A/N: See 2nd Authors Note at the bottom.

Great(!) Now I want to do an escape room style challenge with Author Notes all over the place. But it's against the rules. ("Then the rules are wrong!") I would. You know I would. -csf


V.

DI Lestrade nearly whiplashes his neck as his head suddenly jumps up to the sight of the newcomer, who barged into his New Scotland Yard office without warning and, aggravatingly standoffish and determined, declares: 'The butler didn't die of strychnine poisoning!'

'Excise me, lady, who are you, what're talking about, and who let you in the building?' Lestrade asks, slowly dropping his pen to the desk. He looks ready to abandon his onslaught of paperwork for just about any distraction he can get, though.

I look over my shoulder and confide to my son and his doctor, who got delayed by the lift, and are just now coming to the third floor: 'Sherl dear, you were absolutely right, this is exhilarating!'

The inspector assumes a polite stance, albeit covertly amused, as he studies Sherlock's demeanour and physiognomy in order to ascertain the truthfulness of our family connection. Seriously, inspector? No one can be so daft as to doubt our shared blood, my boy's got my looks.

'What's this about a butler?' he says at last. Finally catching up! Maybe he isn't quite as dull as the rest of the ogling Yarders.

Sherlock angrily looks at me, protesting: 'You closed the lift doors before we got in. You intended to delay us, Mummy!'

Lestrade sniggers at the informal familial term. Sherlock and I match synchronised glares his way.

'I was eager to inform the inspector here of our discoveries, dear. He must know the butler didn't die of strychnine poisoning, he died of— ugh...'

Sherlock raises an impatient eyebrow. 'He died of strychnine poisoning instead. The synthetic form, rather than the natural compound derived from an exotic plant.'

'Yes, that's right.'

'He was poisoned by the same methods he used while a member of a secret society, of which he carried the markings in the form of a hidden tattoo.'

'That's right.'

'Other members of this society have been eliminated recently, going by Molly's morgue records on unclaimed corpses' identifying features', he further adds.

'Oh, I didn't know that. When did you speak to doctor Hooper again?'

'No need. I keep an updated list of unclaimed bodies deceased in tragic circumstances at all times, you just never know when it comes handy.'

The inspector quips in: 'That's illegal, by the way.'

Sherlock shrugs at this.

'How many more dead butlers did you find?' Lestrade asks sharply, not without some terseness in his voice. I guess that edge can easily be explained by Sherlock bringing in a new case to his favourite DI when said DI has clocked too many extra hours this week already. Anyone can tell that by the state of his wastepaper basket.

'Three more dead butlers', Sherlock responds, with a sudden sobriety that I'm not used to recognise in my boy.

John clears his throat to round attention on him and politely asks:

'Got a couple of minutes on break, mate? We'll buy you coffee.'

DI Lestrade looks from Sherlock to me, and back, before managing to look exhausted and ashen all of a sudden, aged by weariness. 'Better hear y'all out now before four butlers become an array of killer zombie maids too...'

Sherlock twirls his coat stating coolly: 'Nonsense, Lestrade. The scullery maids have had their own criminal syndicate since the 1700s and have been mostly peaceful since the mid 1800s.'

John retorts, amused: 'Ah, but zombies, though? Who'd win in a fight, zombie maids or zombie butlers?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes: 'You are absolutely forbidden to mention killer zombie scullery maids on your blog, John! I will have people take my work seriously!'

I shake my head and follow the goofy trio out of the tiny office. I knew DI Lestrade was a dedicated friend, I just didn't know that he was as nuts as the boys.

.

We borrowed the inspector from his office midmorning and the green patch of what passes as a crammed little park in central London is peacefully welcoming. Joggers, wellness influencers, young mothers with prams and truant school children go past the wooden table and benches where we made our impromptu headquarters. The inspector got his coffee and a donut, and John plied Sherlock with something to eat too – out of a habit of feeding my boy at any opportunity, I imagine. I obligingly accepted a greasy paper cup with was promised to be a pumpkin spice latte, only to find some caffeinated orange swirling liquid inside, with what seems to be inverted sugar corn syrup.

'Mummy, don't lick the spoon', Sherlock frowns my way. Good heavens, he looks embarrassed! When did my son become so... proper?

He grimaces like a teenager embarrassed in front of his friends all of a sudden. John and Greg Lestrade look away, feigning distraction.

'1:1 glucose fructose ratio in this latte', I deduce, as an apology.

The inspector gasps to himself. 'You really must be his mother, lady', he murmurs.

Again, don't Sherlock and I look alike, inspector? I give him a hard stare. DI Lestrade blushes.

Still reticent, the inspector looks on over to John, pleading to the doctor to make sense of his twilight zone.

John summarises effectively: 'Lady Wilhelmina's butler was poisoned to death during a book club session Mrs Holmes attended. We are trying to solve the case. I have participated in the autopsy and Sherlock has read the police interviews to everyone in the household. What seemed like a straightforward case has—' he hesitates. Fluidly, Sherlock completes:

'It has assumed distinguished aspects of interest to me, Lestrade.'

'Such as the unclaimed dead butlers and the traces of a secret society of butlers', John enumerates.

Greg Lestrade wonders: 'You're coming up with a blog title as we speak, innit John?'

The tips of the doctor's ears burn red at that.

The inspector doesn't wait for an answer. Instead he points out: 'It's farfetched and out of some crime novel's pages, so I get why you want to investigate, but why bring your mum into it, Sherlock?'

'Mummy', he corrects reflexively. 'I didn't ask her, she wanted to join us. It's her case, how could I say No?'

'She's the client, not the next John Watson!'

To this, John's mouth falls open. I think he's a bit shocked with the idea of being replaced by me.

I could tell John already that it will never happen. Sadly, it's John that Sherlock needs in his life now, no longer his mother.

And the poor inspector is only making a fuss out of this because he's been confronted by double the Holmes shenanigans bursting unannounced into his office.

The tempers simmer a bit around the park table, but slowly we find our rhythms and settle into a productive conversation over the case. Lestrade promises to provide Sherlock with cold cases of missing butlers and Sherlock promises the case's credits to Lestrade. John will blog the whole thing as it was anyway, but that's alright because the higher ups in the Yard don't bother to read John's blog, or they just rather take the credits anyway.

.

We're about to walk the inspector back to his glass and paperwork cage when Greg Lestrade slows his pace to fall in line with me. Sherlock and John are mulling over some finer details of catastrophic internal bleedings, and much too distracted to join in. The inspector must be aware of that much for he further lowers his voice and informs me:

'I first met Sherlock years ago, before 221B, the consulting lark, even the posh suits and the silk dressing gowns worth a month's of my salary. He was a brash, grating jerk back then. Sometimes he still is. But that brilliant mind of his... I suppose he got it from you.'

I nod, dressing myself in modesty as is expected of me.

'Sherlock is very clever. Always a treat to have a son like him. Mycroft too, of course, both boys were always the cleverest of their lots at school.'

'Where were you?' DI Lestrade asks sharply, darkly.

I glance at him and blink. 'Where was I?' Repetition is such a form of low wit, and yet.

'When I first met your brilliant boy, he was high as a kite and completely alone in this world. Where were you?'

My heart squeezes tight and lodges in my throat, if I'm to trust my body signals.

'I didn't know, he had pulled away, I accepted that because isn't claiming independence what young adults do?'

Lestrade's face turns into stone, as he searches my gaze for something he alone knows.

'Even as a junkie, he was desperate to show off that giant nugget of his. He craved approval. He was starved for human connection and yet he despised anyone who tried to get close to him.'

'Oh, my boy...'

'I told him I couldn't take his advice unless he cleaned himself up and looked at least decent enough to come into the Yard through the front door. Next thing I knew, he had showered, shaved, and wore a tailored suit. Getting him together wouldn't be that easy, it never is, but I would be damned if I didn't help him get his act together. Sure, he gives me credits on some of his cases. A lot more of his cases than he gives any other Yarder I know of. I take that as gratitude, lord knows I wouldn't expect it in words.'

'I'm sure he's grateful, inspector.' So am I.

'Look, lady, I'm not Freud – and I don't need another expert authority in things I don't fully comprehend – but I can tell you Sherlock is in a good place now, right now at least. Don't mess it up. He's come too far to fall again, lady.'

The inspector looks significantly at Sherlock with John, the both of them comfortably exchanging a laugh. Sherlock chuckles deeply, John giggles uncontrollably clinging to my son's arm to keep himself upright.

My son is surrounded by good people; if a bit judgemental, not to mention the average IQ. Sherlock has found strong relationships that shore him up to be the best he can be. I'm not quite as worried about him as I once was.

I will always worry a little, though, because he's my child; mothers always do.

As for Sherlock's dark past, the inspector might have claimed success in diverging Sherlock's attention onto healthier outlets, but on the other hand I can claim first-hand knowledge of the demons my son will have faced, the depths of which I didn't find out till much later.

John might help keep Sherlock on track, but Sherlock's battle with his darkness doesn't end with bespoke suits and a flourishing consulting business.

.

The Baker Street boys take up an inordinate amount of cab rides. I wonder if gifting them a car wouldn't be overall better, but parking in London is such a taxing activity. Maybe a motorcycle with a side car, and two helmets? Do they even make those anymore, after Batman and Robin?

'Mummy Holmes, I do believe you are scheming', John notes, with a disarming grin.

'Oh, it's nothing, dear', I reply, absent-mindedly, only to notice the slip of my tongue too late. I just called the boy's friend dear – but he doesn't seem offended.

In fairness, it probably takes a lot to offend an easy going man like John Watson.

Nonetheless, you don't want to offend a former army doctor like John Watson. Those cuddly jumpers are pure camouflage.

Oh, it's easy to tell by the callouses on his trigger finger. Sherlock has told me he's met John when John lend him his phone, with absolute disregard for material possessions and an endearing need to be of assistance. I think Sherlock decided then and there this man would be his assistant, in fact. However, had John used his non-dominant hand to pass his phone to Sherlock - used the right hand, his marksman hand for he was trained like this in the military it seems - Sherlock would have foreseen more than a handy secretary and man-of-all-work in John. My indiscreet son might even have blogged about it before the night was over, alongside the pilot and the engineer's thumbs.

'John, I'm wondering if 221B should hold auditions for a butler.'

Sherlock grumps from his daydream abstractions projected upon the city rolling past us outside the cab window. John crosses his arms and considers, in good old common sense:

'It's either the services of a butler, or of pest control. And Mrs Hudson would never forgive us if we parked a pest control white van in front of her lodgings.'

I second that: 'Great, I'll be the rich relative willing to foot the bill. Sherlock will wear his finest attire to deflect from the shabbiness of your home, and you, John...'

John smirks at my sudden halt. I wonder if he can sense my contrition; I didn't mean to demean his off-the-rail clothing nor his obsession with brown shoes.

'We'll figure something out', he promises brightly, reaching out for my hand with his warm, steady hand.

.

'Tell me again why do you think I would know how to fix a broken sink tap?'

'Because Mummy believes so, John.'

'I didn't hear your mother say that.'

'No, you wouldn't, but she did.'

He crosses tense arms in front of his dirt smudged t-shirt. Sherlock hands him a wrench, after much careful selecting through a tool box.

'Is this part of your mother's bag of tricks? She deduces improbable skills out of us common mortals?'

Sherlock smiles proudly. 'She's solved cases before, you know', he says, offhandedly, as John leans in to squeeze the tap's inner parts.

'Really?' John is completely taken by surprise. 'She's played detective before?'

'She's the original Holmes detective, although I only know of a case or two she figured out. There must have been hundreds. She doesn't want public acknowledgement.'

'Oh, so you might be adopted after all?' John shoots the question over his shoulder, teasingly.

Sherlock scowls. 'How I once wished so! Being a genius is a heavy burden, but I don't suppose you would know that.'

'I have a notion', the doctor comments, looking at his friend with empathy.

Sherlock clears his throat and hands John a spanner.

'I didn't ask for that, Sherlock.'

'Doesn't mean you don't need it.' Suddenly Sherlock starts handing out every tool in the box, faking careful consideration. John knows a change of subject when he sees one.

'So Mummy can actually help us solve this case faster?'

'Clearly, John. Have you not been paying attention?'

'Reel in the sarcasm a bit or you might lose me, you're going too fast.'

'Milk, two sugars? I believe it's called Builder's tea?'

'What, no! It's still me, I don't take sugar.'

'John, the art of disguise is painfully lost on you.'

'I'll have my tea as I like it. As for the tap...' John stands back in appreciation. '...it's fixed.' The grimy doctor turns the tap on. Water shoots off everywhere, going as far as hitting the ceiling and knocking the test tube rack on the window sill.

Sherlock and John hasten to turn the tap off, with great difficulty.

Dripping and gasping for breath, John groans: 'Ever considered Mummy Holmes might not always be right?'

'Every day from early puberty, John.'

.

TBC


2nd A/N: It turns out Lestrade had something to say to Mrs Holmes; who, in certain ways, reminds me of an earlier emotional evolutionary version of Sherlock - although, of course, being honest with oneself is by far the hardest honesty of them all, and a higher IQ is not an admittance ticket to self-awareness.

In other words, they came out like this, more wholesome than the stereotypes I was entertaining myself with. Sorry about that. -csf