To reflectiveless, oatniel, mishaminion42, JGHB, The Lord Writer, Drunken Strawberries, dana-san, HilsonAddict, The Database, jenpix, Ganondorf-Lover, kmyzbtcc, estefani1509, 8of9, ENTWolf, Jessi Marie, SakuraBlossom58, Kaz, and each person who has followed/favorited this story: Thank You. Writing this story has been a joyous return to fanfiction for me, and it has been so much fun to write. That said my favorite moments are hearing your reactions in reviews, and getting notifications of follows/favorites. I break out into fits of giggles when my inbox explodes with reviews, follows, and favorites. Often times, after I post a new chapter I joke with my beta that we 'broke the internet.' That is all thanks to you and your feedback, so, thank you very, very much. ^_^
I also owe heartfelt thanks to my beta, Helena Chauby, for her help in editing this story.
Many heartfelt thanks go to Lady of Clunn for her careful and educational BritPicking.
And, of course, I offer thanks to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. I've grown as a writer during this story, and it's because of you.
For anyone who may not know 'mad' is another way of saying 'crazy'.
FYI Suggestions about plot points are always welcome. You never know where a good suggestion might show up.
Personal observation: My word count, for both chapters and authors notes, seems to be swelling exponentially. I hope that's a good thing.
Please enjoy!
Chapter 11: Arrivals and Connections
Greg sighed, and ran a hand over his aching face, rubbing at his tired eyes. His whole body hurt. But, that's what happened when you didn't get enough sleep for weeks on end. This case wasn't helping matters; it had everyone on edge. He'd talked to a lot of grieving families recently...
Daring to peek between his fingers, Greg caught sight of his desk clock, and groaned. Bloody two in the morning. He thought things had gone quiet outside, but he hadn't known it was this late. No sense in going home, except he needed to shower and shave. Greg groaned quietly to himself as he rested his forehead in his palms. At least there was no one around to hear him. He should start planning the best time to nip home to change. Right now, the Yard needed a detective inspector who looked calm and in control, not like someone who'd been here all night without any more answers.
Greg looked up and immediately jumped, his hand coming to rest on his folding knife, releasing the safety. It wasn't a regulation weapon, it was part of his own, larger collection. Greg, for the most part, played by the rules. However, it never hurt to have a little added security, especially when consulting detectives made a habit of turning your life on its ear.
"No need for that, detective inspector," came the dulcet tones of a brunet woman who looked entirely too familiar. She barely glanced at him as her fingers flew over the surface of her phone, doing God knows what.
"Can I help you?" Greg asked in an even tone that demanded an answer.
The tall brunet looked up at him for a brief moment, and smiled. "Mycroft sent me to collect you. Your bags are in the car."
Greg relaxed slightly. "That's right, you're Mycroft's assistant, Anthea-wait. What do you mean bags?"
The comely assistant glanced his way again. "Mycroft said you would be spending the week before the wedding at the Holmes estate, in order to better combine your efforts on a case. We've picked up some things from your flat."
"You've been to my flat?!" Greg sputtered incredulously, voice raising in pitch. "How did you get in? And what has Mycroft told you about the case."
The assistant dipped her hand into her pocket, and suddenly a set of his house keys were hanging from her right index finger.
Greg's hands fell to his pockets, but his own keys were firmly in place. How? He glared at Anthea as she placidly typed away on her phone. God help him, the next time he saw Sherlock, he might help him plot evil for his brother. Did Mycroft have no sense of privacy? No, of course not. How could anyone keep anything from big brother Holmes.
"Mycroft only informed me that you were working together on a case," Anthea murmured, her hands and eyes back on her phone. "I don't ask for what I don't need to know."
Greg scoffed. "I bet you don't. I bet no one around Mycroft, except maybe Sherlock and John, dare ask for details his royal highness doesn't deign to give out."
Anthea looked up at Greg for another moment, one eyebrow raised nearly to her hairline. Apparently one did not snap at, or make pithy comments about, the British government personified. Too bad. Greg was not Mycroft's lap dog.
"Listen Anthea," Greg began, "That is your name right?"
"That's what everyone calls me," the woman confirmed with a cryptic smile.
Right. Probably not her real name. Greg fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, Anthea, I am not coming with you. Mycroft mentioned something about me visiting the estate, but we never solidified plans." Greg blinked at the clock again. "And we certainly didn't set anything up for two in the morning."
"Mycroft probably didn't have the time to send word until now," Anthea droned, unphased.
Greg's face reddened slightly in anger. "Robbing my flat is not sending word!" Greg managed to moderate his volume but his words were harshly clipped. "Bring my things up here, and give me that set of keys before I report you."
Another raised eyebrow. "Do you really want to go through all that trouble?" Translation: Mycroft would just cover it up. Of course. Anthea interrupted Greg's train of thought again by saying, "You have an impressive collection of weapons by the way. Lovely swords."
"Thank you," Greg bit out, glaring daggers at the unruffled woman. He spoke in his hardest detective inspector voice, making it known just how serious he was, "Now, you are going to return my things to me, and tell your boss I am NOT coming."
Those must have been the magic words because Anthea finally looked up from her phone. She was a steady woman, you had to be steady to work for Mycroft; she just looked at him. It was in what she didn't say, or do, that Greg read the hell she might catch for coming back empty handed. Mycroft hadn't sent muscle with her because he'd either deemed it unnecessary and/or he'd known Greg would make use of the incapacitation spray in his desk drawer.
Greg wasn't someone to bend needlessly to the will of others, but he didn't relish the idea of this young woman catching grief because Mycroft was mad at him. Greg was nothing if not a gentleman. With a pained sigh Greg shuffled to his feet and pulled on his jacket. He paused by Anthea before offering her his arm. "Shall we go, then?"
Anthea blinked at him a few times as if he'd suddenly grown two heads, before she smiled, and slipped her arm through his, her phone disappearing into her pocket. "Let's," She agreed, and walked him down to the car.
Anthea was back on her phone the minute the car door closed, but Greg didn't mind. Given how hard the poor girl must work, taking the time to walk him down the stairs must have been an impromptu vacation for her. And she could multitask. Greg engaged her in easy conversation without asking anything even remotely personal. With everything that Mycroft got up to, he may have gone as far as to have Anthea's fingerprints removed. Greg didn't want to ask anything that she couldn't tell him, he was just determined to make the best of the situation. That is what Greg had always done; made the best of things. Still, by the time they pulled up to the entrance of the Holmes estate, Greg knew Anthea's birthday was the 8th of December (God knows what year), that her favourite flowers were Dahlias, and that she had a particular fondness for impressionist paintings. Greg flattered himself that she favoured him with another smile as he stepped out of the car.
"Get some sleep!" He called after her with an answering smile as the door closed. His cell phone buzzed with a text as Mycroft's staff escorted him and his luggage inside. Greg pulled his phone out and immediately smiled at the text:
You as well, detective inspector. -A
"I brought you here so that you could get some proper rest, Gregory."
Greg was glaring before he even made eye contact. "I only came so that I could have the satisfaction of yelling at you in person," he hissed. "Two in the fucking morning, Mycroft? Do you ever let that poor girl get any sleep?!"
Mycroft studied his nails for a moment, unimpressed. "Remember our discussion from the other day, Gregory. I push my people hard, but not as hard as you have pushed yourself. People are always sloppy once they reach the point of exhaustion." Mycroft returned his hands to his pockets, and finally deigned to look at Greg. "As I said, persons in my employ do not need concealer to cover the dark circles under their eyes. Had you actually been sleeping, I would have sent an invitation when you woke."
"That was not an invitation Mycroft!" Greg snapped, taking a few steps towards the elder Holmes. "That is called kidnapping, and it's against the law!"
Mycroft shrugged, a humourless smile settling over his lips. "Lest you forget, Gregory, we are chasing a serial killer." Mycroft began walking as he talked, circling Greg. "I understand the pressure your department is under, and surely you bear a great deal of that burden, being the detective inspector on the case..." Mycroft was partway behind him now, and Greg had turned slightly to keep the elder Holmes in sight. "It would be a pity," Mycroft began in a hushed tone as he leaned closer, "For your superiors to see those dark circles under your eyes; for them to see you...cracking under the pressure."
Greg whirled around to face Mycroft directly. "What?!" They were nose to nose now, and Greg was fuming. "People are dead Mycroft, and I'm sure as hell not to apologise for working extra hours!"
"You are not at your best this way," Mycroft replied, his voice annoyingly calm. "I was merely expressing my concern."
Greg's jaw hung open a moment in shock. He was well and truly at a loss for words.
Mycroft's phone trilled softly from his pocket, and Mycroft pulled it out. "If you will excuse me for a moment, Gregory…"
Greg snatched the phone from Mycroft's grasp, and hurled it towards the floor, where it shattered and went silent. Greg's escalated breathing filled the small space between them. Mycroft stood completely still, his hand outstretched as though he were still holding his phone. It was as close as Mycroft ever got to dumbfounded.
"Kidnapping someone is not how you show concern!" Greg yelled, his voice echoing in the grand entranceway of the estate. "Neither is threatening them, or questioning their competency! If John wasn't my friend, and if I didn't have great respect for your brother, I would tell you to take this case and stick it up your arse!" Unfortunately, John was his friend, he did respect Sherlock; and both of them were putting themselves in danger in order to catch the killer. Right now, that was the only thing keeping him at the Holmes estate. Spinning on the balls of his feet, Greg strode away from Mycroft, and towards one of the first doors he saw.
"Your room is upstairs," Mycroft informed him. That bastard still sounded calm.
"Fuck my room!" Greg yelled over his shoulder as he wrenched open the door, then slammed it behind him so forcefully that it rattled in its frame. Greg leaned back against the door then, and tried to calm his breathing. It was a lovely room, the one he'd just sequestered himself in. There was cream carpeting so thick he felt his feet sinking into it. The walls were covered in muted wallpaper which appeared to depict delicate green vines. Many bookshelves and paintings lined said walls, giving the room a cozy feeling. Just ahead of him, and to the right, was a marble fireplace. It was bracketed by two floor-to-ceiling windows, which had heavy drapes pulled over them. There was a dying fire in the fireplace. No flames, but the coals glowed warmly, and provided enough dim light to see by. Just before the fireplace was a plush brown sofa that looked infinitely inviting.
Greg sighed, and leaned his head back against the door for a moment. What the hell. It was late, and he wasn't doing anyone any favors by needlessly exhausting himself. He was just considering putting a chair against the door to make it harder for Mycroft to get in, when he noticed this study, possibly all the studies in this estate, had a door that locked. Mycroft had to have been in this room just before Greg had arrived, because the key was still resting in the lock. Greg smirked to himself as he jerked the key to the side, locking the door, then walked away with the key still in the lock. Mycroft probably had the equipment and the knowledge he needed to pick the lock, even with the key still inside, but Greg didn't care. Right now, he wanted some privacy, and, at the very least, the locked door would convey that message.
Greg toed off his shoes, loosened his tie, and undid the first few buttons on his shirt before collapsing face first into the plush fabric of the sofa. Greg groaned softly in satisfaction. Damn. Even Mycroft's sofas where better than the bed at his flat. Tugging one of the extra cushions close to serve as a pillow, Greg closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep.
It was an hour before the door to the study clicked open. Greg had been right, Mycroft could, and did, pick the lock. Mycroft scanned the room briefly, and nodded in satisfaction when he found Greg well and truly unconscious. A glance informed him that the fire had gone completely out, and he sighed in exasperation at the detective's stubbornness.
Mycroft stole across the carpet to a wooden chest in the corner. Mummy had made it when she was young, and had allowed Mycroft to take it to the estate after he'd finished renovating it. Despite appearances, the Holmes did not come from a long line of money. Mycroft's parents had done very well for themselves, and Mycroft had done better. Mummy could afford an estate of her own if she chose, but she preferred a smaller house in the country with Father and the dogs.
Mycroft lifted a fuzzy afghan that his grandmother had made as a 'wedding present' to him, before she died. She'd felt age coming on, and had wanted to give Mycroft this gift as a way of saying goodbye, and so that, in case he married, he could have something from her. Mycroft paused a moment to run his fingers over the material. Even at 87 years old, stricken with macular degeneration, his grandmother had done excellent work. She'd spent her life as a tailor, seamstress, and housewife. This blanket portrayed her skills beautifully...but it was only sentiment.
Shutting the trunk quietly, Mycroft loomed over the back of the couch, and spread the blanket over Gregory, tucking it around his body to keep in the warmth. Despite his distaste for fieldwork, Mycroft did know how to manipulate the environment of a sleeping man without waking him. Mycroft was just pulling back to make his way to the door he heard a muffled, "Thank you..." and saw Gregory snuggle further into the blanket. Mycroft watched Gregory carefully, but there was no other movement, aside from deep, steady breaths. It appeared that Gregory had spoken in his sleep... Well, at least he had good manners some of the time. Mycroft turned, and crept out of the study as silently as he had come.
John closed his eyes, and concentrated on the sunlight warming his face. Sherlock and he had come to the Holmes estate for this last week before the wedding. Since the reception would be hosted at the estate, it would be easier to handle last minute plans from here.
It was quiet in this second floor hallway, and, right now, he needed a bit of quiet. He was having fun working this case with Sherlock...indulging in his little crush... but now that the wedding was only a week away, everything felt like it was moving so fast.
He wasn't sure how he felt about involving his family either. They were all so overjoyed... Still, hadn't John thought, back at the very beginning of this case, that maybe he wouldn't get married at all? Maybe it wasn't for him. He had more fun with Sherlock anyways... 'Yeah,' John thought to himself, 'not exploring that train of thought right now.' He had to keep his head in the game. This was a dangerous case, and he'd promised Sherlock he would be there for him; John meant to keep his promise.
Letting out a slow breath, John opened his eyes, and focused on the trees through the window. It was a nice, sunny day and it was calming to watch the sun play through the leaves.
"John!"
John turned, and smiled when he saw Greg making his way down the hall towards him. Greg was dressed in kakis and a white button up shirt that wasn't done up all the way. "Where'd you come from?" John asked.
Greg grimaced. "Mycroft kidnapped me."
John expelled a short, sharp laugh. "Yeah, he does that. I did warn you."
Greg glared harder. "I should arrest the stupid sod."
"Got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?" John asked, "Sherlock tells me the estate is supposed to have comfortable guest rooms."
"Wrong side of the sofa actually," Greg corrected. "I was so angry with Mycroft that I smashed his phone, and stormed into some kind of study. I crashed on the sofa inside."
John's eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise. "You smashed his phone? And you lived to tell about it?"
Greg pressed his lips into a thin, unhappy line and stared out the window for a moment. "I may have overreacted, but Jesus it was two in the morning."
John held up his hands in surrender. "You'll get no arguments here. Did you sleep alright?"
Greg's lips finally quirked into a smile. "Yeah. Even the sofa was damn comfortable. I could use some more sleep, but I figured I could catch up while I'm being held hostage."
John smiled and shook his head. "Well, enjoy the bed tonight, at least."
Greg ran a hand over his face, and nodded. He'd slept in rather late, and even he had to admit he had a clearer head after a decent night's sleep. He wondered which of Mycroft's staff had left the blanket.
"I still can't believe that Mycroft lives here all alone," John murmured, craning his head to take in the arched ceilings, the long carpeted hallway, and what he could see of the lush grounds below. "Sherlock told me that Mycroft bought this old estate, and renovated it as soon as he could afford it."
Greg's brows drew together as he considered this. "I always had the impression that Sherlock and Mycroft grew up rich."
"Oh their family is very well off," John began, looking back out the window, "but Mycroft and Sherlock got rich on their own. Mycroft by being, well, Mycroft, and Sherlock by being brilliant."
Greg nodded, "Except Sherlock had his money placed in a trust fund for him, by Mycroft, for the first few years you knew him, just to make sure that he would...use it appropriately."
"I know," John said, "That's why he was looking for a flat share in the first place. It's all under his control now, since he...came back."
Greg saw John swallow hard, and had to refrain from putting a hand on his shoulder. John hated talking about the two years Sherlock spent 'dead,' and Greg didn't blame him. It was depressing for everyone. Instead, Greg decided to change the subject. "I saw that, you know," Greg began with a sly smile.
John looked up, surprised. "Saw what?"
"They way your eyes crinkled and your lips curled when you called Sherlock brilliant," Greg chuckled, gesturing at John's face. "You're completely mad in love with him."
John blushed furiously and ducked his head. "Well, I am marrying him aren't I?"
Greg frowned then, looking concerned. "Is this really the way you want to marry him? In the middle of a case?"
John wouldn't look at Greg; he couldn't. He had to focus. Make this as real as possible, without disturbing his own feelings too deeply. In a world where Sherlock and he were actually together, would he mind being married this way? Being married in the midst of, and partially for, a case?
"Well you're smiling, so you must like something about this arrangement," Greg murmured.
Was he smiling? Oh. Crap. He was grinning like an idiot. Well, that was his answer, wasn't it? John turned to Greg, and forced himself to make eye contact. "Sherlock and I have had our own way of being since day one, Greg. Getting married like this...it fits."
Greg was smiling at him now. "Well," Greg began, "Just make sure you take a proper honeymoon when the case is over." John was a good actor, better since he began living with Sherlock, but Greg still saw his face and shoulders fall slightly. He must not think Sherlock would take the time to give him a proper honeymoon.
Greg already knew Mycroft and he would follow John and Sherlock to the United States-on a different plane, of course, to avoid suspicion. They already had plans to set up camp in New York City, so that they could be relatively close at hand when it was time to arrest the actual killer. Greg would just have to make sure that Sherlock took a proper holiday with John, for their honeymoon, once things were safe. John was a good mate, and he deserved to be happy.
"Dinner is ready," Sherlock's baritone voice interrupted them, "or, rather, tea is ready, considering we're well past dinner time, and it's not close to supper time yet."
John looked up at Sherlock, and was grinning again before he could stop himself. "Since when do you care about food?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't usually, but I do eat occasionally."
John put his hands on his hips, and tried to look cross, but he really just looked smitten. "You could do with eating a bit more."
"Come along, John," Sherlock said, holding his hand out to his blogger, "My parents should be arriving presently."
John bit his lip nervously, and took Sherlock's hand. John's own parents weren't coming into the area until the night before the wedding. They were on a fixed income now, and needed to be frugal. They had also insisted on staying at a hotel; they were an independent sort. In contrast, much of the Holmes family would be staying at the Holmes estate, arriving at various times up until the wedding, and John was a bit nervous about meeting everyone.
Sherlock smiled down at John and gave his hand a squeeze. "You'll be fine. Mycroft and I are the scary ones in the family."
John leaned against Sherlock's shoulder and chuckled. "In that case you're all a veritable group of teddy bears."
Sherlock chuckled softly. "Mycroft would detest that image. We must make a point of telling him about it over tea."
Greg fell into step beside John and Sherlock, following them down stairs wide enough to accommodate five people walking side by side. He gave John's shoulder a playful nudge as they made their way downstairs.
John blinked up at Greg. "What?"
"Completely mad," Greg murmured with a grin, referencing their early conversation about John's feelings for Sherlock.
John blushed and ducked his head. "Shut it!" he hissed, nudging Greg back. Greg continued chuckling to himself, and Sherlock was silent. John noticed that Sherlock didn't ask, and John knew he didn't need to. There was no way that someone as brilliant as Sherlock would miss what was going on… It was obvious that Greg was teasing John about his feelings. John's 'fictitious' feelings, which he was trying to portray as real. Only, what Sherlock couldn't know is that John's feelings weren't actually as fictitious as they should be... John was getting a headache just trying to sort out his own feelings, never mind what Sherlock knew.
Greg, Sherlock, and John descended into the entranceway, where Mycroft was waiting near the front door. John heard a small commotion outside, and figured Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were about to walk in, just as Sherlock has said. The front door opened, and, much to John's surprise, the first thing to come barreling into the house was an energetic black lab. John turned to look at Sherlock, but his flatmate/fiancé was already leaning down towards the dog, and talking excitedly. This, in turn, excited the dog even more until he was a whirlwind of fur and paws.
"Hello, Rocko! Who's a good boy?" Sherlock cooed, embodying the energetic silliness he normally distained in others.
"Stop that, Sherlock!" Mycroft insisted, "He's going to tear up the furniture, and drool on everyone if you get him that excited!"
'Ah,' John thought as he watched Sherlock rile the dog up even further, 'Now it makes sense.'
"Sherlock!," an elderly women, possibly Mrs. Holmes, was now peeking her way around the front door, "Stop that, you know how bad it is for his training!"
Sherlock stopped almost immediately. "Yes, mummy." John saw Sherlock was grinning, and knew why. The damage had already been done. Greg knelt to pet the dog, and the quivering mass of fur launched itself at him, knocking him soundly to the floor.
"I'm sorry!" The elderly women called, trotting over to Rocko. "He can get so excitable."
"No worries, Ma'am." Greg said, standing as she pulled the dog off of him. Once he had his feet again, Greg loomed calmly over the dog and ordered, "Sit!" Much to everyone's surprise, the dog did just that, although his tail continued to wag excitedly.
The elderly woman beamed. "Well," she said, pushing some hair back behind her ear, "You're very good at that."
Greg smiled and nodded at her. "I'm used to giving orders." He extended his hand, "Greg Lestrade, detective inspector for the New Scotland Yard."
The woman smiled up at him. "Evelyn Holmes. I've heard so much about you from Sherlock and Mycroft; it's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Evelyn was about 5'6", slightly plump build, white hair streaked with brown (which must have been its true colour in her youth), and the sharpest green/blue eyes John had ever seen. John supposed that Mycroft took after her because his eyes were close in colour and his hair was a similar shade of brown/auburn. Sherlock had taken a few things from his mother as well. Although it was harder to see in her fuller figure, she had the same prominent, high cheekbones. Now those sharp blue/green eyes were focused on him.
"You must be John," She said as she approached him.
"Please to meet you Mrs. Holmes," John said, extending his hand.
Mrs. Holmes bypassed this, and pulled him in for a hug, which John was happy to return. "Please, call me Mummy or Evie," she murmurred in his ear. "I'm not one for too many formalities."
John smiled and nodded. "Alright, Evie."
Evelyn nodded and patted his arm. "There's a good boy. When I first met my future mother-in-law, she insisted I call her Mum or Janet, and I was so nervous I ended up getting in her line of sight every time I wanted to talk to her for six months."
John chuckled. He couldn't help it. This woman was nothing like he had expected. She was definitely intelligent, but she was also very warm and welcoming. Not only that but she stood before him in simple boots, jeans, and a light jumper. Summer did seem to be toying with the weatherman's emotions this year. John had to admit she had better taste in jumpers than he did. Evelyn's jumper was solid hunter green, and accented her quite well, while still looking comfortable.
"Hello, Mummy," Mycroft said beside them, and she turned to hug him. "Hello, Mycroft. How are you?"
Mycroft actually smiled, and Greg and John shared a knowing look. Emotion did not come easily from Mycroft Holmes; it was refreshing to have a reminder that he was, in fact, human. "Yes, mummy. Everything's going splendidly."
Evelyn pulled back, and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad to hear it," she murmured, before turning to pull Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock went willingly, but the hug was still quite forceful, as if she were afraid to let him go. "Sherlock," she murmured, rocking slowly back and forth, "I am so happy for you."
And then Sherlock did something very rare, he blushed. "Thank you, Mummy," he murmured.
John had to smile. It reminded him of when Sherlock had hugged Mrs. Hudson.
"Thanks for waiting for me," came a dry sarcasm from the doorway. They all turned, and Evelyn hurried back to the open doorway to help in an elderly man, most likely Mr. Holmes. He was leaning in the doorway while he waited for her assistance.
"I'm sorry, darling," she cooed, pulling him into a hug, "Rocko got away from me, and I didn't want him knocking over any more of Mycroft's things."
Mr. Holmes smiled, and kissed his wife's hair. She smiled up at him and leaned up for a proper, if chaste, kiss on the lips.
Greg and John shared another smile. It was always sweet to see a couple in love after so long.
Mr. Holmes, who introduced himself to John as 'Elijah, please call me Eli', made his way over to the group to say hello. Like his wife, there were plenty of hugs to go around. Eli was also not what John had expected. He was 5'11", in black trousers with a black polo shirt. His hair was grey, what little he still had due to male pattern baldness-which Mycroft appeared to have inherited if the thinning on the back of his head was anything to go by.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes wore glasses with no lenses. John came to this deduction when he observed there were no light reflections visible where the lenses should be as the senior Holmes moved around the room. Sherlock must have noticed because he leaned down to whisper, "My parents like being underestimated."
John turned his head towards Sherlock, and smiled both at this insight into the Holmes family, and his proximity to Sherlock.
"I'm sorry if we've kept you waiting," Evelyn began, "You all must be starving. Shall we go to lunch?"
Mycroft smiled and nodded, leading the way into the dining room. "I'm glad you've finally allowed the staff to take your bags to your rooms, Mummy," Mycroft said in a soft voice as he walked beside his mother, "instead of insisting on doing it yourself."
Evelyn glanced at her husband briefly, who, John noticed, was leaning on her arm as he walked. "Yes, well," she said, giving Mycroft a bright smile, "I'm not as young as I used to be."
Lunch, passed rather pleasantly as they got to know each other better. John figured they ate in one of Mycroft's less formal dining rooms-for surely a house this large had several-because the table comfortably seated the six of them. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat together, John and Sherlock next, which left Mycroft and Greg to sit together in the last two seats.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were pleasant company, with many intriguing stories about their children, and themselves. Apparently Mr. Holmes had once smuggled two katanas through customs because of how he had answered the attendant's questions. When asked if he had any weapons, such as explosives or handguns, he'd replied simply, "None of those, no."
John had to laugh. Sherlock did the exact same thing, telling the truth and still making it deceptive. It's what made his disguises so convincing.
This had launched into Greg describing his own affinity for sword collecting, something John had been unaware of until today.
Greg had later engaged Mycroft in some good natured ribbing about his food. "You need to eat more than a salad, Mycroft," he'd said, "After all it's important to keep in top condition."
John chuckled softly into his napkin at Mycroft's glare, which deepened when his mother seconded Greg's opinion. John suspected that Greg was looking to payback Mycroft some frustrations, because of Greg's recent kidnapping.
When Evelyn commented that Mycroft and Greg made "a cute pair" the two flushed and stared down at their plates. John had shot a look at Sherlock, but the consulting detective had discreetly shaken his head as if to say, 'This wasn't me.'
"Oh, not that I was trying to imply you were a couple," Evelyn had pressed on, "but you needn't feel embarrassed if you were. Our family accepts all types, always has." She'd turned to wink at John and Sherlock then. In that moment, she reminded John of Mrs. Hudson, and he understood why Sherlock had taken such a liking to their landlady.
Once they had finished their meal, and were comfortably enjoying tea, Evelyn turned her attention to their wedding plans. "So, John, Sherlock tells me you aren't yet aware of the song he has selected for your first dance?"
John nodded. "That's correct ma'am, I mean Evie."
Evelyn smiled at him good-naturedly. "Well, I think it's high time to correct that, don't you Sherlock? The wedding is barely a week away for goodness sake! You should practice dancing to it."
Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded. "Very well, Mummy, why not adjourn to the banquet hall? It's the room we will be using for the reception; it makes sense to rehearse in it."
"As you wish," Mycroft said, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, "I can have the song ready to go over the speakers in a few minutes."
"Good," Sherlock said as he stood, and extended his hand to John, "That will give me time to teach John some basic dance steps."
John knew next to nothing about dancing, at least, not the kind that required choreographed movements. Dancing, as an art, had fallen out of use in modern day. Even when he had taken a girl out dancing, little had been required of John, but to sway/move to the music with his partner. What Sherlock taught him was not so different, there was just more coordination involved.
Sherlock had been kind in his choice of steps, because they were simple, easy to learn, and allowed them to sweep dramatically around the floor as if they both knew a proper waltz. Maybe when the pressure was off, John would ask Sherlock to teach him how to dance properly; he was rather enjoying himself.
Sherlock chuckled as he lifted their joined hands to spin John, then pull him back in.
"What's so funny?" John asked.
"You're natural at following," Sherlock murmured, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
John flushed a bit and glanced down at their feet.
"Eyes up John," Sherlock reminded him, as they practiced without music. Mycroft was all ready to go, but Sherlock had wanted to make sure John was comfortable with this dance step first. He'd started by asking if John wanted to lead or follow. John had chosen to follow, because, with Sherlock's height, it felt more natural. Sherlock had gone on to explain how following was as active as leading, because it required paying attention to your partner, and listening/watching for the subtle cues they would give you about where to go next. John guessed it made sense that he was good at following Sherlock; he'd been following him for years...
"Alright," Sherlock said, bringing them to a gentle halt, "I think we're ready to practice with music."
"Okay, but, aren't you going to tell me what you picked?" John asked.
Sherlock smiled as they assumed a waiting position. "Just listen."
The music started and John immediately noticed the upbeat tone of the music. Not anything super sugary, just happy. As they began to move, John noticed the piano that led into percussion and guitar. He had to smile. So many of the songs they'd combed through had been overly serious, overly romantic, and/or contained so many synthesised sounds that no one would believe a musician of Sherlock's calibre would tolerate it as his wedding song.
As they swayed and spun, John listened to the lyrics, and considered Sherlock's choice.
You're a falling star, You're the getaway car.
You're the line in the sand when I go too far.
You're the swimming pool, on an August day.
And you're the perfect thing to say.
And you play it coy, But it's kinda cute.
Ah, When you smile at me you know exactly what you do.
Baby don't pretend, that you don't know it's true.
Cause you can see it when I look at you.
When the chorus swelled Sherlock spun John around, and John had to laugh, even as he became dizzy. He knew he was in a room with four other people, but the awareness of their presence faded away somehow. All he could focus on was Sherlock and their dance It was much like when they were on case...except they were on a case already, weren't they?
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, You make me sing.
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.
You're a carousel, you're a wishing well,
And you light me up, when you ring my bell.
You're a mystery, you're from outer space,
You're every minute of my every day.
Sherlock's mind felt quiet, which was a particular high he often chased without much satisfaction. Except, that is, where John was concerned. John was so simple and so complicated at the same time, that he had been an intriguing enigma early in their acquaintance. Later, John became the one person Sherlock could trust with anything. Sherlock never could have been tempted to love a lesser man.
As they spun about his brother's banquet hall, Sherlock couldn't keep Mycroft's words, or even his own words about love, out of his mind...
Caring is not an advantage.
Love is a dangerous disadvantage.
The chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.
All lives end.
All Hearts are Broken...
And none of that logic could dissuade Sherlock from his affections for John in the slightest. Holding John like this felt so good...too good. How was he ever going to go back to the way things used to be when this case was...over? It felt so natural to express these feelings that John made him have, could he truly hold himself back for the rest of their lives? What would happen when they were in danger during a case? They led dangerous lives. Fun, crazy, dangerous lives.
What if this broke their friendship? No case was worth that. Was it too late to pull back? Was there a way to break this case that didn't leave his stubbornly human heart so exposed? It felt like they were living on borrowed time, and Sherlock didn't want it to end. What if John found someone else? ...There were too many questions...too much data without an answer...
And I can't believe, uh that I'm your man,!
And I get to kiss you baby just because I can.
Whatever comes our way, ah we'll see it through,
And you know that's what our love can do.
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, You make me sing
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.
So, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
So, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, You make me sing.
You're every line, you're every word, you're everything.
You're every song, and I sing along.
'Cause you're my everything.
Yeah, yeah
So, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
So, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La, La
As the last notes faded away, Sherlock pulled John impossibly close, held him tight, and tilted into a low dip. Sherlock held eye contact, even as John's eyes widened, and his knuckles turned white from holding onto Sherlock. Sherlock was very strong, but John had not been warned about the dip, and his squirming put Sherlock off balance, causing them to tumble to the floor in a fit of giggles.
"Warn me next time, will you?" John chuckled in Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock laughed, and pulled back to look into John's eyes. "Next time," he murmured, "You will see it coming."
"Arrogant git," John replied affectionately, before tugging Sherlock down into a heated kiss by the lapels of his jacket.
Evelyn clapped enthusiastically. "Yes, do it just like that!"
John chuckled, breaking away, and they pulled each other to their feet. "I'm not sure if we can make it quite that dramatic Evie," John said with a grin, "but we'll do our best."
John continued talking to Evie, but Sherlock wasn't listening. His fingers were pressed against his lips in his classic 'thinking' pose. This was both because he needed to think, and because his lips were still tingling from John's kiss. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock wasn't sure he could get answers to his questions, but he would still try. That was what he did. Later, when it would be more convenient for John, at night, he would slip into his mind palace and try to sort things out.