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Mrs Holmes occupied the black chair usually reserved for Sherlock and he wasn't protesting. From what John could see, Mrs Holmes was a rather tall woman, equal to her son and of similar weight. Her hair, though greying showed signs of once being jet black,was scrapped back into a tight bun. Not a hair was out of place. John suspected her outfit cost twice the amount of his entire wardrobe. He wasn't surprised. He had always suspected Mrs Holmes liked to dress up. "Your cup of tea, Mrs Holmes."

Perfectly manicured hands accepted the cup and saucer from John's hands before he returned to the sofa to be seated next to Sherlock. In the light, John could see the brilliant structure of her cheekbones and the pale skin. It was like looking at Sherlock in female form. It was frightening.

Sitting on the sofa chair, John remained quiet and watched Mrs Holmes and the youngest Holmes son.

"Mycroft says that you faked your own death."

John waited for the typical Sherlock reply of 'Evidently. I'm still alive, aren't I?' but it never came.

"I'm disappointed, Shirley." Mrs Holmes continued. "You had your brother and I worried."

Worried? Wasn't that a little understat-no, it wouldn't have been. She was a Holmes, and like her sons she wouldn't have the emotions to waste on someone else.

"I'm sorry, Mummy." John nearly choked on his tea. Had the great Sherlock Holmes just call his mother 'Mummy'? He was expecting anything but that. He expected the strong front. Like Sherlock has shown Mycroft countless times. "It was unavoidable."

"Shirely, nothing is unavoidable. I have taught you that already." The scorn on Mrs Holmes face was fair greater than any scorn John had ever seen on a Holmes.

"But he was going to actually murder me, Mummy, and then he would have gone after John & Mrs Hudson and he had also given Mycroft so much grief already."John should hear the echoing of her tut. It was completely awkward. He had to be here though. For Sherlock's sake.

"Ah yes. John. I presume that you are the infamous John my son has informed me of. How have you been looking after my little Shirley? He does like to get himself into danger."

From the corner in his eye, John saw Sherlock got a soft pink. If it wasn't for the situation he would have laughed. "I try, Mrs Holmes, but you know how Sherlock is."

"Quite. He didn't tell you about this silly little act of his, did he?" Mrs Holmes shot him a glare that could have looked into the very heart of his soul. He hoped it wouldn't. It would find much more than just fear for Sherlock.

"No, Mrs Holmes, and if he had I would have been completely against it. Trust me."

Mrs Holmes turned to her son, giving him a disappointed stare. "Shirley, you didn't even tell John? Do you realise that when darling Mycroft speaks of you, he tells me about John? Every time. Why does he do this? Because you and John - in Mycroft's words - are joined at the hip. I hope you've apologised to John."

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock said, his eyes on his mother's teacup. "I apologised to John last night... And this morning."

Mrs Holmes turned to John, "I'm sorry for Shirley's behaviour-"

"-oh, but he really did apologise-" John protested, but Mrs Holmes only ignored him and carried on.

"He's rather an insolent child. He never did as he was asked, always trying to out do his brother. It was annoying to say the least, Mycroft was by far the one with more potential. Even Sherlock knew that."

John fought back against saying anything. His last protest went unanswered and it was obvious he was going to be silenced by yet another Holmes. It was pointless doing anything but agree with Mrs Holmes. "Sorry, Mummy."

"Sherlock, Mycroft is going to sort out all of your mess. I had expected better of you. Getting me worried like that. It's not good for Mummy's heart."

"Implying you actually have one." Sherlock grumbled a little too loud. John turned round to look at him in shock. That was the Sherlock he knew but incredibly bad timing.

"Of course, they're weak. Remember that, Sherlock. They are worthless and pointless. I taught you better." Mrs Holmes stood up, collecting her gloves. The two men stood up as she started to walk towards the door. "Don't fall off a building before I get home. Shirley. I can't be bothered with more of your 'emotional' outbursts this year."

And with that she was gone. Sherlock remained staring at his mother's warpath. To John, he looked almost hurt.

Almost.

If only for a second.

By the time John had blinked any evidence of Sherlock's emotions were gone.

Sherlock looked at John.

"Don't say anything, Watson." He said threateningly.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Shirley." John laughed. Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Hey, I couldn't help it! It's funny!"

"You're so..." Sherlock began. He heard the car start and relished the thought of his mother leaving. "She's gone."

"Yeah," John said, "she left a while ago."

"Her car just left." Sherlock said. "Although, John, did you notice - I don't know if you would've - that she wore her expensive jewellery? She's only ever worn that set once before."

"No, I-"

"No, you didn't notice." Sherlock sighed. "I told you to pay more attention."

John didn't like Mrs Holmes very much. No, not at all. His room mate had just gotten back and was being tolerable for once. Then she bloody comes and ruins it all. Rolling his eyes, John wanted to tell Sherlock he'd have no knowledge of Mrs Holmes's jewellery. He thought it best to leave it. "Sorry, Sherlock."

"Oh but you would be," Sherlock began pacing the room again. He was trying to occupy his mind. Anything to take it off his mother. Off his emotions. He had to divorce them. He had to be what his mother wanted. "Silly little John, always sorry. Always emotional. Laughing at me like everybody else. Not that the last part matters. Trivial. No concern of mine. Everybody is an idiot anyway. No, John, you're too human. It's sickening."

"Sherlock Holmes, sit down." Anger drenched his voice. No longer facing Sherlock he managed to hear the snort and the sound of Sherlock still pacing up and down. "Now!"

Sherlock stared at John momentarily. The anger in his voice was easily detectable and judging by his body language he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's usual shenanigans. Walking over to his black chair, Sherlock sat down to await John's next comment. He sank into the chair, watching John's back. John slowly turned around to face Sherlock. Sherlock leaned forwards, his elbows balanced on each arm of the chair. He linked his fingers and began to hum.

"You need to calm down." John said slowly.

"I am calm, John." Sherlock said, resting his chin on his fingertips. He continued humming.

"You weren't just then. Stop that."

Sherlock stopped humming. He crossed his legs and scratched his nose with his wrist. He was moving as much as he could, without pacing. His heart rate was raised and his head was aching slightly. He felt nauseous.

"Good." John noted, sitting down in the chair opposite Sherlock's. Silence consumed the room. The two men didn't look at each other directly but instead shot silent glances out of the corner of their eyes.

Finally Sherlock sighed and said, "John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"Okay." John nodded. "I am too."

"I know." Sherlock said, "You've been tapping your knee for five minutes. One tap every two seconds. You were worried."

"Sherlock." John sighed.

"I can't stop deducing, John."

"Yes but for five minutes could you just not vocalise them?" John closed him eyes and began to rub his head. He thought having Sherlock back would be amazing. He dreamt about it. He thought it would fix everything. It didn't. There was still an explainable flutter in his stomach and a pain in his chest. Trust Sherlock to make him feel like this.

In the many weeks that Sherlock had been 'dead' John had come to a realisation. He had spent hours analysing his emotions, the pain in his chest and the tears he cried. At first he had no clue on why he was crying. Yes Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, but it didn't explain the aching he felt. Every time he looked at Sherlock's chair or one of his experiments he would feel tears welling up in his eyes. The air would catch in his lungs, making it impossible to breathe and at night, he would lay there, staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing but Sherlock. It had taken him a while but after some deep consideration, and some hypothetical talks with Mrs Hudson, John came to realise that he had deep feelings for his rude, big headed, sociopath of a room mate.

When Sherlock was dead there was nothing he could have done about it. He was free to mourn and accept his feelings. Now Sherlock was alive again it caused complications. He couldn't tell Sherlock. He was sure the detective would never feel the same way. Of course he would. He has no feelings. Especially for John.

Sherlock watched John intensely. Something was bothering the man, his eyes were dull and there was a pallor to his skin that wasn't there in Sherlock's memories. What could be bother John? What could be the problem with Dr John Watson, the war veteran? He shook his head and stopped thinking about John's possible problems.

"Do we have a case yet?" He asked.

John looked up, snapped out of his thoughts. "Um... Probably. I'll just check the blog."

"Right..." John muttered. "Anyway, we have this email. We have a lot of emails... Wow."

"News travels fast John."

"No, it doesn't. Well, these are all from before you were... dead."

"Oh. Lestrade must not have done the press release yet. That or Mycroft is taking his time."

"Sherlock, you only just came back from the dead." John's voice cracked, he tried to cover it up with a coughing fit in hope Sherlock wouldn't detect it.

"You're right, John, but weeks without a case?" He didn't detect then. Instead he was jumping up and down in his chair. "I'm bored!"

"Keep it away from my walls. I have only just started to re-plastered them back up." Sherlock turned to the wall to see that John, had in fact, begun to cover up the bullet holes in the wall. Obviously he didn't get very far because only two had been filled.

"BOREEEED!"

"Sherlock, at least let people hear you're alive first. Have you even told Mrs Hudson yet?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock turned around and muttered something under his breathe. "Oh my god, you haven't yet. Have you?"

Sherlock looked up at John. "Does she need to know?"

"Sherlock!" John gasped. "Of course she does!"

"But... Fine." Sherlock sighed. He turned around and walked out of the door. "I'll go now."

John looked up, Sherlock was galloping down the stairs. His hair whipped out behind him, he jumped down the last few steps. It took John a few seconds to realise what Sherlock was trying to do.

"Oh shit! SHERLOCK!" He called. "Sherlock don't!" He raced after Sherlock. "Sherlock!" He hissed, trying not to alert Mrs Hudson to Sherlock's presence, but still trying to call Sherlock. "Sherlock!"

Before John even made it half way down the stair Sherlock was opening the door to 221A and storming in. The ear shattering scream of Mrs Hudson soon reached his ears. "MRS HUDSON!" John hurried through the door to Mrs Hudson's flat to find her staring at Sherlock in shock. Her face was drained and a cake tin laid forgotten on a floor. Sherlock walked over to her and gave the usual hug and kiss to the cheek. Mrs Hudson was still unable to talk. "Turns out I'm not dead after all."

John face palmed and groaned. "Delicate as always, Sherlock."