A/N: I really like Sherlock's mother, and I wanted to give her a more nuanced personality as it's so easy to cast her as the original stereotypical Holmes genius. Unwittingly, in playing with her I have made her another competing member on the ultimate family competition.

This storyline follows mostly from her perspective, but I needed to insert some Sherlock/John point of view too. Mummy Holmes can be very attention demanding. -csf


III.

'Sherlock, what are you doing in there? You've been in there ages! There are other people in this flat who need to use the bathroom too, you know? ...Sherlock, answer me right now!'

A couple of seconds' silence and Sherlock's retort comes muffled through the door between us:

'Is it a client?'

'What? No! It's me! I need to shower, I'm late for work!'

'I'm not currently using the shower, feel free to use it', the magnanimous genius offers.

I recognise a challenge when I see one. And he's just forgot I'm former military and used to barracks. I twist the knob and go right in, with my towel and my clean clothes bundled under my arm.

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin, he had been leaning over the wash basin, so his shock is doubled in the mirror ahead. I give him only the slightest of glances, marching towards the shower.

'John!'

'Is that hair dye?' I toss over my shoulder, getting in and stretching the shower curtain between us.

'Of course not! Your morning tea was clearly tampered with, John!' he mutters indignantly.

'Now I know that didn't happen, because you were nowhere near it', I reply easily, tossing my pyjama over the top of the shower curtain.

'Impressive', I hear Sherlock say, grudgingly.

'Right on target?'

'Laundry basket, yes.' We're back to our usual interactions, good. 'You could undress near me, John. For the record. You clearly are not prudish, as just proven by your incursion inside this occupied bathroom.'

'No, thanks. You'd take all my measurements and compare them with the average British male mean.'

He chuckles. 'I like to multitask, John.'

The hot water gushes inside the small shower, and Sherlock knows he's on a limited countdown to hide his stash of tricks. I keep my showers short by habit. The old git probably needs not time me to know when I'm coming out again, so he can finish colouring in those greys, like a toddler let lose with crayons. A very vain toddler with black crayons.

'My mother would like to accompany us today, John.'

I almost drop the bar of soap.

'Your mother wants to come to my surgery?'

'No, don't be silly. I cancelled your work today. You've got tonsillitis, if you'd care to remember that. You can fake being croaky if your director calls, I presume. It's not particularly hard even for such a poor actor as yourself, John. My mother will be here in half an hour. You will dress up a bit better today, won't you?'

I groan to the showerhead.

'What do you mean, dress better? I brought my work clothes to put on, Sherlock!'

'Exactly.'

'Anyway, what does she care? ...Sherlock? Are you there? You better not be taking my clothes away and melting hem in sulfuric acid!'

'They wouldn't melt if they didn't have a high polyester content, John! Cotton chars under higher concentrations.'

Bingo. I'm doomed by a toddler scientist to wander about the flat in my bath robe. I really need to have a talk with Sherlock about boundaries. Again.

'Sherlock, you can't just change my whole day around to suit you as I take a shower!'

The shower curtain is ripped open and his eager, sly grin makes his way in. 'I just did, John!' And he shuts the shower curtain in the same breath. 'Also, you have nothing to be ashamed for in your comparison with the average British male', he adds, just before slamming the bathroom door shut after him.

That was quite considerate of him. Keeping the warm hot water vapour in, getting me off work, bringing me into the investigation alongside his mother.

I'm the enabler to Sherlock's madness, aren't I?

.

Recently showered and carrying the scent of cleanliness, tawny spiky hairs dripping water at the scruff of his neck, lichen green jumper and well cut trousers, John Watson has clearly allowed himself to be dressed up by my son this morning. Common green-shield lichen green does not suit him, it washes the sandy hair into blandness. It does, however, perfectly mirror my son's eyes when he ponders his flatmate with something akin to affection, and the symbiotic relationship in the lichen is another suitable analogy to the two good friends, co-dependent and mutualistic.

Sherlock himself is wearing a midnight blue shirt, with rolled up sleeves and a deep V unbuttoned front. I don't suppose John chose it, but he doesn't seem against it either.

Hot and cold, a jumper and a shirt, the fireplace warms up the flat giving it a homely feeling making the drafts less noticeable. My husband and I could ease Sherlock's way into a better abode, but Sherlock is strangely attached to this place. I suppose it has its charms, I recognise, sitting down on the sofa, next to a high pile of cushions and books topped by a skull, like a mock totem pole to Death from an ancient civilization.

'Didn't take you for a romantic, Sherlock.'

His light eyes follow my gaze towards the books.

'Same here. Those are your book club's selections from the past year, Mummy.'

I concede with a nod. 'If my suggestions had been heard we'd be discussing Quantum Physics, of course. The curse of democracies, alas. Look at what it did for Lady Wilhelmina's butler.'

'Schrödinger's cat might have something to say there.'

John smiles naturally at the carried notion of a half-dead, half-alive butler. He's getting faster, with so much exposure to Sherlock. I'm not even sure he works as a doctor anymore.

Maybe that's why they can't afford a better flat?

'John can fix that leaking tap!' Sherlock hisses.

'Oh, can he?' Please, I barely glanced towards the kitchen sink. Not that I needed to, with that constant dripping sound.

John looks absolutely lost now. No, I'm afraid he still can't follow a Holmes conversation. Maybe one day, if he tries really hard. There's a mix of micro-expression reading and telepathy required, others have said.

'He's a very good cook, John cooks a lot. That 19th century death mask is being quarantined in the oven for the last week, no more.'

'That's not the story the your smoke filled drapes tells me. Dust is eloquent, Sherlock.'

Both of us stare at each other, narrowing our eyes.

'So is ash, I hear', John interrupts us. We both seemed to have forgot him there and regard him with mild surprise. 'Sherlock's got this blog about 23 different types of ash, you should have a look at it sometime. It definitely helped him stop a woman being falsely accused of burning her house down with her family in it. Turns out fireplace logs burn very differently to a badly extinguished cigarette. Even the Yard missed the evidence after the fire department hosed down every room from top to bottom.'

I look on over to my son, who is uncustomary shy with the genuine and deserved praise.

'Very well, I seem to gave picked the right team for the job. We have a murder to solve, I believe', I say, getting up and grabbing my small black handbag. 'A taxi should get us to the morgue in under 29 minutes.'

John kindly gathers my coat to bring it to me.

'27 minutes, 47 seconds', Sherlock mutters under his breath, whilst sporting a well faked smile.

.

Dear me, a little healthy competition and Sherlock is already behaving sulkily. A black cab carries us through London's never ending traffic. My son and I share a back seat, John has taken the opposite seat facing us.

I thought the doctor would take this opportunity to compare two generations of the Holmes family side by side. I feel that I'm being let down by John's disinterest. He cheerfully drones on about London, Scotland Yard, past cases and Sherlock's dubious friendships from back alleys and abandoned factories; his network they call it. Quite irregular, in my opinion.

I remember the awkward child Sherlock was, desperately trying to find a friend at primary school in his fresh new school uniform, feeling all grown up like Mycroft. He even had Mycroft's old leather briefcase, where all the other children had disgustingly childish backpacks with superhero characters or anthropomorphic animals with absolutely no realism. Seriously, singing bears that wanted to hug children for love? Doesn't quite teach valuable life skills, does it? Children do get lost in forests, you know, and mine knew not to try to hug a bear.

'About the autopsy', John starts politely, in what he assumes is a reassuring but firm tone of voice, 'I'm not entirely sure what are your expectations, Mrs Holmes?'

'I expect to see a dead body, John. Most certainly a dead one. On a slab. I would be highly disappointed if it turned out to be alive.'

John smirks. Damn, I forget John is used to my boy.

The doctor crosses his arms, refuses to reciprocate Sherlock's glance, and leans back against the uncomfortable seat. 'Have you ever watched an autopsy before?'

'Mycroft might be shocked, but I have seen a naked man before, John.'

He smiles at that, and it's a hard steel smile. And he waits.

'No', I admit.

Sherlock has closed his eyes, raised his touching fingertips to his chin, but he won't fool me. I can see his attentiveness to this conversation behind his eyelids.

John leans forward and takes my hand by surprise. It's forward, but respectful, and warningly while oddly tantalising. The warmth of his skin against my palm is like a loadstone to my attention. 'I wouldn't recommend it. You knew this man as a living person.'

'Hardly, he was the butler.'

John's eyes narrow until only the night is visible inside. 'You want to see what this man was made of, his gears and cogs, so to speak. You have Sherlock's inquisitive mind, and it hurts to hold back from new knowledge. I get that. But not here, not now. Leave this to the professionals. Trust them to tell you what you need to know. I can point out any findings in anatomical models, you don't need to carry these images with you for the rest of your life.'

I'm taken back by the vehemence in his voice, and the dark omens in his irises. Our hands still touch.

John carries the deaths he has witnessed with him, and he willingly exposes himself to more death and gore Sherlock surrounds himself with, as a selfless barrier to protect others. One man alone will carry all those burdens, if he can help it. He sees himself already damaged.

And Sherlock sees death as facts and figures, or at most a game of intellects with murderers. He shields himself behind much needed mind challenges.

'And, of course, Sherlock won't just allow you to expose yourself to that. He has half a mind to lock you in the cleaning cupboard', John adds with a brilliant smile.

'Cafeteria. She's my mother, John', Sherlock corrects with eyes still shut.

'I suggested the cafeteria; you said cleaning cupboard, not me!'

'Irrelevant.'

I breathe deeply and look out of the window, before looking down at John's calloused hand, marred by a myriad of tiny scars. It's his marksman hand, steady and deadly.

John's left hand tremors almost imperceptibly against the upholstered seat, shaken by the doctor's internal turmoil, his nature perpetually at war.

'Alright, John.'

Sherlock opens feline eyes, and blinks slowly, as if content. It's his only outward admittance of emotion.

.

John and doctor Hooper are working on the autopsy. Sherlock impatiently awaits outside the cold theatre in order to keep me company. That was uncalled for. Did he think danger would befall me at Bart's staff cafeteria? Maybe I would choke on a crumpet or unwittingly stab myself with a fork?

John ordered him to get us both some snacks, said the staff would throw us out if we didn't have something from the appalling menu. I think he's just worrying about Sherlock. My son is getting skinny again. Still, worrying about Sherlock's weight should be a mother's job.

Sherlock feigns idleness as he sits back in his uncomfortable plastic chair, lounging and melting away, staring at the ceiling with indifference. In his mind he's miles away revising the case's early leads.

John made him promise to put away his phone so not to be rude towards me.

John should have stressed conversation was also mandatory.

When I complained, Sherlock gave me a Rubik's cube to have me pass the time. Me! I practically invented these cubes during a holiday in Hungary in the early seventies!

'How long are they going to take on that autopsy?'

Sherlock shrugs despondently. 'They are both adequately thorough. It takes time, Mummy.'

'Is this what you do when solving cases? Sit around waiting to be given all the leads you need to reconstruct what happened?'

Sherlock tilts his head while looking at me with some curiosity.

'You really want to solve this case', he says as if noticing it for the first time.

'Of course I do. The man was my friend's butler.'

'You don't even know the victim's name, Mummy.'

'Neither do you', I guess. 'It's unimportant.'

'Actually I know his name. John insists it's important. It hardly ever is needed to solve the case, unless you have an alphabetically minded serial killer and those are rare; no, John insists the victims should have their names preserved. The killer took their lives but shouldn't take the memory of them.'

I huff. 'John thinks this, John says that... Can John remember the men he lost in the war?'

Sherlock nods, expressionless. 'I'm afraid he does. Every single one.'

'What good it does them?'

Sherlock quickly lowers his gaze from the ceiling to my face, searching it for something only he knows. Then he infuriatingly keeps to himself once more, reaching out for the Rubik's cube, his nimble fingers plucking the pieces out in order to cheat his way to finish it.

'That's not how you do it. Least of all you, Sherlock. You have the brains.'

Sherlock smirks. 'Clearly, I get them from you. There's more than one way of doing things, Mummy. And, sometimes, alternative pathways expose different outcomes', he adds, showing me he's just artistically jumbled the coloured squares into crosses on each cube face.

'Neat, but frankly useless.'

Sherlock's face shutters and he conceals his emotions behind his coold quicksilver eyes once more. Still rearranging the cube, this time twisting it around properly. I roll my eyes ostensibly but he pays me no more heed.

It takes ten more minutes before John shows up at the cafeteria door, looking around for us as if he actually believed we would just up and leave him behind. Sherlock notices him too, and jumps off his seat as if bitten by fleas, hurriedly pocketing his cube where the faces are rearranged to the letters of John's given name.

I get up less enthusiastically. I can see something in John's demeanour. Returning directly from the autopsy theatre, that can only mean one thing:

'Lady Wilhelmina's butler didn't die of strychnine poisoning at all', I blurt out.

Sherlock flinchs and blushes as if I had just stated out loud the most obvious fact.

Oh, great, now I'm embarrassing my son?

.

TBC