A/N: Sorry for the late update, guys, finals week is killing me. *x-eyed emoji* I'm having so much fun with this story, and it's great to read the comments and see how much you guys are enjoying it too :) Can't thank y'all enough for the wonderful feedback!

The Blue Iris is associated with loyalty and cherished relationships among kin. The blade-shaped foliage denotes the pain that family can sometimes cause, while the rich yellow center represents the everlasting, resilient nature of familial love.

…

A week later, John was ten minutes late to their meeting.

"I have absolutely had it with Harry," John growled, storming into the garden like a hurricane. His anger flourished around him, bright and burning like fire, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel utterly captivated. He didn't enjoy seeing John upset, of course, but this was the first time John had been anything but calm in Sherlock's presence, and it would have been a complete waste if Sherlock didn't observe him. John's blue eyes were sharp and scorching with ire, his face was flushed pink, his breathing was slightly labored instead of steady and even, and his tanned, strong hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the tendons of his fingers pulled taut like cords. The sweet, beguiling garden, with all of its gentle flowers and placid creatures, seemed to part for John like the red sea, curling away from the sheer power and rage emanating from him.

"John," Sherlock breathed, more than a bit flustered. He gripped the edge of the bench to steady himself. Seeing John like this made him feel some strange combination of alarmed, aroused, confused, and fascinated as bloody hell. For the first time, he was truly getting a sense of what Captain John Watson must have been like all those years ago in the dunes of Afghanistan: powerful, commanding, and radiating authority.

Suffice to say, Sherlock's brain was little more than a puddle at this point.

"Sorry, I know you're probably wondering where this is coming from," John muttered, running a hand restlessly through his hair. The honey colored strands caught the sunlight and gleamed like gold. "It's my sister," he explained, sitting down next to Sherlock with a huff. "She's being unreasonable again."

Sherlock took a few calming breaths to compose himself (stop blushing stop blushing stop blushing) and then looked at John with the appropriate mix of curiosity and concern. "What has she done?"

John never spoke openly about his relationship with his sister, but from what Sherlock had deduced, their relationship was strained for multiple reasons. Harry's alcoholism was certainly one of the biggest causes, of course, but Sherlock knew their issues also had to do with the fact that they were much too similar. That good old Watson stubbornness, as John had once said. Both of them were always convinced that they were right and the other was wrong, and neither was ever willing to give in. Harry resented John for treating her like a child and acting as her guardian all throughout their lives—for, in her eyes, John was just trying to control her for the sake of his ego—while John resented Harry for being ungrateful for the guidance and affection he'd offered her after their mother's death—for, from John's perspective, all he'd done was take care of his sister and help her through hard times. Both of these views were true in some respect, but because of John and Harry's staunch refusal to give in to the other's point of view, they were perpetually locked in a bitter, tense relationship wherein everything was left unsaid and nothing was properly dealt with.

But Sherlock was not about to lecture John about this, because he knew that he and his brother had their own rubbish heap of issues to deal with, and he was never one to be a hypocrite. Besides, he was inclined to side with John anyway because he knew John's intentions truly were pure; in spite of all Harry's flaws, John felt only love and affection for her. That much was made clear whenever he recounted a story of their childhood to Sherlock, his words practically oozing nostalgia and fondness.

John shook his head. "I don't even know where to begin. This morning has just been such a sodding mess." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you my late mum's birthday is this Friday, didn't I?"

"Yes, last week."

"Right. Well, I went to that little flower shop on the corner of Lalour and Hemmings this morning to find something nice for our mother, but then I remembered how angry Harry was last year for 'not including her' in the process. So, I grabbed a pamphlet to bring back here instead. The idea was to simply let Harry pick the bouquet, thus avoiding all conflict." John scowled. "First of all, let me just say, believing that conflict could be avoided in any plan involving Harrietwas a huge oversight on my part. To think my sister could put aside her issues with our mother long enough to point out the right sodding color of roses, was ridiculous, I now realize. Because for any of that to happen, Harry would have to be mature and reasonable. Unfortunately, she is neither of those things, so the moment I started talking about mum, Harry threw a fit. She told me that she was 'already going through enough shit as it was' and for me to 'burden her' with all of these bad memories was 'sick'." John dropped his head in his hands, defeated and sapped of his anger. "Flowers, Sherlock," John mumbled into his palms. "I just wanted her to help me pick some bleeding flowers."

It seemed like the right thing to do, so Sherlock dropped a comforting hand onto John's knee. "That is by no means an unreasonable request, John. I'm curious, though: what issue does Harry have with your mother?"

John raised his head and sighed. "Okay, well, let me start by saying, Harry isn't wrong to be angry."

"No?"

"No. Mum wasn't great when we were kids. As you so astutely deduced two weeks ago, my father was…rough with us." He cleared his throat. "Mum never did anything to stop him. She would just scamper out of the room, or leave for the weekend and stay with her sister, Delilah. At times, she would disappear for days and days without picking up her phone. That, of course, made our father even angrier and with no one else around, he would take it out on us."

"If that's true, then how are you able to forgive her, John?" Sherlock asked. "Why aren't you as angry as Harry?"

He definitely sided with Harry on this; their mother's actions were inexcusable, weren't they? The mere thought of someone hurting John (either through aggression or passivity), made Sherlock's blood boil.

"Because," John exhaled, "she loved us. I knew our mother for four years longer than Harry did, so maybe I see that more clearly than she does. It was the little things, I guess. Playing with Harry and I in the park, taking us out on picnics when our father wasn't home, teaching us silly songs while we cleaned up the house. She adored us, she just didn't know how to protect us. Hell, she couldn't even protect herself. So, when she…ended her life, I felt more pity for her than anything. I wasn't angry. I wasn't bitter. As painful as it was to excuse her behavior, I understood why she'd been the way she'd been and I accepted it. When they buried her, they buried every last bit of my resentment as well. I let her go, Sherlock, and Harry didn't. She still hasn't. That's why we have this row every year. She accuses me of looking down on her for not being as 'selfless and pure' as I claim to be, and then I accuse her of being stubborn and unreasonable for refusing to sit down and bloody listen to what I'm trying to tell her." John ran a hand tiredly through his hair. "Like I said, Sherlock, it's a mess."

"I still don't understand why you've forgiven your mother," Sherlock said. "Or even Harriet, for that matter."

"Because," John said simply, "they're family."

"So, you're telling me that you are willing to overlook years of pain and emotional damage all because they're your family?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Yes, because they're my family. That's why I've been able to forgive my mother, and that's why I'll never stop visiting Harry, even when she's chucked a ceramic vase at my head and called me selfish. Even when she's screamed herself hoarse about how proud and controlling I am. Even when she's threatened to delete my bloody number and never speak to me again because I'm a terrible excuse for a sibling. I still will not abandon her."

Sherlock stared at John in awe, both fascinated and befuddled by his reasoning. "Why?"

John shrugged. "It's important to forgive family, Sherlock. They're all you have in the end."

The next morning, Dr. Ford's choice of topic fit seamlessly with his and John's discussion.

"So, Sherlock," she began, setting her ceramic mug on the table, atop a plaid coaster. "How have things been with your family?"

Sherlock folded his hands on his chest, his long, lean figure posed supine on the sofa. "Funny you should mention them, because John and I were just having a conversation about family yesterday afternoon."

"Did anything noteworthy come up?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "John did make an interesting point. He said that it is important to forgive your family no matter what. Well, unless they've done something egregious, of course, like John's father. If they haven't, though, and they are simply dysfunctional or frustrating—or, in Harriet's case, both—then it's best to make amends and stand by them."

"John sounds like a wise man," Dr. Ford commented.

"Yes, of course he is," Sherlock said, dismissing the obvious observation. "But I'm wondering if that rule is something everyone should adhere to. Take my family, for example: my mother and father were both quite indifferent towards me throughout my childhood, they live in completely different countries because they can't stand each other, and neither of them approves of a single aspect of my life, aside from, perhaps, the smattering of degrees I collected from Uni some time ago. They abhor my lack of heterosexuality, they dismiss the validity of my job, they look down on me for my addiction, and they constantly compare me to Mycroft, who, in their eyes, is the bloody epitome of perfection. So," Sherlock continued, "why on earth would I bother trying to make amends with them? We don't like each other, simple as that. If I try to force a relationship between the three of us, won't that just be a nuisance for everyone involved?"

Dr. Ford drummed her pen against her tablet. "Relationships between parents and children are often quite complex things to mend, Sherlock, so I understand your reservations. Why not start somewhere a bit closer to home, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've been told you haven't been taking your brother's phone calls for months, is that true?"

Ah, yes. Mycroft. "Yes, that is true."

"And why is that, Sherlock?"

If she had asked Sherlock this question only three weeks ago, he would have said Because he dumped me in this hellhole to rot, without a beat of hesitation. Now, however, he couldn't bring himself to complain, because if he hadn't come here, he never would have met John. And since John was easily the best thing to ever waltz into Sherlock's life, he couldn't help but feel some form of gratitude for his brother's intervention. As terrible as it seemed at the time, New Beginnings had ended up changing his life for the better.

"I…don't know," he said at length. "I suppose my reasoning in the past no longer applies."

"Well, that is lovely to hear, Sherlock, because that means you can begin the healing process."

Sherlock cringed at the phrase but valiantly did not comment on it. "And what might the first step be?"

"Answering the next time he calls would be a good place to start."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. "And what should I say?"

"What would you like to say?"

Ideally, Sherlock would like to pick up the phone and somehow communicate his apologies to Mycroft solely through complete and utter silence. Telepathy would be such a useful skill, he thought longingly.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option, which meant that he would have to verbally say sorry to his brother, and hope Mycroft didn't attempt to elongate the torturous experience.

"I suppose I'll figure it out when I speak to him," Sherlock resolved.

A few days later, Sherlock walked into the garden and found an unfamiliar woman sitting on his and John's bench. At first, he was outraged that someone else dared to sit in John's spot, then he was confused as to why they were out here in the first place, and, finally, he found himself worried that this was a messenger that had been sent to deliver bad news about John. The last one was fairly unlikely, but fear and worry plagued him nonetheless.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, once he was within earshot.

"I'm—"

He frowned and held up a hand to stop her. Her eyes were blue, her skin was scattered with pale freckles, and her hair was a goldish-brown, dirty blonde color that Sherlock would recognize anywhere.

"You're Harriet, aren't you?"

The woman blinked in surprise. "Yeah. I am."

Now that he was certain of her identity, Sherlock examined her with a keener eye. She, like John, was short and somewhat stocky, with a strong jaw and a clear voice. However, everything about her was a bit angrier than John, from the challenging glint in her eyes to the almost aggressive width of her stance. Her body language said that she was raring to fight at a moment's notice: perpetually just a breath away from springing into a scuffle. She had a wildness in her that John did not possess. Whereas John was steadiness and quiet strength and innate authority, Harry was impulsivity and fleeting passion and heedless chaos. He couldn't say if she was pretty or not (though he supposed her ample figure and strong features could be considered attractive) but there was certainly something compelling about her, something that caught his attention in the same way that John had.

(It went without saying that there was absolutely no comparison between the two of them—it would be like comparing the glorious, blindingly-bright sun to a single star.)

"And I am Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, offering his hand. "Good to meet you."

She stared at his hand for a long moment before she took it. "So you're the guy John runs to when we have a row?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Hmph." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him over, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. After a moment, she mumbled, "Johnny wasn't exaggerating, I guess."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Exaggerating about what?"

"You. Your looks."

Warmth crept up Sherlock's throat, threatening to make its way to his cheeks. "What about them?"

"You're a good looking bloke, Sherlock Holmes," Harry said, almost accusingly. Her gaze softened somewhat when she noticed the ridiculous color rising on his cheeks. "If I weren't into women, I'm sure I would be head over heels too."

Too? Too?

Didn't that imply that someone else was head over heels for Sherlock? Was Harry referring to—

"But anyway, I didn't come here just to inflate your ego. I came here to tell you that Johnny's not gonna be able to make it for the rest of this week. The clinic's low on staff members, so he's got to step up and take on double shifts." She examined her nails. "He wanted me to let you know so you didn't freak out."

"Ah," Sherlock said. Disappointment and dread crashed through him like a tsunami. He hadn't gone a single day without seeing John for a month—he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand not speaking with him for an entire week. Just the thought made him ill.

"He'll be back on Monday, Sherlock," Harry said, in a half-hearted attempt to comfort him. "Besides, distance makes the heart grow fonder or something, right?"

Two long, endlessly boring, John-free days later, Mycroft phoned him and Sherlock answered for the first time in three months. It seemed that his brother was just as surprised by this development as Sherlock himself, because the first thing out of his mouth was, "You're answering now? After months of ignoring me?"

There didn't seem to be a complex answer to this question, so Sherlock simply replied, "Yes."

"Pray tell, what has made today different than any other? Why pick now, of all times?"

"Because," Sherlock began, "I've met someone who convinced me it was a good idea."

When Sherlock didn't elaborate, Mycroft hazarded a guess. "Your therapist?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, not my therapist. Though, I will admit, Dr. Ford hasn't been nearly as intolerable as I thought she would be."

"Then who? Did you meet someone who is a patient there as well?"

At that, Sherlock scoffed. "Certainly not. Everyone here is insipid."

(The cluster of patients who were passing by in the hallway stopped and stared at him, clearly offended, and Sherlock felt the brief, childish urge to stick his tongue out at them.)

"Then whom have you met, Sherlock? Unless you'd like to sit here all day long playing guessing games, I suggest you tell me now and save us both the trouble."

"Fine," Sherlock said, more than happy to rave about John. "His name is John Watson. He isn't a patient, but his sister is here for her alcoholism, and we met when he was visiting her last month. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, though not the conventional shade of blonde or blue—more like brownish-gold and deep, dark navy—and his hands are strong and tan from working as an army doctor in Afghanistan for several years…"

…

"…his favorite childhood memory was sewing Harry's costume for her school's Christmas pageant when she was eight, because that was back when she looked up to him and openly accepted his help. I suspect she still admires him and considers him a role model of hers, but the years of built up resentment and conflict have no doubt stifled her ability to productively express emotion. John, being the patient man that he is, will never give up on her though, so she'll never have to worry about him abandoning her. Anyway," Sherlock said, pausing for the first time in about twenty minutes, "where was I going with this?"

"You were telling me every minute detail of John Watson's life, I believe," Mycroft supplied drily. "And do congratulate yourself, because mission accomplished. I am quite sure I could write his biography, given how much I know now about the man."

"I would read it," Sherlock mused. He shook his head and refocused. "But that isn't where I intended to go with that tangent; I meant to say that John has opened my eyes to the true role of family. He says one should forgive their family no matter what, because family is the most important thing."

"Good god, Sherlock," Mycroft complained. "I wish you would have told me this was leading somewhere mawkish; I would've made an excuse to hang up ages ago."

"Yes, and that is exactly why I didn't say anything," Sherlock fired back. "Just listen, Mycroft, I'd rather not make this experience any longer than it has to be either."

"Fine."

Sherlock made a show of clearing his throat. "Yes, alright, well, as I was saying, John believes that one should stick by their family's side no matter what they have done in the past, even if it's something terrible or annoying or incredibly frustrating."

Here came the hard part. "And that's the reason why I picked up today, Mycroft. Because I wanted to," he stopped, the words caught on the tip of his tongue. "I wanted to—to…"

"Are you quite alright over there, Sherlock?"

Get the bloody words out, you ninny! "Because I wanted to apologize," Sherlock said in a rush.

"Apologize?" Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and ripped off the metaphorical Band-Aid. "Yes. I shouldn't have waited so long to speak with you. I was angry and frustrated and bitter. You did what was best for me, Mycroft, and without your intervention I would not have met John. So, for that, I say thank you."

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment. "This means a lot,"

Sherlock covered his face with his free hand and groaned. "Mycroft, don't make a big deal out of it, please. Just say 'okay' and let's move on."

"Such beautiful words, spun so sincerely," Mycroft continued melodramatically. "Why, poets of generations past could not begin to compare to such eloquence…"

"Mycroft..." Sherlock said warningly.

Mycroft chuckled, clearly amused with himself. "I'm simply trying to enjoy this rare occasion, Sherlock. It isn't every day that you say you're sorry."

"Christ, would you like it engraved on a plaque?"

"No, no, committing it to memory shall be more than enough," Mycroft replied, laughter still coloring his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment, "you sound different. I couldn't place it at first, but I believe I now know what it is." He paused. "I never thought I would say this, brother, but you sound—happy."

Something warm and light unfurled in Sherlock's chest. "I am happy."

"Because of John?"

"Because of John," Sherlock agreed. "I fancy him and he fancies me as well."

Sherlock didn't bother mentioning the strange grey-area they were currently in, nor did he mention the fact that John wasn't even aware of Sherlock's feelings yet. He much preferred to keep things simple and uncomplicated, especially when explaining this to his brother.

"Oh!" Mycroft sounded surprised. "I simply thought…"

"You thought what?"

"Well, I thought perhaps the interest was one-sided," Mycroft said carefully. After a beat of uncomfortable silence, he added, "You do remember Victor, don't you?"

Sherlock flexed his jaw and stared down at the linoleum floor. "I'd rather not talk about that, Mycroft."

Thankfully, Mycroft took the hint and didn't linger. "My apologies. Now then, back to the subject of Doctor Watson. I would like to meet him."

"What? Why?"

"Well, Sherlock, as impossible as it may seem, I do care about your happiness and well-being. I would like nothing more than to meet the person who has changed your life for the better. And I have no doubt that he'll impress me," Mycroft continued, "because anyone who pleases you so much must be remarkable."

Sherlock tried to imagine his brother and John Watson in a room together, but his brain couldn't form the picture. Not only were they vastly different people, they also belonged to completely separate parts of Sherlock's life; for them to come together and exist on the same plane seemed catastrophic. Still, as uneasy as the notion made him, he couldn't deny the small part of his heart that ached for his brother's approval; it was a small bit, one that had eroded over the years and disappeared into the rubble, but it was there nonetheless and he could not ignore it. Strange as it was, it seemed vital that Mycroft meet John.

Besides, it would offer a wonderful chance to show off John, and Sherlock Holmes was never one to turn down a good opportunity.

"Fine," Sherlock nodded, even though Mycroft couldn't see him. "Do you know when this meeting will take place?"

"Who knows, my schedule is constantly in flux. I will, however, promise you one phone call a week. After missing so much time, I think it is important that you and I stay in contact."

"Fair enough," Sherlock conceded.

"Good." Mycroft sounded pleased. "I'm glad you picked up the phone, Sherlock."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I suppose I am, too."

A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! The next chapter will be up sometime next week, so make sure to sub/follow!

Oh, and don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you think! :*