John stalled in front of the door to 221B, unsure if he should knock or let himself in.
"Come in John," Sherlock called from inside. Of course. John walked into the kitchen, where he'd heard the voice, to find Sherlock sitting at the table looking at a map of the western London countryside. Where the letters' tracker had died. Sherlock had a readout of the tracker's transmissions open in another tab and he flicked back and forth between them too quickly to follow. He looked unbelievable, standing in old clothing, his brain working at full speed. "Two options. They found the tracker and took their time disabling it, to make it look like it was slowly going out of range, or the tracker is underground."
"A vault?" John guessed, walking into the living room to put down his bag. Laptops were heavy. On the edge of too heavy. If he was wise he'd leave it here. The idea didn't bother him.
Sherlock hummed doubtfully.
"Bigger than that. A catacombs," he announced, leaning back from his map. A zoomed up image of the tracker's last positions. It had been moving, just very slowly compared to a car's travels. Someone walking and getting slowly out of range. Going down steps?
"The entrance, then," John said aloud, entranced by the simple map of an unmarked field of untended land. "Now what?" he asked and Sherlock shut the laptop lid, already looked bored.
"Now we wait. Again," he growled. "I abhor trying to fail. There's no audience," Sherlock added, sounding thoroughly frustrated now. John scratched at the back of his head, wondering if he should go. Then Sherlock looked up, his expression brightening. "How's Greg?" he asked. John smiled in appreciation of the deduction and shrugged in answer. The motion only ached now. Progress Sherlock clearly noticed.
"Dating again. Molly Hooper," John replied. There wasn't much point in avoiding gossip, with Sherlock Holmes.
"Finally," he grunted, rolling his eyes and standing up from the table.
"He's been trying for awhile?" John asked, going to the sink to put on some tea. Sherlock snorted.
"Really, John, I'd only been back from Russia for six hours and I knew," Sherlock boasted, heading into the living room to sit down. John flicked on the stove and followed.
"Really?" John asked. He settled into his chair with his laptop, prepared to spend the evening job hunting. His interview hadn't felt promising. He'd been asked 'do you have any experience with PTSD' and had been halfway through answering before he'd realized they were talking about his bedside manner with patients and not his frequency of panic attacks when bathing.
"Where else did you think I concentrated my time? The majority of Moriarty's network operated out of Sochi," Sherlock said, picking up his violin and falling back on the couch. He started playing, the violin held awkwardly into the air.
"No, I meant really, Lestrade has liked her for that long? I couldn't tell," John clarified.
"The man can't go two minutes with the woman without staring," Sherlock replied, switching his song to a faster beat.
"And that's your idea of flirting, is it? Just staring at her?" John asked, amused by the image of Sherlock trying to glare a woman into attraction.
"Is that wrong?" Sherlock asked, stopping his bow with a squeal. John blinked. Sherlock looked genuinely concerned, his eyes wide and boring into John's… oh. Oh. John didn't know if he should look away or not, feeling like he was supposed to make some flash decision. To date Sherlock or to refuse him? They'd only just started cases again, surely it was too soon…
Do you want to be together?
John cleared his throat to stall. Sherlock kept staring. John cleared his throat again.
"No, no. It gets the message across," John said finally and Sherlock relaxed back into the sofa, looking much relieved. Apparently that was all he'd wanted. John watched him replace his bow on the string and start to play again, picking up the quick beat as if he'd never stopped.
Message received.
John opened his laptop, prepared to spend the rest of the evening pretending to look for jobs. But he'd barely opened the search engine before he had to pause again, struck by another of Sherlock's blatant subtleties. His chair. He was seated in his chair. John ran his hands down the rough fabric arms, gobsmacked. Wherever the hell Sherlock had tossed his chair, he'd gotten it back.Sherlock smirked, without seeming to notice him. John wasn't fooled. He refitted the Union flag pillow at his back, happy to have his place restored.
Message received. He stared sightlessly at his open search engine. The kettle screamed, finally, and John got up to make them tea, fitting Sherlock's with sugar without needing to ask.
~~/~~
Christmas day dawned foggy and chill. A limo parked imperiously in front of 221 Baker Street and for once Sherlock got in it without complaint. He usually opted to let the poor driver sit for hours, until a cop issued a ticket for standing illegally, before he acknowledged Mycroft's car. John got in after him. He was starting to become legitimately excited about the whole enterprise.
He'd always pegged Sherlock for a rich boy, likely raised by nannies and generally ignored. It accounted for his deeply ingrained loneliness and aversion to touch and the way Sherlock always seemed to question friendships long after they were established. He pictured a grand stone estate, a fully renovated historical manor, complete with lintel engravings and a bust of its founder. Instead, the black limo pulled up to a converted farm house, complete with red brick and unadorned front door.
Mycroft exited the house, followed by a gray-haired couple John had to assume were Sherlock's parents. They threw their arms wide and insisted on a hug from Sherlock before the man had fully exited the vehicle. Sherlock embraced them stiffly and pivoted away to introduce John. John shook their hands before they could insist on a hug and maintained his distance. To his relief they didn't protest. Instead they turned on Mycroft, pestering him to greet his brother properly.
Mycroft bowed his head like a posh lordling and turned awkwardly to John. They hadn't spoken since the drug den debacle.
"Welcome, John," Mycroft greeted, sounding remarkably sincere. Even Sherlock's parents reacted to the tone, turning from their salutations with Sherlock to listen in. John shook his head firmly and pushed his fists into his pockets, unsure what more to say to the enigmatic man. "It's good to see you," Mycroft tried. John hesitated, listening for any hidden meaning and hearing none. He couldn't return the sentiment but he could hardly say that aloud. Though judging from Sherlock's mother's tight expression, the lack was palpable. "I hope you've been well?" Mycroft asked carefully.
Hardly. John thanked him as politely as he could and Mycroft relaxed perceptibly, clearly withering under his parents' frowns.
Oh this is going to be fun.
Sherlock's mother was a kindly-looking woman with smile lines and heavy earrings. She wore colorful, unpretentious clothing and held her hair back in a loose knot. She fit in this rural, barn-style home. Sherlock positioned himself beside her, so much like a proud little kid that John had to smile. Mrs. Holmes beamed back at him, her eyes glittering with affection.
"Well, what are we all standing outside for?" Mr. Holmes ejected suddenly, clapping his hands together. He was dressed like a rather doddering old professor, complete with a red bowtie to celebrate the holiday and a pair of bifocals hanging on a string around his neck.
"John, it is absolutely lovely to meet you. I'm Wanda, and that's my husband Tim," Mrs. Holmes greeted again, ignoring him entirely. John smiled as warmly as he could, trying to decide how he'd avoid a hug now. Mrs. Holmes really did look that happy to meet him. What had Sherlock told them? Sherlock was holding his hands behind his back, his expression taut as it always was when he felt guilty.
"House. House is decorated," Sherlock burst out suddenly and Mycroft smirked, gesturing at his brother to lead them into the house. John lingered to follow behind. Fortunately the Holmeses didn't seem to notice that touch of PTSD, though Mycroft's sneer slipped before he lead the way in.
The front door opened into a cramped, dark entryway. There was barely room to swing the door without hitting the lowest step of a staircase leading to the second floor. A tight passageway led back to the much brighter kitchen. The hallway was decorated with a woven leaf garland that smelled strongly of fir trees and sap. Mrs. Holmes led them back to the kitchen, chattering happily about Christmas bringing them together in a tone that indicated to John that this was not their usual routine. The house smelled like candle smoke and ham. The kitchen was large and well lit. Most of its floorspace was taken up by a gray table covered in tacked bowls and cutting boards. White Christmas lights were taped up above one window in a bedraggled bunch, the cord awkwardly stretching around a picture frame on its way down to the electric socket.
"Can I do anything to help?" John asked, hoping to hide in a task. Unfortunately, Mrs. Holmes immediately waved him to sit down and started puttering about the kitchen. Sherlock settled into a dining chair with the newspaper without a word, apparently leaving John alone to the task of asking the Holmeses if they could thoroughly interrupt the holiday to go chase down a famous blackmailer. Mycroft claimed another chair and dragged out his laptop, clearly planning to avoid the strange festivities by burying himself in work. John sat in the chair across from him, feeling bereft of any such distraction. Mrs. Holmes smiled at him every time she looked his way, clearly trying to make a welcoming impression.
"So, I'm afraid Sherlock never fills me in with the details. How long have you two been together?" she asked finally, setting the water on for tea. Sherlock tore himself up from his reading, sputtering.
"Mother!" he growled and Mrs. Holmes startled, sloshing the water out of the kettle.
"What? Have I stepped in it then?" she asked, looking distraught, and John blushed. Sherlock looked at him, his own cheeks pink and Mycroft smirked again.
"How terribly romantic," he drawled. "I may be ill." Mrs. Holmes smacked him on the shoulder and awkwardly returned to making tea. John escaped finally, hearing Mr. Holmes putz about the living room beside them. He walked down a couple steps into a warm family den, covered now in garlands and mistletoe. Mr. Holmes was bent over the fireplace hearth starting a fire. Sherlock had grown up here, John could feel it; this family had been in this home for decades. Had the family always been so…quaint? Mr. Holmes turned around and pushed his char-covered hands into his tweed pockets.
~~/~~
"I do wish you'd give up the Magnussen business," Mycroft commented, looking out on the neighbor's farm. They still hadn't fixed their septic issues. Continued marital problems, then. Sherlock didn't mention it, sure Mycroft saw.
"Do you?" he asked, doubting him. Mycroft wanted control over the world. He didn't have control over Magnussen. Unless…
"I'm still curious though. It's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?"
Sherlock spun around, aggravated. Magnussen surely had something on John by now, something to hold over them.
"Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't you?" he spat.
"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that," Mycroft warned. A clear message - don't antagonize men you can't beat. So no, Mycroft couldn't control Magnussen. "He's a businessman, that's all. And occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil. Not a dragon for you to slay."
Sherlock smiled at the unintended compliment.
"A dragon-slayer. Is that what you think of me?" he goaded.
"No. It's what you think of yourself," Mycroft replied predictably. The door opened behind them. Oh, hell.
"Are you two smoking?" Mother screeched.
"It was Mycroft," Sherlock lied just as Mycroft denied it outright. Their mother glared at them, unfooled, and closed the door. They'd hear about that later. After the holiday, surely. Sherlock let out a long puff of smoke.
"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you decline," Mycroft added. Easy decision - Sherlock had enough on his plate with Magnussen and wooing John.
"I decline your kind offer."
"I shall pass on your regrets," Mycroft answered, sounding genuinely grateful for his usually easygoing response.
"What was it?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"MI6. They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that will prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months." Mycroft sounded serious. Not a challenge then. A true death sentence, regardless of wit and tenacity. Interesting.
Sherlock frowned, feigning confusion.
"Then why don't you want me to take it?"
Mycroft smiled, in that tight lilt of his that was, to all evidence, the best he could manage.
"It's tempting but on balance, you have more utility closer to home," he answered. A bad excuse, worse than usual. They both knew Sherlock was going to take on Magnussen when Mycroft preferred to do otherwise.
"Utility. How do I have utility?" Sherlock scoffed at the weak lie.
"Here be dragons," Mycroft admitted, giving up their thirty year dance at underestimating each other. And why? Sherlock hesitated, trying to catch up. He couldn't see the motive.
"He's pretending you've won him. Surely that's a call for optimism," Mycroft baited him. Ah, there was the motive. Asking for an update. Sherlock took another drag at his cigarette.
"Probably," Sherlock agreed, effectively admitting that he had no more to report. Mycroft coughed.
"This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in." Mycroft turned to head back to the house. Sharing his own weakness, now? Attempting to reward him. It worked. Sherlock scowled.
"You need low tar. You still smoke like a beginner," Sherlock laughed, accepting the riposte. Mycroft hesitated behind him. He could hear his footsteps slow and finally stop.
"Also… your loss would break my heart," he pronounced. Sherlock choked on his cigarette and coughed, painfully struggling at air. What the hell?
"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" he asked, turning. Mycroft was still facing the house. He turned finally and lifted his hands, giving up. All their antagonism, apparently, for he did that smile thing again. He looked like a happy potato. Sherlock decided not to mention that, if they were supposed to be sharing some family bonding moment.
"Merry Christmas?" Mycroft suggested.
"You hate Christmas," Sherlock threw back suspiciously.
"Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch," Mycroft answered. Sherlock hesitated, struck by the sentence. Mycroft had known of his plan to drug them? How the hell? Sherlock peered at him, fascinated. Surely he was not that predictable?
"Clearly. Go and have some more," Sherlock said, stalling for time. Mycroft smiled at him. Trusting him now, now that he was listening to John? That was disturbingly possible. The hell would that mean between them? Brotherly concern or something feigning it? Mycroft went inside.
~~/~~
A/N: I just got my health news – the cyst is shrinking and my symptoms are reversing very quickly now. I'm back on my feet, thrilled to be writing my fantasy book and finishing up this fanfiction. Thank you all so so much for the support! I'll liiiiiiive!
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