A/N: Beemer = BMW

BMW (really?) = A make of car, often associated with businessmen and businesswomen (the clue is in a lot of the prices)

The ranks of the Police Constabulary of London (which are relevant to this story) are in order:

Sergeant, Inspector, Chief Inspector, Superintendant, Chief Superintendant

(The commissioner holds the highest rank in the department.)

A small apology – this week may not be as frequent with updates as I am in the middle of preparing for my examinations and organising my notes from my A-level science studies. So much work and so little time to spare!

I want to thank everyone, however, for the encouraging reviews and the story subscriptions! It makes me really happy to know that people enjoy my writing; I will try to keep you entertained to the best of my abilities!

(I hope you all like my representation of Mrs Holmes. It was very difficult to decide on how best to portray her.)

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 5; Family Ties

Sitting in the back of a Beemer, looking out of tinted one-way windows was not the kind of evening John had expected to be having. He had thought that he and Sherlock would go back to the apartment on Melbourne Street, and talk about the plans and preparations that were still to be made so that the detective could be 'released' into the general public. There was so much to do, this 'Sebastian Moran' needed to be dealt with, and of course there was the matter of whatever evidence the brunette had uncovered in his defence being processed and presented to Scotland Yard, the press, and any other big-wigs that wanted to stick their noses in.

Snorting with disdain the blonde turned to his companion.

"Why exactly did you bring me? Why can't you have your family tiff without me?"

The response was through gritted teeth, snide, as though Sherlock was resisting the urge to spit in John's face – it was clear that when their mother came into play, his contempt for his brother multiplied tenfold.

"You're insurance, so that my brother," he choked out the word brother as though it were acid on his tongue. "Will behave himself."

The detective tried his best to gather his thoughts together, into something comprehensible. It wasn't often that he found himself unable to make heads or tails of the situation, but every trip to the home he was raised in brought these feelings up that messed with his ability to think. Having John sat next to him after all of the crazy ideas and – again those stupid feelings that had been firing his heart didn't help.

"What am I supposed to expect, Sherlock?" doctor Watson's voice floated into his mind, bringing him out of his stupor.

"Expect, John?" asked the brunette, with some surprise. The blonde shifted in his seat awkwardly.

"I mean from your family. Are there things I shouldn't do so I don't, I dunno, get shot or something stupid?" this enticed a smirk from the detective.

"It's only my mother, no other family left. Do we seem the types to shoot you?"

"Well, you nearly have twice, you're mad as a hatter, so yes, you probably would shoot me."

The two men laughed slightly, Sherlock had seemed to relax a little in his friend's company, and truly he was glad of John's presence. It would calm him somewhat.

They approached the house, every muscle in the detective's body tensed for a moment, and he remembered to detach himself and relax. It was only a small place, the house was one that his mother and father had, allegedly, bought together and she refused to leave because of that. It was plain, as was the interior, mostly creams and browns; the living room still had its tasteless floral wallpaper and their old grandfather clock. Every other room in the house moved forward in time, but that one stayed – their mother had described it to Sherlock as his father's favourite room, and the one in which he passed away peacefully on a crisp October morning.

Mycroft had a bottomless pocket, and he offered her much nicer, much bigger places, with no need to pay for the bills; their mother had no interest in these sorts of things. She valued the sentiment contained in that old house much more than she valued anything else.

This was the main reason above all that Sherlock detested meeting with his mother for anything other than an emergency – this did not fall into that category in his eyes. She taught him to be so detached, she taught both him and his brother that sentiment can only destroy a person, and whatever it builds over a lifetime will be torn down in an instant. The older Holmes brother remembered a time when their mother laughed, danced and sang, before their father died; this was while she was pregnant with Sherlock. All that the brunette knew of his mother was a cold, calculated woman, who would laugh at him if he said he was homesick or lonely.

Never once did he think of her as a bad mother, or a parent he would have lived without; what might have seemed harsh to some people he truly thanked her for. She'd ridden him of the idea that emotions were defining of a person, that you couldn't overcome them with intellect. Yet here he was, struggling with them as always, fighting a losing battle, and he knew that she would see it.

"Sherlock?" John was shaking him slightly, they were stood outside the old wooden door, with a little glass window and a floral motif; when did that happen? The detective snapped back to reality with a painful thud as though he'd been punched in the shoulder. Oh, he had been punched in the shoulder. "Sort yourself out would you?" the doctor chastised. "What's with your brother and his stupid superiority complex anyway? Turning up before us instead of with us..."

"He'll be trying to talk sense into our mother I imagine." Sherlock's response was stoic at best, he'd reverted straight back to the man he was when Doctor Watson first met him, empty and unfeeling. It was unnerving, as though the last 3 years of his life had never happened, save for that one small flicker of life that was ever present in his eyes. The door before them creaked open without warning, and Mycroft stood in the doorway.

"It's not polite to keep people waiting." He pointed out, glaring at his brother somewhat.

"Have you gained weight?" came the robotic reply, though a little of the detective's temper seeped through.

"Oh just shut up and stop behaving like a 5-year-old. I can see you've gotten softer Sherly, whatever will mummy say?"

"I'm sure she can decide that for herself."

Scotland Yard was usually a relatively dull place of work, and today, Greg Lestrade was sure, would be no exception to that rule. That was until he was called into the superintendant's office. He'd done well for himself in the past couple of years, he'd split with his adulterous wife finally, and had been promoted to Chief Inspector. It wasn't a huge leap, but it certainly helped. Straightening himself out he cleared his throat and prepared to enter.
Greg was of an average build, with mostly greyed sandy hair. His face was often forlorn and tired, especially since the death of their greatest asset – he couldn't help but blame himself somewhat for that, even if there wasn't much he could have done.

"You wanted to see me sir?" he asked, it was forced, practiced, he didn't like the superintendant at the best of times; the superintendant liked him even less now that he was in danger of losing his job to Greg. The sweaty, overweight man started at him from over his glasses and motioned for the chief investigator to sit down, he did as was asked.

"Are you aware of the situation regarding that dammed idiot, Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade's heart felt as though it had leapt into his mouth. Sherlock? What about him? If the superintendant was just talking ill of him and had no news then the inspector wasn't sure he would be able to refrain from retaliating.

"No, sir." He responded, this time it was noticeably awkward, hissed out through gritted teeth. His superior turned to the projector screen on the wall behind him and clicked play on a remote control. There was Sherlock, in the flesh, solving a case no more than 12 hours ago – and he was with John. It was almost too much to bear, and Greg found himself grinning like an idiot.

"I don't know how he did it, but he's still been exposed as a fraud, and I want him caught and brought back here, understand?" the superintendant glared at Lestrade, he meant what he said, and would never have asked the inspector to perform the task if there was someone more suited. There was nothing that the older man could have said to ruin Greg's mood, and with a curt nod he almost leapt from his seat and was quickly away. Now what would he do? There was no way he was going to let them take Sherlock in without a bit of a fight. How could he get to him first, warn him - there was no doubt some kind of evidence in his favour that he might want Lestrade to distribute or present at a hearing. He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly walked into Sally Donovan, who was having some kind of heated debate with Anderson.

"You alright sir?" she asked slyly, eyeing him up as though she knew there was something going on, something she could use to her advantage. Anderson gave him a similarly inquiring look, a slight smirk playing on the edge of his lips. "Got some new girlfriend waiting for you?"

Lestrade eyed them up for a moment, an internal turmoil raged, he would need their help, but neither of them cared at all for Sherlock Holmes.

"No, Sally, look, it's Sherlock." He paused, taking that final leap of faith, no matter what anyone said about them, Donovan and Anderson were good officers who were only doing their job. "He's back, and the superintendant wants me to bring them in." He paused, waiting for the usual 'well do as he says' type of comment that would come from them. It never did, and so he continued. "I figure he wouldn't come back without a way to clear his name. I'll bring him in, but I want to give him that chance first. If I'm going to find him, I want your help, but you have to trust me on this."

There was a pause, it was clear that neither of the other officers liked this idea very much, but they were nothing if not loyal, and so Anderson mumbled a 'he'd better be grateful' and Sally nodded with a resigned sigh.

"Okay, but if he can't prove we were wrong, he's getting the same treatment as every other criminal we deal with."

That was as much of a positive response as Greg needed, and soon they were all clamouring for their coats and making their way hastily out of the building.

Finally.

It wasn't what you'd call a 'normal' family get-together; but that was never what John had expected. The four of them sat in total silence in the living room from yesteryear. John sat uncomfortably in an old worn armchair, sipping tea from the delicate teacup he had been handed in an attempt to take his mind away from the situation. Sherlock hadn't touched his – which was unusual for him. In great British tradition, they were avid tea drinkers, Mycroft and the detective. The older Holmes brother had long since finished his, and their mother simply stared at her youngest intently. The ex-soldier wondered if this was what their meetings always consisted of; hours of silence, followed by some kind of summary and then away they went.

He took this time to really look over the woman who sat in her own armchair, which he assumed was her late husband's, directly across from the sofa which harboured her children. She was tall, and although she was old, she was clearly very beautiful. Her hair was dyed a honey brown to cover the greys, and John assumed this was probably close to her natural colour before age claimed it from her. There were the lines of laughter and sadness that grace the faces of older generations, but they were not as pronounced as you might expect; it showed how detached her partner's death had made her – without the change in facial expression that displays of emotion brought she had been spared a lot of the deeper lines. Even though she was beautiful, she dressed quite plainly. The doctor had almost expected some kind of tyrannical businesswoman in heels and a suit twenty-four seven. She wore slippers for indoors, brown and old – comfortable he guessed. It reminded him quite a lot of Sherlock, who stuck to pyjamas and dressing-gowns on days when they stayed in the apartment. She had the look of the generic 'old lady', in flesh coloured tights, a loosely fitted below-the-knee pleated skirt in maroon, and a cream jumper. The only parts of her that seemed to defy the stereotype were her shoulder-length locks and her height.

"You're conflicted, Sherly." She spoke at last, and there was a collective intake of breath, her tone was smooth, clipped, matter-of-fact rather than concerned.

"I-

Sherlock was about to protest, when she cut across him.

"Don't try to fool your own mother, boy."

It was silent again, even Mycroft looked considerably uncomfortable, he and John exchanged sympathetic 'I'm sorry, I know you want out of here just as much as I do' looks. It was evident that their mother meant a lot to both boys, but that it pained the older to see her like this when she must have been once so lively.

"You are conflicted." She repeated, and closed her tarnished emerald eyes for a moment. "As much as I have tried to teach you about the lack of value emotions hold, you cannot rid yourself of them completely it would seem."

The detective wasn't sure he should respond, it was useless to try and argue with her, she would see right through him, and he knew she was right by all accounts; he was beginning to feel and it concerned him. However, respond he did.

"No-one can rid themselves completely, mother." He replied, no affectionate undertone, again, matter-of-factly as though this were a trivia contest.

"That may be true enough," she began, and John thought he noticed the detective's face take on an expression of shock momentarily. "However, you seem troubled by your emotions. If it is doubt that I was upset by your loss, you can shake it now. I am not the heartless crone you take me for."

There was nothing else said for a long while, as Mrs Holmes and her youngest son tried their best to each understand how the other felt – but years of separation, and detachment from their empathetic instincts made this difficult for them.

"I missed you, Sherlock. A mother always misses her son."

The weight of that statement was felt by everyone in the room, as though someone had sucked out all of the air leaving them unable to breathe.

It seemed as though she let her shroud drop if only for a second, her expression contorted into one of anguish, then settled itself again. Sherlock stood, and walked over to her, kneeling next to the edge of the chair.

"I missed you too, mother." He took one of her hands in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze before righting himself. It would seem that this was as far as displays of affection would go this time. Mrs Holmes nodded, content with this, and Mycroft also stood, leaving John to bolt upright in his discomfort and put the teacup, still filled with cold tea, down a little hard on the wooden table.

"Goodbye, mother." Offered the eldest Holmes boy, who was greeted with a quick hug, his features beaming, he was clearly satisfied in the knowledge that the most affection was shown to him. John doubted that this was because she cared more for him, but instead it was because he had seen her before, he already knew what she was like, how her feelings worked; she didn't want to expose Sherlock to all of the hurt and pent up regret she had been holding since his father's passing, and what had been added to it after her son's 'death'.

The detective swept out quickly, coat-tails splayed out behind him in the wind as he made straight for the car and got back in. John was stopped in the front garden with an umbrella resting on his shoulder. He turned to face Mycroft Holmes, slightly irritated that he couldn't simply leave after being dragged along for this affair, where he was fairly certain he wasn't even needed.

"I wanted to thank you, Doctor Watson," The other man muttered with a tilt of his head and a pensive smile on his features, the one he wore which meant he was satisfied with the thought processes his brain had followed. With a fluid movement the umbrella was touching the floor, and Mycroft's weight had shifted to his other leg. "For coming here with my little brother. He never shares his troubles as you well know, and I think your presence helped him to remain somewhat more open. You witnessed what one might call a miracle today, for my mother and brother to be in the same room without dispute, and to even have some form of physical contact."

With a sigh the man looked back at the old house.

"I hope now he realises how much he did upset her. Be on your way," John didn't respond, just the patronising voice that Mycroft used when he talked was enough to set his teeth on edge.

"Oh and Doctor Watson?" he called; the blonde stopped but did not turn around. "Do look after him properly this time."

It was almost enough to warrant an attack, but John knew it was true; he had failed at looking after his best friend. Without a word he got into the car next to Sherlock.

"Thank you." The brunette mumbled, and the doctor looked at him in disbelief. "Your..." he paused, unable to think of the correct term.

"Emotional support?" finished the ex-soldier, inwardly laughing to himself at his companion's inability to form sentences related to feelings. All rage he felt at the older Holmes brother melted away in an instant.

"Yes that. It was helpful."

Silence enveloped them, the engine started up, and they were driven away.

"What was your real reason for dragging me along...?" asked the blonde after a while, and the response would be one he had not imagined in his wildest dreams.

"Because," began Sherlock with a pause. "Because you are important, John, and you often say how you wish to understand why I am this way; why I act as I do. I felt as though I owed you at least that, that I had an obligation after all I have put you through, to..." he trailed off, again trying to form the correct words in his mind. "Let you in, so to speak."

There was no appropriate response to what he had just been told, and this is why the doctor simply couldn't think of one.

"Don't mention that to anyone though, Sherlock Holmes turning soft, my reputation would be in tatters."

John reached into his pocket and produced another one of the many letters he had written to his companion in the years following his 'death', and placed it on the brunette's lap.

"Don't open it until we've dealt with Moran." He instructed, the timing was integral to the impact the letters would have.

The detective chanced a smirk at the older man. It would seem strange, handing someone a letter they shouldn't open for a long time, but the brunette knew that it was the doctor's way of reassuring him.

"Wouldn't dream of it."