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Chapter Text

“Sherlock, what in hell are ya - “

“Shhhh!”

John’s pleading look was the only reason that Lestrade didn’t say something incredibly rude in the presence of the two stilled forms in the room. One of them was very very dead, so it wasn’t as if he would have cared anyway. His wrinkled face sat somewhere between a look of surprise and begrudging acceptance that he wasn’t going to ever get out of his bed on his own ever again. The other person laid with his right ear pressed against the wood floor of the bedroom - which at the moment - was playing the part of a crime scene. It looked as if some strange game of Limbo was being played where neither participant knew the rules. That made sense to John. He was fairly confident that Sherlock had deleted such a party game. As for Mr. Alastair Nells, as stated before, was very very dead, so he had no interest in party games either. 

A gentle sway of Sherlock’s legs and hips brought him back to a more upright angle, and he gave an impatient wave to John to come closer. John did, with a quick glance to Lestrade, who was doing a very good impression of a man trying his best not to break his back molars. 

“There’s a - ,” Sherlock began. His eyes narrowed as he pulled John by the hand and the doctor went toppling to the floor beside him. “Can you hear it?”

John frowned which was apparently the incorrect thing to do. However, it was hard not to frown when yanked into a kneeling position by an overly touchy flatmate. Even if he was bloody brilliant. 

“Pay attention to the sounds and not your bruised knees,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“That’s what he said,” Lestrade muttered back, and that was highly inappropriate. So was the giggle back from John. Poor Alastair Nells more than likely deserved better than this from The Yard. 

Probably. 

“Neither my knees nor my ears have any fucking clue what you’re on about,” John grunted, but he didn’t move from the spot. Maybe it was the way Sherlock’s unique profile looked in the midafternoon light. “What should I be hearing then?”

“A tick,” Sherlock responded back. “Or more notably, a series of ticks in a randomised pattern.”

“Shit,” John whispered, and Sherlock turned his head to fully face him. “Like a timer on a bomb or something?”

The detective shrugged, which was not helpful in any way at all. However his next words he aimed at Lestrade. 

“I’d suggest getting your men out of here and send over the proper authorities to check for explosions.”

Greg’s eyes went wide at that before barking out a series of orders to leave, then ushering John and Sherlock out of the flat. Twenty minutes later three people wearing padded bomb suits made their way carefully into the building. John watched them, frowning slightly as Sherlock’s attention stayed on tapping out another text to his parents. 

“How are they holding up?” John asked, taking a step towards Sherlock, though trying to still give him allowable space. 

“Mummy is setting up the arrangements,” Sherlock replied, not looking up. “Father left to take a walk.”

John opened his mouth, then thought better of it by the exhale Sherlock made. So, more out of stubbornness to comfort a friend regardless of the backlash, he spoke up. 

“And how are you doing?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, his mobile now back in his coat pocket and adjusting his scarf. “I’m always fine.”

“Yeah, but he was your uncle.”

“Great uncle,” Sherlock corrected, “whom I hadn’t seen since I left for University. We were never close, John…so my only concern is to Father who may walk off his grief over the next fortnight. He might end up in Bristol by then.”

The matter-of-fact tone of Sherlock’s words were off putting in ways that John didn’t know how to handle. Part of John wanted to laugh at the ridiculous image of Reginald Holmes strolling his way across London, head held high and resolute in not returning to his family until his mind both excised and exercised all sadness connected to human mortality out of his memory of Alastair Nells. The other part of John wanted to hug Sherlock until the skinny git buckled under the weight of being cared for, and actually talk about the feelings he pretended not to have. 

Instead, John cleared his throat and waited for Sherlock to speak again, which took a very long time. 

“The only traits my great uncle and I shared was an enjoyment of solitude and curly hair that require a large amount of attention. Speaking of attention, when will the explosion team be finished? They are stomping around my crime scene.”

“Your crime scene is it?” Lestrade asked, seeming to come from nowhere. His face was set in a scowl that meant that no one was doing what he’d been demanding for the better part of the afternoon. John rubbed at his temples, battling the restart of a migraine.

“When will we be allowed back inside?” 

The chill in Sherlock’s voice was giving the outside temperature a run for its money. Lestrade, who was used to dealing with all variations of Sherlock being Sherlock didn’t answer, but instead turned on his heel and left the same way he apparently came from.

“If you were in any way a normal person,” John said, once they were alone again. “I’d say you were showing signs of grieving.”

“But since I’m not there is no reason for errant assumptions.”

If words could slam a conversation shut, then Sherlock had done just that as far as John was concerned. So John also turned on his heel to find out where Greg had gone, because if he stayed with the world’s only consulting detective any longer, there might be two members of the Holmes family dead in one day. 

Unfortunately the explosion stopped John where he stood. 

Chapter Text

Detonations had a funny way of quickly figuring out your priorities. One moment a person might be worried about a business meeting with a new client not going smoothly, then the next moment fleeing from an eruption of sound that made that meeting no longer the most important issue of the day. 

John groaned as he lifted up his head and blinked into the now dusty sky. There was so much noise as people moved and talked around him as they tried to figure out what the hell just happened. 

“John, are you all right?” 

Sherlock’s arm reached out to John’s and pulled him to his feet. The detective took a moment to check for obvious injuries before asking again, a little bit louder this time. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” John said, shielding his eyes from bits of floating debris and god knew what else. ”I think so. You?” 

Before Sherlock could answer John already went from long suffering detective’s assistant to well trained doctor. John could almost see the sardonic words Sherlock bit back as he allowed John to check for injuries, and a silent thank you was given in return. 

“Sherlock! John! Are you both - ”

“We’re fine, Lestrade,” Sherlock shouted, barely glancing over his shoulder. “The same thing can’t be said of my crime scene.” 

“Spendid,” the DI grumbled, “Your priorities are still firmly set in the wrong places. The members of the bomb disposal team are all fine by the way, since you hadn’t asked yet.” 

John wondered if a second explosion might occur, with the outer shell of it surrounding the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock even inhaled a breath to let loose actual shrapnel, but Lestrade seemed to be ready to throw a few proximity mines of his own. 

“How about we get back to the case at hand,” John said as he stood between the other two men. “At least as much as we can in the circumstances.”

Minutes later John and Sherlock were in a cab, their destination somewhere to the north and as far from Lestrade as possible. Sherlock refused to make a decision about a lunchtime spot, and frowned at a very poorly attempted cottage pie at the finally chosen sidewalk cafe. 

“Well next time do more than grunt when the server suggests the daily special,” John said, his own meal of  fish and chips quite delicious. “Have you been able to reach your parents?”

“Only Mummy,” Sherlock replied, pushing his barely touched food back to the center of the table. “She asked how many parts he was in to see if a cremation would be necessary instead of a casket funeral.”

John groaned, his stomach no longer interested in digesting anything ever again. 

“It’s a fair concern,” Sherlock went on, the obviously John not directly said, but clearly understood. “It changes quite a lot regarding funeral arrangements.” 

“That’s not what made me wish I hadn’t gone for a meal made up of torn pieces of meat. Christ, I met your mother. She didn’t seem the type to be so….candidly macabre.”

Sherlock actually looked thoughtful at that, before ignoring the rest of his food altogether, and putting all of his concentration onto his mobile. John waved the server for the check, and firmly declined the suggestion of take away bags. 

Their next stop was Barts to get a start on reading the reports from the autopsy. Great Uncle Alastair Nells was evidently in seven bags, which Sherlock made sure to alert Mummy about. His Father’s last location was at a pub approximately eleven miles away from the family house. 

“Did he walk the entire eleven miles?”

“She didn’t say. Only that according to Father that the stouts were overpriced.”

John needed to escape from both these odd conversations and the overall smell of the morgue. There was also the whole being close to an explosion also weighing heavily on his mind, so he took the lift up to the main floor and across the street to a coffee shop. Caffeine wouldn’t at all solve his problems, but it might settle his nerves for at least the rest of the afternoon. 

Chapter Text

Caffeine ended up being a very bad idea, but when has John ever let acknowledgment of a bad idea stop him from doing it? Bad ideas were what got him into enlisting into the Army, and getting a bullet lodged into his shoulder. Bad ideas had him lending his mobile to a curly haired stranger who was the reason for him drinking his third cup of coffee right after an explosion.

“You look…contemplative.”

Of course Sherlock would locate him because of the whole detective thing, but John still wavered between irritation and admiration that he really needed to give a proper name. 

Irrimation? Admirritaion? 

Sherlock sat in the seat across from him, looking as out of place as ever, but hardly put off by it. He pulled out a folded out stack of papers out of his inside pocket and placed them on the table in between them. John barely rescued his cup of coffee from being knocked over as his flatmate began to smooth out the paperwork to reveal what they actually were. 

“Are those crime scene photos?” 

There was only a hum in response, and John felt himself hold in a sigh so intense he may have bruised a rib. Sherlock failed to notice, his eyes absorbed on a particularly gory picture of what - John surmised was up until recently - was a healthy right foot. 

A normal person in this situation would probably stand up, and excuse themself from not only this table, but also this friendship. 

“Is there a reason why you’re reviewing crime scene photos in a coffee shop?”

“Because you stopped having a mental breakdown over almost being killed at Barts, John. Instead, you left to continue having your mental breakdown at a coffee shop.”

It was the directness of it that got John to giggle, which was not the appropriate reaction at all. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons he stayed exactly where he was. Sat in a cosy coffee shop with his madman of a flatmate, asking questions about an old crime case involving a severed right foot. 

An hour and two cups of strong coffee later, John and Sherlock were back in a taxi, though this time on their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock’s mobile rang, the caller ID showing Mummy, but the detective declined the call with a swipe of a thumb. 

John knew well enough not to ask why Sherlock was avoiding his parents. It was clearly none of his business, even if a part of him wanted it to be. Sherlock went directly into the sitting room after taking off his Belstaff and hanging it on the coat rack. John lingered a few steps behind, flipping through the mail which included what ended up being a card from Molly. The card was bright red with a photo of two cats on the front. One cat was Toby, who seemed to be giving the other cat, who was slightly larger with black fur and bright yellow eyes, a somewhat dubious expression. 

“When did Molly get another cat?”

“I wasn’t aware that Molly had a first cat, let alone another one.”

It took quite a lot of internal strength to not remind Sherlock that he’d not only met Toby, but played the role of temporary cat sitter when Molly left town to assist with a sick relative a couple of years ago. 

Sherlock more than likely deleted the entire incident, much as he had the solar system. 

“Well her new cat apparently just celebrated a birthday,” John said, placing the card on the coffee table.  ”His name's Bruce.”

More internal strength was needed by John to stop himself from laughing at the way Sherlock’s nose wrinkled up at the name. As if there were so many more sensible names for a cat. 

Chapter Text

When John woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of Sherlock’s deep rumble and the padding of bare feet on hardwood flooring. The rhythm was a familiar one. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, and snippets of the conversation could be heard. 

“...to be there as soon as I can. There isn’t much I can do, though.”

Then came a heavy sigh and the footfalls stopped, and John could almost see Sherlock pinching at the bridge of his nose with his slender thumb and index finger. As softly as he could, John slid out of bed, trying to keep his movements as quiet as possible so he could continue listening. It felt like a rarity to be able to hear the fragility that only occurred when a child talked to one of their parents. 

Even if that child was in his late thirties, and a verified genius. 

“Mummy, please, fretting won’t make me get there any faster. Yes…I know that he’s still at the morgue. An autopsy still has to be performed, and I don’t have the type of pull to - no , I’m not calling Mycroft.”

John felt the twitch of a grin and rubbed at his mouth to press it back into smooth neutrality. The last thing he needed was to walk downstairs with a smirk at Sherlock battling his mother to keep Mycroft’s governmental authority out of a case. Sherlock’s voice sounded somewhat further away, and the creak and snap of the door confirmed that he went back into his room. John slipped downstairs and into the kitchen, pleasantly surprised at the coffee maker already started. 

Today, John planned to help out at the clinic, though he only promised Sarah a half day. Sherlock mentioned something about circling back at Barts before taking the long ride over to his parents, with John agreeing to keep Sherlock in the loop about any new developments in the case regarding Alastair Nells. 

He pulled out the nearest kitchen chair with a fresh cup of coffee, the flat quiet in that way that only morning brought. John lifted the cup to his nose, giving it a deep inhale just because, then took a first sip, letting the flavour sink into his tongue. If he got into the shower within the next ten minutes, he could be dressed and out the door early enough to swing by Speedys for a quick takeaway to hold until lunch. 

“Mummy actually wanted to have me have Mycroft get involved,” Sherlock grunted, without even the illusion of a hello as he slumped into the chair next to John, the sourness of his tone matching perfectly with his face.”

Swallowing a sigh, John pretended that this was the first time he had heard of this audacity, and thankfully, Sherlock was still too distracted by the phone call to deduce how badly John was acting. John pushed his mostly full cup of coffee towards Sherlock tapping fingers, and watched Sherlock take it in a graceful motion.

John didn’t know that a person could gulp in subtitles, but Sherlock did just that.

“I’m sure that Mycroft is too busy to agree to do anything,” John offered. “Wasn’t he in Switzerland for some conference?”

Sherlock nodded, his expression still pinched around the edges. Even his curls seemed to be tenser than usual, the ones in the front especially more overwound than John recalled in the past. 

“They will still text him,” Sherlock said, after another long gulp of coffee. “Then he will text me to see what I’m doing about stopping Father from another stroll. As if I have any control over anything Father does to cope…”

There was a long beat of silence, broken only by a distant car horn outside. John felt the need to offer the emotional support he knew would be pushed away rise in his chest, but he let it out anyway. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you to your parents? I could be there to act as a sort of buffer if it’ll help.”

Sherlock blinked, as if John unexpectedly materialised in front of him. John shrugged, trying not to do something completely insane like pat Sherlock on the hand or the shoulder.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, slowly, as if making sure he truly wanted it himself. “You should come. We’ll get things wrapped up at Barts and set up a time to go to my parents.”

John blinked back, mind reeling at Sherlock wanting him to go. Fortunately for John, Sherlock was already on his feet again and leaving the kitchen. The now-empty coffee mug just within John’s reach to take to wash out in the sink.

Chapter Text

John should have realised that the visit to the Holmes family house was never meant to go smoothly. He’d talked to Mummy and Father a handful of times, with each interaction odd in ways that gave John more clues as to how two seemingly normal people ended up with Mycroft and Sherlock as children. 

One time Mummy had called John on a random Saturday from an unlisted number, gently requesting that John have Sherlock call her back about an issue to do with a lawsuit connected with a skull collection in Surrey. She hung up right after John agreed to pass on the message, with John having no way of calling her back. 

Sherlock just nodded when told of the phone call, not asking for any additional information at all. This interaction took up the majority of John’s mental space for three days. 

Another incident involved Sherlock’s Father shipping a fully intact taxidermied goat to Baker Street. Again, there was no context to be found whatsoever, and Sherlock had the added audacity to place the goat - whose name was apparently Gerald - in the sitting room facing John’s chair. 

Gerald stood, staring at John with glassy, yet somehow still very judgmental eyes, for over a week and a half. Then, as if his holiday to the Marylebone area of London was over, the goat was gone. 

Mrs. Holmes took over five minutes to answer the front door, and when she did, it was obvious as to why there was a delay. Her dark and curly hair was in quite a state, with what looked like dollops of what appeared to be vanilla cake batter, and her dress and flowery apron were covered in flour. 

“Come in then,” she said, her voice a little raspy. “Was trying to make dessert for my book club and the recipe got a little away from me.”

“Are you certain it wasn’t actively trying to escape?” Sherlock deadpanned after glancing at his mother up and down, and John nearly choked on a giggle. . 

“No Darling,” Mrs Holmes replied, her face very serious. “That only happens when I bake scones.” 

John excused himself to the loo, then proceeded to laugh for a solid fifteen seconds. By the time her returned to the kitchen, Mummy had Sherlock assisting her in frosting what could only be called tangentially a cake.

The usually unapologetic and unapproachable Sherlock Holmes now was adorably ruffled. The ordinarily sharp edges softened under the gently instructions of Mummy. John was waved over, and put to work with creating little books made of coloured fondant and edible paper. As far as the book club meeting that day, the women chose to only admire and applaud the attempt, but stayed away from any actual consumption.