Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 19: Bless'd be the Ties that bind

Sherlock managed to evade his parents for nearly another week, through judicious use of his boltholes, and once a getaway down the back fire escape just before they walked in the front. It helped that he could always figure out when they were lurking about, because the knocker was straightened, so he would just tell the cabby to keep driving. And he had found and dispatched two more video cameras (one by dangling it out the window with the lens facing the building, and the other by attaching it to the underside of a cab). But he knew he couldn't avoid his family forever. He had to sleep sometime, and Mycroft was far too handy with the lockpicks for his own good.

It was his mother's stage whisper that woke him, far too early in the morning after a night spent being chased by a vampire in his dreams. It was difficult to wake up rested when he felt like he had run a marathon in his sleep. Sherlock groaned under his breath and rolled over in bed, listening. His mother's whisper was clearly audible, even through the closed bedroom door. "Are you sure he's in there?"

"Yes, Mother," came Mycroft's weary voice, softer but no less audible. "Please be quiet; you'll wake him up."

"Isn't that the point? It's difficult to talk to him when he's sleeping."

"I suppose."

Footsteps on the lino, then a quiet knock at the door. "Little brother, I know you're awake. Please come out here and put me out of my misery."

Sherlock pushed the pillow over his face and groaned again, a little louder. There was no use telling him to go away, because it would only provoke an argument that Sherlock knew he had no hope of winning, especially when Mycroft had Mummy as back-up. Heaven knew having one mother was difficult enough. What had he done to be cursed with two?

"Five more seconds and I'm coming in," Mycroft said through the door. "Five. . . Four. . ."

With a frustrated grunt, Sherlock threw back the covers and flung himself out of bed. Too bad he wasn't naked. It would serve Mycroft right if he answered the door in the buff.

He yanked open the door just as Mycroft started to turn the knob, with the result that he ended up pulling his brother off-balance. Unfortunately he didn't fall, but immediately regained his footing and gave Sherlock a tight smile. "Ah, there you are. I knew you were awake."

"How could I sleep through that?" Sherlock muttered. "Could you please teach Mother how to whisper?"

"Believe me, I've tried." Mycroft turned on his heel and headed back down the hallway and through the kitchen with Sherlock trailing reluctantly after. "Found him."

As Sherlock entered the sitting room, he discovered not only his mother sitting in John's chair, but also his father, standing by the fireplace looking uncomfortable. His father had a bit of a faded, partially peeled sunburn peeking up above his collar, which couldn't have happened in London in October, so they had obviously been someplace sunny, just about two weeks ago, which was right about when the current shit had hit the fan. He suspected Mycroft had had a hand in that.

"Sherlock!" his mother greeted him, struggling out of the chair. "I'm so glad to see you, dear."

"Really? I'm never glad to see anyone at half eight on a Sunday morning. Couldn't you have come at noon?"

"We've tried, but you're never home. You can't blame us for wanting to see you, can you, sweetheart?"

"I suppose not," he grumbled. His mother reached for his hand, and he let her take it, silently counted to three in his head, then gently but firmly patted the back of her hand as he pulled away. He had learned this little trick years ago. Give Mother a bit of what she wanted (vague displays of affection, Christmas dinners, distant hopes of grandchildren, but not hugs—he absolutely drew the line at hugs), then confidently disentangle himself while she was still riding the emotional high. It satisfied her just enough to keep her off his back, which was his entire goal when dealing with his mother.

"Oh, Sherlock," his mother said in a quavery voice, hand stretched out toward his face. He took a step back, eye roll at the ready. Here it came—the histrionics, the exaggerated rehashing and blame-laying, the drama. Mummy was all about the drama. When he was in hospital (the second time) after Mary had shot him, his mother had spent most of every visit vacillating between begging him to tell her who shot him, and giving the nurses stick about their deplorable standards of care. My son needs ice chips! Why doesn't my boy have ice chips!

But instead of launching into the tirade he had been expecting, his mother just sort of crumpled in on herself—head down, shoulders pulled in, hands clenched together—and began to cry soundlessly. It was quite different to her usual theatrics, and Sherlock discovered he had no idea how to respond. He shot an anxious glance at Mycroft (FIX THIS!), but found that Mycroft was also staring at her wide-eyed, so he turned his gaze helplessly to his father, who pulled away from the fireplace and crossed to her.

"Minnie, dear. . ."

His mother allowed herself to be helped back into John's chair, with his father's arm around her. Sherlock expected that at any moment she would start casting blame and guilt about, but she just sat silently weeping. Blame and guilt Sherlock could handle, as he had been training for it his whole life: Mummy tossed around predictable phrases like "How could you?" and "You're breaking your mother's heart," and Sherlock and Mycroft responded by either ignoring her or rolling their eyes until she knocked it off. These silent tears were something else altogether. Watching her, Sherlock felt an unfamiliar twist in his midsection.

Mycroft settled himself carefully on the edge of the chair opposite her. His hand reached out toward her, but then dropped back to his lap. He looked quite as out of his depth as Sherlock felt. Was he chewing the inside of his cheek?

"Mother, I'm. . . I'm quite all right," Sherlock said awkwardly, to break the emotional intensity of the moment.

His mother's response was so quiet he had to strain to hear. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. How could I have not known?"

Sherlock blinked and shifted from foot to foot. His mother had apologized to him? That never happened, ever. Mummy never admitted fault, and did not apologize, a trait which Sherlock had inherited and honed to perfection.

"You couldn't have known," he reassured her once he had found his voice again. "The police are on this. . ." (He wasn't sure of the truth of that statement, but Mummy didn't have to know that) ". . . He'll be prosecuted and thrown into prison."

"But won't you have to testify?"

"No, Mother," Mycroft put in, finally reaching out and taking her hand. "I've arranged it with the police. I will testify and they won't call on Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. He had arranged it, had he? That explained why he hadn't gotten any more calls from Donovan. He felt a flash of relief at the news, overshadowed by sudden anger. Why did Mycroft always have to arrange everything for him? His whole life, Mycroft had made constant intrusions on his sovereignty, which Sherlock typically reacted to by perversely heading in the opposite direction, sometimes at a run.

"Oh, thank you, Mycroft. I take back everything I said about you on the phone." His mother dried her tears on his father's handkerchief and returned to some semblance of her normal self. "Sherlock, you must tell me what that horrible man did."

Both his parents blinked at him expectantly (and wetly). Oh, no, this was not on. It had been difficult enough telling John. Describing the Vampire's violations in the level of detail his mother would insist on would be excruciating, not to mention humiliating. He simply couldn't do it. Sherlock shot a glance at Mycroft, to discover he was rolling his eyes. Right. That was the correct response to Mummy's prying.

"Mother, I don't think it's important to rehash all of the details. It's being taken care of. Now, if you don't mind, I'm working on a case and I need to think."

"You weren't working on a case when we got here. Unless the case is in your bedroom somehow. I often think your flat looks like a murder scene. . ."

"No, it's a double homicide. Would you like to hear all the gory details?"

"Merciful heavens, no!"

"Well, then, you'd better pop off out of here. I've got some gruesome crime scene photos to examine." He took his mother by the elbow and "helped" her out of her chair while she spluttered.

"Sherlock, this discussion isn't over. I want to know what happened!"

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft came to his rescue. "Come along, Mummy. We can pop in at that lovely bakery downstairs for scones."

"Well—but—Sherlock, are you coming?"

"No, Mum, I've got an arm in the fridge that needs dissecting. Mustn't keep it waiting."

"Don't think I don't know what you two are up to!" Mother scolded. "Sherlock, we will discuss this later. Let go of my elbow, Mykie. Alistair, aren't you coming?"

"Yes, dear." Dad dutifully trooped out after their mother, patting Sherlock kindly on the shoulder on his way out. "It'll be all right, son."

Sherlock frowned at his back as he exited through the door that Mycroft was holding open for him. He couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him. His father was a good man, but physically demonstrative he was not.

Sherlock crossed to the entrance to close the door but discovered Mycroft's foot in the way. His parents were already headed down the stairs—he could hear their friendly bickering receding into the distance.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course I am." Sherlock took hold of the doorhandle and pushed the door into Mycroft's foot. "Now leave me alone. I'm busy."

"I worry about you."

"Stop trying to mother me. I don't need it from her, and I certainly don't need it from you."

Mycroft opened his mouth like he was about to say something more, perhaps along the lines of "Yes, you do need mothering," but instead he closed his mouth, sighed through his nose, and withdrew his foot without another word. Sherlock shut the door, being careful not to slam it lest he attract his parents' attention, and clicked the lock shut. Mycroft had just let him get in the last word? Impossible!

A/N: Have I mentioned how much I love reviews? Not sure if I made that clear. . .