Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John doesn't remember much about the accident. In his head, it is all a blur of lights, loud noises and pain. He remembers screaming and later, soothing voices and foreign hands that pet his head and hair. After that there is a big hole of white nothingness, of blankness. They called it shock.

His memories begin again at the children's home.

The orphanage John now lives in is full of stories like his: car accidents are just as common as abusive parents or unwanted pregnancies. Each child has his or her own sad tale to tell and John's isn't the worst or most tragic by far. What they all have in common is that every single one of them is unfortunate enough not to have any remaining relatives suitable to raise them. Some children have been here for years, others just for a few months. John is nearly done with his first year.

To him though it already feels like it has been forever - and it might just be. Because John isn't stupid and he knows that nobody will ever want to adopt him.

Once a family - especially young couples - decide to adopt one of the orphans they usually look for the perfect package: good-looking, healthy and smart. John has observed the comings and goings of children here long enough to have ample proof and numerous examples for that.

John thinks he is rather average in both looks and intelligence. That alone wouldn't be too bad but then, there is John's shoulder to consider that is scarred and battered from the accident. Although the bad shoulder isn't an actual illness, the injured skin and flesh does have an impact on his range of mobility and everyday life. John will never be able to do any kind of strenuous sport or constant running and playing with other children.

That's why John is quite sure that he would have to be very lucky to be adopted.

As it turns out though, fate must have decided that losing your parents and only sister at the mere age of nine deserves to be outweighed by a bit of luck. At least, that is how John will later explain to himself the events of that fateful week that would change his life forever.
____

At first, it seems to be a Monday just like any other Monday at the children's home.

The breakfast is slimy porridge with just enough sugar to make it edible and John is sitting on his own with a book in his hands, just like he normally does.

John reckons that his only chance at ever having a better life is gaining a lot of knowledge and thus earning excellent marks in school. That makes him an outsider but John doesn't really mind. He hasn't been interested in making friends ever since the accident. Deeply engrossed in an encyclopaedia of human biology, John nearly misses the familiar tingle of a bell. Mrs. Plum, the home supervisor and surrogate mother to all of them, wants to make an announcement.

Sixty-seven children slowly fall silent and Mrs Plum smiles at them approvingly.

"All right everyone, listen up! There is a family interested in adopting one of you."

At once, excited murmurs run through the rows of breakfast tables. John looks up from his book, his curiosity piqued. Usually, Mrs Plum never tells them officially when a family is looking into adoption. There will be rumours, of course, but nobody will know for sure until a child has actually left the home with all of his or her belongings. Mrs Plum and the other social workers are mostly very careful to avoid any slips of information.

Mrs Plum raises her hand patiently.

"Yes," she soothes them. "I know it's all terribly exciting. The family is looking for a boy - sorry girls - to be a brother to their son. However, they have certain... ideas about what that boy should be like."

She makes a strained face that John has secretly christened her sour pickle face. Any observer can tell that Mrs Plum does not approve of those ideas she has mentioned.

"That is why the following children are to report to the office immediately after breakfast." She looks down, reaches for a piece of paper next to her plate and starts to read names off a list.

John turns his attention back to his book. He can imagine what kinds of ideas that family has set in their mind before contacting Mrs Plum. In the end, it is always the same. They are probably looking for a handsome little boy. A perfect prince with perfect hair and perfect white teeth and perfect manners and perfect-

"Watson, John."

John nearly jumps at his name being called. He sends a bewildered gaze up to Mrs Plum's table but the woman has already started on her breakfast once more. The room fills with excited talk between the boys and disappointed muttering from the girls. John doesn't know what to think.

In the last eight months, John hasn't been considered for adoption once. He knows that because sometimes children will get to talk to potential adoptive parents to see whether or not they are a match. Those children aren't supposed to tell anyone, of course, but usually they end up spilling it anyway. John hasn't met any adoptive families so far and hasn't expected to either. Now, he has been called to the office because he might be a likely candidate for that family. That family that has certain ideas.

John doesn't know which family's ideas would include a boy like him.

His porridge is mostly untouched by the end of breakfast which earns him a disapproving glance from their cook Mandy who doesn't like to waste food. John murmurs an apology and avoids her reprimanding look by hiding behind page 130 of his encyclopaedia. However, ever since the announcement John hasn't been able to concentrate on his reading. Almost constantly, the little word why is running through his head and distracting him.

Why him? Why now? Why the announcement?

Slowly, he makes his way to the office. Some of the other boys are already waiting in front of the door and John eyes them carefully over the edge of his book. They are all about as old as him and John actually shares a dorm with two of them. Other than that, John can't find any similarities between them all. None of them is particularly handsome or special in John's eyes, himself included.

The arrival of Mrs Plum interrupts John's train of thoughts. She smiles fondly at them as she unlocks the office door with her key and asks them all to enter. John comes in last and sits down on the rather lopsided stool that is closest to the door.

"Well boys, this is a first for me as well," she admits with a brief chuckle. "I really rather hope it is a last as well. We wouldn't usually do this but the family-"

She clears her throat and makes a dismissive motion with her hand.

"Ah, you don't have to worry about that. Let me explain why you are here instead. The family I mentioned earlier wants to adopt someone who is, to be frank, very smart. Apparently, the son is quite intelligent and his parents would like to adopt someone who can actually keep up with him."

She makes a very exaggerated version of her sour pickle face again and John forces himself not to laugh at that.

"You, my dears, are the boys that are about the same age as their son and have the best marks in school."

She smiles fondly at them, just like John's mother used to when she was proud of him. John tries not to linger on the memory because that always causes a tight feeling somewhere deep in his chest and makes his eyes itch unpleasantly.

"However, the family expects you to take an intelligence test. I'm going to be honest and tell you that I don't think those tests are in any way trustworthy or necessary because that is not what family is about. It's your choice whether or not you want to enter this..." She pauses and bites her lips in thought before continuing. "...competition. That's what it is, anything else would be a lie."

Around John, the boys look at each other questioningly, silently asking their friends whether or not they will agree to take this dubious test. John already knows his answer.

"I'll do it," he says confidently and calmly closes his book. "I will take the test."

Several small heads swivel towards him and the other boys look him over. Mrs Plum merely raises her pale eyebrows at him.

"All right," she states with an enquiring gaze. "You may do that, of course."

In the end, five other boys agree to take the test as well. John tries to measure their smartness from their looks and fails. He can't stop himself from seeing them as competitors, however. Mrs Plum is right: this is a competition - one John intends to win.

He knows this might be his only chance of being adopted. Clearly, this family doesn't care about his shoulder or his looks but only about his smartness.

John doesn't think he is very intelligent but he has been reading quite a lot more than the others. At least, he has never seen them in the small library down in the cellar of the home. It could be an advantage.

Also, an adoptive family looking for a smart boy will probably send their children to a really good school - a public school, even. John thinks a public school would be perfect and so much better than the state school he is currently attending.

Mrs Plum tells them that the test will take place the next day after lunch and dismisses them with a shooing motion.

Most of the other boys quickly disappear outside - a game of football has been started in their absence and they want to join. Nobody asks him to come along and John doesn't follow them. He retreats to the quiet that is the swing in the small garden behind the home. For some reason, no one ever sits on it. It's the perfect place for reading, John has found.

He cannot focus on his book, though. Instead of paying attention to the printed facts in front of him, John catches himself imagining the test, the adoptive family, the boy that could soon have a new brother.

Does he have a chance? Is he smart enough to be considered as an addition to that mysterious family that has such high expectations when it comes to intelligence?

John paints patterns into the sand beneath with his left toe-cap and doesn't find an answer.
____

The next day, John has a tummy-ache and only drinks chamomile tea for breakfast. He doesn't even attend lunch but takes a restless walk in the garden trying to calm his nerves. It doesn't really help.

When he finally sits in front of the test, John's hands are trembling. What if he doesn't succeed? What if the test says he is stupid and destroys all his plans for the future? He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself but the sick feeling doesn't go away. John really hopes he doesn't have to run to the loo and throw up.

The man that has earlier introduced himself as Dr Arnulfo who will evaluate their tests later looks at them through his horn-rimmed glasses and smiles a small and nearly toothless smile. It doesn't look friendly.

"You may start now, lads. No copying!" he warns them with a critical gaze and settles down into a comfortable armchair. John briefly wonders if he has brought it along as it looks way too comfortable to belong to the children's home.

Silently scolding himself, John focuses on the sheet in front of him. Shaking slightly, he picks up his biro and turns the paper over to read the first question. It is easy and John knows the answer immediately. It is the same with the next question.

John's hands slowly stop trembling.

Chapter Text

After the test, everything is quite the same as before. Mrs Plum has been informed that Dr Arnulfo won't have any results for at least a few days and tells them all to forget about the test for a while.

John cannot.

As much as he tries to distract himself with reading, it still doesn't really work. Almost constantly, his thoughts circle around the test. John doesn't really know what to make of it.

A lot of the questions didn't make much sense or at least, not all of them were about knowing facts. Sometimes, they just asked which picture fit into a row of many or which word didn't belong into a certain list. All six of them also met with Dr Arnulfo on their own. John still really doesn't like him at all but patiently answered his questions while trying to ignore the stopwatch in his hand.

By the end of the week, John doesn't even care about the outcome anymore and simply wants to know. When he sees an unfamiliar black car park in front of the children's home through his dorm window, John all but slams his neglected reading shut and runs downstairs. A few children have already gathered around the windows near the entrance door to get a good look at their visitors.

It is indeed Dr Arnulfo but this time he is accompanied by a very pretty woman in an elegant black dress whose earrings glitter in the sunshine. A few steps behind them, a boy in impeccable trousers and a white dress shirt is following them. He doesn't look particularly friendly or happy and glares at the building in front of him.

John immediately knows that they must be part of the potential adoptive family. His heart starts beating very fast. In a few minutes they will know who is smart enough to be considered a suitable adoptee. Looking at the closed-off expression on the well-dressed boy's face, John cannot really decide whether or not he wants it to be him.

"They're very rich," a girl with two pigtails whispers and the boy next to her whistles in agreement.

The visitors don't come out of Mrs Plum's office for a long time. At some point, most of the other children lose interest and return to their games and activities. John decides to settle down in the dining-hall to do some peaceful thinking.

Mandy, the cook, sees him through the hatch in the wall that connects the kitchen to the hall and calls him over.

"Are you bored?" she asks him and hands him a stack of plates without waiting for an answer. "Might as well do something useful then. Lay the tables?"

John actually is quite thankful for the simple task and accepts the tableware. It keeps his hands busy enough to be a distraction from all the excitement. John quietly invents a game where the plates are not allowed to be placed on cracks in the wood and smiles when he still manages to make it look even. Just for the fun of it, he lays out all of the cutlery as if everyone was left-handed like himself.

Mandy gives him a small handful of sweets as a reward which makes John feel a lot better about everything.

When he leaves the dining-hall happily chewing on some peppermint chocolate, John nearly runs into Mrs Plum who looks slightly out of breath and has splotched cheeks that suggest that she has been hurrying around for quite some time. When she sees him she exhales dramatically.

"There you are," she addresses him. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Mrs Holmes wants to meet you."

"Mrs Holmes?" John repeats, too confused to care that he shouldn't speak with his mouth full.

"Oh of course, you don't know yet," Mrs Plum realizes and lightly pats his good shoulder. "The results of the test are back - you're quite the genius if Dr Arnulfo is to be believed."

John follows her with wide eyes.

A genius? Him?

John doesn't really believe that. Surely he would have known if he was so very smart? Yes, he has always been good at school but John has also never been a slacker. The only explanation he can think of is that all of his reading has paid off and has made him look clever in the test.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on those thoughts however, as they arrive at Mrs Plum's door sooner than expected. With an encouraging smile, she opens the door for him. John enters the office, a wary look on his face.

Dr Arnulfo, the well-dressed woman and the grumpy-looking boy turn in their seats to get a good look at John who immediately feels very small and inadequate. He clutches the rest of his sweets like a lifeline feeling entirely on display.

"This is John," Mrs Plum introduces him and suddenly, her hand is on John's back, pushing him forward and closer to the armchairs in front of Mrs Plum's desk.

"'ello", is all he manages and immediately regrets it. Certainly, that won't make a good first impression at all.

"Good afternoon, John. I'm Mrs Holmes," the well-dressed woman greets him and her earrings swing a bit when she speaks.

She sounds friendly enough but John can't make anything of her polite expression. For all he knows, Mrs Holmes could be thinking anything of him. What a nice little boy. for example, or even Surely, the test must have been tampered with. She turns to her right and frowns at the boy sitting next to her who is simply staring at John with narrowed eyes.

"This is my son. Say hello, Sherlock," she reprimands him with an exasperated sigh.

"Hi," the boy snaps and crosses his arms.

John tries to smile at him and not at his odd-sounding name which only seems to worsen the scowl on Sherlock's face.

"D'you want some?," John asks and offers the other chocolate to the boy as a peace-offering. Sherlock vigorously shakes his head and turns away.

John gets the distinct feeling that the boy really doesn't want an adopted brother at all and doesn't know how to deal with that. All the time, John has thought that the boy would be very pleased about a sibling.

"So, the test," Mrs Plum speaks up once she has settled behind her desk and so breaking the awkward silence that has settled upon the room after Sherlock's refusal.

John carefully sits down on the empty chair to Dr Arnulfo's left and looks up at him, anxious about what the man would have to say about John's apparent smartness.

"Ah, yes, the test," he speaks up and opens the briefcase placed on his lap to withdraw several sheets of paper, "I have the results right here. Most of the boys weren't anything special, really. Average, all of them."

John doesn't have to look to know that the infamous sour pickle face has returned to Mrs Plum's features.

"John, however, is not. Not as outstanding as your son of course, Mrs Holmes," Dr Arnulfo continues with a sort of nod towards the woman, "but certainly exceptional. He has an IQ of 127."

"That is- good?" Mrs Plum asks.

Dr Arnulfo throws a look at her that seems to say that she certainly doesn't have an IQ of 127 which makes John feel bad for her. He really doesn't like the man at all but keeps quiet. Of course, he himself hasn't got a clue about IQs either. The only thing John does know is that an IQ is a number in which you measure the intelligence of humans as it was mentioned in his encyclopaedia.

"It's a very high number," Dr Arnulfo explains with an air of importance. "The average human being is placed somewhere between 90 and 110. People attending university to earn a higher degree usually hold an IQ somewhere above that, up to the 120s I would say. A genius is said to be above 130 which places John in the category of extremely intelligent but not quite a prodigy."

Dr Arnulfo looks down at John as if daring him to say otherwise. John, however, is way too surprised to pay much attention to it.

"Wow," he exclaims and throws a glance at Mrs Plum, whose mouth is hanging open a bit.

"Indeed," Mrs Holmes speaks up once more and John's gaze shifts to her. She is smiling brighter at him now, as if his IQ of 127 made him something more worthy of her attention. "That is more than my husband and I have hoped for. How lucky that we don't have to start looking into children's homes outside of the London area."

Mrs Plum clears her throat.

"Well, this is all very nice, but," she objects and raises her eyebrows at all of them, "this alone cannot be the reason for your decision to adopt John."

"Oh, of course not," Mrs Holmes instantly agrees. "We have to see whether or not the boys get along. That is why my husband and I have decided on a probation time of two months."

"Probation time," Mrs Plum repeats, sounding outraged. "I don't think that is an option."

Goosebumps rise on John's arms when he sees the look Mrs Holmes all but throws at the home supervisor. It is cold, calculating and a bit destructive. John sincerely hopes that he will never be the recipient of it.

"Surely you realise, Mrs Plum," she drawls, pronouncing the last name as if it was something foul, "that this home is partly funded by generous donations made by my husband and his friends."

John has the feeling that this is a threat though he doesn't really understand the connection between it and his possible adoption.

Mrs Plum's cheeks go pale at first, then splotchy-red like in the hallway earlier.

"A child's welfare is more important than money," she says in a tone John has never heard from her before, not even when one of the boys set fire to his bed a few months ago.

"One child's welfare for the collective good of the others sounds like a reasonable price to me," Mrs Holmes states. "Besides, we won't harm the boy in any way. Quite on the contrary, he will be dressed, fed and educated with the highest standards imaginable. Standards this home will never be able to provide."

She briefly looks at John who can only gulp in response. He doesn't have the feeling that he has any choice in the matter whatsoever.

"I see," Mrs Plum replies tightly. "Well - let me speak with John, then. In private."

Mrs Holmes stands up in one elegant motion and the skirt of her dress swirls around her legs.

"Of course," she says, that odd friendly smile returning to her face. "I will contact you in the evening. It was very nice to meet you, John."

And though they haven't really spoken at all, John nods and smiles weakly at her.

"You too, ma'am," he replies, at last remembering his manners.

Mrs Holmes looks pleased at that and calls for her son before leaving the office with him and Dr Arnulfo hot on her heel.

When the door closes, Mrs Plum lets out a long breath and all the tension leaves her body. She looks a bit like she is melting into her chair and John has to smile at that. Mrs Plum returns the smile.

"I'm sorry about this, John," she says and rubs a hand over her forehead. "Very sorry indeed."

John shrugs.

"It's fine," he admits. "I did agree to take the test, after all."

"And what splendid results you got! But I always knew, of course. I don't think I ever see you without a book." Her proud smile turns into a frown quickly. "Look, John. I don't really approve of Mrs Holmes' methods. We don't send children into families on probation. It is not done."

John can practically see the but floating in the room. He shrugs again.

"It's fine," he repeats. And really, it is. He doesn't mind it so much. It is still a chance to get away from the home, the chance to have a better life. His only chance, maybe. "I don't think Sherlock liked me much so maybe, it's good not to be adopted right away."

Mrs Plum looks at him for a long moment, eyeing him up. With another sigh, she looks down on her desk.

"Very well," she gives in. "I'll phone Mrs Holmes tonight."

Chapter Text

It all fits into one small holdall.

John looks at the brown travelling bag Mrs Plum has given him, thinking.

He doesn't own much - his clothes, a few books, a photo album and two soft toys. It is all he has got and all he has had to pack. The bed and the little cupboard that he was assigned when he first came to the home now look barren, empty. They could be anyone's and in case he never returns, they will be somebody else's.

John isn't sad to leave. He hasn't made any friends here, won't really miss any of the social workers either. They are all nice, even most of the children. John has simply never bothered to become attached. He usually doesn't think about the reasons for that.

For a few minutes, he lets himself remember his sister Harry with her cheeky grin, his father and his strong, warm hands and his mother with her hair always smelling of rose shampoo. John's chest tightens, his throat begins to tickle and he forces himself to forget again, to shove away the hurtful memories. There is a reason he avoids thinking about them. John thinks he simply isn't ready.

He picks up the bag and straightens his shoulders.

A new period of his life might be ahead. If there is one thing John is sure of it is that he doesn't want to return to this children's home. Ever. No matter how awful the boy, Sherlock, might treat him or what a strict parent Mrs Holmes might turn out to be, John will endure it. He is a big boy - nine years old, almost ten in two and a half months. He can deal with all sorts of things.

This is his chance - he will not throw it away.

He swings the carrying strap over his good shoulder and with a last glance for the dormitory, he leaves.

Downstairs, some of the children have crowded around the windows again that face the home entrance. Mrs Plum is standing close-by, only shaking her head at the curious noses pressed against the glass, smudging it. One of the boys looks up and sees him. John recognises him - the boy had also taken the test with Dr Arnulfo.

"They have a really classy car," he tells him with wide eyes. "I think it's a Bentley."

John isn't very interested in cars but as most of the boys his age love automobiles, John trusts that the other boy knows what he is talking about. Besides, he already knows that the Holmes family seems to have a lot of money.

John hasn't spoken to any of them ever since Mrs Holmes and Sherlock left Mrs Plum's office. He knows that Mrs Plum has had phone calls but nobody wanted to talk to John in person.

He is nervous about moving in with another family which he has barely spoken to. He has been informed that Sherlock has an older brother who has already left for university and that Mr Holmes is a very busy man and hardly ever at home, either. John realises that isn't nearly enough information and sincerely hopes it will all be okay.

Mrs Plum smiles down at him and John immediately notices the thick book in her hand - it's the encyclopaedia he hasn't been able to finish. It should be back down in the library but the home supervisor hands it over to him.

"I know you haven't finished reading it. Take it with you - it's a good-bye present."

She looks a bit guilty. John has the feeling Mrs Plum is trying to make up for the test and the probation time and all the things she isn't happy about so he accepts the book with a nod.

"Thank you," he says and means it, because guilt or not, John knows that the book was expensive and the home doesn't have much money for the library in the first place.

Mrs Plum awkwardly pats his head.

"The car is waiting outside. I am afraid neither Mrs Holmes nor her son have come to pick you up. It's only the driver."

John nods and a small voice reminds him that this might be the last time he will ever see her sour pickle face ever again. The thought doesn't make him sad but maybe, a little bit wistful.

"That's fine," he assures her and gives her a wave. "Maybe, they're just busy."

Mrs Plum nods and suddenly, her eyes seem brighter than usual. Then, she makes a shooing motion at him and turns away. John obeys the silent command. With a last look for the group of nosy children at the windows, he opens the entrance door and leaves the home.

The driver (who is wearing a kind of suit, John notices) is waiting at the back of the car and opens the door for John when he approaches the automobile. It looks a bit different from the one Mrs Holmes has arrived with the last time, even he can see that. John wonders just how many cars they can afford.

"John Watson?," the man asks and John gives an affirmative nod. "I'll take care of that."

The driver takes the bag from John who thanks him politely before carefully getting into the car. There is a booster seat waiting for him and it's smooth and black just like the interior of the car. John isn't really surprised because Sherlock didn't look like the type to sit on colourful plastic. After a few moments, the driver returns to check whether or not John has put on his seat-belt, then closes the door for him.

"Is it far, sir?" John asks when the driver has settled into the front. John can see his eyes shift until they look at him through the rear mirror. They crinkle around the edges as if he is smiling.

"Fourty-five minutes, at the most," he informs him, voice friendly. After a short pause he speaks up once more: "You can call me Harry, if you want to."

John tries his hardest not to think about other people of the same name and looks away when the driver starts the engine.

The encyclopaedia turns out to be John's occupation for the whole ride because Harry, friendly or not, doesn't talk at all. He is busy watching the streets but never shouts or gets annoyed with other drivers, even though they honk at him occasionally. John's father had always shouted and muttered while driving.

Stop remembering, the boy berates himself, furiously shaking his head, Don't think about them. It's not good to be sad all the time.

He hides away behind his book and forces himself to focus on animals of the Cretaceous period.

It's a long drive and by the occasional look outside, John can see that they're leaving behind the more rural district the children's home is located in and are quickly approaching the city. John isn't sure but it would suit Mrs Holmes' and Sherlock's appearance to have a house or flat in the middle of London.

When the car finally stops and Harry gets out to open the door, John carefully leaves the car and curiously eyes the building in front of which they have parked. It is a brick-lined house of two storeys. John thinks it looks rather old but very beautiful with the high windows and a few ivy twines clinging to the façade. It is not the only house of the type in the street. It's rather quiet around him but John can hear the noise of the city as a faint echo. They are probably close to the city centre.

Harry hands him the holdall.

"Go ahead and ring," the driver prompts. "I still have to pick up young Mr Holmes from his violin lesson."

John shoulders his bag, thanks Harry for the lift and approaches the door, finding it odd that Harry would call a mere boy like Sherlock Mr Holmes. There is an old-fashioned door knocker shaped like a grumpy lion but luckily, also a normal door bell. Taking a deep breath, John presses the button.

It takes a few minutes, but then the door is opened by an older woman. The minute she sees him, she breaks into a warm smile that makes friendly wrinkles appear all over her face. John immediately likes her.

"You must be John," she greets him and steps aside to let John in. "Welcome, welcome."

John carefully wipes his feet and enters the house. He takes in the hallway he's standing in. The first thing that comes to his mind when observing the furniture is clean. Everything is very neat and organized - the furniture, the photographs and paintings on the walls, even the pattern of the carpet. It all looks surprisingly modern compared to the outside of the building but John doesn't think it looks like someone's home at all. It isn't cozy.

"I'm Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper," the friendly woman introduces herself, closing the door behind her. "I'm afraid Sherlock isn't at home for now but Mrs Holmes is waiting for you in the study."

Interesting, John thinks and lets Mrs Hudson take his luggage. It's Sherlock for her.

The housekeeper (John has never heard of people having housekeepers in real life, only in books and old movies) points at a door down the hall and after a moment of hesitation, John walks over and carefully knocks at the closed door.

"Come in," Mrs Holmes slightly familiar voice floats through the wood and John enters.

Mrs Holmes looks just as elegant and pretty as last week. She is wearing trousers and a blouse today and her hair is in an elegant bun. She is leaning against a wooden desk. Unlike the hallway, the study is furnished in heavy, old shelves and chairs. John feels very out of place in his jeans and the red jumper.

"Hello, John, welcome to our home," Mrs Holmes greets him, nearly not as warmly as Mrs Hudson.

Again, she is smiling the friendly smile that somehow doesn't look right. With a gesture of her hand, she offers John a seat in the armchair in front of her.

"Hello ma'am," John replies and slowly sits down.

He can't bring himself to return the smile. Suddenly, he is very, very nervous. This is it. He's here and the probation time has started. Any mistake might risk his possible adoption. John's hands become sweaty and he presses them against his clothed thighs.

"I am glad you've decided to give it a try," Mrs Holmes tells him, still half-standing in front of John. "I'm sure it's all very exciting and new for you. Sherlock is still on holiday, just like you. You will be taught along with him by his private tutor, but for now you can just relax and settle in. I'm sure you and Sherlock will need some time to get used to each other. You have already met Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper. She cleans and cooks for us, but that doesn't mean you don't have to pick up after yourself. She doesn't tidy Sherlock's room and she won't be attending to yours, either."

She pauses in her little speech, shifting a bit and folding her hands in front of her.

"Mr Brown is our chauffeur. He'll drive you and Sherlock should you have to go anywhere. Of course, this will not happen without my permission. There's also a gardener, Mrs Powell, who comes by occasionally. My husband is not at home at the moment and won't be for another couple of weeks but you will meet him eventually. Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother, might come for a visit soon. He's usually very busy, much like his father."

She looks down at him and raises her eyebrows slightly.

"I understand this is very different from your parents' home. Do you have any questions so far?"

For a moment, John simply stares at her, head spinning from all the information. Private tutors and gardeners - it's all a bit much. John tries to form a coherent sentence that doesn't make him sound like a fool.

"Very different," he eventually agrees, clearing his throat when he hears the clogged sound of it. "I'm sure I can work it out, though."

Mrs Holmes nods.

"I'm positive you will, you're a smart boy after all. Now, your room is upstairs, right next to Sherlock's. It used to be a guest room but we adjusted it a bit for your convenience. It was brought to my attention that your left shoulder troubles you?"

John nods, automatically shrugging and rolling it to check for pain and mobility. Stiff, but otherwise okay.

"It's fine, most of the time," he explains, a bit more confident now. "It just hurts a lot when I lift things or do sports. Sometimes I have problems with reaching because I can't raise my arm up all the way."

"We've made sure that all your furniture is accessible for you," Mrs Holmes immediately assures him. "But in case you need help, Mrs Hudson is very glad to assist you. Dinner is in the dining room across from the study, promptly at 6:30. Please try to be on time."

It sounds a lot like a dismissal so John smiles warily at her and when she nods towards the door, he jumps off the armchair. He leaves and wanders back to the front of the hallway and towards the staircase. Just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the ring of a bell sounds through the house and Mrs Hudson comes down the stairs to open up.

Curious, John waits to see who it is. He takes one look at curly black hair and pale skin to realise it is Sherlock.

"Welcome back," the housekeeper greets him, sounding just as warm as earlier as if she is genuinely happy to have Sherlock back.

Sherlock, however, only nods at her jerkily, holding out something that must be his violin case. To John's surprise, Mrs Hudson actually takes it though she frowns at the boy and her smile all but vanishes. Sherlock walks past her without thanking her. The moment he notices John, he scowls at him.

"You," he hisses and John gulps at the venom.

"Hi Sherlock," he greets him anyway - Sherlock will be his brother for at least the next few weeks, after all. John is very determined to try and get along with him.

"I don't want you here," Sherlock spits. "You're not my brother and you will never be."

With that, Sherlock storms past him and up the stairs. John looks after him, a bit shaken but also a fair bit angry. That wasn't nice. John hasn't done anything to him. He glares up the stairs and huffs angrily.

"Don't mind him, dear," Mrs Hudson speaks up, violin case still in her hands. "I don't think his lesson went very well. Usually, he's in a better mood after playing the violin."

John bites his lips and says nothing. Instead, he asks Mrs Hudson where he can find his room and goes upstairs. He finds the described door and carefully opens it, afraid he might have gotten it wrong after all and accidently step into Sherlock's. When he sees his bag on the tidily made bed, he sighs in relief and enters.

The room is fairly big. John very much likes the bed which is a lot longer and wider than the one in the dorm. There's a desk, a comfortable-looking chair, several low armoires and a shelf with books. John immediately walks over to scan the titles. Some of them, John has read already but he makes a mental note for the non-fiction books about invention and history he has never encountered before.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, John approaches the bed and lets himself fall onto the soft mattress. He closes his eyes and for a few minutes, he simply breathes and tries not to think.

It doesn't quite work and he finds himself mulling over the way Sherlock treated him a few minutes ago. John doesn't know what he should do about the other boy's obvious animosity. How is he supposed to pass probation with Sherlock being such a prat? Mrs Hudson is very nice though, so is Harry - or Mr Brown, apparently?

It's just new, John tries to reassure himself when frustration tries to take over, You'll get used to it and Sherlock will get used to you, too.

John rolls onto his belly and opens his bag with his good arm. On the very top lies his photo album.

John hasn't looked at the pictures for a long time. They're from his old house, of his former life and one of the few things he was allowed to keep after the accident. The children's home can't store boxes and boxes of belongings for everyone. John has avoided the album just as he has avoided thinking about his family.

Now, though, he can't stop himself. John carefully picks it up, strokes over the smooth cover before opening it. The first photograph is his parents' wedding photo. John gently touches his mother's laughing face, framed by her bridal veil.

"Hi mum," he whispers.

Suddenly, his throat becomes very tight and John's eyes start to burn. He quickly closes the album but it's too late - a tear makes its way down his flushing cheek. Then, John can't hold it back any longer.

Clutching the album, John buries his head into the soft blanket underneath him, crying and thinking about his mum and dad. He thinks about their old rusty car and their untidy but cozy house and about Harry. Harry, who had always been annoying and a pest but so much better than stupid, stupid Sherlock.

John wants his old life back but knows he never will.

Chapter Text

The morning after his arrival, Mrs Holmes decides that John is in need of a whole new wardrobe and takes him and Sherlock shopping. She chooses a huge and fancy-looking department store that is located in the city and therefore quite busy.

John is very surprised that Mrs Holmes is willing to buy him new clothes when she doesn't even know whether or not John is actually good enough to be adopted. Sherlock seems surprised Mrs Holmes has come along at all. He ends up sending more hateful glances over at John whenever his mother isn't looking or talking to one of the countless shop assistants in chic uniforms. John wonders if Sherlock is jealous of all the fuss that is made about John and actually feels a bit bad for taking up all of his mother's attention.

It has become pretty clear to John in the short time he has known her that Mrs Holmes is nothing like his own mother had been like. She doesn't hug Sherlock, hardly ever touches him really, and while Sherlock calls her Mummy, it somehow sounds just as stiff as John's polite murmurs of Mrs Holmes and ma'am. Mrs Holmes rarely smiles and even though she asked Sherlock about his day over dinner last night, she had really only half-listened and nodded politely at Sherlock's wordy descriptions.

John doesn't miss Sherlock's angrily balled fists when Mrs Holmes actually bows down to arrange a dress shirt John has tried on at her request, fingers brushing briefly over John's neck when she smooths its collar.

"Yes, I like this kind very much. How about - five of them? Different colours, muted ones if you please," she tells the shop assistant and straightens up again, sending John off to change and not once asking for his opinion.

Not that John expects her to - Mrs Holmes isn't the kind of person that asks children about their opinions. She isn't the first adult to treat John this way, either, but it would have been nice to be asked.

John already dreads having to wear those nice shirts and trousers like Sherlock every day. Apparently though, it is an unspoken rule in the Holmes household that one has to be dressed impeccably. Even Mrs Hudson seems to wear skirts and blouses when she is cleaning and cooking, along with a clean, white apron. And Harry, the driver, had worn a suit again when he had driven them here after breakfast.

The shopping trip lasts the whole morning.

When they finally arrive back at the house, John feels overwhelmed and exhausted and nearly falls asleep over lunch. Remembering Sherlock's phrasing he had used the other night when leaving the dinner table early, John asks whether or not he may be excused. Mrs Holmes nods at him, a brief but praising smile on her lips that reminds John of the expression she had worn when Dr Arnulfo informed them that John's IQ is 127.

Trying to ignore Sherlock's almost burning glare, John quietly slips from the room and all but crashes on his bed upstairs.

Looking around tiredly, John notices a row of new shoes on the small rack in the corner and doubtlessly, he will find the rest of the clothes in the armoires and chests lined-up at the wall. John knows the new clothes must have cost a small fortune and all for the sake of him looking presentable. Maybe though, it will help John fit in better in the house. He had certainly felt a bit uncomfortable during dinner, breakfast and lunch in between Mrs Holmes and Sherlock, wearing jeans and a jumper while eating with what had looked like silver cutlery.

John falls asleep and dreams of his dad eating at their kitchen table, holey trousers stained with dirt from the garden and not caring one bit about it.
____

The rest of his first week with the Holmes family passes uneventfully. Sherlock has stopped glaring and hissing hateful comments somewhere between day three and four. John wonders whether or not that means he is making progress.

Because John is trying, he really is. If Sherlock and he don't start to get along soon, he'll have to return to the children's home and John really doesn't want that to happen. But whenever he tries to talk to Sherlock he is either Busy, go away. or simply seems to have vanished from the perimeters of the house.

"He does that sometimes," Mrs Hudson tells him one afternoon and pours a glass of milk for John in the kitchen. "He'll show up again. Looking for him usually is of no use at all if he doesn't want to be found."

John nods, finishes the milk in a few, big gulps and decides that in that case, he might as well do some reading.

Mrs Holmes isn't at home, hasn't been here in the afternoons ever since the day she took them shopping. Apparently, Mrs Holmes goes out to visit people a lot. It's not work, according to Mrs Hudson, but socialising. John doesn't really know what to think of that. As far as he knows, mothers usually tend to stay with their children at home when they don't work. But then, John has already figured out that Mrs Holmes is not like other mothers.

He settles down in the parlour. In any other house, it might have been a living room. It lacks the usual things, though, that are associated with that, like a TV or maybe cupboards with board games and other family clutter. Instead, there are armchairs, sofas, neat little tables and a piano in the corner. Even though Mrs Holmes isn't at home, John knows she would disapprove of John sitting in his room all day. As he can read his books down here just as well, John doesn't really mind.

He chooses an armchair that is close to the tall windows and settles down, still a bit uncomfortable in the fine trousers he now has to wear every day.

John can disappear into the world of reading again. It has taken a few days of adjusting as the past days have been either busy, exhausting or stressful in a rate that reading hadn't been option. It is welcome relief when he is able to slip into the familiar state once more where John forgets about time and place, simply concentrating on the words on the pages in front of his eyes.

"The Beginnings of Life - An Encyclopaedia of Human Biology."

John flinches and snaps the book shut. Sherlock is standing right in front of his chair, sharp eyes still on the book in John's hands. His hair is a bit more messy than usual and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Other than that, he doesn't look like he's been hiding somewhere.

"I didn't know you were interested in science," he continues.

John nods, pulling the book close. He is a bit unnerved at Sherlock's sudden appearance and apparent interest in John's activities.

"The title's not accurate. It's more about evolution in general, I'd say," he carefully explains.

Sherlock looks at him. He seems to study John's face, then his gaze wanders downwards, taking in the new shirt, the trousers, the shoes. He doesn't look angry, not like during the shopping trip, but his mouth becomes thinner when he presses his lips together briefly.

"I see," he says.

He doesn't sound angry either, only a bit stuck-up. John is feeling a bit hopeful then. He can deal with stuck-up - it's much better than angry. Maybe, Sherlock has decided to give it a try and make friends with John? It would be a good thing because even though he doesn't feel very comfortable with this new life yet, it is still much better than rotting away at the children's home.

"Hmm," he hums, looking at Sherlock expectantly, unsure what the boy is up to. He is sure Sherlock will speak his mind in a moment.

"Look, John," Sherlock says eventually, pronouncing John's name in an odd tone of voice. "I need an assistant."‚

John stares at him.

"An assistant?" he repeats, eager for more information. "Why? What for?"

A smirk appears on the other boy's face. It's the first time Sherlock shows any kind of expression that resembles a smile and John finds that he wants to smile back.

"A scientific experiment. You like science so I think you're the perfect choice."

It seems interesting enough. John slides off the armchair until he comes to stand in front of Sherlock.

"All right," he agrees, tucking his book underneath his armpit. "Sounds fun."

Sherlock nods and wordlessly turns around, quickly leaving the parlour. John hurries after him, excitement bubbling up in his chest. He hasn't really played with any other children for a long time and an experiment really does sound like a fun thing to do. Maybe, Sherlock and he will get along, after all?

They go upstairs and John belatedly realises that the experiment will take place in Sherlock's room. John looks around after they have entered and Sherlock closes the door behind them. It doesn't look much different from John's room except that there's things lying around on the floor and there are pictures on the wall. Among them is a poster that John recognises from a book he has once read - it's the periodic table.

"It's on my desk. Come on," Sherlock tells him a tad impatiently, grabbing John's left arm and jerkily pulling him over to the table. John's shoulder throbs a bit as it is manhandled but he decides to bite down on the hiss of pain. John doesn't want to spoil their fun, especially as it is the first time Sherlock and he are having a proper talk and do something together.

The desk bears an array of beakers, mugs and cutlery, probably taken from the kitchen, and several small bottles with red labels. Some of them have little skulls on them. John eyes them suspiciously.

"What kind of experiment are we doing?" he enquires.

Sherlock points at a small glass dish. There's a small, white tooth lying on it.

"We're using one of my milk teeth," Sherlock informs him, briefly exposing his lower line of teeth. In the far back, a gap exposes the pink gums.

"Cool," John states and smiles. He has been losing teeth himself but at the moment, he doesn't have any gaps to show. It's only a matter of time though until another one will loosen up.

Sherlock actually smiles back a bit. For a moment he seems to hesitate, throwing a look at the door. Then, he shakes his head once and focuses on his desk and the dish again.

"I want to see what happens when we pour acid on it," he announces almost cheerfully.

"Acid?" John exclaims as Sherlock picks up one of the bottles with the red labels. There's a black skull on it, complete with crossbones, which seems to be snarling at the world in general.

"You're supposed to do it with white vinegar," Sherlock admits, already twisting off the cap. He has to press down on it first before being able to turn and open it. John remembers adults opening small bottles of medicine like that sometimes. "That's boring, though." He holds out the open bottle. "Here. You should do it."

John looks at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. Are you allowed to have this?" John asks him. He doesn't want to get into to trouble for doing this, after all, no matter how interesting the experiment might be.

Sherlock, however, only nods confidently and presses the bottle into John's hand, careful not to spill any of its contents.

"Of course. I'm not a baby, after all. My brother gave them to me to experiment with. Come on, pour it," he says, eyes fixed on John's.

John hesitates, bottle in his hand. He really doesn't think this is a good idea. Has Sherlock's brother really given this to the boy as a present? John doesn't really believe that Sherlock is allowed to have bottles of acid.

Sherlock speaks up once more but lowers his voice a bit so he ends up half-whispering: "Or are you a baby?"

John immediately shakes his head. Of course he isn't. John is nearly ten years old, after all! He isn't a baby, and he certainly isn't a wimp. He firms his grip on the bottle and shoves his book at Sherlock with the other hand.

"All right, I'll do it. Hold this!" he tells him and moves to the glass dish.

Taking a deep breath, John carefully tilts the bottle and pours some of the clear liquid into the dish. As soon as it covers the bottom of it and touches the tooth, it starts fizzling. John backs away a bit, not wanting to be hit by bits of flying acid when suddenly, there's a sharp knock at the door and a moment later, Mrs Holmes enters the room.

"Sherlock, it's time for-"

She never finishes the sentence. Surprised at the sudden noise, John has jumped a bit while turning around and lost his grip on the small bottle of acid. It falls onto the floor and starts leaking liquid which immediately starts fizzling, slowly burning a hole into the carpet.

Mrs Holmes gasps while Sherlock jumps to the side, not wanting to come in contact with the acid. John can only stare down at what he has done.

Shocked silence rings through the room, only disturbed by the faint noise of acid eating away the carpet and probably the tooth as well. Then, determined footsteps are approaching. John doesn't dare to look up because he knows, just knows that Mrs Holmes must be so, so angry with them.

"What is this? Is that Mycroft's chemistry set?"

Mrs Holmes' voice is cold as ice and cutting as a knife. John's eyes snap from the merrily growing hole to his shiny, new shoes. In the very corner of his field of vision, he can see Sherlock shift as well.

"Explain yourself."

John flinches at the foreboding tone but obediently opens his mouth to answer. Sherlock, however, is faster than he is.

"It's all John's fault."

John's head snaps up as he quickly looks over at Sherlock. The boy's face is a perfect mask of honesty, eyes wide and innocent as they look up at his mother. His hands are curled around the hem of his shirt as if he is need of some sort of support.

"I found him snooping in Mycroft's room. He said he wanted to test the chemicals to prove something wrong in his science book." Sherlock holds up John's encyclopaedia like a piece of important evidence. "I really wanted to stop him, Mummy, but he said he would h-h-hit me if I didn't h-h-help him."

Sherlock's face screws up, voice sounding as if he is about to cry. He looks positively miserable as if the whole incident has really unsettled him. John can only gape at him, hardly believing his ears.

Why is he saying that? he thinks, mouth going dry. Why is he lying to Mrs Holmes?

"Is that true?" Mrs Holmes asks, still in that awfully cold and reprimanding voice that promises the end of the world.

John knows without seeing it that she's speaking to him. He can't find the courage to look at her, though, let alone to speak up. He suddenly feels sick, like he is going to throw up at any moment. This isn't right. This isn't happening.

"Look at me, John. I said, is that true?"

Slowly, very slowly John looks up at her. Mrs Holmes' eyes are narrowed, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her hair is untied today, falling around her face in gentle waves but in this moment, it looks just as strict as the hair bun she usually prefers. John knows that she will not be lenient with the one responsible.

And suddenly John feels like he has to protect Sherlock. Because even though he's been so awful, John knows that Sherlock's mother never hugs him or touches him and who knows what she will do when she finds out it's really all Sherlock's fault? Will she not care about him any longer? Will she hate Sherlock? John can't tell her, can't do that to Sherlock because he knows how much it hurts to be away from one's mother, not to be able to hug or touch her.

So he makes a silent decision and whispers: "Yes, ma'am. It's true."

For a few moments, Mrs Holmes simply looks at him but it's worse than any scolding John has ever received. Her eyes are cold and angry and maybe a bit disappointed. Seeing the way her mouth tightens, John knows that he is in trouble. In this moment, John would prefer her screaming or shouting at him. Anything but the silent anger she is radiating.

"Go to your room, John. Now."

It's an order and John immediately complies. He walks away slowly, head drooping again and stomach clenching in fear of what the consequences will be. The small hairs in his neck have risen as goosebumps appear all over John's arms. As he closes the door behind him as quietly as possible, he can hear Mrs Holmes' voice again.

"Are you all right, Sherlock? You haven't touched the acid, have you?"

For the first time, her voice sounds soft, almost gentle and John hurries away and to his room because even though that is exactly why he has taken the full blame, he can't bear to listen to it. Right now, Mrs Holmes sounds like she loves Sherlock and John doesn't want to know what that means for himself and he certainly doesn't want to be reminded of his own mum.

She hates me now, he thinks as he closes his door with shaking hands.

He leans back against the wood, screwing his eyes shut, breathing suddenly quick and harsh. He still feels so sick in his stomach and a bit like he doesn't get enough air. It takes him a long time to get himself back under control, to fight the panic that has risen. When he opens his eyes, the ugly truth hits him like a blow.

She'll send me back now, he thinks, suddenly feeling defeated and tired. I'll be back at the home tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.

John walks over to the bed and sinks down, burying his head into his hands. They're trembling but he doesn't care because he understands now that he has failed. It's hardly been a week of the probation time and already, John has messed it all up. Because he is so stupid and wanted to protect that stuck-up, horrible liar Sherlock. Though he had been a bit nice earlier and had even smiled at John.

He is still trembling on the bed, thinking about what it will be like to return to the orphanage when a sharp knock sounds at his door.

Chapter Text

John's head snaps up at the sound of the knock.

Is it Mrs Holmes? Has she already decided to come and tell John that he is no longer welcome at their house and should start packing? But Mrs Holmes wouldn't wait this long to come in, would she?

"Yes?" John calls, voice a bit shaky but apparently loud enough as the doorknob turns and slowly, the door is being opened.

A young man appears on the threshold. He is wearing a fine suit, shiny dress shoes and a friendly expression. John thinks he looks a bit like someone that has been put into old men's clothes. A bit confused but also relieved it isn't Mrs Holmes, John stares at him but says nothing.

"John?" the young man asks. His voice is pleasant, his face still friendly enough.

"Yes," John murmurs and fidgets on his bed, not knowing what to think.

"May I come in?"

When John nods his agreement, the young man enters and closes the door behind him with a soft click. He turns his head, no doubt taking in the state of the room. Ever since Mrs Holmes' warning, John has been careful to keep it very tidy.

"I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother," the young man introduces himself.

John doesn't think Mycroft looks anything like his younger brother. He does have Mrs Holmes' hair colour though, a matt brown, and his sharp nose looks a bit like hers as well.

"Nice to meet you," John greets him, careful to sound polite and make a good first impression, and Mycroft inclines his head.

"Nice to meet you, too," he replies and sits down on a chair next to the desk, leaning back and stretching his long legs in front of him, linking his ankles together. It looks quite elegant, John thinks.

"I couldn't help but notice all the excitement a few minutes ago," Mycroft tells him.

The sick feeling that has somehow been muted for the past few moments now returns with full force. John looks down at his knees almost immediately, unable to meet Mycroft's gaze any longer. After all, Sherlock has just told Mrs Holmes that John has snooped around in Mycroft's room and John is pretending hat he actually has. How can he look Mycroft in the eye now in a situation like this?

When John doesn't say anything, Mycroft speaks up again.

"Sherlock says you've been in my room, John? That you have taken things? My chemicals, even?"

John nods slowly, cheeks growing hot. He feels ashamed and guilty, not for the supposed theft but the blatant lies he's trying to make Mycroft believe. John hasn't even known him for a minute and is already lying to him. It makes John feel like a very bad person.

"He also says that you've threatened to hit him should he not help you with the experiment you wanted to conduct."

Again, John nods, painfully curling his hands around his knees. Mycroft doesn't sound annoyed or angry. His is voice is very calm, actually. His face, however, John cannot see and therefore he isn't sure whether or not Mycroft is sporting a perfect copy of his mother's glare.

"But that isn't true, is it?"

For the briefest of moments, John's gaze flies up and over to where Mycroft is still sitting in the chair before he catches himself.

"It is true", he says, trying to sound convincing. "I- I did it."

John can't tell Mycroft the truth because obviously, he will tell Mrs Holmes and then she will be angry with Sherlock. The whole point of this is to prevent that.

"Really?" Mycroft asks, voice still entirely pleasant. "Well, in that case you need to explain a few things to me. You see, John, I just checked my room to see what else might have gone missing. It seems you must have an excellent nose for chemicals. Everything but the cupboard I store them in is untouched, even the dust on the furniture. You must be very good at snooping, I take it?"

John bites down on his bottom lip and remains silent. He can't say anything to that without somehow incriminating Sherlock who clearly is the only one that would know where to find Mycroft's chemistry set besides maybe Mrs Holmes.

"Also," Mycroft continues after a few moments of thick silence, "I find it quite astonishing that you'd have the time to set it all up in Sherlock's room when Mrs Hudson tells me that you have been downstairs with her chatting, drinking milk and actually asking about Sherlock's whereabouts."

John screws his eyes shut. Mycroft is too smart. He knows the truth and he will tell Mrs Holmes. John still doesn't speak up, though. He won't tell him. He won't.

A small sigh escapes Mycroft.

"John," he says and suddenly, his voice is warm and friendly just like Mrs Hudson's and John nearly opens his mouth to spill the real story after all but then, Mycroft already continues. "Why are you lying on Sherlock's behalf? Apparently, he has been very unfriendly, even rude to you ever since you two have met. I don't understand why you would take the blame for his actions? Has he threatened you with something unless you take the blame?"

"No!" John immediately exclaims, then bites his lip again because he really hasn't meant to say anything at all anymore.

When Mycroft stays silent John finally looks up. The young man is simply looking back at him, face open and obviously waiting for John to make a move and explain himself.

"Please," John eventually whispers, looking pleadingly at Mycroft. "Don't tell Mrs Holmes that Sherlock has taken the chemicals! It was me who spilt it on the carpet anyway! Please don't tell her!"

"Why?" Mycroft enquires and sounds genuinely surprised and a bit curious. "You do understand that my mother is very upset with you at the moment, don't you? She might even consider sending you back to the children's home."

"I know," John answers, shoulders slumping. "But it doesn't really matter. If I tell her the truth she'll be angry with Sherlock and I mean really, really angry, because he has lied, too! And then, Sherlock will be angry with me and if Sherlock hates me, I'll be send back anyway! You see? There isn't a difference! I will have to go back either way but this way, Sherlock at least isn't in any trouble with Mrs Holmes." John shakes his head, feeling defeated.

A wide smile slowly appears on Mycroft's face. John doesn't understand why he seems so glad all of the sudden in this hopeless situation.

"It's a laudable trait," he says and even his voice sounds amused, "that you want to protect other people, especially Sherlock who hasn't been very friendly to you at all, it seems. I really think that's wonderful of you. But you see - Sherlock gets into trouble all the time. If not for this, then definitely for those dead mice I have spotted in a plastic container underneath his bed. Mummy is almost constantly upset with him."

John stares at him, mouth agape.

"Is that why she doesn't hug him?" he asks, confused. "Because she is always upset with him?"

Mycroft's smile fades again and he looks at John thoughtfully for a long moment. John already thinks that maybe he said something wrong when Mycroft draws his legs in and tilts his head a bit before settling on a response.

"No. Our mother simply isn't the type to show affection in such ways. I don't think touching comes naturally to her. She much rather tries to foster our talents and intellect. That is her way of showing us that she cares."

John thinks that actually sounds like Mrs Holmes. A lot.

"What- What now?" he asks Mycroft, feeling at loss now that the truth is out.

"Well, how about you let me talk to Sherlock and my mother and I'll see what I can do. I am sure we can work this out in a way that is beneficial for all parties involved."

Feeling a bit more hopeful now, John manages a smile of his own.

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

Mycroft stands up gracefully, but instead of turning towards the door, he steps over to the bed where John is sitting. He hesitates briefly, then sets a hand onto John's head, ruffling his hair a bit.

"Welcome to the insanity that is the Holmes family," he says with a small wink.

John's belly fills with funny, warm tingles. He grins up at the young man, a bit stupidly maybe, but Mycroft doesn't seem to care because he's smiling back widely which doesn't seem to go with the strict suit at all.

"Thanks," John replies, hardly feeling sick anymore.

____

It's a long half hour of waiting but eventually, Mrs Hudson comes to fetch him.

"They're all in the dining room," she informs him as they take the stairs. "Don't worry, last time I checked all heads were yet attached."

When John enters the room, three indeed intact heads turn towards him. John tries no to look at anyone in particular but Sherlock is about his size so he can't really avoid meeting his eyes. With great relief, John notices that Sherlock doesn't look angry at all. Rather, there's something about the way his hands are twisted in front of him that makes him look a bit guilty.

"Hello," John says, feeling a bit shy because Mrs Holmes is there and he is still nervous about her reaction. It's actually she who speaks up first.

"John," she says and even though she doesn't sound as friendly as Mycroft did earlier, the angry cold is gone from her voice. "There's something Sherlock wants to say to you."

Sherlock gulps visibly, sending his mother a careful look over his shoulder that seems to say Do I really have to? Mrs Holmes gives him the smallest of shoves to the back and Sherlock steps forward and closer to John.

"I-," he starts, then stops. John watches in fascination when a faint blush appears on Sherlock's pale cheeks. "Sorry," he finally says, words rushing from his lips. "For lying, I mean."

John nods but apparently, Mrs Holmes isn't satisfied yet because she pointedly clears her throat.

Sherlock winces, then takes a deep breath.

"And for setting you up," he elaborates. "I knew Mummy would come in and check on me today after arriving at home because she always does. I- I planned it all. So... sorry. Really."

John stares at him. It all makes much more sense now: the way Sherlock had been in a bit of a hurry, his nervous glances at the door, Mrs Holmes' horribly accurate timing. Sherlock really is very smart if he can think of a scheme like that.

"Oh," John says when realisation hits and nods. "Right. It's fine. That was actually quite clever of you."

It really was. John thinks it was brilliant, really. The perfect plan, though not so good for John. Sherlock actually grins at him.

"You think so?"

John nods firmly. "Mhm."

He carefully looks up at Mrs Holmes, then scrapes up all the courage he has left for today.

"I'm very sorry about the carpet, ma'am," he apologizes sincerely. "That really was my fault. I didn't mean to drop the acid but..."

Mrs Holmes nods her acceptance, waving her hand in a dismissive motion.

"We'll get it fixed, not to worry," she replies. She glances at the elegant, silver watch at her wrist and sighs. "Well, Sherlock, I think you've missed half of your violin lesson already. You might as well stay at home for the rest of it."

Sherlock murmurs something in acknowledgement and Mrs Holmes leaves the room with clicking shoes, calling for Mrs Hudson. Sherlock immediately turns to face his older brother who has kept out of the conversation until now.

"How long will you stay?"

John marvels at the sudden excitement in Sherlock's voice, the way his eyes widen a bit, bright and interested.

"Two days," Mycroft replies and Sherlock visibly deflates.

"Oh," he sighs, clearly disappointed. "Only two?"

Mycroft nods. John thinks his smile looks a bit sad. "I'd love to stay longer than that but I have obligations, Sherlock, you know that. However-" And then, Mycroft looks over and winks at John. "I think you've been presented with wonderful company to make up for my absence. Wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock gives John a scrutinizing once-over.

"Maybe," is his ominous reply but he does leave his brother's side to walk over to where John is standing.

"It's still an hour until dinner. Do you want to play?"

"No experiments?" John asks, just to make sure. He has had enough of them for now.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No. Mycroft has hidden all the chemicals away so that's boring, anyway." He sends a glare towards his brother who simply smiles in amusement. "I was thinking - Cluedo?"

"Sounds fun," John agrees and with that, follows Sherlock who has already left the room, hurrying upstairs once more.

They play on the floor in Sherlock's room, both ignoring the hole in the carpet near the desk and the acid-corroded tooth on Sherlock's bedside table.

"Colonel Mustard in the Lounge with the Rope," Sherlock announces and when he opens the envelope, John grudgingly admits that, yes, Sherlock is right. Again. For what must have been the fifth time.

"You're doing well, don't worry," Sherlock tells him and suddenly sounds almost exactly like his older brother had earlier, friendly and a tiny bit soothing. "It's just my favourite game. I know all the combinations and possibilities by heart."

John smiles at him, pleasantly surprised by this side of Sherlock he hasn't really seen yet. The other boy picks up the rope, idly slipping it over one of his fingers like a ring and observing it like an interesting animal.

"Thanks, by the way," he murmurs and John raises his eyebrows in confusion. "For taking the blame." Before John can form any kind of response, Sherlock rushes to add: "It was stupid, of course. Why would anyone do something like that for somebody else?"

John merely shrugs.

"Another game?" he suggests.

Sherlock nods.

"Sure. You'll lose."

Chapter Text

The day Mycroft leaves, Sherlock goes into a sulk.

For two days, no one is allowed to speak to him. Sherlock locks the door to his room from the inside and not even Mrs Holmes' exasperated admonishments and threats get Sherlock to come out and eat. Sherlock says he will stay locked up and starve unless Mycroft returns and doesn't leave again.

Mrs Hudson looks stressed and later tells John that this happens every time Mycroft's visits end. Apparently, they had to break into Sherlock's room three times in the past year.

In the night of the second day, John stays awake past his official bed time, listens up carefully for any noises from the room next to his and eventually intercepts Sherlock on his way to the bathroom. There's a quick but quiet struggle, Sherlock calls John a stupid idiot that can't even win at Cluedo and repeats his earlier statement that John is not - and will never be - his brother. John calmly replies that yes, he will miss Mycroft as well (which is entirely true because Mycroft is brilliant) and lets Sherlock go.

The following day, Sherlock comes downstairs for breakfast as if nothing had been the matter. He politely greets his mother, takes a piece of crisp toast from the little bread basket and chooses, much to everyone's surprise, the chair that is closest to John's.
____

"Look at the crust."

John looks.

"What about it?"

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes as if John is a very slow person.

"A piece is missing."

John nods. He can see that now.

"Maybe it broke off?" he suggests.

Sherlock vehemently shakes his head.

"No, the line is clean. Somebody used a knife to cut it off. They wanted that piece of crust!"

John takes a closer look and must agree with Sherlock. It really looks like a neat cut made with a blade.

"I think you're right. Who'd steal a piece of pie crust, though? There's a whole pie you could nick."

Sherlock grins mischievously.

"It's a mystery."

He jumps off the chair he has been kneeling on and looks around the sunlit kitchen, squinting. John watches him walk around and inspect the sink, the oven, the floor as if he is looking for something.

"A-ha!" Sherlock eventually exclaims, bowing down briefly before lifting his arm in triumph.

He points a finger at John. The previously pale tip is now dark and stained.

"Dirt?" John asks, confused.

"Yes, dirt," Sherlock nods, stepping over to where John is still sitting at the kitchen table. "Flower soil, to be precise."

"Mrs Powell?" John connects the dots aloud. "Mrs Powell has pinched a bit from the pie!"

"She did."

In this very moment, the culprit walks into the door that connects the kitchen to the back garden of the house. Mrs Powell, the gardener, looks at them with a serious expression and raises her own dirt-stained finger to her lips.

"Shh," she hushes them. "Don't tell Mrs Hudson. I was feeling a bit peckish. I thought nobody would look twice at the crust."

"We did," Sherlock tells her proudly and John grins at him, because lately, Sherlock has been using we a lot.

"You won't tell her, will you?"

John is about to shake his head and promise Mrs Powell that they'll hold their tongues but Sherlock pokes his leg. Hard.

"What do you have to offer?" he asks Mrs Powell instead.

The gardener seems to have to think about that for a bit but eventually has got an idea.

"I've dug up some earthworms," she informs him and points through the door and at the flower bed she has been working on. "They're very important for the health of the garden but I think I could spare a few. Sounds interesting enough for an experiment?"

"Brilliant," Sherlock exclaims and rushes off into the garden to find his prize.

Mrs Powell laughs, then looks down at John.

"Vow of silence?" she asks him, nodding towards the slightly steaming blueberry pie on the table that Mrs Hudson has probably made for dessert.

"Vow of silence. We'll let you off the hook," he tells her and slips off his chair to follow Sherlock, "just this once."
____

"What does it sound like?"

Sherlock looks up from where he is applying something called rosin to his violin bow. John is sitting on Sherlock's bed, watching him with interest.

"You've never heard someone play the violin?" Sherlock asks back, genuine surprise in his voice.

John shakes his head.

"When I was little, I think, but I don't remember."

Sherlock nods, looking thoughtful. His hands have stopped moving as he is clearly contemplating the proper answer.

"Well," he says eventually, "it sounds beautiful. Very beautiful."

John thinks that makes sense. The instrument is certainly beautiful so its music must be as well. Besides, Sherlock usually looks very happy and content when he comes back from violin lessons. He probably wouldn't if it sounded terrible, would he?

"Will you play something for me?" John asks because he is very interested in what can make such genuine smiles appear on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock doesn't say anything in reply and focuses back on his work.

In the past weeks, John has gotten used to Sherlock simply ignoring statements he doesn't want to hear. He feels a bit hurt, though, that Sherlock doesn't want to play for him. He really would have liked to hear some music.

Sighing quietly, John leans back until his head hits Sherlock's pillow.

He's lost in some daydream or another when a sound startles him. It is a wistful sound, a bit like a soft miaow, and it vibrates in the air. Sitting up, John sees Sherlock standing near his desk, violin propped up by his chin, carefully moving the bow over the strings.

Sherlock is right. It does sound beautiful.

John finds himself smiling at the melody Sherlock is eliciting from the instrument. It's a bit of a sad song, he thinks, and Sherlock's face is pinched in concentration, but John likes it. He likes it very much. He leans back again, simply enjoying the odd but wonderful sound of the violin while staring up at Sherlock's ceiling. Spots of light seem to dance in rhythm to the melody.

When Sherlock ends on a high, slightly screechy note, John enthusiastically applauds.

"Very pretty," he tells him sitting up and Sherlock turns away, maybe because he has a bit of a blush on his cheeks.

"Thanks."

He carefully puts the violin back into the case, ready for his lesson. John knows that Sherlock likes to prepare in advance as to not waste precious time in which he can learn new things.

"Why don't you learn to play an instrument?" he asks John when they walk downstairs together and to the door. "It's fun."

"I don't think I could," John answers honestly, shaking his head and wincing a bit at the truth. "My shoulder hurts when I lift things for a long time and I can't raise it up all the way anyway. I couldn't hold up an instrument and move my hands around at the same time."

Sherlock carefully but quietly observes John and his shoulder until Harry comes up to the door to take young Mr Holmes to his lesson.

That night, after dinner, Sherlock ushers John into the parlour where Mrs Holmes is sitting with a cup of tea, reading what looks like a letter. Sherlock doesn't pay her any mind and pushes John forward who is too surprised to protest and doesn't say anything until they're both sitting on the wooden bench in front of the piano in the corner.

"Observe. Imitate what my fingers are doing," Sherlock tells him, opens the lid that covers the keyboard and plays a simple melody with his right hand.

John is stunned.

"Why?" he enquires, but his fingers have already moved to the white and black keys on their own accord, copying Sherlock's.

"You don't have to lift a piano," is the other boy's quiet answer.

John ducks his head to hide his stupid grin. Sherlock is doing something nice for him. It makes John very, very happy, almost giddy. Tentatively, he presses the keys down, carefully copying Sherlock's movements.

It takes some time as John's fingers aren't used to the unfamiliar movements and feel a bit stiff but soon enough, he knows how to play two little melodies and Sherlock seems satisfied with him and his progress.

"Why don't you show John how to write the notes on staff paper, Sherlock?" Mrs Holmes eventually speaks up.

She has been quiet throughout John's little lesson but is now looking at them with sparkling eyes. John doesn't know what to make of her expression but she definitely isn't angry or annoyed with them for using the piano and disturbing her quiet. Interested, maybe.

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock promises and turns back to the piano. "We'll play just one more song."

John follows suit but catches Mrs Holmes' mouth stretch into a brief smile before she shifts on her chair and focuses on her reading once more. For some reason, her reaction makes John even more happy than he already is.

Sherlock and he play another song, their legs bumping together every once in a while.
____

This will be a bad day, John already knows that.

It starts with John waking up and immediately sucking in a harsh breath as his shoulder throbs and stings. He hisses, tears of pain rising in his eyes. John blinks them away furiously and grits his teeth in frustration. His shoulder hasn't bothered him for weeks without straining it in some sort of activity first. Of course, it would play up today of all days.

Mr Holmes will be returning from his business trip today. John doesn't know what kind of job he has but apparently, travelling is a big part of it because Mr Holmes is a very important man.

"He's hardly ever at home," Sherlock had told him. "It must be because he wants to meet you. You've been here for five weeks, after all!"

John thinks Sherlock might be right. The probation time is more than halfway over. At some point, Mr and Mrs Holmes will have to decide whether they will adopt him. It only makes sense that Mr Holmes would want to meet John before they even consider it.

John tries not be too hopeful about it. He knows that it isn't at all sure that he will soon be part of the Holmes family. But he really would love to stay.

Sherlock can still be horribly annoying and a prat but most of the time, he's brilliant and even a bit funny. They have been playing the piano together, have shared books and pinched sweets, and sometimes do new experiments under the careful surveillance of Mrs Hudson. In spite of the stiff clothes, some strange rules and dynamics in the household and Mrs Holmes' occasional terrifying glare, John likes it here. He would hate having to leave.

Oh, his stupid shoulder. John hates the thing. How can he make a good impression on Mr Holmes when John will be on the verge of tears the whole day?

He gets out of bed as carefully as he can but the pain flares up some more. He takes deep, calming breaths as the doctors have told him to do after the accident, but it doesn't help with the pain, only with John's rushed heartbeat. It takes a long time to get rid off his pyjamas and he has only just closed the button of his dress trousers when Sherlock storms into the room.

Sherlock never knocks but it's one of the things John has simply gotten used to. Usually, he doesn't mind but today, John is in pain and it hurts so much and so he snaps at Sherlock before the other boy has even opened his mouth.

"Can't you knock like normal people?" he hisses and immediately regrets it when he sees Sherlock's confused and maybe, slightly hurt look.

He blinks a few times, then carefully takes another step towards John.

"Mummy wants to know why you aren't downstairs yet. It's been breakfast time for ten minutes. Have you overslept?"

John jerkily shakes his head and tries to lift his bad arm to slip it into his shirt's sleeve first. It feels like a thousand needles have been stabbed into his shoulder and John can only half-suppress a rather pathetic sob.

Sherlock immediately catches on. He's very smart, after all, and observing.

"Your shoulder is hurting?" he asks for confirmation and his voice is unusually soft.

John nods, vision a bit blurry with unshed tears.

"Don't know why," he murmurs quietly.

Sherlock hesitates, briefly worrying his bottom lip in thought.

"Should I call for Mrs Hudson?" he eventually enquires.

John doesn't like asking people for help with his shoulder. He is a big boy, he can deal with it. But today is really bad and Mrs Hudson has told him several times to simply ask when he needs help.

"Yes, please," he agrees and Sherlock runs off again.

It only takes a few minutes and Mrs Hudson appears in the door, looking worried.

"Oh dear," she exclaims when she sees John, sitting on his bed half-dressed, shoulders and back stiff and tense. "Sherlock says you need some assistance?"

Mrs Hudson's hands feel rough but warm against his skin as she carefully slips the sleeves over John's arms and even closes the buttons for him. John blushes because he doesn't like to be dressed as if he was still a toddler.

"Thank you," he says anyway, because Mrs Hudson isn't asking any uncomfortable questions like the social workers at the home used to.

"You're very welcome," she tells him, briefly brushing her thumb over John's cheek in a soothing gesture. "Just go downstairs for breakfast, I'll make your bed and tidy up a bit."

John knows that that isn't her job, that he is supposed to take care of his room and it only makes him feel more frustrated and bad for inconveniencing the housekeeper like that. He is so useless when it's a bad day for his shoulder.

Downstairs, Mrs Holmes and Sherlock have already finished their breakfast. Mrs Holmes eyes him over the rest of her tea.

"Sherlock says your shoulder is bothering you today?"

Quietly slipping into the chair next to Sherlock's, John nods.

"Yes, ma'am."

For a few moments, Sherlock and she simply watch John who has started going through all the breakfast motions with one arm and his weak hand. It's an awkward process. John hates this.

"Your home supervisor has given me some medicine for your pain episodes," Mrs Holmes eventually informs him and gets up from the table. "You can come and pick it up in the study once you've finished eating."

When she has left the room, Sherlock demands John's full attention.

"Father won't be home until this afternoon," he tells him, sounding excited. "We can still do our little trip this morning and be back on time."

John suddenly loses any appetite he's had left.

He had forgotten about that. Sherlock and he had wanted to go out and explore an old factory site today. They aren't allowed exactly, but Sherlock has planned it all out. He sees the old building every time Harry takes him to his lessons and knows the way.

Sherlock and John have made plans how to climb over the wall in the back garden without ripping their clothes and have made a map that depicts the way they have to take to get to the site. Sherlock has been talking only about their adventure for the past few days.

John swallows thickly and quickly averts his gaze.

"I don't think I can go, Sherlock," he murmurs, guilt crawling in his stomach.

"What? Why? It can't hurt that bad, can it?"

Sherlock sounds so disappointed, John thinks he might actually burst into tears because of it. The mix of guilt and pain is hardly manageable. First Mrs Hudson, now Sherlock. John messes it all up. He hates to spoil their fun. John has been looking forward to their adventure as well, even though they might get into trouble over it. He stays silent, fighting the constricted feeling in throat and the burning in his eyes.

"That's stupid," Sherlock suddenly exclaims. Oh, he's angry now. John can hear it clearly. "We've been planning this forever, John! Once Father is home, we can't do it for at least another two weeks because he sees and knows everything."

John wants to say that he's sorry but then, he might actually cry and he doesn't want to, especially in front of Sherlock. Because who would want a cry baby for a friend and for a companion in an adventure and maybe even for a brother?

After a few quiet moments, John hears Sherlock's chair scrape heavily over the floor. Angry stomping tells John that the other boy has run from the room.

Great. Sherlock is angry, his shoulder is hurting badly and Mr Holmes will arrive this afternoon to see whether or not John is worth being adopted at all. John swallows heavily, then lets out a shaky breath.

He already hates today.

Chapter Text

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John murmurs and carefully accepts a mug of warm cocoa.

The housekeeper has been hovering over John ever since this morning. On the one hand, it makes John feel uncomfortable because he is obviously keeping Mrs Hudson from her real work like cleaning and making lunch. On the other, though, he enjoys her brief, warm touches and her nice words. It reminds John of the way his own mother used to take care of him when he had had the flu or some other illness. When he closes his eyes he can almost smell her hair.

"You're welcome," Mrs Hudson tells him and the little illusion shatters.

John's shoulder still hurts but Mrs Holmes has given him pills for the worst of it an hour ago so John doesn't feel like crying all the time anymore. John remembers the shots he had got at the hospital sometimes and occasionally even at the children's home. They had hurt while being injected but then sent him into a deep, blissful and painless sleep.

Of course, Mrs Holmes doesn't have any of those stored away in the study and John wouldn't want to pass out anyway. Not today, when Mr Holmes will be arriving and taking a good look at John.

Blowing at the steaming liquid to cool it down, John glances up at the clock over the kitchen door. Not even 11 o'clock and all that John can do is sit and wait. He'd really like to read but he doesn't want to risk taking the stairs, doesn't want to move much at all, and asking Mrs Hudson for yet another favour is not debatable.

If only Sherlock was here. They could talk or play a game that requires only one arm and minimal movement. But he's angry with John, really angry. Maybe, he's playing the violin to calm himself down? He does that sometimes. John likes to listen from his room, ear pressed to the wall.

It's all a big mess.

His shoulder hasn't truly troubled him in so long that he had almost forgotten about it being this bad and sudden. A doctor had once told John that his shoulder would hurt less if he didn't go outside too much, if he occupied himself with calm and quiet activities. But John had almost constantly read at the children's home and had had troubles with his shoulder so that doesn't make any sense.

Maybe it's a sign. Maybe John isn't meant to have this new family.

Back at the children's home, John hadn't had any illusion that somebody would want to adopt him. The past weeks have given him hope, though, especially after Sherlock had started to talk to and play with John. Even Mrs Holmes had presented him with a rare smile every once in a while. John liked to think that maybe, she had got used to John's presence in the house and to the regular tinkling coming from the parlour when Sherlock and he would play the piano.

And Sherlock - he's the first friend John has made since the accident. He's smart and interesting and though John can't always keep up with him and Sherlock throws annoyed glares at him every once in a while, they have had so much fun so far. John would love to have Sherlock forever, as his brother. And at night, in his bed, staring at the ceiling or sometimes, at the photographs of Harry and him building sand castles at some beach, he likes to imagine that Sherlock would love to have John forever as well.

John takes a sip of cocoa. It's warm and comforting in his belly.

He thinks of Mycroft. Mycroft had seemed to like him. He had ruffled his hair, after all, and welcomed him to the family and been very nice to him in general and taken care of the whole mess with the stolen chemicals. John had liked him, too. Sherlock as a friend-brother and Mycroft as an older brother that would protect him - John likes that idea. An awful lot.

But when I met Mycroft, my shoulder hadn't been so bad, John thinks and sighs. Maybe, he would have been different if it had been?

"Do you need anything, dear?" asks Mrs Hudson, hands in the sink that is filled with foamy water. It smells of roses which makes John's heart jump uncomfortably.

Make it all good, he thinks, Give me my old family back. Or give me the new one, I don't care. Why is it so confusing, Mrs Hudson? I don't know anything!

John shakes his head, drinking more cocoa but it suddenly doesn't feel comforting anymore.

"No," he half-whispers and puts down his drink. "I'm fine."
____

Lunch is an awkward affair.

Mrs Holmes hasn't shown up at all which happens often enough as to not be unusual but it leaves Sherlock and John on their own in the dining room. Usually, that means that Sherlock and he can talk about their experiments or their games but today, Sherlock isn't sitting next to John which has only happened twice so far ever since the incident with Mycroft. Both times, Sherlock had been really, really annoyed and angry with John.

Usually, John would apologize.

Usually, John would try to make amends.

But right now, John can hardly spoon up his soup because he has to use his right, weak hand and the pain medicine has started to fade a bit and the throb in his shoulder is so awful and it makes John frustrated and and irritated and angry and oh, how he hates it all!

It doesn't take much - just a glare from Sherlock that is a bit too long and heated - and John's spoon clatters onto the table.

"Stop looking at me!" John snaps and surprises himself with how angry he sounds. "Stop glaring at me, it's not my fault I've got a bad shoulder!"

For a moment, Sherlock halts in his movements and looks surprised and taken aback. John almost feels satisfied with having put that look on the boy's face who usually looks so calm and impassive.

"I don't care," Sherlock finally retorts hotly. "We planned it. We should already be on our way."

He sounds a bit hurt and John bites his lip because he really hadn't meant to sound that mean even though he's right about the part with his shoulder.

"Sherlock," he tries in a soothing voice but the other boy just shakes his head, not wanting to hear what John has to say.

So John falls silent, awkwardly eating his soup with his right, an ugly mix of sadness and anger in his chest, making everything tight and awful. His shoulder throbs in the rhythm of his beating heart and for a moment, John has to think of blurry lights, loud noises and screaming.

He screws his eyes shut.
____

When the noises of a door unlocking and keys rattling float into the parlour, John wants to jump and run away.

He knows it's Mr Holmes because Mrs Holmes has shown up in the parlour half an hour ago, dressed in the prettiest dress John has ever seen on her, hair as shiny as the necklace she's wearing, asking him where Sherlock might be and checking over John's appearance, flattening an errant strand of his hair with her palm. It's nothing like Mycroft ruffling his hair.

Mrs Hudson finds Sherlock in Mycroft's room, at least that is what John gains from the hushed conversation Mrs Holmes and Sherlock were having near the piano up until now.

At once, Mrs Holmes' head snaps up. John can hear Mrs Hudson's hurried steps in the hallway and stiffens, swallowing nervously. His shoulder throbs at the sudden movement and John desperately tries to relax his posture again.

The door opens and then John can hear the deep voice of a man.

"Mrs Hudson, how lovely to see you again. Have you done something new with your hair? It looks marvellous."

"Oh, Mr Holmes, always the charmer." Mrs Hudson sounds nothing like when she is talking to Mrs Holmes, but amused and somehow, young. "Let me take your coat, sir, everyone is in the parlour waiting for you."

John hears a low chuckle and then footsteps approaching the door to the parlour.

Mrs Holmes and Sherlock walk over to stand next to John just as a man enters the room in a confident gait.

Mr Holmes looks nothing like John has imagined. He is tall and lean and is wearing an elegant suit, much like Mycroft's. His short hair is dark, just like Sherlock's, with the occasional streak of grey as if someone has sprinkled dust over his head. But all that isn't what surprises John. It is the large and warm smile on his face.

"Good afternoon," he says, voice deep and friendly and John watches, with equal parts of surprise and fascination, how Mrs Holmes' face slowly transforms.

Her smile, usually rather small and brief, turns brighter. It's still nothing like Mr Holmes' but a big improvement from the expression she usually shows. Her whole posture seems to relax as she steps up to her husband who places his hands on her waist and kisses her right on the mouth. Just like John's parent used to.

It's such an odd, unusual thing to do for Mrs Holmes that John might have giggled had the pain in his shoulder and the nervousness not prevented it.

"Welcome back," Mrs Holmes greets as Mr Holmes and she part and even her voice, usually so calm and collected, now sounds warmer and friendlier, like the day of the first experiment when she had asked Sherlock whether or not he was all right.

Mr Holmes' attention strays to focus on his son. Sherlock looks up at him and offers his hand like an adult wanting to greet another. If Mr Holmes is unhappy about this he doesn't show it. Instead, he shakes Sherlock's hand with a serious but friendly expression.

"Father," Sherlock says, definitely happy to see him but it's nothing compared to the reaction he had shown to Mycroft all those weeks ago.

"Sherlock," Mr Holmes replies and nods his head in acknowledgment.

John thinks it is a very strange way to greet one's father because John had always more or less thrown himself at his own dad but everything is different with the Holmes family, he already knows that.

When Mr Holmes' eyes move over to where John is standing, it takes all of his self-control not to take a wary step backwards. Mr Holmes seems friendly enough, yes, but just like his wife and sons, he seems to have eyes that are very attentive and can take in all that is John in a few moments.

"You must be John," Mr Holmes says and John shyly offers his good arm for a hand-shake. "I'm Mr Holmes, which you have undoubtedly deduced by now."

"Yes," John replies and nods. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

Mr Holmes lets go off his hand, still looking at him with an interested look on his face.

"Your shoulder is bothering you today?" he enquires, but it doesn't quite sound like a question, more like he is just looking for conformation.

John can't help but look away. Maybe Mrs Holmes has told him on the phone, John doesn't really care how Mr Holmes knows, but he does care that it is the first thing Mr Holmes wants to talk about.

The boy with the bad shoulder.

John doesn't like that label and gulps.

"It hasn't happened in a while, sir," John explains, feeling as if he has to make excuses. "It just- it just happens, sometimes."

Mr Holmes makes a thoughtful noise, nodding his head, eyes moving briefly over to where Sherlock is standing.

"And you and Sherlock, you're getting along so far?"

John risks a careful glance at Sherlock who seems to have stiffened at the question, face tightening when he catches John's look.

"I think so," John says in a very quiet voice because right now, he isn't so sure Sherlock and he are getting along at all.

Mr Holmes' face gives nothing away but he turns a bit so he faces his son once more.

"What do you say, Sherlock? Are you happy with John's company?"

John holds his breath.

"I don't know, Father," Sherlock eventually says. He sounds horribly bored and impassive about it. "Most of the time, he's rather dull."

And just like that, it's all over. John knows it as soon as the condemning adjective leaves Sherlock's mouth.

Dull.

It's the worst thing Sherlock could have said about John. The Holmes family is looking for someone bright, a smart boy that is worthy of being a Holmes. Dull John Watson with the bad shoulder will not be good enough. As if to prove his point, hot pain sears through John's shoulder in that very moment and John wavers a bit.

"Really?" He hears Mr Holmes' deep voice but doesn't really pay attention anymore.

It's all over. Over and done with. It's just like last time, when Sherlock told Mrs Holmes that John had stolen Mycroft's chemicals. Only this time, Sherlock isn't lying. He's just stating his opinion. Sherlock thinks John is dull, which means boring and dumb and not at all exciting and smart and a possible brother. Sherlock has been right from the beginning.

You will never be my brother.

John can hear Sherlock's hateful voice in his head, repeating the sentence over and over.

"John!"

Trying to pay attention, John looks over. Mrs Holmes has spoken up, looking at him expectantly. She must have asked John something and he had missed it. She's probably annoyed about it but it doesn't really matter now. It's all over anyway.

"I'm sorry?" he asks.

"My husband asked you to come and join us in the study. We want to talk to you in private."

John nods, still lost in thoughts and the pain in his shoulder. He thinks of Mrs Plum and how disappointed she will be. He thinks about his own parents and Harry and it hurts even more so he shoves those thoughts away.

He takes a slow, tentative step towards the parlour door, not even bothering to look at Sherlock. John doesn't think he can stand his impassive glance right now. It will either make him cry or make him so disappointed and angry with him that John will have to hit Sherlock for real. It could hardly make everything worse now.

"John?" Mrs Holmes' voice sounds a tad impatient.

"I'm coming, ma'am," John murmurs and follows Mr and Mrs Holmes into the hallway.

Chapter Text

The study has always been a rather intimidating room but right now, with Mr Holmes behind the wooden desk and Mrs Holmes standing right next to her husband, a hand on the back of his chair, John feels very, very small.

He is sitting only on the edge of his chair, ready to make a bolt for it at any moment though of course that would be very stupid. After all, where is he be supposed to hide? His room? He doesn't even know if it is his room anymore.

"John," Mr Holmes starts speaking and John flinches as his train of thought is interrupted which makes his shoulder throb again.

John's face scrunches up in pain but through his slightly blurry vision, he can see Mrs Holmes hand move to her husband's shoulder, squeezing it.

"I think he needs another dose first," she says and moves to open one of the desk drawers.

John immediately recognizes the pain medicine he has been given this morning. The small bottle filled with white pills rattles softly as Mrs Holmes opens it and takes out one of the small pellets. She walks around and places it on the wooden surface of the desk, right in front of John.

"I'll get you a glass of water," she tells him and quickly leaves the study.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room. John wants to squirm in his seat but is afraid of causing another wave of pain so he tries to keep still and avoids looking at Mr Holmes as much as possible. He can't look at him, he can't. Not after what Sherlock has told his father.

Dull. Dull. Dull.

Eventually, Mrs Holmes returns, a glass of water in her hand. John picks up his medicine, places it on his tongue and accepts the water with a small smile for Mrs Holmes. Their fingers brush briefly as John's fingers curl around the glass and Mrs Holmes looks at him oddly. Now, when John thinks about it, she had a similar look on her face this morning and for a tiny moment, John wonders if maybe, she's a bit concerned about him?

Taking a big gulp of water, John forces himself to focus on swallowing the pill. He hates the feeling of it going down his throat unchewed but he knows it'll help with the pain so it's a small price to pay.

He puts down the glass on the desk. The sound seems unusually loud in the quiet of the room.

"John," Mr Holmes speaks up again but this time, John is prepared.

He still can't look at the man but John thinks it's an improvement that his eyes have moved up as far as Mr Holmes' tie. It's deep blue with neat rows of small light dots on it.

"Did you and Sherlock have an argument of some sort?"

John holds his breath. How is he supposed to answer this? He can't tell them about their planned adventure, can he? It's a secret between Sherlock and John, no matter what Sherlock thinks about John. You just don't pass on secrets. And besides, John is very sure Mr and Mrs Holmes will not approve of their plan at all.

"Yes, sir," John quietly replies, because the argument part is true and not really part of the secret.

Mrs Holmes, who hasn't moved from John's side so far, sighs. John doesn't know whether it sounds annoyed, relieved or something else entirely.

"What was it about?" Mr Holmes enquires.

He doesn't sound particularly upset, only interested. John still doesn't dare to look at Mr Holmes' face and can't tell his expression from the knot of his tie so he doesn't know whether or not Mr Holmes looks upset.

Desperately trying to cover their story, John also tries not to lie to Mr Holmes. At least not directly.

"We had plans for today," he explains slowly, "but I can't join in... with my shoulder..."

He trails off, biting his lips. He can't really say anything else without making something up or saying something remotely accusing about Sherlock's reaction. Neither option seems very good at the moment.

"Sherlock was disappointed that your plans have been postponed?"

It's Mrs Holmes who draws the right conclusion and John nods once and very quickly because agreeing to that somehow feels a bit like telling on Sherlock.

But suddenly, he's feeling more hopeful. Maybe Sherlock didn't mean what he said? Maybe Sherlock only told his father that John was dull because he was angry and disappointed and wanted to get John into trouble over it?

It makes sense, John thinks. It sounds like something Sherlock would do.

"Do you like Sherlock, John?"

Finally, John looks at Mr Holmes' face properly as his head snaps up in surprise. The sudden change of topic is very strange but Mr Holmes sounds and looks friendly. He's even smiling encouragingly at John.

"Yes, sir," John replies because he does, no matter what Sherlock said earlier. "Very much."

"That's good. And you're having fun together, yes? I hear Sherlock has started playing the piano with you some time ago."

And this, John is comfortable with. This, he can tell Mr Holmes freely about.

"Yes, sir," he says once more, suddenly feeling eager to tell about his past weeks. "Sherlock's a great teacher. I can play ten short songs and two longer ones already! Sherlock says knowing how to play the piano helps him with his violin playing, that's why he knows how. I think Mycroft taught him most of it and now he is showing it all to me."

Suddenly, he can't stop talking, smiling up at Mr Holmes who continues to smile back and leans back into his chair. John tells him about the experiments, and the mysteries Sherlock and he have solved so far, and about the first time he has beaten Sherlock at Cluedo, though he hurries to add that Sherlock is still much better at it than John. He talks about Sherlock playing the violin for him, about them reading books together and when John finally runs out of things to say, Mr Holmes' smile is just as bright as it had been in the parlour earlier.

John realizes that this was probably the longest speech he has given in this house and blushes because it's a bit embarrassing how excited he's become. Mr Holmes, however, doesn't seem to mind at all.

"Well," he says instead and his voice sounds so friendly, it makes John's heart jump a bit, "I think that answers all of my questions."

He shares a look with Mrs Holmes who nods at her husband before looking down at John. She seems entirely relaxed, for once, and hardly cold or distant.

"Why don't you go find Sherlock? I'm sure you two can sort your argument out before dinner."

"All right," John replies and slowly slides off his chair. His shoulder, he notices, feels much better now, though it's still quite uncomfortable to move.

As he leaves the study to look whether or not Sherlock is still in the parlour, John thinks that really, it hadn't been a bad conversation at all. Mr Holmes had been very friendly, actually and not upset at all. Maybe, Mr Holmes thinks as well that Sherlock hadn't been serious earlier? Finding the parlour empty, John quickly walks down the hallway.

Maybe, if Mr Holmes likes John, if he thinks that John is good company for Sherlock - maybe, in that case, John may stay?

Suddenly feeling very happy and excited, John hurries up the staircase as fast as his shoulder will let him to find Sherlock. He'll apologize for messing up their adventure and then maybe, Sherlock will sit next to John again during dinner and Mr Holmes will think that they look a bit like two boys who could be brothers and will decide that John should be adopted.

"Sherlock?" John calls and opens the door to the other boy's room.

But Sherlock doesn't seem to be there. John enters the room and looks around. The bed is made so he isn't hiding under the blankets and the desk is tidy and vacant as well.

Too tidy, in fact.

"Oh no," John whispers and rushes over to the desk that had been over-flowing with their plans only last night.

Frantically, John looks for their map but can't find it anywhere, neither can he see the papers on which they had wanted to note their observations.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," John whispers, his earlier excitement slowly being replaced by dread.

Sherlock has walked off to the factory site on his own. Sherlock has left to go on their adventure without John.

Suddenly, panic overcomes John. Mr and Mrs Holmes can't find out, ever. If they find out what John and Sherlock have planned for the past two weeks, if they find out where Sherlock has disappeared to they'll be angry. They'll be more than just angry. They'll be... they'll be... John can't even think of a suitable word. He can't even begin to imagine the amounts of trouble they'll be in.

It's a frightening thought.

John knows how scary Mrs Holmes can be when she is angry or upset with them. And hadn't Sherlock said he wouldn't dare to go on the adventure at all with Mr Holmes at home?

John has to stop this. John has to go after Sherlock right now and make him go back before it's too late.

Map, map, I need the map, John thinks but he knows that Sherlock has taken it with him, Map, map - the rubbish bin!

And there, in between the crumpled papers, John finds one of the first drafts of their map. Sherlock said it isn't accurate enough but John hopes it'll do. It does have most of the directions on it so it will have to be enough.

John smooths out the crinkles, carefully folds up the paper and slips it into his trouser pocket.

He tip-toes downstairs and carefully looks into the hallway. He can't hear or see Mr and Mrs Holmes so he assumes that they're still in the study, probably talking about important things. Mrs Hudson is humming in what seems to be the dining room if John's hearing can be trusted. That means the kitchen must be empty.

Perfect.

John feels like a criminal, sneaking into the kitchen on tip-toes, careful not to make any noise at all. He opens the door to the back garden, cringing a bit when it creaks. He stops dead, listening but Mrs Hudson doesn't seem to have heard the noise. Sighing a breath of relief, John goes outside and closes the door behind him.

It's sunny outside and even a bit warm. John isn't surprised - they're still on summer holiday after all. He looks around and spots the water butt close to the wall. Right next to it, several wooden boxes have been moved to form a small staircase.

If John needs any further proof that Sherlock has run off to the factory site, it's here now. This exactly was their plan for getting over the wall. John swallows and approaches the water butt. The wall isn't very high so climbing up the boxes and onto the water butt will be enough to comfortably reach the top. But John and Sherlock had always planned that Sherlock would be there to help John across the wall. John has had doubts that he could cross it on his own on a good day but with his shoulder like this?

I can do it, he tells himself and steps onto the first box, careful to hold his arm still, I can do it.

It takes a few long minutes of careful adjusting, and John's shoulder protests a fair number of times, but in the end, John is sitting at the very top of the wall. Just like Sherlock has said, a huge pile of mowed grass is waiting on the other side of the wall. Apparently, Sherlock has watched from one of the upper windows in the house Mrs Powell, gardeners and other people from the neighbouring houses dump their garden waste there. And just like Sherlock has said, the pile is huge enough so that simply jumping into it should do the trick.

Eyeing the pile carefully, John thinks he can already see a dent from where Sherlock might have landed.

He hesitates, looking back at the house. He swallows. Should he really do this?

But one thought at how Mr and Mrs Holmes might react if they find out about Sherlock's disappearance and their plan as a whole whisks away any lingering doubts.

Taking a deep, calming breath, John curls his left arm in and tucks it into his chest before he jumps. The fall is very brief but exciting and luckily, John lands on his behind. Still, the shock of the impact is enough to make his shoulder flare up when John lands and immediately, tears start stinging in his eyes. For a few long moments, he simply sits in the pile of cut grass, breathing harsh breaths and holding his shoulder still. There's only so much the medicine can do, he knows that. John can't climb and run and jump around like other children, he will never be able to do that without pain, even on good days.

When finally the throbbing and stinging subsides again, John carefully slides down onto the ground. He rubs his face, catching a few stray tears with his sleeve before pulling the map from his trouser pocket.

He's climbed the wall and according to their map, he has to follow the narrow dirt path that winds in between the walls and fences of the other houses and will lead to a street that runs parallel to the street the house of the Holmes family is on.

Determined, John clutches the map and starts walking.

Chapter Text

The map is very confusing and John is sure he's taken a lot of wrong turns and loop ways by now. He doesn't know how long he has been walking but it feels like forever to him. His shoulder is doing okay but slowly, all the walking and the occasional bit of climbing is taking its toll on his legs as well. John has hardly walked or run long distances ever since the accident. There hadn't been many opportunities in the children's home in the first place and his shoulder had, of course, prevented him from most other exercises.

John isn't used to big cities like London, either. He hardly remembers the few times his parents have brought Harry and him along. When he first arrived at the house of the Holmes family he had been sure he had to be in the heart of the city. Maybe, that wasn't entirely true but there's lots of cars and people around John and it's a bit scary. Sometimes, the maps leads him through nearly empty streets but three times, he had to cross a main road with traffic lights and honking cars and everything.

After what feels like forever and some more, John can finally see what Sherlock has described as brother smokestacks. They're two tower-like things, one tall and one small, but they don't smoke, though Sherlock said that is because the factory site is abandoned. And abandoned is perfect for exploring, of course.

It takes another couple of minutes until John finds the entrance. The gate is closed but several of the metal bars are either rusty or gone completely and John could easily slip trough the holes. There are battered signs fastened to the gate that say Danger! and Caution! and for a minute or two, John stands in front of the gate hesitantly, biting his lip in thought.

Should I really go in? he wonders, eyeing the yellow warnings carefully. Looks dangerous.

But then, Sherlock has probably already walked in and started exploring on his own and John needs to bring him back before Mr and Mrs Holmes realise that they're gone. John eyes the street carefully. It's a busy street with lots of cars passing the site. John is sure Harry drives Sherlock to his violin lesson using this road because Sherlock has said they pass the building every week. It's how he got the whole idea for the adventure in the first place.

None of the drivers seem to pay attention to John standing in front of the building and when John sees no other pedestrians, he takes a deep breath and slips through the gate, entering the site.

There's a large courtyard filled with old trailers and containers, glass shards and pieces of cardboard. John looks around, unsure where to look first. Right in front of him there is what seems to be the main building. Its windows are mostly shattered and someone has sprayed weird words and pictures on the walls. There's a metal door a few meters ahead that stands ajar. John decides he might as well start looking for Sherlock there.

He walks over and slips inside the building.

It's not exactly dark inside but it's not sunny like outside either and the air is a lot cooler. John shivers a bit but walks on, looking left and right to take everything in. He's in a long hallway with open and closed doors along the walls. It's quiet and a bit strange and John thinks that at night, this could be a very scary place.

"Sherlock?" he calls out half-heartedly.

John's voice creates an echo, re-sounding in the mostly empty space. He listens carefully but can hear nothing - no steps, no response, no noise at all. John wonders whether or not Sherlock is actually here, whether or not John is looking in the right place.

"Sherlock?" he tries again, louder this time, as he walks onward, peaking into the empty rooms in the process. They're all empty, dusty and grey.

The hallway ends in another metal door, standing ajar. When John tries to open it further it's stuck. He tugs on the doorknob forcefully, automatically using two hands to pull and regrets it a moment later when his shoulder protests. He hisses, letting go immediately but apparently, the brief pull was enough because with a creaky groan, the doors opens further, leaving a big enough space for a boy of John's size to walk through.

John waits a minute, letting the pain subside before squeezing through the opened space. His shirt sleeve catches on something sharp in the door frame and a small tear appears in the fabric. Looking at it, John swallows. How is he supposed to explain that? Mrs Holmes will be so angry when Mrs Hudson tells her that John has messed up one of the expensive, new shirts.

This is a stupid idea, he thinks, sniffling a bit, Stupid stupid stupid.

But now, he's here. There's no going back until he has found Sherlock.

The next room isn't as much a room but a large hall. Most of its windows are broken as well but unlike the hallway, it's warmer and very bright in here. On the dirty floor, John can see a few small footsteps that could be Sherlock's and he feels more hopeful that he's looking in the right place.

"Sherlock?" he shouts, louder than ever and he flinches when a startled pigeon flies off a metal beam holding up the roof with indignant tweeting.

Perking up his ears, John waits for a response. There's no call but he thinks he can hear something so he follows the noise, careful not to step onto anything sharp or broken. His shoes are no longer shiny but John is sure he can clean the dirt off. His trousers, however, are a bit stained and John wonders if he shouldn't hide all of today's clothes once they're home.

The faint noise grows louder as John crosses the hall. It sounds like something made of metal is being moved.

"Sherlock?" John shouts again, then snaps his mouth shut.

Maybe it isn't Sherlock making the noise? Maybe it's some adult or the owner of the site and when he catches John snooping he'll call the police and get him into loads of trouble!

The noise stops for a moment, then continues as if nothing had happened.

Nearly arriving at the other end of the hall, John realizes that the noise is coming from a set of stairs leading downstairs, maybe into some kind of cellar. Swallowing, John eyes the metal steps carefully. They don't look very stable and are rusty in some places but someone has already gone down there so they should be okay, shouldn't they? John takes a determined breath and carefully takes the first step.

The staircase goes round and round like a spiral and John takes his time, taking the first step slowly. It creaks a bit but doesn't shake or break so John's initial worry subsides, making space for curiosity. Whoever is making the noise hasn't realised that John is approaching them. Still, it could be some adult so he's careful and when the staircase is about to end, he peaks around the corner.

As soon as he spots dark, curly hair and a dress shirt covered in dust and dirt, John breathes a relieved sigh.

"Sherlock!" he exclaims and the other boy jumps in surprise.

His eyes widen comically when he spots John approaching before he catches himself.

"John? What are you doing here?"

He sounds surprised but also angry and John, who has been hurrying towards him in relief and excitement, stops a few meters away from him.

"I've come to get you," he explains slowly. "We have to go home."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. John watches him step away from a small metal door in the wall. Apparently, Sherlock has been moving pieces of metal away from it because there's a large pile of plates and rods in a corner with a fresh cloud of dust hanging in the air.

"You're not supposed to be here. Mummy will be furious with you!"

John swallows nervously.

"Well, we have to go back so she doesn't notice," he tells him. "Will you come back with me? Please?"

Sherlock shakes his head, lifting his hands in what seems to be irritation.

"You don't understand. You're supposed to be at home like a nice little boy, like a good child."

John stares at him, honestly confused.

"W-what?" he splutters, unsure what to make of Sherlock's angry, maybe even annoyed expression.

"I've come here alone so that you can tell my parents where I've gone to, so they'll be thankful and like you a lot! You weren't supposed to follow me, you idiot! You were supposed to help them and be a good little boy!"

John blinks.

"You want them to like me?" he repeats, trying to understand what Sherlock is explaining and picking the statement that caught most of his attention.

Surprisingly, the anger on Sherlock's face suddenly vanishes, fading into something that looks a lot like embarrassment. His cheeks even have gone a bit pink.

"John", Sherlock says quietly and averts his eyes, which is very unlike him. "I'm... I'm sorry about what I've said to Father. You aren't..." He stops again, pressing his hands into the sides of his legs. "You aren't dull. I... I... I like you, all right? And I'd like you to stay. With us, I mean. At home."

A warm tingle grows in John's belly, seemingly expanding, when he finally understands what Sherlock is trying to say, has tried to achieve by running away on his own. Sherlock likes him. Sherlock wants him to stay.

"You- you want me to be your brother?" John asks, just to make sure, and when Sherlock nods jerkily, John can't stop the large grin from forming on his face.

Sherlock looks up, sees it and smiles back, cheeks still slightly pink. For a moment, they simply look at each other, smiling and John thinks this might be the most wonderful moment in a very long time.

Then, Sherlock suddenly scowls again, realising that his plan has failed.

"But now, you've messed it all up! Why have you come after me? Oh, they'll be so angry with you!"

John's grin dies but the warm feeling in his belly doesn't really go away.

"It's okay. Let's just go back now and maybe, they won't know."

John is confident that they can make it back in time. It hasn't been that long, has it? Besides, Sherlock has the good map and everything will go a lot faster from here.

But Sherlock shakes his head, curls bouncing.

"Oh no, they know already, I'm sure. It must be dinner time by now. I've been here for hours, I think. Besides, Father knows everything."

John gulps.

"You really think so?" he asks, growing worried again now that Sherlock has his doubts.

Sherlock nods but suddenly, he's making his thinking face. John has seen it several times now, when they played Cluedo or tried to find out who's taken a piece of the pie. John knows not to talk and let him be when he does it. Eventually, Sherlock's face brightens up again.

"All right, here's my new plan: we'll go back and you can tell them that you've rescued me from here. They must like you then and they'll have to adopt you right away. You know, like a reward!"

"But won't they be angry that I have gone on my own?" John wonders aloud.

"Maybe," Sherlock acknowledges but doesn't seem too worried about it. "But they'll be more relieved that I'm home, I think. Mummy will just cancel dessert or something boring like that."

John thinks it over. He doesn't want to lie to Mr and Mrs Holmes but it's not an actual lie, is it? He has gone after Sherlock to bring him back so he doesn't get into trouble. That does sound a bit like rescuing, doesn't it?

"Okay," he agrees and Sherlock nods, looking pleased.

They walk towards the staircase together in comfortable silence, John unable to stop smiling. Sherlock likes him. Sherlock wants to be his brother. John is sure that Mr and Mrs Holmes would like to hear that from Sherlock's mouth and wonders if the other boy will repeat it to them?

They take the first step together, Sherlock taking the lead.

John wonders what it'll be like to be adopted. Will Mrs Holmes be more happy with him? John knows Mycroft has said that she doesn't hug people very much but she has seemed so much more happy when Mr Holmes was at home and has even kissed him. And will Mycroft be back? Mycroft, John remembers with a pleased grin, will be his brother as well, of course.

Suddenly, the staircase creaks loudly and Sherlock stops, leg halfway on the fifth step. He looks back at John who is close behind him, face going pale. Then, the staircase starts shaking, creaking horribly and John's heart jumps in panic.

"Go back!" Sherlock shouts and pushes John downstairs again, nearly knocking John over in the process.

They have hardly reached the bottom again when the staircase starts falling sideways and crashes into the wall with a loud bang. John quickly covers his ears with his hands, cringing, and can only stare at the cloud of dust and dirt that has risen. Next to him, Sherlock doesn't seem to be doing much better.

For a few minutes, there's silence. Eventually, John slowly pries his hands away from his ears and gapes at what they have done.

The staircase still looks like a staircase. It hasn't broken into pieces or anything like that, but now it's leaning against the wall, definitely unable to serve as a staircase ever again unless you're a very small animal or an insect. John blinks, heartbeat quickening when the realisation hits him.

"Sherlock?" he speaks up, voice squeaky. "W-what are we going to do now?"

Chapter Text

They figure out quickly that the staircase is the only way into and out of the little cellar they're in. There are no windows or holes in the walls and the little door Sherlock was about to explore before John had found him turns out to be just a funnel that is filled with stones and dirt and isn't an exit either.

They're stuck. Trapped.

Sherlock is pacing around the room, looking at the walls, at the floor, looking everywhere but John has already lost hope. He's sitting on the floor in a corner, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them.

His shoulder has started throbbing again but it's no surprise. All the climbing and walking and door-pulling and now, the half-jump off the staircase. John thinks it has just been all the excitement and determination that has kept him going until now. Besides, John hasn't taken another pill and he usually needs three on a bad day like this, taking the last one before going to bed. It tends to be better after a good night of sleep.

"We're stuck, Sherlock," he whispers when after many minutes, Sherlock still hasn't stopped walking around. "You can stop looking for an exit!"

Sherlock throws him the most hateful glare he has ever directed at him, even worse than those from the first couple of meetings. John flinches but doesn't look away. He knows Sherlock doesn't mean it. Sherlock likes him, he's said that. That's why they're here at all.

"We can't be trapped!" Sherlock all but shouts and John realises that Sherlock is afraid.

John can understand that. He's a bit afraid as well. What should they do now? Nobody knows where they have gone. How will Mr and Mrs Holmes ever find them, especially when it'll get dark later?

"But we are," he tells him and smiles up at him weakly. "Come sit with me?"

Sherlock shakes his head and paces some more but eventually, with a big and shaky sigh, he walks over to John after all and slumps down next to him.

"This isn't a very fun adventure," he murmurs, drawing his legs in just like John.

"Proper adventures are supposed to be dangerous," John replies.

Sherlock snorts. There's a few minutes of silence.

"I'd rather be at home than have a proper adventure," he eventually mumbles and presses his face into his knees, hiding in the fabric of his dirty trousers.

John swallows, carefully eyeing Sherlock who looks like he might be about to start crying at any moment. He moves a bit closer so his good shoulder is bumping into Sherlock.

"It'll be fine," he whispers though he doesn't know how it's supposed to be fine. "They'll call the police if they can't find us."

Sherlock actually sniffles into his knees.

"But London is huge," he says and John has to strain his ears because the words are so muffled. "We could be anywhere."

John thinks it is time for a hug. He raises his good arm and slowly and very carefully places it around Sherlock who grows still and lifts his head, looking at John with watery eyes. John smiles at him, trying to ignore the pain in his other shoulder. It's his first hug in what feels like forever and definitely the first with Sherlock.

It's special.

"But your father knows everything, doesn't he? He'll figure it out," he tells Sherlock, trying to sound confident about it.

And finally, Sherlock smiles back, briefly wiping over his face with his sleeve.

"Yes, he will," he agrees and moves a bit, definitely leaning into John's side, one hand moving to clasp at John's lower back.

John doesn't know how long they just sit there, listening, waiting and hugging. It gets darker around them slowly and with each black shadow expanding, John grows more worried and afraid. He remembers his first thoughts, that this place would look quite scary in the dark and knows he's been right. There's still some light left and already, he thinks he sees the shadows move and twist.

It's getting colder as well and for the first time, John is thankful that Mrs Holmes insists on long, elegant sleeves, even though it's still late summer and mostly warm outside.

"What if they aren't coming?" Sherlock whispers, eyes closed.

"They're coming," John insists, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder and hoping he isn't lying.

By now, his own shoulder is hurting nearly as bad as this morning again but sitting still makes it almost bearable. John very much feels like crying but he is sure that once he starts, he won't be able to stop and then Sherlock will cry as well and everything will be much more awful than it already is.

John is tired and afraid and he wants to go back and drink Mrs Hudson's excellent hot chocolate or play the piano with Sherlock. He could even deal with an angry Mr and Mrs Holmes if only they don't have to stay here forever.

Way too soon, the darkness is all around them and Sherlock shifts against John until he can press his face into John's side. John is too tired and frightened to say anything comforting and simply closes his eyes because when they're open, he'll stare into the darkness and imagine scary shapes and noises that aren't actually there.

At some point, his mind drifts away and he falls asleep, hugging Sherlock close like a soft toy.
____

John jerks awake to noises that are definitely not imagined. It's still dark all around and he shivers, relieved that Sherlock is still leaning against him. Sherlock who is very tense, too tense to be sleeping.

"Do you hear that?

It's Sherlock, whispering and moving to grab a handful of John's shirt. He sounds as afraid as John is feeling.

"Yes," John breathes.

John doesn't know what they're hearing exactly. They're just noises that sound like they're not exactly close-by but not far away either. Definitely something inside of the building. They could be human steps or monsters moving around or anything. John really hopes it's not something that wants to hurt them.

"I'm scared, John," Sherlock whispers and John thinks it makes it all worse because usually, Sherlock would never admit that he's afraid of something, that much John knows.

"Me too," he admits and bites on his lip to suppress a sob that clearly wants to get out.

Only in the very back of his mind, John notices that his shoulder is still hurting but the noises are getting louder now and the only thing John can think about is what the noises might be, might mean.

Please don't let it be monsters, he thinks.

The science books he's read have never spoken about monsters that live in abandoned places and usually, adults tend to tell children that there aren't any creatures creeping about in the dark as well, but maybe they're wrong or John has read the wrong books and monsters do exist. Monsters that can smell Sherlock and him.

Then, John can somewhat make out a voice.

"...got to be here... footprints over there at... the light!"

No monsters. People. People!

All of a sudden, the darkness is broken by light coming from where the staircase used to lead. It's faint but it's there and instead of black, there's grey now and the shape of the staircase and the walls. John looks down and can almost make out Sherlock's nose.

"John!" Sherlock says but his voice is still quiet.

John, who has contemplated whether or not he should be shouting for help realises that the people could also be very bad people, criminals for example, and he bites his lip, straining his ears for more information.

"... set up the floodlight," the voice is saying.

It's a man talking, John realises, but he doesn't think the voice sounds familiar. It's definitely not Mr Holmes or Harry.

There are footsteps now, definitely more than one person walking around. There are other noises as well but John doesn't know what they mean, only that doors are being opened and things are being moved. They're looking for something, John thinks. Looking for them? They have talked about footprints, haven't they?

The footfall becomes louder, getting closer to where the entrance of the cellar is supposed to be and John stops breathing.

"Hello? Sherlock? John? Are you there?"

John recognises the voice at the same time that Sherlock lets go off John and starts shouting.

"Mycroft! Down here!"

Relief crushes down on John like he has never felt it before. It's Mycroft! They're going to be rescued! He gets up slowly, following Sherlock's example who has already scrambled onto his feet, rushing over to the broken staircase. Careful not to accidentally knock into anything because it still isn't that light, John follows after him.

"Sherlock!" calls Mycroft and he sounds even more relieved than John is feeling though he didn't know that that's even possible. "Where's John?"

"I'm here," John shouts up and breathes a sigh when Mycroft's upper body shows up where the staircase used to start.

There's a torch in his hand but it isn't what's making most of the light which is coming from the inside of the big hall, it seems. Mycroft squints down at them, clearly unable to see them properly.

"Thank God," he says anyway, voice trembling a bit. "Are you hurt or in pain?"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock calls out, then lowers his voice. "Are you hurt, John?"

"Just- just my shoulder," John admits, loud enough for Mycroft to hear. "And the staircase has toppled over! We can't get out!"

Mycroft nods then turns his head to shout over his shoulder.

"I found them! Get over here! They're stuck in one of the coal cellars!"

More footsteps approach and only moments later, at least half a dozen men look down on them. They're not policemen, at least they're not wearing uniforms, but John is sure they'll be able to help because they're with Mycroft and Mycroft is smart and always seems to know what he's doing.

Mycroft shouts commands at them and John stops listening at some point because it's a bit confusing but he does understand that they're about to be rescued and it's all that matters. Next to him, Sherlock makes a sound of utter relief and John can see his outlines shift as he turns.

"You were right, they were coming," he says.

Something bumps against John's belly and he realises it's Sherlock's hand seeking for John's. He grabs it and Sherlock's fingers tighten around his.

"I know," is all John replies and together, they look up again, watching the men appear and disappear, carrying a big light and ropes and whatnot.

Mycroft's head pops in once in a while, making sure they're still there and waiting. Eventually, one of the men is slowly being lowered down to Sherlock and John's level, sitting on a little board that is fastened to ropes.

"Who's first?" he asks, smiling encouragingly and beckoning them closer with his arms.

"You go," Sherlock says immediately and lets go of John's hand. "You know - with your shoulder."

John nods, a happy rush of gratitude mixing with the relief of finally getting out of the horrible cellar, and he approaches the man who hugs him close carefully and yells "Up!" at the other people above.

Up there, another pair of strong hands wraps around his middle and John is taken from the man on the lift and set down on the floor. John takes a deep breath, gaining his foothold but he doesn't even have time to thank anybody because suddenly, he's being pulled forward by his good arm.

"John! Oh God, you've scared us to death."

John forgets how to breathe when Mycroft's arms engulf him. The young man is kneeling on the dirty floor in front of John, wearing his expensive-looking suit and he is hugging John. He's being mindful of John's shoulder but still embraces him strongly enough to make John understand that Mycroft's been very, very worried about him and would love to never let go off him again.

At first, John is too shocked and surprised by the action to hug him back and when Mycroft pulls back at last and places his hands on John's cheeks instead, it's already too late to do anything other than stare.

"We'll get you to the hospital in a moment," he says, eyes roaming over John's face. "They'll give you something for the pain."

Mycroft looks up then and over John's shoulder and John turns just in time to see Sherlock being set down by strong arms. He looks over to where Mycroft and John are and immediately breaks into a run, brushing past John and all but bumping into the still kneeling Mycroft. Apparently, Sherlock hasn't got any reservations when it comes to touching his older brother. At least, not after being rescued from a dark, scary cellar in a spooky old factory.

Mycroft hugs his brother close, closing his eyes briefly and John realises that there isn't any difference in how he cups Sherlock's face after a few moments in comparison to how he has been with John. As if John is just as important to him as Sherlock is.

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft says, looking at Sherlock but there's no real anger in his voice or eyes. "It took me forever to work out where you had disappeared to! You could have been severely injured. You could have been kidnapped!"

Sherlock doesn't reply but buries his face back into his brother's chest. Mycroft hugs him again, looking over Sherlock's shoulder at John. He smiles at John whilst hugging Sherlock, relieved and happy and maybe a tiny bit angry. John, however, is just glad that they're rescued and still a bit shocked that Mycroft has worried just as much about John as he has about Sherlock.

Eventually, they're being led outside and an ambulance is waiting in the courtyard, next to a handful of other cars. Someone has opened the gate for them, it seems. There are more people standing around and John wonders if they're part of the rescuing team as well.

Close to the vehicles, John spots the familiar forms of Mr and Mrs Holmes, faces shining blue with the flashing light of the ambulance. Mr Holmes has an arm around his wife's shoulder and seems to be speaking directly into her ear, absentmindedly stroking her hair, but they both look up when their little group approaches.

Panicking a bit, John immediately walks closer to Sherlock. Now that the initial excitement has calmed down a bit, John realises that they're in big trouble, Sherlock and he.

But Mrs Holmes doesn't yell at them and Mr Holmes doesn't glare. In fact, Mrs Holmes places a hand on either of the boys backs and pulls them closer and John realises it's her odd way of embracing someone.

"My boys," she says and sounds a bit choked.

Her face is pale, her hair and clothes ruffled and messy and John doesn't know whether or not the half-hug, her appearance or the declaration is what shocks him the most. He has never seen her like this before.

While Mrs Holmes fusses over them, asking them several times whether or not they are all right, Mr Holmes steps up to Mycroft, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Well done," he murmurs with a nod, then turns to speak to one of the men that helped rescuing John and Sherlock and has followed them outside.

Mycroft looks relieved and maybe, a bit proud.

Eventually, Sherlock and John are sitting in the back of the ambulance with a medic who checks them both over and promises John something more suitable for the pain in his shoulder than the tiny shot he's given him already, once they've arrived at the hospital. As the car rushes through the night, Sherlock and John simply sit next to each other, rather a lot like down in the scary cellar except that there's a fluffy blanket around both of their shoulders now, keeping them warm.

"Well," Sherlock eventually speaks up, still sounding a bit shaken but once more starting to resemble his confident self.

"Mhm," John replies.

There's a moment of silence.

Then, they both start giggling at the same time. It's freeing and their shoulders are shaking which isn't good for John's shoulder and the medic looks at them a bit funny as well but he couldn't honestly care less at the moment. They've been rescued, John feels safe and warm, Mycroft and Mrs Holmes have hugged him and Sherlock wants to be his brother.

John is sure they'll be in the biggest trouble imaginable once they're done at the hospital but he isn't really afraid of that at the moment.

All that matters that he's still laughing, with Sherlock right next to him doing the same.

It feels brilliant.

Chapter Text

Sherlock thinks they're all making such a big deal over nothing.

Mrs Hudson is hurrying around the house, cleaning things that don't need cleaning and generally being really annoying. Mummy has disappeared into her bedroom hours ago to do God knows what. Father is somewhere in Asia, working in China or Japan. And Mycroft says he doesn't want to be disturbed in the study until the cake is ready. Just because he has come home for the weekend, he says, it doesn't mean he hasn't got things to do.

John isn't even at home.

Because John is with that woman, Mrs Plump or Lump or whatever her name is, the one from the children's home, who didn't even know what an IQ was. John and she are having some kind of important talk.

Sherlock doesn't know why everyone is making such a fuss, really. Certainly, nobody is this excited when it's Sherlock's birthday.

Of course, Sherlock knows it's not just John's birthday. It's more than that.

Today, John is going to be adopted.

But really, Sherlock doesn't see the point. As far as he is concerned, John is already his brother. John Watson or John Watson Holmes - what difference does it make? None. None at all. It's just a silly little last name.

Nothing to become all excited about.

But no, even John has been insufferable for the past few days, grinning way too often and sometimes, just looking into empty space, thoughts clearly elsewhere. Even Mr Newbery, their private tutor, has noticed and reprimanded John on several occasions.

Ugh, Mr Newbery!

Sherlock hates him. He's so boring and his voice is scratchy, it makes Sherlock want to clear his throat all the time. They've only had morning lessons for a week or so and already, Sherlock wishes they were on summer holiday once more. It's the last year of tutoring before they will go to that school Mycroft attended, with the posh uniforms and all the homework. Though Sherlock thinks it might not be so bad with John around - the school and another year with Mr Newbery.

Sherlock is happy John is going to stay, he really is.

Ever since Mycroft left for university (or whatever he is doing because Sherlock is pretty sure university students don't wear fancy suits all the time), Sherlock has felt a bit lonely. It hasn't been a dig deal, of course. Sherlock doesn't need anyone and can do his experiments and projects on his own. He hasn't needed the various children of the other families Mummy likes to visit every week and he certainly doesn't need John.

But he likes John, anyway. John's nice and fun and very brave.

Sherlock thinks it's going to be a lot more fun now that John will stay forever.

He knows he wasn't very nice to John in the beginning. Sometimes, when nobody is watching and Sherlock remembers the incident with the chemicals, his ears grow hot and he even feels a bit bad.

But really, it was all so stupid! Mummy trying to replace Mycroft - as if anyone could ever replace him! No, Sherlock would never give up Mycroft for anybody, even though recently, Sherlock had been feeling a bit angry that Mycroft wasn't around anymore and hardly ever wrote to him either.

But now, Sherlock knows John isn't a replacement. He's an addition. It makes all the difference in the world.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen and peers into the oven where Mrs Hudson is baking John's birthday cake. Chocolate, because John likes to be boring and predictable like that. Though chocolate cake tastes good, Sherlock has to admit that. And Mrs Hudson's food is always very, very tasty.

Sherlock sits down on a chair, sighing and resting his chin on the kitchen table.

Oh, he's bored.

Sherlock briefly considers experimenting on the cake but drops the idea. He'll only get into trouble and he's had enough of that ever since the adventure at the factory. Besides, it's John's cake and he'd surely be sad if he didn't get to eat any on his special day.

Sherlock doesn't want that.

He could do homework, Sherlock supposes. Mr Newbery has told them to write an essay on Henry VII. Sherlock doesn't care about Henry VII. In fact, nothing is more boring than writing an essay on Henry VII.

Why can their homework never be anything fun? Writing an essay on Jack the Ripper would be fun. Jack the Ripper is interesting. Stinky old Henry is not.

Bored! Bored! Bored!

Sherlock thinks he's going crazy.

When the door bell rings, Sherlock is so relieved he very nearly lets out a triumphant shout. It has to be John, returning from his little talk. Reminding himself not to run because Mummy doesn't like that and Sherlock is avoiding trouble at the moment as much as he can, he nonetheless rushes, as much as it is possible without actually running, towards the door.

He knows Mrs Hudson is supposed to open the door for visitors but he doesn't care. He's already stopped himself from running, that must be enough.

"Hi Sherlock," John says, grinning at him from where he's waiting in front of the door and Sherlock smiles back.

He smiles a lot around John, though sometimes John can also be annoying and boring and then, Sherlock usually scowls and hides in his room. Not today, though. It's John's special day, after all.

Sherlock can see Mr Brown get into the car once more, probably about to park it around the corner. Sherlock and Mr Brown don't get on very well ever since Sherlock tried (and failed) driving the car, bumping into a fence a few meters down the street in the process. But really, how had Sherlock been supposed to press down the pedals and steer the wheel? Mr Brown had been shouted at by Mummy for letting Sherlock have the keys and ever since then, Mr Brown is very stiff and overly polite around Sherlock.

Sherlock has noticed that John is allowed to call the driver Harry. Not that he's jealous, of course.

Sherlock also knows John used to have a sister called Harry. Maybe that's the reason, though why Mr Brown would know about John's dead sister, Sherlock doesn't understand.

He lets John in and closes the door, smiling innocently at Mrs Hudson who has rushed towards the entrance and is now shaking her head at Sherlock for opening the door without at least waiting for an adult to be around. John greets her warmly, though, and her attention is redirected when she comes over to ruffle John's hair a bit, telling him that his cake is nearly done.

John likes touching and being touched. Sherlock has never been very fond of it as his family doesn't do much of it in the first place but he knows John is different. His other family had been different.

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders what it must be like for John, having lost his family in the accident. He doesn't dare to ask because John already gets the saddest of expressions on his face when he remembers them. A couple of days ago, John showed his photo album to Sherlock and very nearly cried when Sherlock had asked John to tell him about them, if his scrunched-up face had been anything to go by.

Sherlock can't imagine what he'd feel like if he lost Mycroft and Mummy and Father - and John!

Though Sherlock has overheard - well, all right - eavesdropped on a conversation between Mummy and Father and they had talked about therapy for John. Of course, Sherlock looked it up immediately and now knows that therapy could be for John's shoulder or for John talking about his other family or maybe both. Therapy is supposed to make you feel better.

Sherlock thinks John needs both kinds. He can still remember the look on John's face on the morning of the day of the adventure when his shoulder had been so very bad.

"Mrs Hudson is about to put the glazing on the cake. Do you want to watch?"

Losing his train of thought, Sherlock nods at John's suggestion.

"Sure, why not."

Of course, it's chocolate glazing, because John is boring and predictable like that as well. Though Sherlock doesn't say no when Mrs Hudson lets them eat the rest of the warm chocolate she doesn't use.

Now that John is back, Sherlock isn't bored anymore. They talk and laugh together and at some point, Mycroft comes out of the study because "I'm smelling cake!" and Sherlock knows how much his brother loves sweets and eating in general. Sherlock has once seen photographs of a very chubby little Mycroft and had laughed very, very much. He still has one of them hidden away in his room to look at when he feels bored or bad because it cheers him up so much.

Eventually, even Mummy makes an appearance. As always, she looks very pretty. Mummy has always liked to look neat and well-dressed and Sherlock likes that. Mummy is beautiful.

They all settle down in the dining room, even Mr Brown and Mrs Hudson, once she has made sure everyone has a piece of cake and coffee or tea or milk and Mummy tells her, a bit exasperated, to calm down and enjoy the little celebration.

"Well," Mummy finally says after most of the cake has been eaten and John has unwrapped his presents which are all very predictable, in Sherlock's opinion, but seem to make John very happy anyway. "I think, there's but one thing missing."

Sherlock watches in fascination as John's face flushes in excitement and suddenly feels a bit excited as well. Mummy smiles, one of those smiles she usually reserves for when Father comes home or Sherlock has done something particularly brilliant, and places a rather thick stack of paper and her favourite fountain pen on the table, right in front of John.

"You're old enough to sign," Mummy says, flips over a couple of pages and watches carefully as John raises the pen, hand hovering over the paper hesitantly. "My husband and I have already done so. The dotted line on the right, John, if you will."

Sherlock finds himself following the movement of the pen, John signing with his old name for probably the last time in his whole life. When finally, John puts down the pen and looks up carefully, cheeks even more flushed than before, Sherlock is the first to speak up.

"Congratulations, John Watson Holmes," he says and John smiles at him widely as the rest of the party starts applauding a bit.

Sherlock watches Mycroft come over and ruffle John's hair, bowing down to whisper something into John's right ear. Sherlock wonders what he is saying that makes John look at him with bright eyes as if he has just been promised a year's supply of chocolate cake. He could ask John about it later. John usually gives Sherlock enough clues and hints to figure it out, even when he doesn't want to tell.

John Watson Holmes.

Sherlock actually rather likes the sound of that, he finds, as he watches John and Mycroft smile at each other. Watches his two brothers sharing a secret of sorts.

Maybe it isn't just a silly last name, Sherlock thinks, and slips off his chair so he can stand right next to the two of them.

After all, he needs to find out just what his two siblings are talking about.
_____
fin.