One month after their visit, Doctor Watson rings the doorbell. Sherlock sees him from his bedroom window.
He'd been leaning out of it, inspecting the nest in the planter just below. He's not supposed to do that - Mummy says he'll fall, and Mycroft provides him with graphic descriptions of smashed-open heads, apparently under the delusion that Sherlock considers these anything other than delightful - but it's the only way to see it. Although the nest has been empty for a while, there are some crushed blue eggshells in it.
He leans out a little further and calls to Doctor Watson. "Hello! Do you want to come inside?"
The man spins around, searching for the source of the noise, then turns upwards. He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, it's Sherlock. Should you be leaning out like that?"
"I'm looking at eggs!"
Before the doctor can response, Sherlock slides back inside. Even though it's noon, he's wearing his pyjamas. He pulls on a dark blue bathrobe and runs downstairs. His bare feet smack the wooden staircase, skidding, and he grabs onto the railway to keep from falling.
When he gets to the door, Mummy has already opened it.
This is new.
She's been seeing a person who teaches her how to feel less sad. Bottles of pills have appeared in the bathroom cupboard, too. It must be working, because her hair is shiny a few days out of the week and she's started complaining about things like leaning out of windows. They've got a nanny, too - a woman named Mrs. Turner her feeds them horrible healthy meals.
The doctor is handing her a plastic bag. Sherlock grabs the edge of her shirt, then looks up. It's full of toiletries. All boring, except for the Spiderman toothbrush, which isn't bad. "I get first pick of the toothbrushes," he tells Mummy, then turns to the doctor. "Why are you bringing us soap and things?"
Doctor Watson scratches the back of his head. "I said I'd put a pack together for your mum, as you're my patients."
"Do you do this for all of your patients?"
"Er - you're my only proper ones, actually. I'm more of a consulting -"
But Sherlock has stopped listening, because he's just seen Mycroft coming down the stairs. His brother is rubbing at his eyes, one hand under his shirt to scratch his belly. "I get to pick the toothbrushes because I'm younger!" he calls, then scrambles towards his brother. Sleepily, Mycroft pats his back.
When Sherlock looks back, just for a second, the doctor is smiling.