When Sherlock Holmes enters Lestrade's division at Scotland Yard everybody hears him: his pace, the rhythmic sounds of his walking, the long strides, the way his steps make the desks vibrate. It's morning by now, and when Donovan sees him she nods towards Greg's office and the consulting detective answers her with a snort: he carefully opens the door to find a sleeping – and snoring – Watson at Lestrade's desk, his arms crossed and his head hanging between his shoulders. Sherlock smiles and tiptoes his way to the small couch at the other side of the room; he stares at the doctor, pondering on how to approach this case, how to handle the fact that this time John is involved, that he is the family member that Sherlock usually harass to find the truth.
Strangely enough, the sight of his sound asleep friend and his snoring makes his eyelids heavy: he scrubs his face and rubs his eyes but soon he finds himself leaning his head back and he doesn't fight it.
Two hours later Sherlock awakes by the sound of someone sighing and flopping down on the couch next to him: he opens his right eye and sees John with a small smile on his face.
- Sleeping? On a case? Should I be insulted? Terrified?
- On the contrary, my dear Watson – his sleepy voice turning into a chuckle – you should be proud. All these years, all those pleading looks and lectures about the importance of sleeping, when all it takes is hearing you snore like freight train.
- I don't!
- Leave it John; I think the whole building heard you.
John smiles and leans back on the couch, closing his eyes again.
- Should I ask?
- Not yet. And why are you here?
- Oh, you know, Greg is a friend and a dead girlfriend is a get out of jail free card.
Sherlock slowly turns his head and looks at him with a worried look.
- Oh, Christ, sorry, I mean, don't worry, I tend to do that when something like this happen. I know it's awful, but it's…my way to cope. It happened even when you…you know. That.
The detective eyes soften and then he licks his dry lips.
Was I snoring too?
- So…how are you?
- Sherlock…
- I know, it's a stupid question, I just don't know how to…run our friendship in this case.
John immediately tilts his head back and laughs, slapping his left hand on his knee.
- What? What did you find so amusing this time? – Sherlock frowns.
- "Run our friendship"? It's not a business Sherlock! And you really don't have to worry, I know you, there's no need to do that, you're helping me by doing your job.
- But I want to know how you're doing.
The doctor looks at him and his unintentional puppy eyes; his attempt at being an "ordinary" friend goes straight to his heart and he immediately feels guilty.
- You really want to know?
- Seriously, what is wrong with you people today, do you not know me? I don't ask questions if I don't care about the answer. If I ask I want to know. It might be a stupid question, how to deal with emotions it's not my forte, I give you that, but it's a legitimate inquiry nevertheless.
- Alright, calm down, I get it. … I'm…not good, but how I'm feeling now it's not the problem anyway. Until we find who's responsible I'll be living in a bubble. I know what happened, I know she's not here anymore, the pain is still unbearable at times, but looking for a killer keeps my mind busy. You have to ask me again once we're done with this, when there will be someone to blame, because that…that will be a problem.
Sherlock nods and lowers his eyes.
- You get it?
- Yes, John, I do. I am a human being, not a machine. And statistically, a person my age should be familiar with grieve and loss.
- Are you?
- Yes.
An awkward silence falls between the two of them: just like Sherlock has trouble handling emotions, John has trouble handling an emotional Sherlock.
- Like, uhm, a friend? A member of your family?
- My grandfather.
- …ah.
The doctor is in a whole new territory, it almost feels like putting on a red suit and then getting stuck inside in a bullfighting arena. What now?
- My paternal grandfather.
Sherlock shifts on his seat, feeling rightly under scrutiny: his palms are sweating and he crosses his legs, still licking his lips and avoiding John's gaze.
- Water. I need water.
John stands up and fetches him a bottle of water from Greg's minibar, hidden under the desk.
- Sherlock, seriously, you don't have to do this, I trust your word, I know you understand me there's no need for a confession.
- He has a minibar in his office?
- Exactly, let's discuss Lestrade's habits; deduce him from the contents of his minibar!
The detective purses his lips, tempted with the prospect of a new diversion, but the need to reassure John and connect with him – now that he can – is stronger.
- No, it's alright John. I'm fine.
John flops down on the couch again, leaning against the armrest and stretching his arm along the back of the couch.
- So...what happened?
- We were very close. We bonded over our status of outcasts of the family. When I was eight I was already different from them. My father was despotic and obsessed with appearances, my mother was submissive and fearful; Mycroft was the perfect son and they were both madly in love with him. And then there was me. I was the one who sneaked out from the window in the middle of the night, when I couldn't sleep because I was wondering how many fishes in the pond it would take to cover the distance from the kitchen to my room.
- What?!
- We had a pond.
- Yeah, that's not what I meant with that.
- And I did, one night I went to the pond, dive in and caught as many fishes as I could. In no time there was a line of dead fishes starting from the fridge and going up the stairs. They found me the next morning, asleep, leaning against my bedroom door.
John presses his lips together and clenches his hands into fists, trying to suppress a laughter and the urgent need to hug that stupid genius in front of him.
- And what did they do?
- You don't want to know how many?
- What?
- Fishes!
- Oh Jes-, yeah, Sherlock, how many?
- 274. I wasn't satisfied though, because then I realized there were at least four different species and that the experiment might have another outcome under various parameters. But my parents weren't…happy, let's just leave it at that. So they sent me to my grandfather's house. Because, hey, our son is a nutter and that old man is a nutter too.
- I'm sorry, Sherlock.
- No, don't be. It was the best time of my life. He taught me how to fence and fight. We talked in Italian and French. We used to discuss history at night and he brought me my first chemistry set. He was…brilliant. He was a perfect union of intellectual superiority and charisma. Everybody loved him and I worshiped him. The best year of my life, until my parents remembered they had another child and wanted me back but I couldn't live there anymore. I felt in prison, constricted, helplessly rotting in my room.
John is completely mesmerized by how much Sherlock is opening up to him, especially knowing that it can all end in a moment, all it takes is a text or a phone call or just someone looking for Lestrade and opening the door for a second. Fear, is what John is feeling right now, fear of this human and emotional side slipping away from his hands any time now.
- What happened next?
- I grew up. And Mycroft told me about my grandfather past, hoping to destroy his reputation. Today, I think he was just jealous but back then it's what started our rivalry.
- Did he succeed?
- No. His idea of a horrible and secretive past was him having another family in Venice. He fought in World War II and you know how it was then. Many soldiers had affairs and illegitimate children and I always thought my grandfather was honorable, for being a man of his word and supporting them even if he came back here.
- And you never saw him again?
- Oh, yes, I did. When I was fourteen my grandmother died so he returned to Venice and lived there until he passed away too. I basically spent there all my summer and winter holidays, with him and what was left of his family, playing the violin and running around the calle.
- That must be...all kinds of beautiful. So you actually speak Italian? Say something!
- Oh, please, John, don't be a commoner.
- Come on! Say something in Italian!
- No! There, I said it. No means no, even in Italian.
- Please? Say something in Italian?
- Oh, for God's sake, this is ridiculous.
Sherlock growls but surrenders
- Dimmi qualcosa in italiano.
- See, was it difficult? What was that?
- "Say something in Italian".
- Figures.
- Are we done?
- Yes, I'm sorry, go on.
- There's nothing more to say. He was like a father to me and he had the courtesy of dying the last summer I went there. So, there. My father died when I was nineteen. My biological father died eight years ago and I didn't even go to his funeral. My mother secretly hates me for this, Mycroft openly hates me for this, I blatantly couldn't care less. I know how it feels like, I know everything there is to know about grieve and death. I know how you feel and I'm sorry. I really am.
John is speechless, and hopes to God that single tear sliding down his cheek goes unnoticed.
- I'm…sorry.
- Don't be ridiculous. It's been years now and I'm fine.
- Right, of course you are.
John arm is still stretched along the back of the couch, his hand right behind Sherlock's neck; he carelessly brushes the curls at his nape for a couple of seconds and then stands up.
- Hungry?
- No, but I have a feeling you'll never stop nagging about it, so yes, starving.