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He was sat on the hard sofa in Grand-mère's sitting room, waiting for Father to return from seeing Mycroft off. The older boy was leaving early, since his first term at Cambridge was due to start. Sherlock knew he'd be in trouble when Father returned, because he'd collected a load of rocks and shells and things from the beach earlier and, in his distraction over Mycroft's departure, had accidentally left them in a little pile on the garden path where Father had tripped over them on his way to the waiting car. In the moment the man had laughed it off, waved Mycroft ahead while he paused to brush a bit of dirt from his shoe, but the dark look he shot back at Sherlock signalled he'd not be escaping reprisal.

Sherlock should have been old enough to know better than to leave stones and shells on a garden path, so he knew there'd be hell to pay. He was also old enough to know not to try to run away or hide before Father returned, as that would only make things worse. Instead he'd found the most conspicuous place he could think of, right in the middle of the sitting room off the front entryway, so it wouldn't seem like he'd been meaning to avoid being found. And then he simply waited. It was torturous, stewing there in silent trepidation, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Breaking the stillness felt like it might lift some secret spell and bring his doom crashing down upon him.

A quiet sound off to the other side of the room caught his attention, and he looked up without meaning to. Heart in his throat for a moment thinking Father had returned through another entrance. But, no. It was only Grand-père. The tall, severe man paused in his journey down the hall and regarded Sherlock through the entryway. Pale eyes an unspoken question: What on earth are you doing?

Mycroft had complained to Sherlock once that Grand-père never communicated with anyone. Sherlock had thought that a very strange and silly thing to say, because he communicated with Grand-père all the time. So he'd laughed. But Mycroft had reacted with annoyance, as if he'd not been trying to be funny. 'Grand-père talks by staring at you', Sherlock had eventually explained once he realised his brother somehow genuinely didn't know, and Mycroft had told him to stop being ridiculous. Sherlock knew that reply meant there'd be no point bringing the topic up again, so he didn't. But he did find himself wondering how it could possibly be that his brother didn't understand the strange, intuitive non-language Grand-père used, when for Sherlock it came so easily. Mycroft was so much smarter than him, how could he have missed something like that?

He met Grand-père's eyes and conveyed his answer by whatever hidden means instinct had given: Waiting for the inevitable.

They held each other's gaze for a few seconds more. Finally, Grand-père abandoned his original path and entered the sitting room instead. With no pomp whatsoever he took a seat on the sofa next to Sherlock. And then just… waited with him. Side by side. Utterly silent.

This was extremely strange, of course. Beyond family gatherings where they were always the only two people in the room not participating in conversation, and therefore often passed the time trading looks over silly things the others said, Sherlock hadn't actually interacted with his grandfather all that much. Certainly hadn't ever exchanged a single actual word. But now here the man was sitting quietly next to him waiting for hell to arrive. Was he… expecting Sherlock to say something? Start a conversation? With proper talking?

Sherlock glanced over. Grand-père seemed to sense this, and looked down to him. Their eyes met.

No. Wasn't meant to speak. Only sit. Wait.

Really should have been quite awkward. But it wasn't. Somehow he found sitting in silence with his grandfather to be… oddly companionable. As if they'd both mastered this strange art of remaining perfectly still for hours at a time and could mutually appreciate the finer points of technique.

Eventually, of course, the silence had to break. It always did. The door in front of them opened, and Father strode through it with a tightness to his face that spoke of how much he utterly loathed visiting Violet's parents. Meant he'd likely been accosted by Grand-mère on his way into the house over some nonsense she'd decided to fret over. Didn't bode well for Sherlock. That, on top of having misbehaved, along with Mycroft having left… god, no, didn't bear thinking about. Just try to put on a stoic face. Have a bit of dignity.

Just one step past the doorway, though, Father froze. He stood with his hand still resting on the handle behind him and regarded the two figures on the sofa - grandson and grandfather, twin living statues.

"... Alphonse," Father said after what seemed a very long pause.

"Siger," Grand-père replied without the slightest inflection. Sherlock had only ever heard the man speak a handful of times, but every one of those utterances had sounded thoroughly bored. His default state, apparently.

Father held his gaze a few beats longer, then looked to Sherlock, who simply stared back. Had absolutely no idea what was going on. But he'd still done as he was supposed to, though, hadn't he? Or was he meant to have handled Grand-père deciding to sit next to him differently? Asked the man to leave, perhaps? That didn't seem like it would have worked. Hoped Father wouldn't be angry about this, too.

Father looked back to Grand-père and seemed to deliberate. Finally, as if having arrived to some important decision, he turned his icy gaze back to Sherlock.

"Come along, child."

Swallowing down a sick spike of dread, Sherlock shifted to slide off the sofa. A hand on his shoulder stopped him - just the barest hint of a touch. He froze in place with the contact, and as soon as he did the hand left him again. He turned to see Grand-père returning to the same placid position he'd been sat in all this time. The elderly man fixed a supremely disinterested stare on Father with his piercing grey-blue eyes, as if Siger Holmes were a bit of dull wallpaper, perhaps, or a misplaced houseplant. Sherlock turned his own grey-blue eyes on Father as well, though his expression was doubtless far less intimidating - more confused and panicked than anything, probably. No idea what he was supposed to do, which man he was meant to obey first. Anxiety was eating him alive.

Father worked his jaw a tick, seeming spectacularly annoyed, then huffed a clipped breath through his nose. Not quite a frustrated sigh, but something very like one.

"Never mind, Sherlock," he bit out. "Evidently your grandfather has… need of you."

It was one of those sentences where it seemed like the real meaning was something very different to what had actually been said. Sherlock had never been much good at parsing those, not the way Mycroft could. Rather than attempt to understand he simply remained frozen in place, hoping that might somehow be the correct choice, and watched as Father returned the way he'd come. Silence fell upon the room once more.

Just a short minute or two later, Grand-père stood. He turned to fix Sherlock with a meaningful stare: He'll not trouble you here again.

Sherlock stared back with a small, bewildered smile: Thank you.

Grand-père simply nodded. He turned, headed towards the hall to his original path, and was gone.

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