Prompt fill from AO3:

While planting seeds, one character places their seeds closer together than is recommended. When asked why, they respond:

"I want them to grow up as brothers/sisters. I want them to be close, unlike me and [name]. I want them to be friends."

"I don't think that's the way that works."

(may or may not be actual dialogue from a conversation between me and my fourteen-year-old brother)

A/N: I figured out what challenges and prompt memes are. Wow. That took a while. I'm so glad I found this site before AO3; I would've been very overwhelmed. I'm not sure if I'm entirely proud of this (*ahem* characterization); it just seems all over the place. But, like, I tried.

"Off again?" John asked, looking up from where he was feeding Rosie. She looked up with him, tracing Sherlock's movements with her eyes. Her mouth parted, as if she was trying to ask where he was going.

John knew, of course. He'd been doing the same thing every week, every Saturday at 9:00 am, like clockwork.

"Yes," Sherlock answered hurriedly, wandering around the apartment looking for something. Knowing Sherlock, it could be anything.

"When you come back, stop by the store, will you? Buy something edible." He raised his eyebrows expectantly, even though Sherlock was in another room and probably couldn't see him (you never really knew with Sherlock, though).

"Sure," he called out. John feared his eyebrows would fly off of his head. Sherlock had become more amicable lately, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but...but it was weird, okay?

Sherlock came back into the living room then, Belstaff on and violin case in hand, as expected. His eyes landed on Rosie, and a soft smile split his face. "Bye," he said in the voice reserved for her, waving his hand a little in a gesture he would've called 'decidedly idiotic' a few years back. She laughed, delighted, and waved back. (John fought back a smile at the sight.) And then he left the room.

John heard the sound of the front door opening. "I'll be back!"

"Try not to die!" he called back.

The door closed.

John sighed.

It wasn't like he didn't get it. He did. Familial connections were important, especially strained ones that had been severed for many years.

Except this situation was unique, and it was just a bit harder to understand than most.

They were helping Mrs. Hudson with her tiny garden.

If you had asked John years ago, or even one year ago, whether Sherlock was the gardening type or not, well...John would've thought you out of your mind.

As it was, some situations had softened Sherlock, and his prickly exterior was only vaguely there now (reserved solely for Anderson).

It wasn't a bad thing; it was far from one. John was proud of the change he'd observed in his friend. But it took some adjusting.

A lot of adjusting.

Sherlock was even humming a little as he patted the dirt with his hands, those hands that had whipped raw meat and done experiments with rotting corpses, the hands that held Rosie like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him (perhaps she was).

John could hear Mrs. Hudson inside, shuffling about her kitchen as she made tea and talked about anything and everything to Rosie, who liked the rise and fall of her cadences.

He saw a bird land on a tree nearby, chirping merrily for anyone to hear. John smiled. It was peaceful, more so than it'd been in a while (maybe the back-to-back near-death experiences had become tiring to Sherlock, maybe the cases had become too personal for him, maybe that was why he didn't take cases quite as eagerly as he had before).

He turned his head to the right to ask Sherlock about the bird's species when he noticed his plants. They were little flower saplings of some kind John didn't know the name to, just that they looked magnificent. They were also close together. Abnormally close together.

Which was interesting, because Sherlock knew stuff. He knew the typical distance to put between plants, knew how much and how often one should water them, knew anything and everything possible just to put a smile on his landlady's face.

"Uh...Sherlock?"

"Hm. Yes?" he asked, not sweeping his gaze away from the two little saplings.

"I think they're too close. Why don't you replant that one so their roots have more room to grow?" John felt awkward. It wasn't every day that you were able to correct Sherlock Holmes on a subject.

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Why not?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Sherlock sighed, fidgeting a little with his sleeves, mindless of the dirt staining them. "I want them to grow up as brothers and sisters. I want them to be close, unlike me and Eurus. I want them to be friends."

John blinked. It was an uncharacteristically sentimental reason (and now he's sure his inside voice sounds like Mycroft; it's creepy). "I...don't think that's how it works, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled faintly, gaze disconcertingly far away. "I know; it's just...nice to think that." And then he frowned. "Where is this coming from?"

John chuckled. That sounded a little more like Sherlock. "You just found out, two months ago, that you had a slightly crazy sister when she almost killed us. It takes some adjusting." For John, at the very least.

He was still frowning. "I shouldn't need adjusting."

John sighed. "Everyone does; you're no exception."

He was still frowning. John was getting mildly worried. "I'm becoming like everyone else," he said slowly, as if he had just made a huge realization.

John patted his shoulder in sympathy. "You're unique, the only consulting detective in the world. But you're still human, like the rest of us. Remember that."

Sherlock nodded. He seemed happier in the sunlight, John thought. Less pale, too.

The little green saplings stayed put.

John understood it in a distant sort of way.

He understood it in the way that he still met up with Harry every once in a while (she adored Rosie). They would talk amicably, John would make sure that she wasn't on the bottle again, and she would complain about his incessant nagging.

It worked like that. (Sometimes, she'd even put smart-ass comments on his blog.)

And then there was Sherlock and Eurus, an entirely different situation. He didn't quite understand where Eurus had gone wrong, since she had murdered someone when she had still been a child. Hence, he didn't quite understand why Sherlock would want to reconcile with her, the crazy woman who had tried to kill them, who had killed his childhood best friend.

They had a connection, sure; more than a simple familial one, if their violin playing was any indication. But John never did quite understand Sherlock, so he supposed that he was never supposed to understand whatever this was, either.

This being Sherlock inviting him to Sherrinford prison to listen in on their talks.

And it was beautiful, majestic yet complex in a way that he would never understand, was never meant to understand because, despite what John might've thought before, he wasn't the only person in Sherlock's life, the only person he'd never managed to push away, the only person who could tolerate him. (On second thought, that made him sound a bit selfish.)

He was, really, just one person in the whole scheme of things.

The playing stopped abruptly. John could imagine Sherlock's frown. "What?"

"Your friend, John." A breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened from where he was standing outside of the room, far from sight. He should've expected that she would've known. Now she was going to break out of her cell or something and kill them all! Slightly dramatic, John. Cool it off.

"What about him?" A few footsteps, probably a cock of the head.

Her soft voice rang from inside the room. "You brought him." John stiffened. It wasn't a question.

"And?" Sherlock asked, tone stepping a bit outside of his usual neutrality.

"I just wanted to say 'hi'." John wasn't sure what to think about that. "You must mean a lot to him, for him to come here despite his fear." John wondered if she could read his mind. Could she? It wasn't like it was too out of the question for the Holmes family.

"I know. He means a lot to me, too." He didn't know if that was for Eurus or for him. "I wouldn't force him to go anywhere," yeah, right, "if it didn't benefit him somehow." There it was.

"Hmm..." John wondered if she tended to pace around her cell like Sherlock sometimes did in their apartment. He wondered if he would hear her if she managed to step out and orchestrate particularly dramatic deaths for them. "And why is that?" The mystery of life, wasn't it? The nature of humanity to Eurus Holmes.

A ruffle of clothing. "It's foolish sentiment, as our brother would call it."

"Not so foolish anymore."

John could just see Sherlock's thoughtful face. "I suppose so."

"And how is Mycroft, brother dear?"

"Oh, thank god," John muttered, burying his face in his hands. The tension had been unbearable, so sure. Throw Mycroft under the bus, why not?

"She's hardly going to escape," Sherlock assured him later on their way back to land.

John sighed, looking out the window. He could just feel Sherlock's gaze on him. "I know, it's just...a bit weird, is all."

Sherlock hummed a bit in agreement. John sighed again. Why were so many things weird now? He thought it'd all been fixed.

"Do you want me to stop visiting her?" Sherlock asked abruptly. John turned his head to look at him, tried to wonder what he was getting at.

"No!" He's heard Sherlock play; it's most passionate when it's with her.

Sherlock scoffed. "Liar," he said, but it held no malice.

John wasn't entirely sure if he had been lying or not, because his thoughts and feelings had been very complicated as of late. But if Sherlock said that he was lying, then it was more than likely that he was. "She tried to kill us all, Sherlock. She could still kill us all." John didn't know why he was taking this near-death experience more terribly than all the others (than even that incident with Moriarty), but he was, and he wasn't backing down.

"But she won't," Sherlock insisted, with so much earnest that John had to pause. It was earnesty, not surety. Sherlock had changed; they had all changed. (It wasn't a bad change, he thought.) "Not as long as I keep visiting her. She needs company; she missed me and, for some reason, I miss her too."

John smiled a sad smile. Siblings. "You could've had a nice childhood, if all of that didn't happen."

Sherlock hummed in agreement again, looking down at his clasped hands. "But it did. She just...she wanted someone to play with. She wanted to play with me, and I never saw it, so she killed him, and I - I..." He sighed, leaning a little into John. John put an arm around his shoulders in response. It was like that, sometimes, when Sherlock didn't exactly know how to say what he was thinking, what he was feeling. The inarticulation made him unable to look at anyone.

"It's not your fault," he said softly.

Sherlock frowned. "But it is, and I'm making it right. She may have tried to kill us, but she...she deserves something akin to a second chance, even if it's inside a prison cell secured by the British government himself."

It clicked, finally, why this was happening. It had a tiny bit to do with guilt, a tiny bit; but mostly, it was just Sherlock. Sherlock, with his fouly smelling experiments and his air of indifference, with the closest friends one could ever have because they came back even after he pushed them away, time and time again. It was Sherlock, who loved those friends (family) because they came back, and who would do anything and everything for them because they simply deserved that much for putting up with him.

He'd forgive them for anything and everything, too.

He forgave me after I beat him up. He forgave me after I blamed him for Mary's death. It doesn't make sense, but he'll forgive me. Always.

He'd forgive Eurus for everything, too.

It was, very simply, Sherlock. John had to laugh.

"What?" Sherlock mumbled, probably very confused because laughter had no place in this conversation.

John just shook his head, trying not to look insane. "You're a good person, a good brother. Keep seeing Eurus." He paused. "Scratch that, you didn't even need my permission. Just do whatever you want."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not an angel."

"Never said you were."

Sherlock seemed to take the time to process that information; or, at least, put it into his mind palace to examine later. "So when you said, 'whatever you want'..."

"Oh, god no. No more severed toes. Please!"

They continued to go on cases (the usual). They continued to take care of Rosie, along with Molly and Mrs. Hudson and, occasionally, Lestrade (the usual). Sherlock continued visiting Eurus; he came back happier each time. Sometimes, John would join him too, if only to hear the music. He even had a slightly non-threatening conversation with Eurus that one time.

And then Sherlock got shot. Again.

John was sitting by his bedside, elbows on his knees, watching his chest go up and down. He was breathing. Alive.

He sighed. How many times was this now? It hadn't been too significant of a case (nothing as personal as a forgotten sister, at least); Sherlock had called it a 6.

Look at where they were now.

He gently squeezed Sherlock's limp hand. The bullet had fractured a rib; the doctors had had slight difficulty removing all the fragments before they caused fatal damage. It had been close.

A twitch of the fingers. John blinked. "Sherlock?" he asked hurriedly, excitedly. He wondered if he had imagined it.

Sherlock groaned, and John had to grin. "Hey," he said softly. "You're in the hospital. How are you feeling?"

He watched as Sherlock's eyes flickered open, watched as he took in their surroundings before focusing on John. "Alive."

"Well, I suppose you're not wrong."

Sherlock chuckled a little, but then winced, closing his eyes tightly against the pain. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes again, but looked towards the doorway instead. John followed his gaze to see Mycroft, ever with his umbrella and suit. "Oh. Hello, Mycroft," he greeted. "Didn't hear you answer my calls. Didn't think you'd come." It came out maybe a bit less amicable than he'd intended.

Sherlock groaned again. "You called him? Mycroft, leave. Go away."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and John took it as his cue to exit the room for a bit. Maybe he could go pick up Rosie from Molly's and have her cheer Sherlock up. Molly could probably come, too. Who knows how many flowers she would've bought by now.

"I'll be back," he said.

Sherlock groaned. Mycroft simply nodded his head.

As he left, he heard the two brothers behind him. "You were shot, Sherlock. Why wouldn't I be here? Besides, John called me."

"Oh, and you're such close buddies with John now?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say tha-"

"Sentiment."

"No."

"Sentiment. He's my friend, so you want to be friends with him. Or, at least, be acquainted with him."

"Look who's talking. Friends?"

"And what's so wrong with that? Jealous?"

A sniff. "You've become overly sentimental, brother mine."

"I repeat my previous statement."

A pause. "You are okay, right?"

"Oh, yes, fine. Fun. Wonderful."

"Sherlock."

"Who's being sentimental now?"

John chuckled, walking towards the exit. Maybe he'd been looking at the wrong sibling all along.