A/N: Hey guys! I'm posting this one now instead of Sunday because I have a weekend-long basketball tournament, and I wasn't sure if I'd have the chance to put it up. This is one was so much fun to write, I hope you guys like it! :)
Enjoy!
Sherlock spends the remainder of the cab ride squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to will away his rising nausea, while John mutters placations and brushes his curls away from his forehead. When the cab stops, Sherlock mutters "Alter ipse amicus."
John helps him from the car then watches as the cabbie drives away with no payment. "Still can't believe you can do that. What did that phrase mean?"
"Friends are an extension of self," he mumbles, staggering a bit.
As John heaves him up the front steps, Sherlock notices the crooked knocker and reflexively scowls. The knocker is always perfectly straight, except when a certain someone pops by and succumbs to his obsessive-compulsive behaviors. This is a rather unpleasant discovery for Sherlock—whose head is still pounding quite painfully, by the way—because the last thing he needs is a little check-up from his overbearing brother.
Ever-vigilant, John notices his distress and pauses in the threshold. "Sherlock, you alright? If you think you're going to be sick again, there's a bush right there—"
He would wrinkle his nose in disgust, but the fact is, he's already vomited in two unsavory places—the bin in Molly's sitting room and then into a bag in the cab—so the whole bush idea isn't too farfetched. Thankfully, he isn't currently on to brink of retching; instead, he feels ill for an entirely different reason.
"I'm fine," he assures distractedly, hobbling his way into the building. John secures an arm around his waist and allows Sherlock to lean heavily against him as they scale the stairs. Not for the first time, Sherlock notes that John is far stronger than his—petite—frame might lead one to believe. As they reach the final step, Sherlock sighs. "Unfortunately, John, I believe we have company waiting for us inside."
"Company? Who?"
With a bland smile devoid of all pleasure, Sherlock reaches a long arm and pushes open the unlocked door to their flat. When it has opened enough to reveal the sitting room, John's question is promptly answered.
There, sitting in his flat and calmly eating biscuits, is the last bloody person Sherlock would like to see at the moment.
"Hello, brother dear," Mycroft greets mock-pleasantly, dabbing the corners of his mouth for crumbs.
His head is throbbing, his eyes are sore, and every muscle in his body is rioting against the notion of remaining upright for much longer. He absolutely does not need this right now. Without another thought, Sherlock hunches down and buries his face in John's shoulder. "Please, John, I don't care what you have to do, but get him out of here," he begs, his voice muffled by the material of John's jumper.
John gives his back a few sympathetic pats. With Sherlock still stooped over him, John addresses Mycroft. "As you can see, Sherlock is not feeling all that well, so it'd be best if you came back another time, Mycroft."
Mycroft gives John a patronizing hum of acknowledgment, but otherwise ignores him. "I'm afraid you can't hide in John's jumper forever, Sherlock," Mycroft chides
"Oh, but I can," Sherlock replies into John's shoulder.
When Mycroft doesn't say anything in return, Sherlock reluctantly lifts his face from the curve of John's neck.
Unsurprisingly, he finds that Mycroft is smirking. "Now, now, Sherlock, is this any way to treat your big brother?" His eyes briskly sweep Sherlock's form, deductions and conclusions visibly snapping into place behind his dark irises. "It's so lovely to see your horizons have broadened, though I must admit I always thought your tastes were a bit more refined than five-pound wine from the supermarket."
Sherlock glares. On any other day, a clever retort would be ready on his lips, but at the moment the dying need to collapse onto a piece of furniture—the bloody coffee table is looking inviting at this point—is far stronger than his urge to banter with Mycroft.
With determined, unsteady steps, he makes his way over to John's chair. Of the two chairs, John's is far more comfortable and pleasantly well-worn; his, on the other hand, is comprised of imposing black leather and sharp angles; quite the opposite of what he'd like to relax into at the moment.
With the gracelessness of a man in agony, Sherlock flops down into John's chair and tucks his knees to his chest. He cares very little that he is currently tucked into a pathetic, hung-over ball in front of not only the object of his affections, but his smug, pretentious brother as well.
John looks as if he's going to protest, but thinks better of it as he takes in the sad sight of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, curled miserably in the fetal position. With a sigh, John walks over to the linens closet, procures a blanket, and proceeds to drape it over him with a look Sherlock can only describe as begrudging affection. "That's my chair, but I'll allow it just this once," John mumbles under his breath as he settles into Sherlock's chair. Upon sitting, John's face immediately scrunches up in discomfort. "What the bloody—this chair is dreadful! How do you sit in it all the time? It's about as comfortable as a metal box wrapped in leather."
Sherlock shrugs and nuzzles the side of his face into the warm material of John's chair. "Yours however is quite nice and soft. And it smells like you as well," he buries his nose into the upholstery for a moment. "Cinnamon, shampoo, a bit of cologne, and body soap," He considers commenting on how delicious that scent combination is, but catches himself just in time.
John rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Nose like a bloodhound, I see. However, you got one thing wrong: I do not smell like bloody cinnamon."
"You do. It's a sweet, spicy smell. Quite nice, actually."
John laughs, a bright smile adorning his features. "Really. Well I suppose I'll take that as a compliment, if you meant it as such."
"I did mean it as a compliment."
Fondness shines in John's eyes. He's on the brink of continuing their banter, when Mycroft clears his throat. "If you're quite done flirting with Dr. Watson, Sherlock, then perhaps I can tell you why I am here."
Sherlock tugs the blanket around his shoulders and stubbornly shuts his eyes. "Oh, you mean you didn't come just to spend some quality family-time with me?"
With a bland smile, Mycroft replies, "I'm afraid not. I have come here to warn you."
The only thing Sherlock despises more than Mycroft's pretentiousness is his bloody ambiguity. Sherlock is well aware that Mycroft is being purposefully vague to coax him into asking for clarification, which is something he absolutely loathes doing. Sherlock narrows his eyes and grits out, "A warning for what?"
Mycroft takes his time, unhurriedly eating another biscuit and then dabbing at his lips. After a solid thirty seconds, he meets Sherlock's impatient gaze. "Why, of Mummy's impending visit, of course."
As far as sobering statements go, that is the verbal equivalent of a bucket of ice water. Immediately alert, Sherlock sits straight up and tosses the blanket from his shoulders. "Mother?" he croaks in the most undignified manner. "When?"
Mycroft smirks. "Well, brother dear, she intends to surprise you by popping in tomorrow. In the evening around dinnertime, I presume."
Numbly, Sherlock asks, "Why?"
"Apparently you failed to mail her your weekly letter and she grew concerned," Mycroft drawls, though the elongation of the word 'concerned' makes it quite clear he does not mean it sincerely.
Still unable to fully process the news, Sherlock drops his head in his hands and groans. The headache that had amicably began to ebb away is now back with a vengeance. "Mycroft, I just spoke to her on the phone two days ago. Who cares that my bloody weekly letter was a few days late?"
Mycroft helps himself to another biscuit. "You hardly need an answer to that, Sherlock, but I shall humor you anyway: Mummy cares. Besides, we both know she's been looking for an excuse to stop by for ages now; your little slip up was the perfect opening. You know," Mycroft continues, his voice now edged with faint annoyance, "you will not be the only one suffering from this. Because of your negligence, Mummy will once again have the opportunity to stick her nose into my personal life; if she so much as attempts to 'set me up' again, I promise you, Sherlock, I will fabricate a national crisis and flee, leaving you all alone with her and her scrutiny."
Sherlock groans and hides his face in the arm of the chair. "Fine, Mycroft," he says tersely, his voice muffled by the upholstery. "Will you leave now?"
Mycroft scoffs at his dramatics, but complies. "Very well. I trust Mummy will want some sort of family dinner tomorrow night after she has interrogated John, so I suppose I will see you then, Sherlock." He stands up and leads himself to the door, umbrella swinging at his side.
"Interrogate?" echoes John. Mycroft pauses in the doorway and smirks. "Did I say interrogate? I meant to say, after she has met you, John. Apologies," he drawls in an entirely unapologetic tone. "Good day, doctor. See you tomorrow night, drama queen."
The door slams shut far louder than necessary, and the sound sends waves of pain through Sherlock's head. He stabs his thumbs into his temples and rubs aggressive circles, endeavoring to ward away the quickly-worsening headache. "Did he…did he call me a drama queen?" Sherlock asks, once the pain has ebbed away enough for him to speak.
"He did indeed," answers John succinctly. "Now, what would you like to do? I'd suggest sleeping it off, but I know how tedious you find sleep."
Sherlock tugs the blanket around his shoulders and rests his forehead against the upholstery. "Some very strong pain medication sounds heavenly right now. And you're right; sleep is tedious. I'll just watch telly with you on the couch."
John raises an eyebrow. "What if I had other plans for today?"
Sherlock groans in complaint and pulls the blanket over his head like a hood. "Then cancel them," he demands petulantly.
John rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, yeah, you're just lucky I don't have work today. I'll be right back with the pills, okay?"
While John roots around in their medicine cabinet, Sherlock mentally reviews last night's events. Everything is sort of a vague blur, but he has distinct memories of texting someone with Molly's assistance, watching an inordinate amount of trashy films, and eating ice cream. He isn't sure which is most shocking, to be honest.
He closes his eyes and attempts to dredge up the memory of who he was texting, but the search proves fruitless as his headache is making it impossible to enter his mind palace. It is then that he realizes he can just check his phone's history; with a scowl, he digs in his pocket for his mobile, annoyed that it took him so long to arrive at such an easy solution.
Sherlock scans his history and finds about a dozen texts exchanged between him and John. His heart stills in his chest and he frantically scans each one. He's too busy spiraling into a whirlwind of embarrassment and horror to fully read every single text, but he catches key phrases such as "Sharp cheekbones or soft features?" and the dreadful, "Am I attractive?"
Sherlock is just about to toss his phone across the room and vow never to text anyone again, when his eyes land on John's latest message. "Yeah, of course you are, with your bloody cheekbones and designer suits and whatnot."
He blinks numbly and rereads it, certain that he's misunderstood.
Yeah, of course you are
Alright, not much room for misinterpretation there.
Of course you are
Sherlock drops his phone and stares at nothing, his eyes growing glassy as he recedes into his musings. John thinks he is attractive and apparently has no qualms about telling him such. That is certainly…interesting. He is torn from his reverie when John reenters the room.
"Here, I have the pills. What do you feel like watching?" John asks, medicine in one hand and the remote in the other.
Still a bit shaken by his discovery, Sherlock absently replies, "Anything is fine."
"James Bond it is," John announces. He hands Sherlock the Paracetamol and moves over to the television to pop in the DVD.
"Do you need help to the couch or are you okay?"
Sherlock stares at the couch and it seems miles away from John's chair, but his pride will not allow him to ask for assistance. It's twelve feet away; he can handle a measly twelve feet. "I'm fine,' he assures.
After he's made it to the couch five grueling minutes later, John takes the seat beside him and presses play. "Here," he offers, dropping a pillow into his lap and patting it. "Lay your head down, it'll feel better."
The offer sounds too lovely to question, so without further thought, Sherlock lays on his back and drops his head into John's lap. The film begins and John proceeds to stroke Sherlock's hair back from his forehead as if it's the most natural thing in the world, his fingers raking pleasantly against Sherlock scalp and getting caught up in his curls. Sherlock sighs in contentment and closes his eyes, the movie's theme song droning quietly in the background.
The rest of the day is spent in a similar fashion: Sherlock sleeping on and off while John makes his way through his entire collection of Bond movies.
By the time night falls, the headache and nausea are almost entirely gone, and the placidity of the day's events leave Sherlock feeling more at peace than he has in a ages.
The next morning, Sherlock strolls from his bedroom feeling a million times better than the day before. No headache, no foul taste in his mouth, no nausea, and when he goes into the loo to stare at his reflection, he looks human and not like some horrid undead creature…It's like bloody Christmas. His splendid mood is only improved when he strolls into the kitchen and sees John's delightful, sleep-mussed profile preparing their customary morning tea.
"Morning," he greets brightly.
John turns to him and smiles, tea in hand. "Feeling better I take it?"
Sherlock grins with all of his teeth and does a quick pirouette across the tiled floor. "Yes, John, I feel wonderful." It is incredible how great a good night's rest and a complete lack of alcohol feel. Devoid of all toxins, headaches, and hangovers, Sherlock almost feels as if he could burst out in song.
John laughs at his uncharacteristic cheeriness and reaches up to briefly squeeze his shoulder. "Glad to hear it, Sherlock."
It is only then that he realizes how close their proximity is; John is mere inches away. From this distance Sherlock can clearly identify his signature scent of cinnamon, shampoo, and some exotic, heady substance that is simply John. It is utterly intoxicating. Sherlock's heart stills in his chest as he locks eyes with John; he finds himself getting lost in the bright, cerulean depths of his irises and completely forgetting any notion of coherent thought. The most baffling thing, however, is the way that John is staring back. His gaze is open and warm and tinged with something significant, something Sherlock can't quite put a finger on, and his deliciously shaped lips are slightly parted as if to appear inviting…
Sherlock is about ninety-nine percent ready to just lean down and kiss John right here in their kitchen, when the bloody microwave chimes and shakes them both out of the moment.
John blinks rapidly, as if waking from a daze. "I'll, uh, I'll get that."
John turns around to open the microwave, but Sherlock remains frozen in place, his spine as stiff as a rod. The frustration and bloody desire that are coursing through his veins are enough to make him either scream, laugh hysterically, or do something entirely rash. When John turns back around, Sherlock decides on the third option.
Without another thought, he ducks down, cradles the side of John's face in his large palm, and leans forward to press a kiss against his cheek. Just as quickly as it starts, it ends, and Sherlock pulls back with a brief smile. He can't quite think of something clever on the spot, so he just follows up with the first thing to pop into his head. "Good morning." The moment the words leave his lips, he feels like an idiot. Good morning? He already said that! Christ now he's being repetitive and spontaneous…what has become of the once logical Sherlock Holmes?
John blinks in surprise, but his confused expression gradually morphs into one of fond amusement. He gives a little laugh. "Yes, good morning to you as well. Would you like toast or biscuits with your tea?"
Later, when they're sitting across from each other, eating their respective dishes and reading their preferred modes of entertainment—for John, the football section of the paper and for Sherlock, an online editorial on forensic entomology—Sherlock internally marvels at how little the kiss affected John. Initially John was mildly surprised, but that quickly faded, and in no time he seemed entirely unbothered. Sherlock drums his fingers absently against the table and stares unseeingly at his laptop screen. If John doesn't mind Sherlock kissing his cheek, and he also doesn't mind kissing Sherlock's hair, would John mind if Sherlock perhaps kissed him on the mouth? As in, an actual kiss?
Sherlock's heart beats wildly in his chest at the notion, but he quickly crams down his excitement. He cannot allow himself to get hopeful; blind optimism will just make it even harder when his hopes do not come to fruition. The reserved, wary man on one shoulder firmly tells him not to subject his very straight best friend to his stupid fantasies. On his other shoulder, a scientist coolly explains that this can be considered an experiment of sorts; to establish a set of guidelines, one must test the boundaries, yes? Seeing how much John is willing to accept would be a delightful, prolific experiment.
However, there is one fatal flaw in that line of reasoning: it runs the risk of losing John's friendship. In the past, he lived his entire life with only enemies and acquaintances with various degrees of tolerance, but now that he has met someone like John—someone who cares about him, enjoys his company, and sticks by his side no matter what the situation—there is no way he can go back to living in cold solitude. The mere thought makes his chest ache. Therefore, running a serious of experiments to 'test John's boundaries' could easily back fire and cause him to lose John forever.
"Hey, why do you look so upset? Is it because your mum's coming round tonight?" asks John, concerned.
Sherlock blinks out of his daze and focuses on the man across the table. He hadn't realized his expression was growing gloomy right along with his thoughts. With a half-hearted smile—mostly for the sake of reassuring John—he says, "Yes, that's what it is." Which is actually a complete lie, considering he completely forgot that Mummy was even coming, due to the distracting events of this morning. Now that he has been reminded, he is almost relieved to focus his bad feelings towards that troubling notion, instead of what he has uncreatively dubbed, his 'John Problem'.
John takes a sip of tea and folds his paper in half, laying it down on the table. "So what's your mum like? I've never actually heard you talk about any of your family, except for Mycroft."
"Well, my father died when I was seven; Mycroft had just turned fourteen at the time. Prior to my father's death, my mother was quite lively and immersed herself in several interests, ranging anywhere from cooking to publishing books on the principles of quantum mechanics. She is certifiably a genius," he states, completely blasé despite the considerable impressiveness of it. "After his death, she became quiet and somewhat subdued. There were two years in which she did little but read before the fireplace and stare out the window at the garden my father created for her. Eventually, her spirit returned and she once again became the strong, intelligent woman that she had been in the past."
"Wow, I mean, she sounds incredible, Sherlock. Why are you and Mycroft so stressed out about her visiting?"
Sherlock smiles drily. "Well, along with her love for knowledge and exotic cuisine, she also has a penchant for interfering in our lives; she's quite the control freak, for lack of a better word. When I was a teenager and young adult, she often tricked me into social situations or dates in hopes that I would meet someone nice and settle down. She did the same for Mycroft, but he managed to appease her by bringing the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend along for Christmas dinner. Not that he cared for them much; he only did so to keep her match-making endeavors at bay." He sighs. "She always means well of course, but neither of us enjoy anyone—even our own mother—impeding our privacy."
John looks thoughtful as he digests this. After minute's deliberation, he opens his mouth and says the last thing Sherlock is expecting. "Did you ever meet anyone you liked on these 'dates'?"
"What?" Out of all of the significant information he has just given John, that is what he chooses to focus on? Sherlock gives him a strange look but replies anyway; "Well, on one occasion I met someone that was actually quite interesting, but it didn't take long for them to show their true colors."
John's body language and expression blare his interest quite clearly. He leans in and raises his eyebrows, "Okay that was way too vague and you know it. What was their name, what were they like, and what happened that made you dislike them?"
Questions, questions, so many questions! He sighs; he might as well humor John. Besides, he rather likes having John's undivided attention on him. "His name was Victor Trevor. I was fifteen when we met, he was eighteen," Sherlock begins, his eyes growing glassy as he recedes into memories of his childhood. "My mother had once again tricked me into attending some ridiculous soiree for some ridiculous person I did not care for, and I was just about to leave when I saw him leaning on the wall tapping his fingers against a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. I didn't have any since my mother made sure to confiscate my stash, so I attempted to pick-pocket him on my way out. I had the package halfway out of his pocket when he grabbed my wrist and grinned at me; he said something akin to "If you wanted some you need only ask." After that we went outside and smoked and talked, mostly about the stupid people inside. He was interesting to me because he was the first person I'd met that was remotely intelligent and tolerant enough to withstand my…quirks. Anyway, hours flew by and he eventually tried to kiss me. I had no interest in such a thing at the time, being that I wanted a friend and nothing more. I turned my head away and said 'no', and he immediately lost his charm. Within seconds of the rejection, he called me a freak and stormed back inside. When I rejoined the party five minutes later, he was in the corner snogging some drunk girl. Suffice to say, it was not a good experience."
To Sherlock's surprise, by the time he's finished speaking, John looks quite…angry. His fists and jaw are clenched and his brow is pulled into a frown—it's the same way he looks whenever Donovan or Anderson say something snide to Sherlock: defensive, protective, and itching to punch something. "What a bloody prick," John snaps. He glares at the table for a moment, then his expression softens. He looks up at Sherlock. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
Sherlock gives him an odd look; he has no idea why John is getting so worked up over something as insignificant as this. "It's fine; that was hardly the first or last time someone did not take rejection well," he pauses and scrutinizes John. "John, why does it bother you so much? It's in the past; besides, it was far from traumatizing. I'm perfectly fine."
"Yeah—I'm not really bothered by that specifically; what I am bothered by is the way people treat you in general. And I know you don't care what anyone thinks, it's just…" he sighs in frustration, "it's just, I hate when people say things like that about you. They're just so bloody stupid! They don't—they don't get you, you know? They don't bother to listen or care or get to know you; they just make snap-judgments and say something cruel."
"To be fair, I don't exactly make charming first impressions, John," Sherlock replies with a lopsided smile.
John gives a tired chuckle. "Yeah, in most cases I agree."
"Most?"
"Well, my first impression of you was quite good, actually," John smiles absently, nostalgia washing over his features. "I mean, yeah, I thought you were a bit mad, but I also thought you were brilliant and exciting and blunt; I was bloody sick of people sugar coating things for me, the poor old invalid, so it was quite refreshing to be around someone honest."
Sherlock's heart pounds in chest like a drum. "You…you thought I was brilliant and exciting?"
John looks at him from across the table, eyes smiling. "Yeah, of course I did. And how was I to refuse your offer of sharing a flat, when you had that dramatic exit, billowing coat, and those bloody cheekbones?" asks John fondly.
Sherlock squirms in his seat, realizing with both discomfort and excitement that they are once again nearing 'flirting' territory. "My cheekbones?"
"They're eye-catching," John says thoughtfully, as if appraising a painting. "You are quite eye catching as a whole, actually."
Sherlock is now blushing so fiercely that his face feels as if it is on fire. "You say that as if you aren't."
"Aren't what?" asks John.
"Eye-catching. Attractive. Because you are," he blurts out, tearing his gaze from the table to meet John's.
When John stares back, his blue eyes are sharp and focused unerringly on Sherlock. It feels as if time has stopped; as if they are the only two people in the entire universe. "You think so?" John asks quietly, his voice rough.
"Yeah," Sherlock croaks. The air is practically vibrating with tension and suspense. Sherlock's fingertips feel numb, his mind is blank, and his heart is pounding so fiercely that he is surprised the entire flat is not shaking because of it.
They are on the precipice of something; they are standing at the edge of a vast canyon of change and something is going to happen very, very soon. Whatever it is will change them irrevocably, he can feel it. However, he finds that he is not afraid of the notion. If anything, the thought excites him, which is an interesting development, considering he has been absolutely terrified of change, in the past. The tension sizzles in the air like tangible smoke. Sherlock wets his bottom lip and watches John mimic the action, his eyes dark and his body still.
Sherlock is in the middle of contemplating the most dignified way to dive across the table and shove his tongue down John's throat, consequences be damned, when three sharp knocks ring out in the flat. His spine straightens and every notion of romantic activity is wiped from his mind in an instant.
Mother.
John gives him a confused look, though he too has been shaken from the spell. "Who is that? Bit early for a client, yeah?"
"Yeah," he mumbles absently, clumsily rising from his chair. Damn it, why is she here already? Mycroft said she would stop by around dinner time and it is currently eight in the morning.
Sherlock scowls and allows himself a brief moment to mentally curse Mycroft. He then straightens, clears his expression, and strides briskly to the door. At the last moment, he answers John's unspoken question, "My mother," he calls over his shoulder. Then, without further explanation, he swings the door open.
"Darling!" Violet Holmes cries, engulfing him in an embrace. He resigns himself to the hug and carefully reciprocates it. "Hello, Mother."
"Oh dear, it appears I've caught you in the middle of breakfast, haven't I? So sorry, darling," Violet says apologetically. Sherlock knows better than to think she's being sincere; Mother knew exactly what she was doing by coming here so early in the morning. It is apparently her goal to catch him unguarded and gain a candid peek into his life; annoyance aside, he must say he admires the cleverness behind it.
Behind him, John amicably sets about reassuring her; "Oh, don't worry about it, please," he smiles winningly and steps forward to shake her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Holmes, I'm John Watson."
Violet smiles. "Please, call me Violet, dear. And the pleasure is all mine; I've heard so much about you, Doctor Watson."
John beams. "I can say the same about you! From what Sherlock has told me, I've gathered that you are quite the genius. Cooking, sewing, painting, and the author of a book on quantum mechanics? That's just incredible."
Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard his irises nearly disappear into his skull. Meanwhile, Violet blushes and titters and John smiles like the good lad he is. It's quite clear that Mummy already adores him, though Sherlock cannot say he is surprised; John simply can't help but charm the pants off of every single person he meets.
Sherlock takes her arm to lead her inside, but she pauses by the door, her brow furrowed. After a moment's contemplation, understanding dawns across her face and she looks up at Sherlock with sharp eyes. "You know, darling," Violet chastises, "If you're going to indulge, please do so with something classier than—" she sniffs at the air, "cheap wine from the corner shop. I'm sure a smart man like yourself can procure a decent bottle of Pinot Noir."
Sherlock frowns but grumbles "Yes, mother."
He is quite ready to move on and settle into the sitting room, but John looks baffled. "How did you know that? Mycroft?"
Violet smiles at his surprise. "No, dear, I just used this," she taps her nose, "and these," she gestures to her eyes. "I'm assuming you're aware that my sons have similar abilities?"
John grins at the mention of Sherlock's 'powers of deduction'. "Oh, yes. I certainly am—it's quite amazing that you lot can all deduce. Bloody brilliant, that."
She raises an eyebrow and gives Sherlock a look from the corner of her eye that clearly says: well, I can see why you like him. "Thank you, Doctor Watson, I'm flattered that you think so."
John takes her coat and leads her into the sitting room. "I'll prepare a fresh pot and be right out. Would you like any biscuits or toast?"
Violet takes a seat on the couch and gazes about the flat attentively. "No, dear, tea will be just fine, thank you." John nods and disappears into the kitchen.
She continues to scan the room with interest. Her eyes land on the mounted cow skull wearing headphones and she turns to Sherlock with a strange look. "What is that?"
He smiles archly and takes a seat beside her. "I won the skull in a card game and the headphones are a bit of an inside joke."
Mrs. Holmes looks incredulously at the strange decoration "With whom?"
"Myself," he answers succinctly. "Now, what brings you here, mother?"
"Well, you failed to mail your weekly letter and I understandably grew concerned, so—"
He raises an eyebrow in silent skepticism. With a gleam in her eye she primly raises her chin and continues. "Fine. If you must know, darling, I came because I was dying to meet your boyfriend. You never stop talking about him in your letters and this is the first time you've ever shown romantic interest in anyone; can you really fault me for giving in to curiosity?"
Sherlock's cheeks grow warm. "He is not my boyfriend, Mother."
She arches a dubious brow. "You live together, spend all of your time together, and it's quite clear from your letters that you're in love with the man; I don't see why not."
Sherlock exhales gruffly and glares at the floor. "It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."
Violet rolls her eyes, well-accustomed to his moodiness. "Sherlock, you forget that you are no longer the only genius in the room. I do understand; you simply don't care for the title, do you? Well, fine. He is not your 'boyfriend'," she says indulgently, "he is your partner, your second-half, etcetera."
"Mother—"
"Sherlock, it is no use lying to me. You and Doctor Watson are clearly involved; it does not take a certified genius to see the blatant affection he has for you."
Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but cannot find the words. She smiles in satisfaction and pats his hand. "I suggest we change the subject because John is going to join us in the next ten seconds with our t—yes, so anyway dear, Mrs. Chester has been dying to see you and Mikey! It's been ages since you've visited; I believe you were ten the last time you stopped by her house for a cuppa," Seamlessly, Mrs. Holmes turns to John as if she'd just noticed his arrival. "Oh, and speaking of cuppas, here's the lovely doctor with our tea." She smiles warmly and accepts a cup.
John hands Sherlock his cup next. "Black, two sugars, just how you like it."
Sherlock accepts the tea but refuses to meet John's eyes. The tension from this morning is still there, sizzling between them like heat waves, but as long as he does not make eye contact, it remains dormant.
Sherlock is almost certain that if his mother had not made her untimely entrance, he would've thrown himself over the table and kissed the living daylights out of John right then and there. However, the thought that is most difficult to wrap his head around is this: he is also almost certain that if he had done that, John would have kissed him back.
It is such a strange notion to entertain, considering how certain he was of John's sexuality only a day ago when he spoke with Molly. However, after reviewing John's text from last night and experiencing that tense moment during breakfast, he is no longer so sure.
John grabs a chair from their desk by the window and drags it before the table, so that he is sitting across from them. "So, what were we talking about?"
Without missing a beat, Violet replies, "Oh, just an old friend of mine that was inquiring about my sons' whereabouts. However, that is unimportant; what I really want to talk about is you, Doctor Watson."
John smiles. "Please, call me John. What would you like to know?"
She scans him briefly and Sherlock can already tell she is making the same deductions he had made when he met John: invalidated army doctor, injury in left shoulder, younger brother, attracted to dangerous situations, competent doctor, clever, and quite strong despite his small stature. Satisfied with her perusal, she asks, "Well, I'd like to know how you and my son met."
Sherlock already knows that for some reason John loves telling the story of how they met. Sherlock personally enjoys John's retelling, because it is lovely to hear of their meeting from John's perspective, which is always romanticized and loaded with positive adjectives. Words like "brilliant" and "fantastic" come up quite a lot as John recounts that day in the lab with bright eyes and a wide smile. Meanwhile, Violet Holmes remains as rapt as an eager pupil, clearly just as pleased with the tale as John himself.
By the end, Violet is absolutely charmed. "What a lovely story, John. Goodness, you do not know how pleased I am that you and Sherlock have found each other."
John smiles and easily replies, "Oh, I agree. I reckon I would be lost without my detective."
My detective. Sherlock is tempted now more than ever to look at John, but he manages to curb the urge and stares into his tea instead.
"John, he raves about you constantly in his letters," Violet gushes, leaning forward to pat John's hand on the coffee table. Sherlock scowls and sinks further into the couch, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest. "Mother," he warns, expression dark. Violet rolls her eyes good naturedly and gives him a light swat on the shoulder.
John is still smiling, though now his expression is tinged with curiosity. "Raves about me, does he?" he asks wryly, staring at Sherlock with bright eyes. Sherlock pointedly looks at the ceiling, his cheeks uncomfortably warm.
Violet chuckles. "Well, to Sherlock's standards anyway. In the beginning, he was quite subtle about you; just a passing comment here or there about his new flat mate—former army doctor, currently working at a clinic down the block, etcetera—but eventually he began using quite—how should I put it—telling adjectives," She grins and completely ignores the low growl emitting from Sherlock. "Clever, loyal, steadfast, good humored, kind, patient—goodness, the list is endless. I was surprised by his attentiveness to you in general, since it is no secret that my son does not typically take interest in others. But, you, John, he wrote about everything from your hobbies to the color of your hair. He described it as blonde and silvery, by the way—his words, not mine."
John's eyebrows are now nearly at his hairline. He looks to Sherlock. "You said all that?"
Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and stubbornly focuses on floor. "Not in so many words, but…yes."
John's expression lights up. "Well, I must say, your son is quite extraordinary as well, Violet. Brilliant, dead-clever, unique, and ultimately quite caring—hell, I could go on for ages."
Sherlock risks an upward glance and finds that John is not looking at his mother as he says this, he is looking at Sherlock.
"How kind of you to say that, John! Oh, see you two are just lovely to each other—oh, what do you say Sherlock? John has just complimented you!"
Sherlock immediately feels like a child. He huffs and flicks his gaze to John, whose eyes are twinkling with mirth. "Thank you, John."
John grins, amusement and fondness clear in his expression. "You're quite welcome, Sherlock."
The next hour or so is spent recounting various cases for his mother's benefit, as well as several questions aimed at John, most of them regarding Sherlock. He continues to answer in the same easy-going manner that he has all morning, much to Sherlock's surprise and pleasure.
Eventually, Violet glances at her watch and begins to rise. "Oh dear I believe I've lost track of time! I'm meant to have a late breakfast with Mikey in a half hour. Well, it was lovely to meet you, John," Violet says, taking John's hand in a warm shake. "I certainly plan on visiting again, this has been quite enjoyable."
John smiles in return. "I agree, and it was great meeting you as well."
She turns to Sherlock and gives him a stern look. "Now, Sherlock, Mikey has made reservations for us at a lovely restaurant downtown at eight. I expect you to be one time."
"Mother, please refrain from calling him 'Mikey' in my presence. It's reviving yesterday's nausea."
She lifts a brow. "Sherlock…"
He sighs and starts leading her out the door. "Yes, yes, I will be on time, mother, I promise. I'll see you then."
After the door has been firmly shut, he exhales in relief and leans against the wall. "Well, that's over."
John rolls his eyes and starts cleaning up the tea tray from the coffee table. "I happen to like your mother. She's clever—like you—and quite lovely to speak with—also like you. In fact, you are both similar in many other ways, though I can't put my finger on all of them."
John places the dishes in the sink and then returns to the sitting room. "Okay, I'm off to work. Don't suppose I'll see you until later tonight since I get out late." John collects his jacket and strides over to the doorway, where Sherlock is still leaning. Causally, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, John pushes up on his toes and plants a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "See you later," he calls over his shoulder, already thumping his way down the stairs.
Sherlock blinks in surprise and places a hand on his cheek. Well that's a lovely start to the day.
Sherlock spends his remaining free hours on a variety of experiments. He is in the midst of dissecting his third batch of livers, when his mobile buzzes.
Sent at: 7:45pm
Come outside, we're here. MH
Sent at: 7:46pm
Why on earth are you picking me up? SH
Sent at: 7:47pm
Mummy did not trust you to arrive on time yourself. Now hurry up, the car is running. MH
Sure enough, Mycroft's car is on the curb, impatiently waiting as Sherlock takes his sweet time making his way downstairs.
Inside the car, his mother is fixing her makeup. "Hello, dear. Don't you look dapper," she coos, eyeing his plum dress shirt and dark trousers with approval.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Thank you, mother."
The moment they arrive at their destination, Sherlock can tell that Mycroft has chosen the restaurant; it has 'posh git' written all over it. The building is aristocratic, exclusive, and everything from its décor to its customers lend to the image of an expensive, high-society eatery. Mother is suitably impressed and Mycroft looks smug when the entire staff greets him by his first name and rushes to find him the best seat.
As they pass chandelier after chandelier, Sherlock finds himself longing for the understated comfort of Angelo's.
The evening passes by at an unbearable pace as Mother and Mycroft talk about one boring topic after the next—British government, vacation in Cabo, exotic recipes, and etcetera. In the meantime, Sherlock busies himself by deducing the scandalous secrets of London's most well-endowed. The woman draped with pearls in the corner is having a love affair with four separate people, the proud yacht owner by the bar has a raging foot fetish, and the posh barmaid is stealing money from not one, but three members of the same book club. Sherlock chuckles to himself and finds that he misses John's company quite dearly, because he would certainly be amused by Sherlock's findings. Covertly, he sneaks his phone from his pocket and composes a text underneath the table.
Sent at: 8:30pm
Fun fact: the Mayor's wife is having an affair with a barmaid and a waiter. SH
Sent at: 8:32pm
What! Damn, I wish I was there so you could point out the million clues that told you that. JW
Sent at: 8:33pm
A 'million' clues is hyperbole, John. SH
Sent at 8:33pm
And I wish you were here too. SH
Sent at: 8:35pm
What, Mycroft and your mother aren't interesting enough? JW
Sent at: 8:36pm
Hardly. They are currently talking about Italian desserts and only a moment ago they were discussing their favorite poets. If I die of boredom, I leave all of my property to you. Just give Mycroft my half-finished experiments. SH
Sent at: 8:38pm
Even the tub of animal saliva? JW
Sent at: 8:39pm
*especially* the tub of animal saliva. SH
Sent at: 8:41pm
Well, if it makes you feel any better, things are rather slow over here too. JW
Sent at: 8:42pm
What are you doing right now? SH
Sent at: 8:43pm
Flipping through channels on telly and simultaneously attempting to do paperwork. It's about as exciting as it sounds. JW
Sent at: 8:44pm
Well, John, I can only conclude that your boredom is due to my absence. SH
Sent at: 8:45pm
Ha! You know, I'd deny it, but I suppose that'd be pointless. I do miss you. JW
Sherlock pauses, his face splitting into a grin he is helpless to conceal.
Sent at: 8:48pm
I miss you too. SH
Sent at: 8:50pm
I often forget how dull everyone else is since I spend most of my time with you. Your absence has made me once again painfully aware of society's general idiocy. SH
Sent at: 8:52pm
So…you're calling me clever? JW
Sent at: 8:53pm
Of course. Now don't get a big head about it. SH
Sent at: 8:54pm
Sherlock Holmes, genius, scientist, and consulting detective, has just called me clever. I believe my life goals have been met now. JW
Sent at: 8:55pm
It's hardly something to celebrate, John; you already knew you were clever. They don't make just anyone a doctor, after all. SH
"Sherlock," Mother says sharply. "You know how I feel about phones during supper." She gives him a chastising look, but the gleam in her eyes is a touch too knowing for his liking; it's clear she is aware of who he was texting.
"Fine," he says under his breath, quickly typing out a final text.
Sent at: 8:58pm
I'll text you when I'm on my way home. See you then. SH
Mycroft takes a sip of wine and eyes Sherlock shrewdly. "So," he drawls, "how is John?"
Sherlock raises his chin defiantly and coolly answers, "None of your business, Mycroft."
Mrs. Holmes glances between the two of them before settling her attention on Sherlock. "How is your salmon fillet, dear?"
He knows better than to think the question has innocuous intentions. Mother always prefaces intrusive inquisitions with something seemingly harmless
Blandly, he answer, "Too much dill and pepper, not enough basil."
"Mm, yes," she replies absently, clearly in the process of formulating the question she actually cares about.
As Sherlock pushes his salmon around his plate for the tenth time this evening, Violet clears her throat. "Sherlock, I would like to ask you something and I need you to be honest in your answer."
He eyes her warily, but understands that he hardly has a choice of accepting the question or not. With a sigh, he concedes. "Go on."
Mrs. Holmes dabs at her mouth, politely sets her silverware on the table, and fixes her undivided attention on Sherlock. With a frank tone and unwavering gaze, she asks, "Are you and John Watson engaging in sexual activity?"
The collective reaction to this blunt comment is almost comical in its swiftness. Mycroft immediately chokes on his wine, coughing and spluttering in between laughter, Sherlock's hand jerks in shock, causing him to spear his left hand instead of the salmon, and as a result, Mrs. Holmes shrieks, "oh dear," and spills her champagne across the white tablecloth. Once Mycroft's mirth has simmered down to sporadic chuckles, a waiter has replaced their tablecloth, and Sherlock's wounded hand has been cared for, Violet eyes her two sons with a chastising look. "Honestly, boys, I really expect better," she scolds, dabbing uselessly at the dark stain on her blouse. She ceases in her task when she notices the shaking shoulders and gleeful expression of her eldest. With narrowed eyes and a cool tone, she says, "Mycroft, I fail to see what is funny here."
Mycroft stops laughing, but the amusement does not leave his eyes. "My apologies, mother."
She clears her throat and turns her attention back to Sherlock, who is still absently clutching his hand to his chest and staring into the middle-distance with wide eyes. "Sherlock. Excuse your brother and kindly answer me."
He blinks out of his daze and stares up at her. Answer her? He doesn't quite trust himself to speak at the moment—for fear he'll choke to death on embarrassment—so in response, he wordlessly shakes his head.
Violet tilts her head. "'No' as in you won't answer me or 'no' as in—"
Completely recovered and now back to his typical collected self, Mycroft smoothly interjects, "No as in no, Mummy. At least not yet." He eyes Sherlock's mortified expression over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth. "Or am I incorrect, brother?"
Sherlock scowls. "No, you are correct," he grits out, as if the words physically cause him pain.
Violet raises her eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Why, love?" she asks, brow furrowed. "John is certainly handsome enough and you two are obviously quite keen for each other, so I fail to see why your relationship has yet to take a physical route?"
Sherlock grits his teeth. This is a conversation he would not willingly have with himself, let alone his mother. "I told you already, mother, John is not my boyfriend. Besides, John is straight," he states, but it's a tired argument and even he can hear the lack of conviction in his tone.
Mother rolls her eyes and dismisses the statement. "Sexuality is not always black and white, dear. Besides, if all of his affectionate touching was any indication, he is clearly attracted to you." She takes a sip of wine. "I am your mother, Sherlock, and you often forget how well I know you; it is quite obvious you'd like to become involved with him."
Sherlock groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Mother I really, really do not fancy having this chat with you right now, in public, and in the presence of Mycroft, no less. In fact, I'd rather we didn't have this conversation at all."
She happily ignores him and continues on as if he hadn't spoken. "I can see that for the time being, things are a bit complicated, but when you do decide to become—ahem—intimate with John, please remember to use protection, okay, dear? Here, I had a feeling this subject would come up so I brought along—"
"Mother," Sherlock says slowly, his eyes firmly clamped shut. "If you finish that sentence or remove whatever you've brought from your purse, I will stand up and walk out of this restaurant right now."
She frowns but stops digging through her bag. "Be reasonable, Sherlock! You refused to have the 'talk' when you were a teenager because you claimed it was useless, and now you're about to have an actual relationship with a frankly adorable doctor, and you still deny me my right as mother to share with you the knowledge of sexual experiences!" By the time she's finished speaking, she is a bit out of breath. Mycroft gapes at her from across the table, before ducking behind his menu as an onslaught of laughter threatens to overtake him once again. Meanwhile, Sherlock's eyes are opened so wide that he fears they are going to just pop right out of his head. He takes a deep, calming breath and clenches his jaw so fiercely that he can hear the audible click of his molars gnashing together.
"Mother," Sherlock begins quietly, his voice low and firm. "I am a thirty-five year old man now. Whatever ambiguities I find in the world of—of sexual experiences I will investigate and solve myself, without any advice, warnings, or—dear god—suggestions from you. So, thank you, but no thank you," he finishes curtly.
She arches a brow and concedes. "Fine. But know this is not the last time we will visit this subject."
Relieved to move on, Sherlock decides to shift the spotlight over to his brother. "Now that we've discussed me, I'm sure you're curious about Mycroft's social life, Mother."
She perks up at this. "Oh, yes, I did mean to speak to you about that, Mikey. Are you seeing anyone?"
Mycroft takes a stalling sip of wine. "I see a lot of people, Mummy. My job does involve many meetings and impromptu lunches, as well as—"
"You know that is not what I meant, dear," Violet cuts in.
He sighs in defeat and interlaces his fingers on the table before him. "Fine. I haven't been 'seeing' anyone consistently. There was a bloke in France and a few women along the coast, but as you know my job does not afford me very much free time. Besides, they were all quite dull," he waves dismissively, "just distractions to tide me over from one country to the next."
Sherlock scrunches his nose in distaste. He would really rather not hear about Mycroft's many casual 'flings'; imagining someone holding Mycroft in any sort of romantic regard is quite repulsive.
"Oh, what about that assistant of yours? Trudy or Rebecca, I believe? She's quite pretty and you two seemed to get along swimmingly the last time I saw her."
Mycroft exhales a chuckle. "Ah, yes, my assistant; she's going by Anthea at the moment. I'll admit I have considered her before; she is exceptionally clever, quite the opposite of boring, and as you mentioned, attractive. However, I'd prefer that business and pleasure remain separate."
Mother gives her wholehearted agreement and proceeds to launch into an anecdote about a friend of hers who got involved with her boss and ended up losing her job. "It's messy business, dating a colleague."
Sherlock happily tunes out and returns to his task of deducing the eccentricities and oddities of London's finest.
. . .
When Mycroft's car stops in front of Sherlock's flat to drop him off, Mother grabs his arm and insists that she walk him to the door. Sherlock gives her an odd look but does not protest.
Once the two of them are standing on the front steps, Sherlock begins digging in his pocket for his keys, but Mrs. Holmes stops him.
"Sherlock, before you go inside, there is something I wish to tell you."
He groans and looks away. "If this is another attempt at 'educating' me, I assure you I do not—"
"Hush, dear," she chides, lightly swatting his shoulder. "Do not presume to know what I will say. I wanted to tell you something important about you and John," her expression grows sincere. "You've spent all day telling me that your relationship with him is complicated, but it is clear to me that the only complications are your mutual fear of change and uncertainty of each other's feelings, which if you ask me is pointless since you two are obviously quite in love. Darling, it is only a matter of time before one of you musters up the courage to do something about it, and once that happens the dam will break and you two will wonder why you didn't get together sooner. I have known the man for a total of two hours, and I can already see how perfect he is for you, Sherlock. He is kind, patient, brave, intelligent, caring—all of the things a Holmes needs!" She takes his hand and holds it between hers.
"When I met your father I was just as brooding, intelligent, and wildly bored with the world as you; he was the first person I met who was not only interesting, but cared about me as well. He was the calm to my storm, as they say. That is what John is to you, Sherlock. Perhaps you're reluctant to accept the truth now, but you two are quite literally made for each other. You keep each other balanced; he is the day to your night, the sun to your moon…" she looks at his expression and smiles. "I won't bore you with anymore poetic drivel, but I will say this: gaining something wonderful is never easy and it often involves a leap of faith. Do not be afraid to jump, darling. I guarantee the results will be worth it."
With that, she pecks him on the cheek and makes her way back down the steps. Over her shoulder she calls, "Goodnight, dear, I'll be in town until tomorrow morning so don't hesitate to call."
Sherlock watches her enter the black car and then disappear into the night, her words still echoing in his head. With a deep breath he shakes himself from his daze, opens the door, and enters the building.
Inside the flat, he finds John asleep on the couch, a pile of paperwork sitting on his rising and falling chest. The telly drones quietly in the background, providing white noise in the otherwise silent flat. With a small smile, Sherlock carefully removes the papers and replaces them with a blanket, mindful not to wake John.
As he gazes at John's peaceful expression, something warm stirs in his chest. With a content sigh, he drops a quick kiss on John's forehead and idly runs his fingers through John's hair.
Gaining something wonderful takes a leap of faith, yes? Well…
Perhaps I'm ready to jump.
A/N: So what did you guys think? Let me know in the comments; feedback is always greatly appreciated!
As for the Johnlock smut Question: consensus says YES to some T-rated snog sessions and NO to hardcore M-rated action, which works just fine because that was my original intention anyway. ;)
Thanks so much for reading, you beautiful people you, don't forget to review! :)
Until next time, darlings! X0X0