Chapter 115 – Is This an Occasion for Banter?

Sherlock huffed at the inanimate object that was about to be his undoing. He was a genius for fuck's sake. Why was this so difficult?

"No… Sherlock," John said, yet again. "Look, you can't turn that knob without tightening the rails first. It's a safety issue. Just let me do it."

"For God's sake," Sherlock muttered, and he stalked off.

The travel cot was beneath him. Surely the manufacturers had engineered the most inefficient way of assembling the thing. Moving it from upstairs in Bob and Justine's sitting room, where Grace was originally supposed to spend the night, back down to Sherlock and Rose's bedroom had been an exercise in frustration. The narrow staircase to the second floor meant the cot had to be collapsed again to bring it downstairs.

Now, if Sherlock could pry his daughter out of his brother's grasp to actually put her in the cot...

What were they talking about anyway? Rose and Mycroft. They'd been at it for forty-five minutes at least. Wasn't that the average length of a therapy session?

Sherlock had already interrupted them once, having finally figured out the dryer. Well, he didn't know what any of the silly little buttons meant, so he kept pushing them at random until the stupid thing looked like it was doing what it was meant to be doing: spinning clothes around.

When he'd entered the room earlier, Rose and Mycroft stopped talking, virtually mid-sentence. Rose had her hands clasped together in her lap, a sure sign she'd been wringing them, therefore the subject matter was quite harrowing. Mycroft still held Grace in his arms, and his features were relaxed, yet pensive. Not the expression Mycroft usually wore when he was tearing someone to shreds.

Both of them stared at Sherlock until he said, "So… should I find some more chores to attend to?"

Rose had silently nodded, while Mycroft replied, "If you would be so kind."

Dismissed like an underling!

He'd visited Bob and Justine upstairs. Reassured Bob he'd check the security sensors, which he did, by circumnavigating the house, stopping outside the living room window and staring at Mycroft, trying to lip-read until his brother shooed him away.

There was nothing wrong with the security sensors. They had done what they were designed to do. It was human error, and not just Bob's fault, either, Sherlock was quick to point out to the man. The silent alarm had been triggered by Mycroft's bods surrounding the house. Bob had too easily dismissed the notification on his smart watch, seeing it as a possible malfunction, thinking nobody would ever try a house invasion in broad daylight. And Sherlock had been too slow to catch on.

Sherlock reached the ground floor, having left John to assemble the cot. He was surprised to encounter Mycroft and Rose exiting the living room for the entranceway. Rose was now holding her daughter again.

"Mycroft's leaving," Rose said.

Her eyes were bright and her smile genuine. So, in conclusion, not traumatised by his brother. Bit hard to tell definitively, though, since the remnants of her previous crying session were still evident on her face.

"Bound, once more, for Sherrinford," Mycroft added, with a slight downturn of his mouth.

Sherlock's stomach twisted on Mycroft's behalf. He attempted to brush off his discomfort by quipping, "Don't forget to pack up your toy soldiers."

"They were withdrawn some time ago," Mycroft replied with a pleasant smile. It was unnerving. Had the man taken a happy pill? "So, I'll see you on Friday, Sherlock. London, my office, Downing Street. Let's say ten o'clock? I'll invite our parents to come at midday. We'll have to get our stories straight of course."

"Stories straight? Your daughter's alive after all and has been locked up for most of her life. The End. There's no story to get straight."

"Sherlock," Rose said.

That one word warning from Rose, and the way she spoke it, revealed so much to Sherlock. The almost hour long session. Rose and Mycroft. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"Mycroft told you all about Sherrinford," he deduced.

Her eyes flickered just enough to cause his heart to sink. Images swam in his mind of all that had happened. And now Rose knew. He hadn't been prepared for her to be burdened with all that so soon.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mycroft exclaimed.

"No... no," Sherlock went on, ignoring the shredding of his insides. But he didn't want either Mycroft or Rose to think he was angry or upset. "I understand," he said, his voice fraying. "Rose doesn't want me to put any blame on your shoulders. And… I don't. Our uncle… Uncle Rudy—"

"—was retired early at the age of fifty."

"Even so, I don't—"

"Let's leave it for now, Sherlock."

His brother's voice was oddly calm. Was it now the presence of Rose and Grace that dampened the man's enthusiasm for arguing with him?

Rose approached Sherlock and gave his hand a squeeze. Her touch instantly appeased him, as if she now cradled his heart in her hands.

"I'll just take Grace up," she said. "We can talk later." Turning to his brother, she smiled and said, "Mycroft."

Mycroft's response was instantaneous. His mouth stretched wide. With a tiny bow of his head, he said, "I hope I'll see both of you again very soon."

Sherlock tried to give Rose a reassuring smile as she passed him. Her exit was strategic, Sherlock surmised. She had decided now was the right time to leave the brothers to talk about their issues in private.

Of course, they would not, but Sherlock appreciated her gesture all the same.

"Oh, Rose," he said, when she was halfway up the stairs. "The cot's in our room now."

"Oh?" She wrinkled her forehead. "Okay."

As Rose disappeared upstairs, he hoped she'd understand his decision. Originally, Justine had wanted to give Sherlock and Rose uninterrupted time together, since tonight was his first night back in their company since they'd all left London. But now he wanted that night of peace for Bob and Justine, since Bob had acquired a head injury and the pair had had to endure his brother's silly antics.

Mycroft's phone trilled with an alert. Turning to the front door, he said, "My driver."

"Yes," Sherlock said, heaving a sigh and reaching for the door handle. All his movements now felt wooden—forced. "I'll walk you out."

In the cool air of the front porch, the sky thickened by grey clouds, the brothers stopped for a moment.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you?" Sherlock asked.

"What makes you think I do?"

"You always keep one for me… just in case."

Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket.

"Indeed I do," he said, producing two cigarettes and handing one to Sherlock. "But these are low tar."

"Of course they are."

"And I seemed to have misplaced my lighter. I suspect it was confiscated at Sherrinford."

"No matter."

Sherlock strolled along the side of the house, reached up and plucked a cigarette lighter from under the eaves. He lit his cigarette first, then Mycroft's.

The first drag burnt his throat and filled his lungs until they ached. And the light head spin was glorious.

"I didn't volunteer information about Sherrinford," Mycroft began after his first puff. "She started asking me questions."

"Yes. She does that."

"She's concerned about you, naturally."

"Mm."

"She wanted to make sure she knew enough in order to help you."

Sherlock took another drag in silence.

And how much did it benefit Mycroft to talk about their ordeal, Sherlock wondered. Good for him. He was sure his brother wouldn't have anybody to confide in otherwise. Although, there was Lady Smallwood. Something odd going on between them there. And wasn't she a former gymnast? A smile ghosted his lips at the thought.

When Sherlock heard the click of the door latch, his first instinct was to drop his cigarette hand and hide it behind his back. But it was John Watson who opened the door, not his mother.

"Oh, good. You haven't left yet," the doctor said to Mycroft as he stepped outside.

An uneasy smile plucked at the doctor's lips, and Sherlock wondered what was up.

"Just about to," Mycroft replied. "A lot more work to supervise at Sherrinford."

"Oh, yeah. How's that going?"

"Thankfully the security of the other inmates wasn't compromised. But we may use this as an opportunity to brighten up the paintwork."

"Uh, good," John responded, but Sherlock knew Mycroft's smile meant they'd do no such thing. His brother's idea of a little joke. Lightening the mood.

"So," John went on, and he cleared his throat. "We'll see you back in London... then? Maybe h-have you over… for dinner… or… something."

Mycroft blinked rapidly and Sherlock bit his bottom lip to prevent himself from rumbling out a laugh.

"I might see you at the pub," Mycroft offered dryly.

"Yeah. Okay…"

Seemingly lost for words, John nodded to Mycroft, shot a quick glance at Sherlock, and then disappeared inside the house.

Sherlock snorted out a laugh.

"What on earth was that?" Mycroft asked.

Once Sherlock had recomposed himself, he said, "I think that was his way of thanking you for offering to sacrifice your life for his."

"I'm sorry? Oh… that. Well, yes. If that was the case, I think I rather prefer his usual casual animosity over whatever that was."

Sherlock sniggered again, but Mycroft's expression reset to factory defaults.

"It could've been most unfortunate had you not… erm…" his brother began.

Memories of Sherrinford kept resurfacing and threatening to pull him under. Yes, that other thing. Sherlock offering to sacrifice his own life so neither his brother nor his best friend had to die by his hand. Had his brother enlightened Rose as to the outcome of that little challenge?

His skin prickled at the thought. Surely not.

"They would've felt your loss, of course," Mycroft added, indicating the house with his cigarette.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. Rose couldn't know he'd been prepared to die. Her demeanour didn't indicate she possessed such knowledge.

He had tried not to think about the effect his death may have had on her. He had made preparations for it, of course. Financial preparations. But how does one mentally prepare loved ones for your impending death?

He knew the ensuing silence meant that Mycroft was ruminating over something as well. Sherlock took a longer drag on his cigarette, just in case his brother was going to say something along the lines of, "And your loss would break my heart," as he had done last Christmas. Although, it was the effects of the spiked punch that had a lot to do with Mycroft delivering that little out of character seasonal gift.

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft began, "sometimes a person enters into a relationship because they need something from their potential partners, whether they consciously know it or not." Oh God, Sherlock thought, here it comes. "Obviously," Mycroft continued, oblivious to Sherlock's discomfort, "all those years ago you didn't set out to find a lifelong partner. It may have been sex that led you to her initially, but that's not what kept you." Oh, please stop. "You needed somebody who could understand the intricacies of your mind… and… encourage the use of your heart." For Christ's sake! "Once upon a time, I thought that person was John Watson. But he could only get you so far, having needs of his own. Clearly, Rose is that person. And I was… I was… regrettably… wrong… about her."

Sherlock held out his cigarette and asked, "What have you got us smoking?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh.

"I know, Mycroft," he said. Determined to steer the conversation as far away from himself and his needs as possible, he added, "You're not the first person to have a false impression about her."

"And clearly I'm not the last."

When Sherlock tilted his head questioningly, Mycroft added, "Her family?"

Her family. Sherlock felt Rose's burden settle on his shoulders. With all they knew about Rose, her family had never really supported her. She'd called her dad on the phone, she'd told Sherlock. And sorrow and disappointment had leeched from her voice.

"I… I think they've disowned her," he said.

"Ah."

They dragged in silence for a few more seconds as a tiny pattering of rain began to fall.

"She'll have her hands full with Mummy's attention, anyway," Mycroft remarked.

"Mm," Sherlock responded, in between puffs. "Not quite sure when to tell our parents about them.

Mycroft repositioned his stance, prompting Sherlock to sharpen his gaze upon his brother.

"This Friday," Mycroft said. "In London. After lunch."

"Sorry?"

"I've invited Rose, and Grace of course, to come to London to meet our parents."

Sherlock dropped the hand that held his cigarette.

"You did what?"

"I thought—"

"You want to hand our parents a grandchild after telling them their daughter's been locked up all these years?"

Mycroft forced something resembling a smile to his face. It was unconvincing.

"Not as crudely as you put it," he replied. "But yes, sometime during the afternoon. Rose said she'd be delighted to meet our parents and introduce Grace to her grandparents."

Sherlock exhaled heavily.

"Christ, Mycroft," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Is that really the best we can do?"

"Do you have an alternative?"

Sherlock bowed his head and watched the hypnotic swirls of his cigarette smoke. He didn't want to imagine the fallout from this little reveal. Both sons keeping secrets of a sizeable magnitude from their parents… his mother, in particular. A long lost daughter, still incarcerated. A secret granddaughter. The latter being a far more attractive prospect. Would Grace's presence really soften the blow of the truth about Eurus's existence?

He had no idea.

He gave a slow shake of his head in response to Mycroft's question.

"It's settled then," Mycroft replied. "You'll bring Rose and Grace to London with you at the end of the week. But you should know it's not just Grace's presence I'm counting on…"

Of course there was more.

"With Rose's… expertise," Mycroft continued, "she could probably answer any questions our parents have about Eurus's state of mind. Use the appropriate terminology. They might not listen to me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You want Rose's professional opinion?"

"And why not? I hear she's quite the student in her current course. Mustn't let that talent go to waste."

Trust Mycroft to find Rose's utility. But let Rose near Eurus? Before or after he told her about Lisa? And besides, Eurus as Eurus was not someone to be trusted around loved ones. Sherlock had still not processed Eurus as Lisa meeting up with Rose throughout the year, and worse, seeing his daughter. Did Rose let Lisa hold their baby?

Sherlock's insides rippled with a quiet horror.

This was... complicated. Something he had to ponder alone. Not the right time to explain the whole Eurus-Lisa situation with his brother. But Eurus and Rose? That was not happening.

"As clever a student she may be," Sherlock told Mycroft, "Rose is barely qualified. I won't have her talking to Eurus."

"Rose won't be going anywhere near our sister," Mycroft responded, hooding his brow. "I'm going to provide her with files and recorded interviews from Sherrinford. She'll have the next few days to study them, if she so desires. All I'd like from her is an indication of Eurus's current psychosis extrapolated from the records and… recent events.

"Research and a deadline?" Past visions of Rose sitting at a table surrounded by books flitted through his mind. Your books—arrange them around you on the table so you look busy and important, he had once said to her. An impatient Consulting Detective would usually loll about on her sofa, harrumphing at the telly. "Rose thrives on those," he added. His chest swelled a little at the thought of his clever girlfriend and her case studies.

The case she'd be studying, though. It didn't bear thinking about.

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards.

"I'm pleased to hear that," he said, before dropping his cigarette onto the concrete. He crushed it beneath his heel, then swept it onto the pavers that were being splashed with raindrops. "I'd better get going," he finally remarked, "Before this gets any heavier." He gave Sherlock a sheepish smile. "And I'm without my umbrella."

Sherlock wearily returned his brother's smile, then followed him out into the light rainfall.

At the front gate, Sherlock entered the six-digit code to release the lock on the latch.

"I'll get my people to install a security system for you," Mycroft said, gesturing towards the house.

"We have a security system."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the roofline.

"It's undetectable."

"It's also not working."

"It is working. We… we were just a bit distracted getting ready for our walk to really pay it any attention. Won't happen again."

Sherlock pulled open the gate. He noted the presence of Mycroft's car parked by the kerb and the driver hastily climbing out.

"Don't stay out in this weather too long," his brother said. "You'll catch your death. Especially in that outfit." He raked his eyes down Sherlock's attire. "Jeans," he said, wrinkling his nose a little. "Reminds me of your teenage years."

Mycroft then averted his gaze as if to acknowledge the driver who now stood holding the rear passenger door open. Sherlock knew that tell. Reminiscing about Sherlock's teenage years, and therefore the onset of his drug addition, wasn't a happy exercise. His late teen years and early twenties were particularly harrowing for the older Holmes sibling. He came to his junkie brother's aid on more than one occasion.

And he continues to do so, Sherlock thought, a light tug on his heart for Mycroft. But in his own, sometimes misguided, way.

"Thank you," Sherlock said suddenly.

"For what?"

Sherlock reeled a little for his involuntary outpouring of sentiment.

"For… for coming to their rescue," he scrambled to add. "Wrong time, wrong place. Wrong… situation, admittedly, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same."

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement, then headed for the kerb.

"London, then, Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes bid his brother, before turning and climbing into the vehicle.


Sherlock unthreaded his fingers from Rose's as they entered the kitchen. John stood at the fridge, depositing Rosie's bottles of formula inside.

"Mycroft gone?" he asked, looking round.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, placing the baby monitor onto the counter as Rose crossed the room to fill the kettle.

"Is he all right? I mean…" John paused to clear his throat. "… with everything that happened in Sherrinford."

"Yes, he'll be fine, I suspect," Sherlock replied, leaning back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms in front of him. "It's made him a bit trigger-happy as you saw, but I'm sure he'll be back to his usual self in no time, wielding nothing more lethal than a CCTV camera."

"Huh," John said.

"Tea, John?" Rose asked.

"Yeah, sure, thanks."

"And how are you?" Rose asked. "How's Rosie? She sleeping okay upstairs?" She glanced at John as she retrieved mugs from the overhead cupboard.

As Rose and John began discussing infant sleep times, Sherlock left the counter to grab milk from the fridge. He felt a pang of guilt for disturbing Rose's late afternoon rest time when he entered the bedroom after Mycroft had left. She had been propped up by pillows and not at all sleeping, holding Grace to her chest. After Sherlock had moved Grace to the travel cot, Rose decided to get up so she and Sherlock could "have a talk" downstairs. All he had wanted to do was lie down next to Rose, let his torments be eased by her brow-soothing, the specifics of those torments irrelevant because she'd glean his needs via osmosis rather than conversation.

With John's presence in the kitchen, it looked like the talk wasn't going to eventuate any time soon. Sherlock was fine with that. But he did want to spend time with Rose, alone, eventually.

She finished making the three cups of tea, and they all drifted to the dining table, where they sat with their mugs and an unopened packet of ginger nut biscuits.

Sherlock sat at one end, his mood rapidly taking a dive the further the conversation veered into the trivial. Because he wasn't interested in contributing to the topic under discussion, he wandered aimlessly through his Mind Palace. And it wasn't a pleasant jaunt.

John sat to his left, his back to the large picture window that overlooked the garden, while Rose sat on Sherlock's right, across from John. Sherlock idly rotated his mug of tea.

"…and now there's an ongoing dispute between the neighbours on three sides, all because of the bloody bins," John finished with a chuckle.

When Rose emitted a light laugh, it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't on the same page as his two companions. He felt the silence pressing in on him as as two pairs of eyes rested on him. Rose reached for him, covering his hand with hers.

John gave a light cough, before averting his gaze. He reached for his mug.

The warmth that drizzled through Sherlock provided by Rose's hand was at odds with his former flatmate's close proximity, so he discreetly tried to pull his hand away.

John swiftly drained his mug and set it on the table with an audible plonk.

"Ah, nice cuppa that," he said, suddenly rising.

Rose drew her cup towards her and straightened up.

"Yes, it is," she said, before taking a sip herself.

Sherlock stared fixedly at the packet of ginger nuts, his heart stuttering. He could feel Rose's disappointment in him radiating from her in waves.

"So, I... um..." John began. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Sherlock lifted his gaze, but stretched out a leg, seeking Rose's underneath the table. When he felt it, he pressed his against hers in a gesture of contrition. Of hope.

"Ah... we're just about out of nappies," John eventually stammered out.

"Oh..." Rose responded. Her leg pressed back against Sherlock's and he breathed easier once more.

"So... I'll just pop off to the shops," John continued. "I miscalculated when I was packing, obviously..."

"Yes, sorry," Rose said. "I think Grace's will be too small."

"Newborn size?" John asked, pushing in his chair and coming out from behind the table. "Yes, just a bit."

Sherlock withdrew his leg.

"But you can't go out in this," Rose told John, gesturing through the picture window at the downpour.

"Take the car," Sherlock volunteered, finding his voice at last. He gave John a tiny smile for good measure.

"You sure?"

"The keys are on the entrance table."

John drew in a quick breath and said, "Yeah, okay, if you're sure. Thanks."

He made it halfway across the kitchen, when he turned and asked, "How about I pick up something for dinner as well?"

"That will be lovely," Rose replied, twisting around in her seat.

"Any... preferences?" John asked.

"How about..." Rose began, before gazing around thoughtfully. "… something healthy?"

"… Chips," Sherlock added, almost simultaneously.

John smiled at the contradictory options.

"Fish and chips with salad?" he offered.

"Good choice," Sherlock said, faking amiability and interest simultaneously. "There's a nice little place just three doors down from the Waitrose."

"And Justine will be happy with those options," Rose added, rising from the table herself.

John turned away, saying "Fish and chips with salad it is, then." His over-enthusiasm caused a knot in Sherlock's stomach. Three people faking happiness. Perhaps they should all have a talk.

Well, Rose wasn't faking, really. She was accommodating everyone at the moment. Good for her.

After John had left, Rose gathered the two empty mugs and took them over to the sink. Sherlock gulped down the rest of his tea and joined her. Her pull on him was magnetic. Upon rinsing the first two, she turned and held out her hand for Sherlock's mug.

"I'm sorry," he said, handing her the mug and trying on a smile for size. It didn't quite fit at the edges. "All my worlds colliding," he continued, the words seeming to come without effort. But these ones only skimmed the surface of the deep waters currently drowning his emotions. "Having Mycroft talk about you and Grace without a hint of… disappointment in his voice—it's a bit… off. Can't really grasp that. And John..."

He didn't know what to say there. Usually John and Mary were joined at the hip, and Sherlock sat alone. This was an odd reversal of roles.

"Don't worry about it," she said, her soft voice taking the edge off his jagged thoughts. "It'll take some time for us all to get used to this."

Rose finished washing the dishes. As she dried her hands on a tea towel, she added, "We'll talk when you're ready. I don't want to push you. Just let me know what you want when you want it."

His heart fluttered. Rose was his anchor in a sea of never-ending nightmares. Sherlock waited until Rose had hung up the tea towel and was able to give him her full attention.

"I don't know if I want to be left alone," he told her, his voice tight, "or if I want to be alone with just you."

Her brows arched in sympathy and she reached for his hands.

"If you want me to sit with you in silence," she said, "I won't mind that."

"I'm not talking about sitting together."

He hoped the intensity of his gaze would speak the rest of his thoughts for him.

When a smile lingered on Rose's lips, he knew she understood. She drew him nearer, tilted her head, expectation lighting her face.

Sherlock banded his arms around her and ducked his head, meeting her lips in a kiss that was soft, yet giving. Her mouth was patient and loving, her taste a welcome sweetness. When their lips parted, Sherlock drew from her what he needed in that moment, trading desire for hunger.

He didn't know if Rose sensed the urgency within his kiss, but she drew back, keeping her arms around his shoulders.

"It's too bad every bedroom is occupied," she whispered against his lips, a specific kind of gleam in her eye.

"Since when do we require a bed?" Sherlock countered in a voice ragged in need.

Their mouths met again in a fierce, urgent kiss. It ran deep, drizzling longing and desire throughout Sherlock's body. He could take her where they stood. He ached for a quick release, to collapse on the other side, freeing all his emotions.

Rose's hands drifted to his nape, her fingers threading through his curls. Sherlock backed Rose against the kitchen counter, grinding his pelvis into hers. The pressure there was an exquisite kind of torture. As their tongues twined and tasted, he hungered for her to touch him, take control, let him reach his peak as urgently as poss—

"Does that gate open automat—"

A stream of curses.

John.

They broke off abruptly. Rose looked beyond him, but Sherlock saw nobody when he turned his head towards the doorway. He gathered his thoughts and called towards retreating footfalls, "The button's in the glove compartment."

There was no response, until eventually, the front door clicked shut.

Sherlock released his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Rose, lips swollen and face flushed with desire, chuckled lightly.

"Now where is this bed-less room you speak of?" she asked.