Violet I
At the sound of soft creaks from the stairs, John's eyes opened.
Pink-tinged light flooded in through the separation of his curtains, birds chirping quietly over the bustle of the waking city.
His eyes felt almost unbelievably dry and he sat up slowly, rubbing them. He tensed as his door was eased open, head whipping towards the sound. He relaxed when Sherlock stuck his head in.
"Let's go, John. Are you coming or not?"
He was fully dressed, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck despite the comfortably cool temperature.
John blinked. The sarcasm fought its way out before he could bite it back.
"Well yeah, sure, Sherlock," he griped. "Not like I need to know exactly where we're headed or anything. Not at all."
He swung his legs off the edge of his bed and slipped on his shoes, still dressed himself. He hadn't expected to get any rest.
"We're paying my mother a visit," Sherlock explained simply, as if it were something obvious. John stared. "Cab's waiting." Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself before stalking off, his footsteps echoing softly from the staircase.
John blinked again, trailing after him a moment later. He rubbed his arm, his knitted jumper scratching against his skin uncomfortably.
He figured Sherlock would have gone to see her at some point, but he didn't think that he would be asked to join him. Sherlock folded himself gracefully into the cab and John bundled in, with a bit more difficulty, beside him.
Sherlock was mostly silent throughout the ride, typing away lazily at the keys of his phone. John didn't quite want to break the silence; it wasn't uncomfortable yet. Something told him that it wasn't likely to stay that way.
Whatever John had been expecting, Sherlock's mother was not it.
He braced himself before Sherlock opened the door, standing unsurely in the hall for a moment before Sherlock impatiently called him in. His voice was quiet; his entire demeanor had shifted. There were three other patients in the room, all peacefully sleeping. Sherlock quietly eased the partition open, stepping forward just enough for John to close it again behind them. It was still fairly dark outside, sunlight only weakly streaming in.
Sherlock smiled pleasantly –John could tell, the moment it appeared on his face, that it was a genuine reaction. The woman sitting upright on the hospital bed mirrored his expression, throwing up her arms as Sherlock leaned forward to embrace her.
John could hear her joyous mumbling from where he stood and his lips twitched. He'd never seen Sherlock act quite like this – it was truly enlightening.
Sherlock's mother was much different than him in obvious ways, but John could just as easily spot their similarities.
Where Sherlock was tall and strong despite his physique, she was short and seemingly frail. John suspected that was only due to her sickness. Her hair was a warm blonde compared to his dark brown, trailing slightly past her shoulders in soft, relaxed waves rather than bouncy curls.
If she wasn't ill, John doubted she would have been so pale. Her face lacked Sherlocks' angular sharpness, retaining some of its girlish curve and John could see her shining eyes from where he stood. Their eyes; they were stunningly similar.
John noted that she must have been young when she had him. She had few wrinkles and her grays were numbered. Mycroft had mentioned that she was approaching old age, however; looks were deceiving, John knew.
The only real physical indications of her illness were the dark circles under her eyes and the nasal cannula attached to assist her breathing.
It was mid-embrace when she seemed to notice that John was there, and she smacked her son's shoulder lightly. He stepped back, traces of his smile still lingering.
"Mother," he introduced. "This is Doctor John Watson. My..."
The pause itself was minimal, and likely unnoticeable.
John still felt the sting.
He'd done it to Sherlock once, he knew, when they'd met Sebastian Wilkes. His correction was taken in a way he hadn't meant – Sherlock had never mentioned it, but John knew. He had never apologized; he decided he'd do so when they returned to Baker Street.
"...friend."
Miss Holmes grinned, and John was instantly reminded of Sherlock in the midst of a case. She turned to Sherlock, smile widening impossibly. "You didn't tell me you were bringing your flatmate!" she exclaimed, delighted; as if it were Sherlock's first playdate.
John was a tad shocked – she knew more about him than he did her, it seemed.
Where John expected Sherlocks' irritated scowl, he instead witnessed a soft curve of lips.
Miss Holmes grasped John's hands with both of her own, squeezing lightly instead of a handshake. John felt more relaxed in her presence than he expected.
"It's nice to meet you, Miss Holmes," he greeted formally, a smile lighting up his face.
"Oh, please, call me Violet!" she stated. John began to understand the family name trend. She let go of his hands.
"It's so nice to finally meet you," she said, pulling her legs to sit criss-cross on her bed despite the slight pull of wires. Childlike, she was.
"Both of my boys have mentioned you, but I never got much of a chance to ask anything. Oh, this is fantastic."
Sherlock tidied the stand by the bed, remaining respectfully silent. John glanced at him, then back to Violet, unsure of what to say. She seemed to pick up on that.
"I don't know much about you or any of Sherlock's family, really," he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck.
She gestured for the both of them to sit down.
"I can't believe he didn't mention me," she complained mildly, sipping from a lukewarm waterbottle. Before Sherlock could slide in an explanation, she cleanly cut him off. John wondered how she did that so easily – he could hardly ever get Sherlock to quiet down once he'd started, let alone before he begun.
"It was sarcasm, sweetie; of course you wouldn't have." Sherlock lacked the usual bristle that a comment as such would have normally induced.
" I've read your blog, John," she mentioned, sending him a wicked smirk. He could feel the wisps of embarrassment sneaking in. Despite what Sherlock might have thought, John quite liked his mother already – she still managed to be just as mysterious as her sons.
"You've gotten up to alot since the last time we saw eachother," she said to Sherlock. "Tell me about the cases," she gushed, as excited over the details of gruesome murders as the average woman would be over gossip.
John did his best not to gape.