycroft again.

I also briefly wondered how many folks out there have the unusual name of Sherlock and a certain entitled streak runs in their families (just enough to expect others to carry their messages without a couple of nice words' preamble, like I'm a bloody courier pigeon now). Or just how many folks sign text messages with their initials, or why initials in the first place. In the end, I decided the chance for a fluke mistake was not worthwhile pondering.

I thought about ignoring the text, but I couldn't do that. Sherlock's mother is a woman of mythological weight in the high (dys)functioning Holmes family, a sharp intellect to rival my mate's – alongside a meddling tendency like Mycroft's (or, you know, most mothers)... and she's probably a little bit dangerous when cross.

Not to mention she's Sherlock's mother. How can I not be polite to my best mate's mother?

But, seriously, how did she get my number? I don't recall giving her my number.

Am I going to have to shout at Mycroft?

.

'Sherlock, are you home?' I ask, as I'm coming up the stairs to 221B.

I never really know what I'm getting when I come home. There could be a sobbing client sat on the sofa, a dazzling kidnap attempt in progress that Sherlock is fighting off with a sword, a melancholy scene with the consulting detective lounging on the long sofa, or a whiff of purple smoke coming from an abandoned science experiment on the desk.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

Luckily today Sherlock is uncommonly quiet, standing by the window, holding his violin and composing hauntingly beautiful music and noting it down on the nearby stand. In fact, there are several music sheets pulled up on the stand. Must be a symphony, I wonder what muse could give him such longwinded material.

'Evidently I'm home, as you find me here, John.' He frowns to himself. 'Hmm, unless I had created a hologram after my own image. I'm sure I could project it from there, there and there? Do move your jacket out of the way, John, I might need that door hanger.'

'Later', I insist, firmly. 'Your mother has contacted me. She wants you to ring her.'

Sherlock looks absolutely puzzled. 'Is it Christmas?'

I blink, and brace myself on the back on my nearby armchair. 'No, we did Christmas already.'

'New Year then?'

'In China, it almost is.'

He already knows he's guessing it right the third time, as he pronounces the dreaded word 'Monday?'

I nod. 'Yeah, it's Monday.'

He hastes to drop the violin safely and shoots off to his room, presumably to collect his phone, while I'm deducing: 'Your mother calls you on Mondays?'

'Yeah, Mycroft's got Tuesdays, we had to swap as she always called Mycroft after me anyway, he was whining he had double the calls. She never did approve of— many things I did', he curtails that personal disclosure suddenly.

I let my arms fall to my sides and decide tea is in order.

Down the corridor, Sherlock shuts himself in his room, so I won't hear a thing.

Just your typical English family, I suppose.

.

Mothers generally enjoy keeping in touch with their adult offspring, I get that. And if I were Sherlock's mother, I'd worry sick over him all the time.

I already do, and I'm just his best mate.

And so I take pity on Mrs Holmes and her boys. Maybe I should tell my mate to invite his parents over for dinner at ours?

I sit at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed cuppa, and purse my lips at the decaying mould cultures spreading over another abandoned experiment, a discarded used sock and two days old leftovers.

I don't think 221B is quite ready for such a royal visitor yet.

.

The second time Sherlock's mother texted me, it was just as unexpected as the first.

Sherlock had been stroppy all week, after a case he'd been working on turned sour. The criminal was a career kidnapper and Sherlock thought he had him pegged. Always the same modus operandi, different hideouts. It really seemed the logical puzzle was to find suitable locations where a kidnapper might have stashed away his victims. In fact, it had worked the last two times, with the perpetrator slipping through our fingers by a stroke of luck each time. Turns out that when a middle aged man went missing, with a suspicion of abduction by the same kidnapper, everyone assumed it was a matter of finding the new location fast, from the cues left on the ransom letter. It turned out being the first time we freed a dead body. The victim had a heart attack, certainly even before the ransom letter got posted. In the end we had caught the kidnapper, the police took him away to be charged with homicide, Sherlock solved the case without fail basing himself on every sound reasoning possible, but still a dark cloud befell on the detective who felt like he had failed by complacency.

"If we had caught him last time" hung unspoken in the air every time Sherlock brushed past, like a potent aftershave trail. It really didn't fit Sherlock, nor his sociopathic brand, but he just wouldn't listen to anyone.

The self-confessed sociopath hid in his bedroom for two days, trying to brush off failure and guilt, and rebuild his trust. There was nothing I could say that reached Sherlock, or lifted that sad veil from his vicinity.

Try salted caramel shortcake.

It can't change what happened,

but might help make it more

palatable. RH

I blinked at my lit screen, mentally shrugged – why not? – and grabbed my jacket to go to the shops.

Maybe Sherlock's sulk was already due to finish, or salted caramel is the ultimate pick-me-up for a bruised ego consulting detective. Whatever it may be, I made sure to text back.

Thanks, it helped. John

This was when I realised I can never know Sherlock as well as his own mother.

But we could perhaps team-tag at times.

.

The next text was much less ominous, just likely a mere reaction to Mycroft's report on his baby brother's affairs.

Thank you for saving

Sherlock's life. RH

I blink at the lit screen and shake my head. Nah, we don't do this. Sherlock and I save each other when necessity arises, but there's absolutely no need for it to be more than what it is. I got there, I fired a kill shot, the triple murderer fell, Sherlock didn't get killed himself, the Yard showed up late as usual, and Sherlock is already working on his next case. He tells me this is a squeamish international blackmailer, so there's less chance of my gun being fired. I'll still carry it with me, just in case.

I'm not sure what to answer Sherlock's mum, but I assume she wants reassurance over her son's wellbeing.

He's alright, no harm done. I lectured him afterwards on

keeping himself safe over some Thai take away. J

He said something about black pots insulting kettles.

I think we both know what he meant, though. J

He's being safe now. Dissecting a hand at the kitchen

table. Not a peep out of him. J

A musician's hand. Apparently he's studying muscle

tone. Or so he says. J

It's John by the way. J

I really, really hope I'm not

texting the wrong number here.

I rub the back of my head, wondering if there's a way you can un-send your friend's mum texts. This is the awkwardness I feared.

Sherlock glances my way and immediately hides his interest in stretched tendons. A dead finger flicks on the bread cutting board. 'Who's that?'

I panic and lie with the first plausible story that comes to mind.

'Sarah. You remember her, from the Chinese ring?'

He grunts in some unspecified manner, and I think I just managed to squeeze this white lie past him. Then my phone beeps.

I'm Sherlock's mother, and I don't think

your texts break his confidence or

could ever shock me, John. RH

I smirk. Sherlock glances my way, then hides a suspicious expression in his most perfected blank face.

.

Turns out international blackmailers own illegal guns too. I told Sherlock it was just a flesh wound, but he double-crossed me by siding with Lestrade and insisting on wasting my time on a hospital visit. If Sherlock really wanted to help, he could have got the first aid kit out and held up a mirror for me in 221B's spacious bathroom, while I disinfected and sutured the gash with a neat row of butterfly stitches. All this overnight hospital stay is absurd. I hate hospitals and I definitely did not need a blood transfusion.

Alright, so I didn't refuse it, given it was available. I didn't want to be rude. Otherwise IV fluids would have sufficed there to keep me from crashing, and Sherlock's music stand is great to hold up IV bags as we all know.

Now I'm alone at the hospital, staring at the walls, trying hard not to revisit memories of the med evac from Afghanistan. I told them to change the level of painkillers in the automatic dispenser, they told me their usual patients complain they want more and not less, and the matronly head nurse on call refused to believe I'm a doctor myself, who can overrule the medics on call, until I show her my official licence. Which, of course, I wasn't carrying with me when I got shot, as she very well knows. So I'm stuck here as a prisoner, denied my basic rights, and they are threatening to ignore the call button if I ask them to discharge me early one more time.

I'm grumbling all alone. The other patients in A&E are less than fit for companionship. They're all really ill.

I made Sherlock go home and get some rest. He didn't want to, but Mycroft kidnapped him, almost by force. Mycroft said I needed to rest, and that he'd look after his baby brother for the night.

Hopefully Sherlock doesn't force a game of Cluedo on Mycroft. Last time they unwittingly started an International war when Colonel Mustard turned out to have been killed in his Presidential Palace by an elaborate contraption using ropes, wrenches, and the odd candlestick. The candlestick was one of a pair, and as it got swallowed by the fake wall panel, the unpaired candlestick left behind was the only clue afforded to the detective.

I keep telling Sherlock only one weapon allowed per game, and to Mycroft not to use real political cases, both to no avail.

I pick up my phone and run a thumb over the screen. I can always blame the meds, I suppose.

I type slowly, concentrating hard to avoid misspellings, then send.

Sherlock iz safe. Soon all alone in the flat.

He's due a call, if you got time. J

It's John, by the way.

Sighing, I pick another number and write another one, minding far less about the misspellings and predicted text mistakes. Sherlock is a genius, he'll figure out if it goes out all wrong.

Chinese leftovers in fridge.

Put fire on, it's snow outside.

Don't kill Mycroft over the rug,

I like rug.

I don't sign it, the git knows my style.

Closing my eyes and trying to work past the nausea, I focus on the familiar sounds of the hospital to sooth and ground me. Machines thrum and whoosh, nurses' shoes squeak over the freshly mopped floor, patients groan as they sleep uneasily.

My phone beeps. I groan and open a bleary eye to spy on it.

Identification follow-up is unnecessary.

What happened, John? Are you alright? RH

I lean back, shut my eyes and frown. No, she should be checking on Sherlock. Why isn't she phoning him?

Nearby a phone rings. Quickly it becomes apparent that the receiver has no intention of picking up. A nurse issues harsh words about phones and visiting hours.

Ha, shouldn't have that ruddy thing on inside a hospital anyway!

Quiet returns, and I huff as the bed sheet seems to be pulling my stitches by its mere presence.

That same phone rings again. I focus on it to distract me from all else. This time it stops short abruptly.

'Sherlock Holmes', he says.

I snap my eyes open. Sure enough the detective is back, a haunted look on his face as he seems to study attentively the antibiotic feed into the IV line, the life stats monitor, and the tacky curtains walling me from the rest of the ward.

There's snow slowly melting on his shoulders, staining the thick wool coat.

'I'm with John right now.' Sherlock looks on over to me and gently, demurely, he comes to sit down on a plastic chair next to me. 'He looks tired and pale and grumpy... Yes, I concur, grumpy is good for John.' Sherlock grins at me. 'Mummy asks if you'll allow her to visit tomorrow, John.'

'She shouldn't bother—' I try to start, in a winded voice and a ragged hold on consciousness.

He gently lays a hand over my shoulder. 'Just drop it, John. My mother is a Holmes, after all. Did you seriously expect her to follow meaningless socially acceptable norms without a real wish to come see you in person?'

I smile softly, feeling touched. Those two – three, if we count Mycroft's generosity in not being here – are amazing.

The smile spreading on my face, I close too tired eyes for a second. I feel like an adopted member of the Holmes family.

Welcome to the madness.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

.

TBC