A/N: Okay, so if there's a theme for this piece, it's when someone lends you something and you feel their presence from their belongings, making you feel like you have with you a piece of them.

However, it became bigger and bigger, and now here we are, on a wing and a prayer. -csf

1.

Sherlock raises his gaze from the loose teeth he's dipping in different concentrations of acid in 221B's kitchen table, squinting at his passing flatmate. He sees John tossing a scrunched-up letter – thick paper (expensive, meant to impress), bent corners (travelled a long distance), handwritten address (personalised touch) – into the bin. John then tosses a couple of letters – cheap paper, serial mail, printed labels, likely local advertisements from small businesses – into the recycling box.

Interesting. That first letter seems to have caused John a degree of personal offense. Probable causes include, but are not limited, to: crude offense to Sherlock Holmes, repeated missives from prospective clients repeatedly rejected on a moral basis, something personal that John doesn't want Sherlock to see.

It's inevitable. Sherlock feels the impending result in the edges of his consciousness just as he feels the decision settling in his bones, making his tense muscles pulsate with energy. The consulting detective is going to fish the crumpled letter from the bin. If sharing Baker Street lodgings with a consulting detective wasn't enough forewarning for the doctor to know none of his secrets is safe, then, really, John is even more naïve than Sherlock gives him credit for.

But, of course, some stealth is called for. It is tantamount to respect in the detective's book, and his flatmate surely deserves respect.

John ticks on the kettle, settling for his tea making routine as an emotional regulating mechanism. Sherlock automatically salivates and swallows, cursing his own body's weakness when faced with the soothing ritual. Two mugs are brought down by John's practiced, economical but poetic gestures, two tea mugs delivered fluidly to the counter. John no longer asks Sherlock if he wants a cup of tea. John just produces his offering and places it besides the busy genius, under the flawed assumption that tea could be an unwelcomed interruption to The Work.

Sherlock dry swallows once more, unable to recall when he last had any hydration. Too focused on gathering evidence on the teeth enamel abrasion from different concentrations of acid. Two suspects are on the line. The mechanic with access to battery acid and the jewellery designer with recent concentrated acid purchases history. It seems the mechanic is winning… a lengthy prison sentence.

The fragrant tea warms Sherlock as he sips it mindlessly, watching teeth float and bubble in the darkening acid. With his free hand, Sherlock texts Lestrade.

Arrest mechanic.

Battery acid used to dissolve corpse.

Check for teeth and thicker bones

in sewer behind garage. -SH

Ah, a job well done! Sherlock smiles victoriously and gets up energetically, leaving the mess and danger unattended. Much like he expected, the cautious doctor swoops in, securing the scene, protesting while clearing up. Sherlock doesn't mind being chided for the mess, he knows that John can be a bit obsessive with tidying up, so he gives the good doctor space to do his thing…

…while he fishes the crumples letter from the bun, and openly flattens it against the kitchen counter…

'Sometimes I really don't know how you survived into adulthood, Sherlock!'

…and tears the envelope open (with an acid scarred finger; an old scar)….

'What if Mrs Hudson walked in?'

…pulling the contents out…

'What if I hadn't been paying attention?'

…and analyses the letter addressed to John.

'Would it really kill you to tidy up after yourself? You know I'll tell Molly to stop enabling you with teeth! …Wait, is that MY letter?'

'Obviously, John. My relatives use more expedient methods of communication.' A beat in time. 'Unfortunately.'

The doctor stops and sighs deeply, as if trying to cleanse his soul of an old tired ache that long settled in his bones.

Sherlock smirks. John may doth protest a bit much, but it's only to keep form nowadays. Sure, it probably annoyed the independent former soldier at first, to have his personal business exposed to his flatmate. Now Sherlock's curiosity itch is satisfied just as much as John's tense shoulders relax a fraction; and John carries the world's worries over his shoulders, now relaxing because Sherlock has infiltrated John's self-imposed loneliness once more. Sherlock's act of intrusion is a warped kindness to John's need to keep his burdens from others.

Ever since John limped into Sherlock's life, he is not alone. Sherlock's ever intense scrutiny a constant reminder that John doesn't need to go at it alone every day of his life.

The way Sherlock seems so fascinated even by the most mundane aspects of John's life is still a novelty for John. In fairness, the detective is more used to being called an obsessive stalker by the world at large. Hence the job, really, profiting from Sherlock's best but unpalatable gifts.

As to John, he may protest still, in a token gesture designed to appease his independent persona, but John is little less possessive of Sherlock's care and wellbeing at all times, often intruding all the way into Sherlock's Mind Palace to insist Sherlock surface and take care of himself in some boring way or another.

John's sigh accompanies the deflation of the tension in his shoulders. Sherlock knows he is forgiven. John catches up to that reality a bit slower.

'A letter from my second cousins, also Watsons. Of course, you'd have to read it.' He shakes his head, moralising the detective.

'Almost finished. It's okay, you can keep talking, it's not like I'm listening, John.'

'It's a wedding invite. I guess I am famous now. Or, at least, you are, so they invited me for a wedding party. I knew they would. They have written before. I declined, they are insisting.'

Sherlock looks out of the kitchen window, gaze glazing over in secret machinations.

John curses flatly under his breath.

'You want me to take the invite, don't you? Why?'

'You don't have a lot of family, John. You are barely close to your sister Harry and practically estranged from these Watsons in Scotland.'

'Why do you care?'

'I care about all that pertains you, John.'

'Yeah, really? I bet you just want me out of 221B for the weekend so you can bring in mysterious company and be up to no good.'

Sherlock smirks and faces John. 'How cynical. My assistant is wising up.'

'Oh, just drop it, Sherlock!'

'Write back to the Scottish Watsons, John. You will go, and I will be your "plus one".'

'Wait. What? Why?'

The detective smirk becomes more predatory. Still, all he says is:

'No need to worry, John. I will be at my best behaviour.'

It's probably another taunt, Sherlock admits to himself. John would never have him at his best behaviour. In fairness, John is no better, the way he is smirking back – dangerous, unprincipled, full of complicity.

.

'I can't believe we're doing this because you insisted on a whim,' John mutters, dragging a small carry-on case behind him into the red and white LNER train from King's Cross to Edinburgh. Sherlock steps into the carriage after him, making little effort with his fine engraved leather shoulder bag, surprisingly smaller and seemingly half-empty.

They both seem to choose to ignore how much of Sherlock's decision making is based on impulsive whims. And if pressed, Sherlock would lie and create a plausible reasoning chain for even his most wild hare-brained decisions.

'Not to worry, John, I have arranged it with your cousin. Henry and Henrietta await our arrival.'

'Henry is marrying a woman named Henrietta? Seriously?'

'Fortuitously contrived. Easy to remember, though.'

'What do you care? Not like you to remember people's names.'

'I always seem to remember Watsons,' Sherlock points out, grabbing John by the elbow and directing him to a couple of empty seats by a table. 'Here, hand me your luggage.'

John looks momentarily discomfited.

'You're being nice, pulling my bag up to the overhead rack. Why?'

'Your shoulder looks stiff, John. I don't need to be a detective to see that,' Sherlock deplores the act with a quick pointed look that strips another layer of John's defences, leaving him feeling oddly exposed.

Unfortunately, that just tenses up his shoulder further.

'Okay, okay, just wait up. It's going to be several hours of travelling. Let me get the board game out.'

'No wonder your bag is so heavy. I thought soldiers travelled light?'

'Clearly you have not done basic army training, 10K with full gear and such. Snakes and ladders or Ludo?'

'Periodic table battleship.'

'I don't have— Ooh… I like how you think.'

'I know you do. Now take a seat and let's start this infernal voyage.'

John's innocent look is priceless to Sherlock, all round blue eyes and crinkled forehead. Did John think Sherlock would do this for anyone else in the world?

.

John is gently shook awake 4.5 hours later. He comes to with a start and muscles tensing. The fight in him dies instantly as he recognises the grey orbs deducing his every heartbeat.

Sherlock hums, as if reaching internal deductions he won't share, then he lowers the defensive posture he was taking with his hands up – John blushes at his own killer soldier ingrained reflexes and how Sherlock has learnt a lesson by barging into his room in the middle of the night once, early on in their association – and finally Sherlock redirects John's attention to the approaching train station. Edinburgh.

The doctor takes a deep breath at the emotional sight of the familiar yet irreparably changed platform. Irrationally he bristles at the hurt of a tainted, changed space, that was once a familiar port of call. He then berates himself; he too has changed, how could he demand that Edinburgh stay the same, true to his memories, for John alone?

Besides, Edinburgh is an old city at heart, trailing in the shadow of history with a vibrant contemporary heartbeat. Soon John feels at home. He remembers the station, the accents floating through the air, the scents carried in the wind, the essence of a city he visited numerous times in his childhood.

How about Sherlock? Not for the first time, John wonders why Sherlock is actually doing this. Is it for his flatmate, whether to support John in connecting to family, or to spy on the Watsons and their family dysfunctions as an ongoing soap opera that one disdains but secretly watches quietly in the down time? Maybe the genius felt overworked again, and in need of some rest before another mental exhaustion comes hurling a thick blanket of burnout over Sherlock's beloved mental cogs? Last time, Sherlock spent five days staring blankly at the walls, not really seeing the familiar wallpaper, barely sleeping; John still blames himself for not having interfered in the self-destructive process, by derailing the demanding genius, demanding of himself to be 24 hours a day on a case. Without John to act as a barometer for his body's basic needs, Sherlock is only too critical, too demanding, too harsh on himself, working himself to the bone. John has long since vowed to protect Sherlock from his worst enemy – himself.

Dragging bags out, they alight onto the platform. The bright electric lights piercing the dark blanket of night settling around the edges.

'Hang on, I've got the address somewhere,' the doctor says, patting his pockets. Sherlock thinks his gestures are still a bit uncoordinated, a bit sleepy, but he doesn't comment.

'No need. Henry will pick us up in his new truck. It's a half-hour journey to the farm. They run a rural B with a 4.8 stars rating on the major listing sites.'

John blinks. 'How do you know all that? I don't know all that.'

'Research. I call myself a detective, after all.'

'Well, really, anyone with a phone can find that out.'

'And yet you didn't. Your point being…?'

John shuts his mouth firmly. Sherlock is very keen on the Watsons. The doctor hopes his family lives up to the expectations. These Watsons can be a bit… uptight. Acting snobbish, pretending to be posh – like Sherlock, who probably comes from family money, if his brother's three piece suits are anything to come by. Sherlock and Mycroft probably went to the best schools, ate smoked wild salmon for breakfast as teenagers, while John ate fruity cereal loops in a plastic He-man bowl, often without milk as they were often out of milk and groceries.

'John! Sherlock!' Someone calls them across the platform. They turn in tandem, fruit of quick reflexes and trained partnership.

The man calling their names – John recognises him as his second cousin, Henry Watson – is similarly stocky, at least a foot taller (which man isn't?), hair also a blond-grey melange but short and petrified by an abuse of hair gel, and he sports a similarly strong jaw line to John's.

Following his own mysterious thought processes, Sherlock glances at John and back at Henry Watson, as if making sure he's got the right Watson by his side, or so John thinks. Still, there are obvious differences to Sherlock's trained eye. Henry's hands are manicured but calloused and moulded by hard manual labour, his middle section is softening with age, even though he must be a couple of years younger than John. Also, his eyes are smaller and less striking, missing the intensity and depth of John's muddy blue ones.

The man hugs John with little warning, who stiffens somewhat under the contact, but quickly recovers when face-to-face again, to introduce his friend to his cousin.

'Henry, this is my—' something garbled comes out as Sherlock pre-emptively elbows him, 'Sherlock Holmes.'

John rubs his elbow glancing accusingly at his friend's antics.

'Blimey, he's even more striking than you made him look in your stories, Johnny! I bet he has all the criminals in a leash!'

John blinks a bit much – how hard is his cousin trying to gain favours with Sherlock? – but forces on a smile and redirects:

'We don't work all alone. Scotland Yard helps.'

'Occasionally,' Sherlock corrects. John elbows him discretely. 'What was that for?' Sherlock whines, at once. John rolls his eyes at him.

Henry chuckles. 'Come this way. I parked outside. It's a bit of a drive. Do you need help with your bags, Sherlock?'

The detective glances at John's clearly fuller and heavier bag, and how John – independent and feisty John – doesn't even seem to notice he's not being afforded any privileges by his cousin.

'I'll manage,' he drawls indolently. He scrutinises the Scottish Watson with some suspicion all the time they make their way to the night outside.

.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have arrived in Scotland, to visit John's estranged family. Or, as John would put it, to crash his cousin's wedding because Sherlock is intrigued by what a Scottish John Watson would look like. Whatever that may be, Henry Watson is not the answer. They are not very alike, John doesn't think. Visiting Edinburgh as a child and teenager, John always got along better with Henry's friends than with Henry. It seemed that his cousin resented John, for being a couple of years older, popular with his winning sunshine smile, and academic. John had known from an early age that he wanted to be a doctor, that healing was what he had been made for.

In turn, John had envied Henry's life, with a more stable home, hectares of free space to wonder about and explore, and nice friends. John always ached when leaving that behind and returning to a world where his sister Harry was the focal point of their parents' attention, revolutionising the household with yet another extravagant life choice while searching for the missing piece in her self-identity. That wouldn't come until her late teens, and the turbulence wouldn't stop there either, just shapeshift. Not that it was Harry's fault, she was just trying to find herself in a world and time where she was a hidden exception.

John settles against the back seat of the expensive truck, gaze lost in the familiar yet unrecognisable wind-beaten trees and hills visible from the motorway. In the far corner of his perception, he can see Sherlock's shoulders beyond the car seat right in front of him, and he follows the animated rise and fall rhythm of those shoulders while Sherlock makes a show of deducing aspects of Henry's childhood from Henry's car upholstery choice, his abandoned drink in the cup holder, the pair of dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

Normally John would listen avidly, but tonight nostalgia is gripping his heart chain-like. John is beginning to wonder if coming here was the right choice. If he let Sherlock dictate his fate out of habit, or did he really think Sherlock's knack for knowing what is instinctively best for John is his true North star.

Tonight he feels like two worlds are colliding and they don't work well together. The humdrum of the past is making his present feel disconnected, like an engine stalling.

'John?'

Uh-oh. They were talking to him.

John looks briskly at the pair, completely at a loss on what he has missed.

He does capture a hint of regret in Sherlock's eyebrow rise, and suspects that Sherlock knows now that his little game – a charade, a theatre play, a mimicry of the perfect guest – is going to be a one-sided affair. He cannot count on John as his enabler in this prospection of the other Watsons. John is currently all lost to statics like a badly tuned old television set.

'Never mind,' Sherlock wraps up, mysteriously. 'I'll choose for you, John. It's been a long journey.'

.

TBC