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Violet II

John was unsure of how long they'd spoken for. By the time Sherlock had stepped out – off to get his mother hot chocolate for her throat – it was already well into the morning.

Most of the hospital was wide awake by then; nurses were bustling in and out, bringing cool air in with each swing of the door. John sat stationary in a chair by Violet, unknowing of what to say now that Sherlock had gone. His mother had propped her pillows up on her bed so that she could lean back comfortably, and John saw the mask fade the instant her son left the room.

Violet was ill, indeed; she was worn out already, exhaustion seeping into her features. John rolled his shoulder instinctively.

"He's never brought anyone 'round before," Violet spoke after an indefinite pause. "Not once, not even as a boy. Didn't even want to bring Mycroft" A smile pulled at the corner of her lips and when she gestured for him to come closer, he did not oppose. He sat carefully on the edge of the hospital bed and she placed a warm hand on his forearm.

He felt like he often did with Sherlock – Violet had the same gaze.

As if she could see directly through him, like he was made of glass.

She looked away from him moments later, watching something just outside of the window. She spoke quietly after another brief pause, confirming his original thoughts.

"I was young when I found out I was going to have Mycroft," she explained, eyes ever so slightly downcast. "I don't even think I was fifteen at the time." Her fingers traced a raised pattern on John's jumper out of habit.

"It was alright then, though," she said with a smile. "I was a journalism intern and was offered a small job shortly after I found out. Their father and I moved in together – he was considerably older at the time."

John watched as she bit her lip softly. "I had been staying with my aunt; she didn't care much when I left." John stayed quiet and did not interrupt, listening to the soft sound of machinery in the background.

"The relationship was strained – between Siger and I," she added later, after a moment's thought. "I was only eighteen what I found out I was expecting again. Another little boy. I was delighted," she murmured, and her grip on John's forearm tightened in the slightest. The smile that her recollection had produced quickly faded.

"Their father wasn't nearly as pleased. We'd been getting distant – neither of us were around much at the same time, with our work hours." She glanced at John for an instant before returning her gaze somewhere outside the window once more.

John kept his eyes on her.

"I figure he was upset that I had stolen so much of his life from him – but a child requires more than one person to be conceived, so he was at just as much fault as I was." She let out a small exhale.

"And one night he packed up and left; I cursed him right out of the house, screaming to high heaven. I'd never fought like that with him before," she confessed somewhat sheepishly. "Never so much as raised my voice with Mycroft in the house. He still vaguely remembers it. I suppose I scared him quite a bit, then," she noted solemnly.

"Not that I regret what anything I said to Siger – he was a blood great prat and we were far better off without him." She laughed airily, and John smiled at her so widely his cheeks had begun to ache.

"I was financially stable at the time; had a few good friends willing to stay with Mycroft and I when Sherlock got too big for me to walk properly." Her mood was pleasant.

"We lived in a neighborhood just outside of London – had a lovely little place. Sherlock was born, Mycroft went to primary school," she summarized, and John could imagine it. A little two-story home in a nice area; paint on the walls and childrens' coloured drawings taped up in various rooms.

"Of course, we had our rough times, like when I almost lost my job," she mentioned. "But it was all fine."

She turned to look at John directly now, and there was a soft sadness in her eyes. The type that took years to wear and soften around the edges, but ultimately refused to leave you. Violet Holmes was a strong woman – likely the strongest he'd known since his own mother.

The thought was a warm one.

"Sherlock has seen things, John," she said quietly, and her voice tapered at the end. Her eyes, however, did not water.

"Terrible things – much like what you've seen, I figure."

John did not comment.

"No matter what he does, what he says, how he acts – take that into account. My son is not normal; never will be, never can be," she said. Unlike how most parents would respond, there was pride in her voice.

"He may have invested most of his life into learning how to hide things, but I can see it," she voiced.

"He's never cared for anyone the way he does you – not even me. Not with that intensity."

John did not ask for clarification. It felt like his throat was closing – like he was drowning, with no outward signs.

"So whatever happens, take care of him," she begged. "Please."

There was a tinge of desperation in her tone and John found himself agreeing without hesitation, promising her wholeheartedly. If it had been anyone; absolutely anyone else, John would not have reacted the way he did. But Sherlock Holmes was different – he was always different. But it was all fine.

Violet didn't skip a beat, lightly patting his forearm.

"And besides," she teased, smirking. "Can't leave him alone for ten minutes, can we? Like an overgrown toddler, that one is."

And suddenly the water was gone; John was no longer drowning in the things that weren't there.

He tried to contain his laughter but it sputtered out regardless, and he grinned wickedly at her, standing slowly. "Guess it's in our job description, isn't it?"

She smiled back at him, adjusting the cannula before pulling the blanket closer to herself.

"Bring him back to see me later this week, won't you?" she asked, eyelids heavy. John could see her beginning to drop off. He nodded in agreement.

"And you best come too, John."

He beamed.

When Sherlock returned minutes afterwards, his mother had already fallen asleep.

John watched silently as he placed the plastic mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table, writing out a small note and placing it underneath. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to his mothers' temple, wrapping the blanket more snugly around her. He acted with much more affection than John had ever seen, and so when Sherlock turned back, he pretended that he'd been looking elsewhere.

"What did you talk about while I was gone?" Sherlock asked during the cab ride back to Baker Street.

John smiled.

"The usual."