Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John is at work tending to one of his younger patients who has to get a flu shot when he feels his phone vibrating in the pocket of his trousers. The mother sends him a sharp look that practically dares him to answer and he sends her a weak smile in reply, hoping that Sherlock - because it is, unquestionably, Sherlock who is texting him - hasn't blown anything up or got himself trapped in a large steel box while a group of men and their dogs circle around the outside. Which, you know, could actually be a distinct possibility because that's exactly what happened two weeks ago. Still, in the interest of keeping his job and a roof over his head he ignores it and continues trying to coax a sobbing child into handing over her arm for just one minute.

By the time mother and child leave half an hour late, John is exhausted. He's minus two lollies and plus one large bruise on his right shin. He closes the door and pulls out his phone, absently flicking to the right screen while he makes a couple of notes in the file. As expected, the text - actually, makes that texts, because there's a lot of them and every single one is from Sherlock in a state of perpetual boredom. After the last case Lestrade kicked him out of the Yard and swore that he wouldn't approach Sherlock for help for at least a month or until the hot water died down, whichever came first. So far he's been holding true on that threat and it's absolutely killing Sherlock, who is close but not quite to the point of begging.

We're out of salt. - SH

And milk. - SH

Pick up some goose blood on your way home. - SH

BORED. - SH

Mrs Hudson just dropped a package at the door. - SH

John. I need your help. - SH

Setting the pen down, John frowns and turns his full attention to the phone. Now normally Sherlock's version of "I need you" can be for anything from he's stabbed himself to there's an intruder in the flat trying to kill him to well, anything really. But for some reason this text makes John feels a little uneasy. It's the last one, there's nothing after it, and when he sends a text back asking what's going on there's no response. It could be because Sherlock has gotten involved in a case or experiment of some kind. It wouldn't be the first time he's lost sight of everything else when something new captures his attention. But after living with Sherlock Holmes for as long as he has, John knows he needs to trust his instincts. He calls Sherlock's phone. There's no answer.

"Damn it," John mutters, glancing at the clock. His shift is just about over, there's only twenty minutes left. Barring any last minute emergencies he'll leave on time. It'll take about half an hour to get home by tube, faster if he takes a cab. He tries to focus on his paperwork, glancing periodically at his phone as though he can will a response just by staring, but the twenty minutes crawl by and it doesn't beep. The second the clock ticks over John is on his feet and hurrying out of the room, not even sticking around to chat with the pretty new doctor Sarah recently hired like he usually does.

He hails a cab and gets in. "221 Baker Street as fast as you can," he says tersely, staring out the window. He makes another attempt at texting Sherlock and then sits there holding his phone, heart pounding. He's wound up by the time the cab pulls up in front of 221 and he tosses a handful of notes into the front seat as he leaps out and hurries up the stairs, unlocking the door. Mrs Hudson's flat is silent. She goes out with friends sometimes during the day, and although she'd never say as much John suspects it's more to get away from Sherlock's violin than anything else. He takes the steps as fast as he can and pushes the door open.

Sherlock's name dies on his lips as he gets a good look around. To put it kindly the flat looks like a bomb went off, which isn't exactly unusual. Papers, bits of Sherlock's experiments, and other random crap liberally adorn every possible surface. He's been after Sherlock to clean up for days but it all goes in one ear and out the other. There are still three full, cold cups of sweetened tea on the coffee table and Sherlock's dressing gown has been slung across the sofa, dangerously close to sliding off completely and landing in said cups of tea. John picks it up automatically and folds it, still scanning the room.

And that's when he sees it, the one thing that stands out as abnormal in an otherwise normal sea of chaos.

It, he, is a child, huddled in the corner of the room. Small arms are wound around skinny legs, which have been pulled up protectively against a tiny body. The boy, it is a boy, he can tell that much, is dressed only in one of John's jumpers, which is too large for him by far. One bony shoulder is poking out of the neck hole. Dark curls have fallen haphazardly over his face. John stares and stares some more, feeling oddly light-headed. He has the sudden feeling that he knows who this child is but he's desperately hoping that he's wrong. Because if he's right then life just got a whole lot more complicated.

"Sherlock?" he says in his gentlest voice, the one he normally reserves for little kids who are getting shots. He sets the dressing down aside, noticing the remains of an unwrapped package sitting next to the child about ten feet away.

The boy twitches at the sound of John's voice and the little arms tighten but he looks up. And there, there's absolutely no mistaking those curiously pale blue/green eyes, now looking too large in a tiny face that's all angles. "John," Sherlock says, voice too high and too frightened. "I may have made a small miscalculation."

Chapter Text

For a long tense moment, John thinks somewhat longingly of his original plan for the night, which had involved nothing more strenuous than sitting down with a cup of tea. But that’s clearly not going to happen. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “What did you do?” he asks, wondering if he really wants an answer to that question. Sometimes with Sherlock it’s best not to know.

“I’m not sure.” Sherlock furrows his brow and looks a little annoyed. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I should bloody well hope not,” he mutters. He’s tempted, somewhat, to approach Sherlock but he doesn’t need to be a genius to know that Sherlock doesn’t want anyone around him at the moment. “We could – ”

“I am not calling Mycroft! And don’t you dare call him either!”

“Sherlock,” John says with exaggerated patience, “whatever’s happened to you, I’m going to assume you don’t want to go through growing up again.” He notices that Sherlock flinches a little at this and frowns, softening his voice. “Unless you can fix this you’re going to have to turn to someone for help. And if you don’t know what happened, it’s going to be pretty difficult for you to fix.”

Sherlock says nothing but his face becomes pinched and he lowers his head, signifying that the conversation has finished, at least on his part. Heaving a sigh, John ventures closer to the package and examines it from a relatively safe distance. Sitting inside of the non-descript brown paper is a little white jar. A cork is lying just beside it. Both jar and cork are covered with a fine blue dust and when John glances back at Sherlock he notices more of the same substance coating Sherlock’s face, hands, and hair. Brilliant. Shaking his head, he walks into the kitchen and pulls out his phone. Mycroft, in the eerie all-knowing way of the Holmes family, likely already knows what’s going on, so he doesn’t bother to explain.

Sherlock received a package with unexpected results. Can you reverse it? – JW

Less than a minute later, he gets a reply.

I will be sending someone to pick up the package. Do not touch it with your bare skin. – MH

That’s it. No questions about Sherlock or how he’s doing or advice on how John might deal with a petulant man-child that is now actually a petulant child. John sighs and tucks his phone back into his pocket. He fetches a pair of gloves from his doctor’s kit and carefully gathers up the package, carrying it downstairs. Anthea is already waiting for him, holding a steel case out, and he sets it all inside of the case carefully and then tosses in his gloves for good measure. She gives him a silent nod and ghosts out the door, disappearing into the car that is waiting for her.

By the time he gets back upstairs, Sherlock is gone but the shower is running so that’s alright. John looks around the room, realizing that he should probably pick up a little, but he’s in desperate need of a good cup of tea. He enters the kitchen again and pours water into the kettle. While waiting for it to boil he leans against the counter and shuts his eyes. God. Sherlock is bad enough when he’s an adult, but a child? He can’t even begin to imagine the nightmare this is going to be. At least Sherlock’s memories seem to be relatively intact, though he’s not wholly sure that’s a good thing at the moment. What will a pint-sized consulting detective who isn’t legally old enough to drive, much less investigate crime scenes, do?

John has the looming feeling he’s going to find out.

It takes about twenty minutes for Sherlock to emerge from the shower, sans blue dust but wearing the same jumper from before. He walks silently over to the table and scrambles somewhat awkwardly up onto the chair. When he reaches for the cup of tea that John has automatically prepared for him it occurs to John that caffeine isn’t all that good for children, but one look at the expression on Sherlock’s face tells him that’s a fact best not mentioned, not unless he wants a matching bruise to appear on his other calf. They drink their tea in silence that’s broken by a soft rumbling sound.

“You’re hungry,” John says, surprised.

“Apparently.” Sherlock stares at his belly like it has betrayed him.

Sensing an opportunity, John leaps to his feet and fetches a box of Sherlock’s favourite biscuits from the cupboard. He sets the box down within easy reach. “Go on. A few biscuits for dinner never hurt anyone.”

Sherlock eyes him warily but takes one of the biscuits, nibbling at the tip of it. John pretends to be deeply involved in his cup of tea as Sherlock makes his way through three more. He hasn’t quite thought about this part of it but it does make sense that Sherlock would have less control of his body. What took years to condition as a teenager and adult simply hasn’t materialized when he’s this young. Technically it should be easier to deal with a Sherlock that eats and sleeps on a regular basis but he suspects that, as in everything else, Sherlock is going to turn out to be the opposite.

He says, “I gave the package to Mycroft. He’s going to see if he can reverse the process.”

There’s an unintelligible mutter in response.

“In the meantime you should probably stay in the flat as much as possible. I’m not sure even Lestrade can explain away having a five-year-old consultant to his superiors.”

At that, Sherlock looks up at him with an expression that is just short of murderous. “I’m seven,” he hisses.

John looks at him frankly. If that’s true then Sherlock must have had one hell of a growth spurt when he was in his teens because John thought he was being a bit kind by saying that he looked like he was five. “How do you know?”

Instead of responding, Sherlock slides off the chair and storms into the living room. John sighs and tidies away the cups. As he’s rinsing them in the sink he hears the familiar-yet-odd sound of tiny fingers plucking at a violin that must be too large for him to play properly. He very carefully doesn’t turn around to look but washes and dries the cups and puts away the biscuits. Only when everything is quiet does he go peek. And there is Sherlock, curled up on the end of the sofa. One small hand is wrapped around the violin and his other is up near his face, the thumb of his right hand tucked securely in his mouth.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Mycroft is sitting in John’s chair.

Chapter Text

“He used to do that all the time when he was a child,” says Mycroft, not even bothering to glance over at John. “He trained himself out it when he was about ten years old, after our father died. Mummy used to think it was an adorable habit. To her it was a sign that he was still her baby and she encouraged it. I suppose the shock of the change must have brought back bad habits.” He sighs a bit, like the reminiscence is painful, and John raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Ah, well. Thank you for your promptness, John. You may have stopped this from becoming permanent.”

There’s a thought John doesn’t even want to contemplate. He conceals a shudder and moves to take the seat beside Sherlock, but far enough away so that the child doesn’t stir when he sits. “You can’t know what happened already.”

“Actually, we do. A rare compound was stolen from a research facility in Russia exactly one month ago. Many people have been spending a good deal of time searching for it. Unfortunately, it seems that Sherlock is the unwilling recipient who found it.” Mycroft hasn’t looked away from his brother even once. “At this point in time we believe it’s not permanent. The compound is, after all, a month old and thus the potency is not nearly as strong as it would have been while fresh. In time Sherlock should return to his normal age.”

“In time?” John repeats. “How much time?”

Mycroft finally looks at him. “The compound has not yet been tested on humans,” he says.

“So you don’t know.” John rubs his forehead. He knows this isn’t Mycroft’s fault but it’s tempting to take it out on the man regardless. And to think his biggest concern when he left the surgery had been that Sherlock might have gotten stabbed or blown up the flat again! “Alright, do you know how it’s going to happen? Will he age gradually or will he just be a child one moment and an adult the next?”

“As I said, the compound has not – ”

“Been tested on humans, yeah, I got that, thanks,” he mutters. Apparently Mycroft has come here to explain that no one knows what’s going on and that Sherlock is being used a guinea pig. Lovely. He looks up, suddenly alert. “No one’s taking Sherlock away, Mycroft. You’re not going to spirit him off to some laboratory so scientists can poke at him and monitor his progress. I don’t care what kind of opportunity this is. That’s not happening.”

“I thought you would feel that way,” says Mycroft and there’s an approving sort of look on his face, if Mycroft Holmes can ever actually approve of anyone. “No, Sherlock will remain here with you. I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone take him away from you, John. Think of the tantrum! Besides, you are fully equipped to care for him regardless of what happens. I would like to request that you keep track of his height and weight and make sure that he remains healthy.” He says it pleasantly enough but there’s a certain inflection that says it’s not actually a request at all.

John nods slowly. “I can do that.” The hardest part will be keeping Sherlock still long enough for him to get on a scale. He thinks, somewhat longingly, about his locum work. If he’s going to be, for lack of a better word, baby-sitting Sherlock for the next god knows how long they’re going to need a steady source of funds. Sherlock won’t be able to take cases while he’s like this, or at least not the sort of high profile ones that mean a serious pay off but which also require him to leave the flat.

Like always, Mycroft appears to be able to read his mind. “For this occasion I’ll give you access to Sherlock’s trust fund,” he says. “The two of you have long since combined your money anyway.”

He can feel the slow flush working its way into his cheeks and down his neck. It’s true that he and Sherlock share their money – which essentially means it all goes into one account and Sherlock ignores everything that has to do with a bill – but that’s not a fact he likes to be widely known. Still, it probably shouldn’t be surprising that Mycroft knows. “That’s fine,” he says stiffly.

Mycroft gives him a nod and stands up, holding his umbrella close to his side. For a moment he just stands there and looks at Sherlock and there’s something foreign in his face, something that on someone else might actually be called wistfulness, and John thinks that he might like to go over to Sherlock and touch him, maybe stroke his hair or face. But finally Mycroft just turns and walks out the door without saying anything else. John waits until he hears the door downstairs close before he sighs and stands, moving over to lock the door. Sherlock hasn’t stirred during the entirety of their conversation and it’s probably just as well.

He takes his phone out and texts Lestrade to let him know that Sherlock is ill and won’t be able to solve cases for a while. Once that’s done he debates on whether he should risk carrying Sherlock to bed. It doesn’t look comfortable, all curled up on the sofa like that, but Sherlock has spent hours in stranger positions and John doesn’t want to risk waking him up – he’s not sure Sherlock would ever forgive him if he woke up while John was carrying him. At last he settles for gently pulling the violin out from under those little fingers and putting the instrument and bow away in their case. He grabs one of the lurid orange blankets that seem to multiply in the flat and drapes it over Sherlock, making sure to cover every inch of him. Sherlock makes a soft, snuffly sound and turns his head so that it’s cushioned on his arm.

And like this, he seems almost... sweet. Innocent in a way that Sherlock Holmes likely never really was. John can’t resist the urge to brush a dark curl off of his cheek. Sherlock stirs briefly, rubbing his head against John’s fingers, before settling back down into sleep. A fond smile on his face, John steps away and shuts the light off. He goes upstairs to his bedroom without looking back. Had he lingered for another minute, he would have seen Sherlock looking after him with a thoughtful expression.

Chapter Text

During the next few days, surprisingly, it's like nothing much has changed. In spite of the fact that he is now a child Sherlock determinedly continues on with every one of his experiments, regardless of the fact that he now needs to stand on a chair in order to reach his microscope. Because he still retains all of his memories, John doesn't feel right about trying to restrict his access to dangerous chemicals, even if it does give him the chills to see what is essentially a little boy working with acid and other toxic chemicals. He's just beginning to think that they might be able to stay on top of this without too much trouble when they hear the footsteps on the steps. A very familiar set of footsteps.

Sherlock whirls around and nearly goes toppling off of the chair. "It's Lestrade!" he states, joyfully at first and then with a sense of dismay as he realizes what's about to happen. He's still been wearing John's jumpers around, having stubbornly refused to wear anything else, and he hikes the extra material up as he hops down from the chair, looking like he's not sure whether he should make a run for it or face Lestrade head on.

There's a knock on the door a second later and then it swings open. "Sherlock!" Lestrade calls out. "We've got a new one, will you - oh, hello, John."

"Greg," John says, folding up his journal and setting it aside. There's a part of him that wants to protect Sherlock from this but a bigger part is curious to see what Lestrade will do. So he just sits there, waiting expectantly, and watches as Lestrade glances around the room in search of Sherlock. The look on his face when he first sees Sherlock is close to what John thinks his face must have looked like. Surprise, then recognition, followed by a shock so potent that Lestrade actually stumbles back a step and bangs into the doorframe.

"S-Sherlock?" he stutters, the file in his hand fluttering to the floor in a mess of papers.

"Close the door," John requests wearily. So far Mrs Hudson is unaware of what's happened and the less people who know the better. "Yes, that's Sherlock. As you can see there was a little accident."

"A little..." Lestrade's mouth is actually hanging open.

"Stop gawking and tell me what you came here for," Sherlock snaps. Even though his voice is young, it's still got the same thread of imperious command that he wields so well as an adult and Lestrade shakes his head and responds automatically.

"There's been a murder. Locked room, no windows, no signs of how the murderer got in and out," he says before his brain catches up with him. He stops, watching in disbelief as Sherlock scrambles across the room and starts collecting the pieces of the file, verdigris eyes scanning each paper before he shoves it back into the folder. Almost helplessly, he turns to John.

"Tea?" John invites, because really there's nothing else for it. He grips Lestrade's shoulder and steers the man over to the kitchen table, leaving the file behind with Sherlock - they'll never pry it out of his hands now. Lestrade sinks gratefully into the chair but can't seem to take his eyes off of Sherlock as John begins moving around, filling the kettle with water. He figures that Lestrade will speak when he's ready and sure enough, by the time it’s done and John has set out some homemade biscuits that Mrs Hudson sent up Lestrade is far enough along for questions.

"What kind of accident?" he asks.

"Mysterious package in the mail," says John. "Mycroft is on top of it as far as I know but he says that chances are Sherlock will have to wait for it to wear off. No word on when that's going to be, either. That's why I told you he was sick." He nudges the plate of biscuits closer, a trick he's picked up from living with Sherlock, who is more inclined to eat if food is readily available and he thinks no one is paying attention. Lestrade picks up a biscuit absently and bites into it between sips of hot tea.

"I know you said he was sick but I thought he'd be driving you stir crazy by now and that you'd appreciate a distraction," Lestrade says.

"I do." There's no telling how long those experiments would've kept Sherlock's attention for and a case that he can solve from the flat will be helpful. "I'd have warned you if I'd known that you were coming. Sorry, I know it was a shock."

"Not your fault." Bemused, Lestrade finishes his cup. John gets up immediately to pour him another one. Lestrade looks like he hasn't had anything more than the horrid coffee at Scotland Yard for a while. "So... I'm guessing from the way he attacked the file that he still remembers everything.

"Oh yes, and don't you dare suggest otherwise," John advises. He'd done as much the morning after, wanting to make sure that none of Sherlock's memories or knowledge had been impeded by the change, and got a tongue lashing from Sherlock in exchange for his concern. "He's still exactly the same Sherlock we know and love, except smaller."

"Really smaller," Lestrade says with a hint of smirk and both men giggle, John with a bit of cringe, as he half expects Sherlock to come charging out of the living room and snap at the both of them for making comments about his height. For someone who ended up over six feet tall, he’s very sensitive.

“Yeah,” John says at last, taking a biscuit for himself. “You might be out a consultant for a bit.”

“I can bring him the case files, though it’s...”

“Weird?” he supplies with a faint smirk. “Tell me about it. Try watching a seven-year-old perform experiments on a severed foot. I just keep telling myself that this is Sherlock, regardless of the body he might have.” He could add, but doesn’t, that in spite of how well Sherlock seems to be taking the change he thinks that Sherlock is actually having a rough go of it. There are things that even the most self-sufficient children can’t do, like wander around London alone or visit crime scenes.

Lestrade grins wryly. “Only Sherlock,” he says and stands up. “Thanks for the tea, John. I needed it. I’ll explain the case to Sherlock and be on my way. He can text me with any insights he has.”

“You’re assuming he’ll let you get out the door before he solves it,” John jokes, getting to his feet. He steps into the living room and notices something off immediately. Everything is still in its place, including Lestrade’s file, which is now stacked on the sofa in a pile of messy papers, but there is a conspicuous absence of a seven-year-old consulting detective. And in that moment, all he can think about is how bloody stupid it was to leave Sherlock Holmes alone with a new case. “Fuck.”

“What?” Lestrade glances around and then swears when he notices that his mobile phone is lying on the sofa next to the folder. He gropes uselessly at his pocket before moving over to the sofa and grabbing at the phone. He swears again, louder this time. “Bloody hell, the little bastard’s gone to the new crime scene, hasn’t he?”

John doesn’t bother to confirm that. He just grabs his coat and his phone and rushes towards the door. “Come on, Greg, we’ve got to catch him before he gets very far!”

Chapter Text

One of the most frustrating things about being a child is that the image Sherlock has worked for years to build up, one that he’s carefully cultivated from the time that he first became aware of what he wanted to do, is gone. No one sees the intelligent, sharp consulting detective when they look at him, not anymore: all they see is a child, one that looks small enough to be coddled, especially considering he’s bare foot and clad in an over-sized jumper. For that reason he sticks as much as possible to the back alleys as he makes his way towards the crime scene, never venturing out onto the public pavement. The people that he passes in the shadows don’t take a second look on his direction and that’s just the way he likes it.

The crime scene is located in an alley, dark and dank and festering, but convenient enough if only because there are always entrances that the police, bumbling fools that they can be, always overlook. Better yet, he notices that Donovan is the one monitoring the police tape. It gives Sherlock a special kind of pleasure to sneak past when her back is turned, so much so that he doesn't even bother trying to be furtive about it. If she ever finds out, and god knows he hopes she doesn't, this will at least be something to rub in her face. And beyond her is the crime scene, with Anderson already mucking about, putting his footprints down everywhere and missing everything that is even a little bit important.

Sherlock stalks forward, already prepared to deliver a blistering comment to him, when he senses someone coming up behind him. Before he can react hands are sliding under his armpits and then he's being heaved off his feet in spite of the indignant squeak that erupts from him. A couple of police officers look up at the sound but Lestrade has already turned, putting his body between Sherlock and them, and is carrying Sherlock away out of the crime scene. Sherlock's feet dangle uselessly in the air; no amount of kicking out behind him enables him to reach Lestrade. His legs are just too short and it's utterly mortifying to be carried like this. He's almost relieved to see John, who is waiting a few storefronts away, leaning against a window with his arms folded.

"Here," Lestrade says and shoves his burden at John, barely allowing him the chance to get his arms up before he lets go. "Keep a leash on him, would you, John?"

"You need me!" Sherlock snaps, grabbing onto John's shoulder for balance when John instinctively brings him in closer against his chest.

"What I need is for you to behave," says Lestrade. "Can you imagine if the press got wind of the fact that we'd allowed a child onto our crime scene, Sherlock? A child! Not to mention the kind of danger that would put you in if some of the criminals in this city got wind of the fact that you're a lot less capable of taking care of yourself than you used to be."

John tenses a little and instead of putting him down like Sherlock is expecting he keeps holding on. Sherlock growls low under his breath in exasperation at the reminder - a dirty trick - and glares at Lestrade. "This is beyond anything you'll be able to handle."

Lestrade rears back like an offended peacock. "You are not helping us, Sherlock Holmes, and that's final. If I catch you around this scene or any other crime scene until you're back to normal you're going to be cut off from cases permanently." He turns on his heel and marches back to where Donovan is looking at them with an openly curious expression. Too curious. Sherlock ducks his head and John gets the hint, turning and striding up the street before Donovan can put her minimal detective skills to work and come up with the obvious.

"You ought to have known better," John says finally when they're a good distance away.

"He needs me," Sherlock mutters furiously. "My mind hasn't been affected by the change. It's all just transport. What difference does it make what I look like?" He absolutely loathes this. It's the Carl Powers case all over again, when he had something terribly important to say and the police refused to listen to him just because he was young. No one ever listens to children and it drives him mad.

Perhaps John hears something in his voice because he stops and looks at Sherlock. Until that point, Sherlock hasn't consciously recognized that he's still being carried. It's... surprisingly comfortable. He's balanced on John's hip, legs dangling on either side, and John's arm is wrapped around his waist and bottom, supporting him, while he holds onto John's good shoulder with both hands. He's high enough up that he can look John in the face and it's disorienting; after years of looking down at John he's suddenly looking up without help and he's not sure he likes that. Whatever those thoughts reflect in his expression makes John sigh and cast around for a place to sit. He finds a bench and puts Sherlock down beside him.

"Look," he says gently. "Lestrade isn't going to ignore you. He knows that you're every bit as brilliant as you always are. But you've got to understand that he has a job and it could be in danger if he were seen consulting with someone the rest of the world perceives as a child. Furthermore, you know he's right." John looks troubled. "This could be an excellent opportunity for someone to hurt you."

Sherlock gives a dismissive shrug. He knows John would never let that happen. “But if I can’t see the crime scene then I’m not working with all of the details,” he says, voice just this side of a full whine. “Anderson always mucks everything up, you know that. When he’s in charge of taking the pictures he doesn’t always get the full crime scene.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Sherlock. You can’t go.”

“No, I can’t,” Sherlock says slowly, his eyes widening, suddenly gleeful. “But you can.”

“What?” John says incredulously.

“It’s perfect, John! You can take the laptop and use the webcam. Let everyone keep thinking that I’m sick.” Sherlock practically claps his hands together. It’s not as good as being there but John is the next best thing.

“But – ” John stops and looks thoughtful, then lets out a slow breath. “Will this stop you from trying to make another break for the crime scene?”

“Probably.”

John nods, looking resigned. “Alright then. Let’s go home and get the laptop.”

Chapter Text

They agree to keep the webcam one-sided so that Sherlock can see what's going on but there’s no risk of anyone seeing Sherlock. Truth be told it makes John nervous to leave him alone at the flat, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that Mycroft is likely watching and won’t let his little brother come to harm. He takes a cab back to the scene with the laptop and isn't surprised by the less than stellar reception that he receives. Lestrade rolls his eyes so hard he nearly walks into a wall and Donovan just stares at him with narrowed eyes, looking past him every couple of seconds like she's expecting Sherlock to materialize out of thin air and swoop down on them like a mysterious bat.

"He's sick," John says for about the tenth time. "He's going to look at the scene from the webcam. S'alright, isn't it?" He looks at Lestrade, hoping that the man might be willing to meet him halfway on this even though they're likely breaking about a dozen rules and quite possibly some laws in the process.

Lestrade sighs and scrubs a hand across his face, muttering something about his job and being fired. "Alright, alright," he says. "Let the bloody tosser have his look, my god, he really is like a child."

"In more ways than one," John says agreeably, opening the laptop. He knows that Sherlock heard that but he doesn't care – as long as Lestrade is willing to let Sherlock look at the body he can say whatever he likes as far as John is concerned. Lestrade leads him back to the crime scene, where Anderson is leaning over the body. He practically leaps backwards when he spots John and goes all stiff. Only once he realizes that John is alone does he gradually relax, though like Donovan he keeps peering suspiciously over John's shoulder.

"No freak today?" he asks.

"We're long distance today." Aiming the laptop in the direction of the body, John steps closer. It's impossible to tell if Anderson has done much to it yet but John would guess that he hasn't got the chance to and thank god for that. He kneels down on the cold alley floor and looks it over, trying to be as clinical as possible, trying to see what Sherlock would see, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. “What makes this one similar to the first?”

“Same method of murder,” says Lestrade, hovering over John’s shoulder. “Both victims were strangled as far as we can tell. Left some odd marks on the neck. This one was actually a suspect in the first. We’d just started trying to track her down when someone found her body and called it in. She’s still a suspect, of course.”

John’s phone beeps with a new text message. He checks it automatically and sighs, turning the screen around for Lestrade to see.

Wrong. – SH

“Bastard,” Lestrade mutters. “Why isn’t she a suspect, then?”

There’s a moment of silence during which no more messages arrive. John shrugs one shoulder when Lestrade gives him an imploring gaze and looks the body over again. There are bruises on the neck which look vaguely familiar, darkly coloured and smeared, almost. “I think that whoever did this tried to strangle her by hand first,” he observes. “When that didn’t work they likely moved on to something else.” He leans down a bit awkwardly, examining the body closer, and notices something odd. “When did you say the first body was found?”

“Last night.”

“I think she was actually killed first,” John says. Lestrade shifts closer to see and John points out the things he’s noticed, all evidence that would be brought to light during the autopsy but hopefully it’ll speed up the investigation. His phone beeps again.

Correct. – SH

Lestrade sighs. “This changes our focus quite a bit,” he admits. “It eliminates this one as a suspect and means they were both killed by someone else. We’ll have to talk to their mother again.”

“They were related?” He climbs to his feet, wincing a little as his back twinges the wrong way.

“Yeah. Sisters. Bad news for the mother. She was really upset.”

Wrong. – SH

This time John doesn’t show Lestrade the screen, though from the look on Lestrade’s face he’s already guessed what it says. John gives him an apologetic smile and asks, “Do you think they were both targets?”

“Impossible to tell at this point. I’ll be honest, John.” Lestrade beckons him closer a step and drops his voice. “We’ve got very little to go on at this point. As far as we can tell, these two had no reason to end up like this.” He jerks his chin towards the body. “The other one was found in a locked room at the school. We’re still not sure how the killer got in or out. I was hoping that Sherlock would be able to offer some insight even though he was sick, but...” He trails off and they both look down at the laptop.

Finally John sighs. “He’s doing his best,” he says quietly. “It’s really not his fault.”

“I know. Thanks for your help, John. Tell Sherlock to send me a text with anything he might come up with.” Lestrade gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder and turns away to speak to Anderson. John retrieves the laptop and backs off to let them do their work, ignoring the nasty glare Anderson sends his way.

He closes the laptop and dials a familiar number. “Did you get anything?” he says when the phone is picked up on the other end.

“Oh yes, Doctor Watson.” The voice is sibilant, husky and low. “Yes, I got quite a lot.”

Something in John’s stomach tightens and he’s not sure what his initial reaction should be. Annoyance? Panic? Anger? He settles for a curt, “Where is Sherlock?”

“He’s here with me. Fiddling with his violin, I believe, now that he’s lost interest in your little case. Funny, that. Fortunately I’ve come to offer him something much more interesting.” She’s smirking, John can tell.

“I’m coming home,” he says. Implicit in those three words are a lot of things he can’t say and it only seems to amuse her.

“Hurry along, Doctor Watson,” Irene Adler says and hangs up.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is deeply entrenched in gleaming what little detail he can from the webcam when his mobile beeps with a well-known sound that would likely still drive John mad even after all this time. He picks it up automatically and checks the screen. In spite of what he’s expecting, it’s still a shock to see the familiar words splay across the screen, the seemingly innocent question that has somehow become a private code between the two of them. His thumb hovers over the button to delete the message and the phone number it belongs to entirely but before he can succumb to the temptation he hears the door open downstairs.

His mind analyzes the situation in a matter of seconds, recognizing the handful of ways that he could approach this: avoidance comes up as the clear winner. And yet for some reason he can’t entirely fathom his body remains still, watching the door as footsteps begin climbing the stairs. Lightweight, yes, with a bit of a heel, nothing that Mrs Hudson would wear. Make that a lot of heel, he amends, watching the slinky long legs come around the door. Because Irene Adler freezes in shock when she catches sight of him, Sherlock has ample opportunity to examine the woman for the first time in well over a year at his leisure.

Irene looks good, clearly the US has agreed with her. Her once dark hair has been artificially lightened to a deep auburn that highlights her pale skin. She’s wearing a form-fitting sweater and leggings with boots. After a moment of befuddled staring her darkly painted lips part. “Sherlock?” she says, sounding bewildered. He decides that it’s worth whatever may come from this humiliating situation just to hear that genuine tone of questioning in her voice.

“Yes,” he says simply, glancing back at the webcam in time to send a response through his phone. When he looks up again Irene has moved, settling into the seat across from him and staring with outright fascination.

“My god, you’re sinfully adorable,” she breathes. “I could put you in my pocket and take you home with me.”

His eyes narrow and he stiffens just a little. Being small was the bane of his existence for much of his childhood until he had a growth spurt as a teenager. “I thought you were in hiding,” he says.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t visit every now and then,” she replies, artfully lifting one shoulder. “I had wanted you to take me up on my invitation this time but I suppose that won’t be happening. Your doctor will be even more possessive of you now.” She sticks one leg up, up into the air before delicately crossing it over her knee. “Are you still pretending that you’re not a couple?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the laptop. He’s aware of Irene moving, coming ‘round until she’s peering over his shoulder at the screen, but he ignores her. There’s something about the body that has caught his attention and he needs to find out what it is. When the screen goes blank - John has closed the connection - he sets the laptop aside and goes rummaging around in the file that Lestrade left on the sofa. The pattern of the belt used to strangle the victim (and it was a belt, anyone who was paying the slightest bit of attention could see that) is distinctive and he thinks he may have seen it before.

His phone rings and he glances back to see that Irene is answering it. Sherlock watches her until she hangs it up and then he says, “Was that necessary?” Most of what she’d said had been true, at least, except for the part where he’s lost interest in the case. Surely John knows him better than that.

Irene actually grins. “I can’t help finding it amusing to bait your doctor,” she says. “If he’d just admit the truth perhaps I’d lose interest.”

“Why are you here, Irene?” Sherlock says wearily. Irene’s presence is guaranteed to make things tense between her and John, especially if she insists on pretending that there is a hint of something between her and Sherlock. He needs John to focus on the case right now, not to get all wound up. And he doesn’t want to think about what might happen if John gets annoyed enough to leave for a night or two. Mycroft will insist that he can’t lawfully allow a minor to go untended all night. The thought of being baby-sat by Mycroft is enough to make Sherlock shudder.

“I need your help,” she says plainly, dropping all pretence of teasing.

For the first time Sherlock actually gives her his full attention, looking her over slowly, nothing all of the little things that he missed the first time around. Though she’s wearing make-up, it’s been hastily applied with none of her usual finesse. Her clothes are a little ragged, a bit more worn than usual, and her trim figure is now starting to err on the side of being too thin. She still has the same model mobile phone that she did when she first arrived in the US and she’s wearing none of the expensive jewellery she used to enjoy. All of it adds up to rough times, rougher than anything Irene Adler is used to.

“You’re in love,” he says, eyes dropping to the spot on her ring finger where there is a visible tan line. He can still see the fading red lines where she worked the ring off of her finger so she was wearing it recently.

Irene tries for a smile. “Yes, quite. That’s what I need your help for. I met a man while I was in the US. His name is Godfrey Norton.” Something about her eyes goes soft. “We’re supposed to be married soon but I’m afraid that things aren’t going to turn out the way I had hoped.” She sits back down on the chair, perching there almost nervously. “I know it was a risk to come here but I didn’t know who else to turn to. I think this case will be to your tastes. Will you help me, Sherlock?”

And that is the precise moment when John walks in.

Chapter Text

For a moment there is a silence that can only be described as awkward. John looks between Sherlock and Irene and thought he doesn’t say anything his expression tells volumes. He’s less than pleased that Irene is alive, never mind that she’s actually in the room with Sherlock. He takes his jacket off and hangs it up and Sherlock can tell by the sharp, tense way that he’s moving that John is angry. No, not angry, disappointed and somehow that’s worse. It causes something cold and hard to form in Sherlock’s belly and he doesn’t like it.

“We have a new case,” he says without quite meaning to.

“What about the old one?” John shoots back, turning around and folding his arms. Normally his first move after coming in from the cold, regardless of what he’s been doing, is to make tea. But manners will dictate that he has to offer a cup to at least Irene, if not both of them, and he doesn’t want to. So he stands there, rocking back on the balls of his feet, and denies everyone.

Sherlock wants a cup of tea. It’s only by sheer strength of will that he keeps a pout from forming. “Lestrade can keep us apprised of the situation. Judging by the evidence so far he’ll solve the case when he goes to speak to the family.” It’s the sort of case that Sherlock would have dismissed as boring and apparently John knows it because he sighs and lets his arms fall free.

“Alright, go ahead.” He jerks his head at Irene stiffly.

“There’s another woman,” Irene says bluntly and John’s eyebrow shoots up. She smiles grimly. “Long before we met Godfrey was seeing someone that his family didn’t know about. They wouldn’t have approved of her for various reasons. He broke it off years ago but we recently announced our wedding and now she’s claiming that she’s had an illegitimate child by him. He’s not sure whether her goal is to get money or to become Lady Norton or possibly both. Regardless of whether or not it’s true, if she goes public with this it will cause a great deal of problems. I need you to find proof that she’s lying.”

It’s sort of ironic, really, and he can tell that John is thinking the same thing. Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his chin without thinking, and then scowls and drops his hands to his lap when he sees Irene’s lips twitch at the picture he’s presenting. “Why don’t you have a paternity test?” he says. “That seems like the logical way to solve the problem of whether or not the child is his.”

“Rumours can do a lot of damage, as you well know,” she answers quietly, her eyes flicking between them, and that’s all it takes for John to walk into the kitchen and start slamming things around.

“John,” Sherlock says, following him. He feels unbearably small, watching John, and it’s not a good feeling.

“I can’t believe you sometimes,” John says without turning around. “Or, wait, yes I can. I suppose if you can fake your own death it’s no surprise that you would also be willing to lie about someone else’s death.”

“Actually you were the one who lied to me,” Sherlock points out, wincing slightly. Normally they have an unspoken agreement to not mention that time and he wishes Irene hadn’t referred to it. He knows that John is truly upset if he’s mentioning it as well, which in turn will only make him more upset.

“That was different. I was trying to spare your feelings, Sherlock.”

“Not so different,” Sherlock mumbles. At the time he’d told John that he had a case which needed his attention when he left to save Irene’s life. It hadn’t been an outright lie. He’d thought for longer and harder than he wanted to admit about bringing John with him, but sentimentality complicated things so much. John didn’t like Irene Adler then and he doesn’t like her now.

John stops at that and stares at him for a long moment. His face undergoes an interesting transformation, softness seeping in around the eyes and tugging his lips up into a fondly exasperated smile that seems to be reserved just for Sherlock. “You’re a git,” he says, not without affection. “If you really want to take on her case then I’ll help you but I’m not sure how you’re going to do it like that.”

“I’ll need more details about the case,” he admits, more relieved than he wants to let on. If John had truly pressed the issue Sherlock might have considered not taking on the case after all. He’s not sure he wants to think about what that might mean. He does want to ask something like ‘are you sure you don’t mind?’ but the words lodge in his throat and won’t come out. Instead, almost like a peace offering, he says, “I’ll text Lestrade and let him know that he can bring any new evidence to us.”

John actually grins. “Alright, then, let’s go hear more about this new case of yours. I’ll be in as soon as the tea is finished.”

Not surprisingly, Irene is watching him closely when Sherlock comes back into the room. He ignores her scrutiny, walking back over to his chair and climbing up into it as opposed to taking a seat beside her on the couch. The chair dwarfs him, making him seem smaller than he actually is and he hates it, but he knows that John will appreciate the additional distance between them. She can divine whatever she likes as long as she doesn’t mention or refer to it in any way, especially not while he looks young enough to be John’s child.

“Tell me more,” he says to her. “I need every detail you can give me about this woman.”

Irene looks at him for a second longer. There’s a mischievous look in her eyes, a glint of the old Irene. “She works as a receptionist for the local dentistry,” she says. “She’s young, quite a bit younger than Godfrey, late twenties. Her daughter is about six years old and attends the elementary school. The child does look like Godfrey, a little. They’ve both got dark hair. But that hardly means anything.” She lifts a shoulder and leans forward, intent. “Have you admitted it yet, Sherlock?”

“Leave it,” Sherlock growls, knowing John is about to walk in at any moment. He can’t deal with this now, he can’t. “Not now, Irene.” And at this rate, maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Sherlock has a plan.

It's hard to tell who is less enthused about it. Sherlock is tense, his little hands fisted in John's jumper, looking for all the world like he'd love to tear the material apart but doesn't dare try for fear that he won't have the strength to finish the job. John is standing there staring at him, which he has been doing for the past two minutes eve since Irene left and Sherlock first spoke up. Now he's accepted that his flatmate cum best friend has been turned into a child. Bizarre, yes, but living with Sherlock Holmes makes it just one of those slightly odd things that happens. This, though. This is crossing lines that John didn't even know he had.

"You want me… to act as your father," John says slowly, hoping that saying the words for about the fifth time will magically force them to make sense. He pauses, considering. Nope.

"That's right," Sherlock says, a hint of defiance hidden in the tilt of that chin. "It makes perfect sense, John. This woman has a daughter about my age." He grimaces slightly. "It will be an easy way to approach her. From what Irene has told me she's been living a relatively secluded life. She'll appreciate the attention of an older, settled man, particularly a doctor who could potentially offer her a good life. All you have to do is get us into her house. Then I can investigate while you keep her distracted."

"Did you just call me old?" John says and then shakes his head - not the issue to focus on. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not sure about this. For one thing, you don't even act like a child, much less my child." And thank god for that. He's had a lot of thoughts and feelings that are definitely not paternal. "She's going to realize something is up, even if she doesn't associate you with Sherlock Holmes."

It's always amazing to watch when Sherlock puts on an act, a mask. He can change his behaviour, his body language, in a split second. John stares as Sherlock does something, he doesn't know what, but when Sherlock looks up at him again he actually looks like a child. His eyes go all wide and shiny, the biggest set of puppy dog eyes John has ever seen in his life, and he sticks his lower lip out in the beginnings of a great sulk - that, at least, John is intensely familiar with.

"Daddy," he whines. "Please?"

Hearing Sherlock speak in that tone, that tone that all parents know and dislike, is enough to make John shudder. That's just disturbing. "Cut it out," he orders a shade more harshly than perhaps he should have.

"But you agree it will work." Sherlock drops the act and straightens his back, wearing a cocky smirk. "John, if I were an adult I would simply seduce her myself and be done with it. But unless this woman has more issues than I am aware of, she's going to take offence to being seduced by a seven-year-old."

"God no," John mutters, shaking his head. He's actually tempted to suggest that they just break into her house and look for the information. It's something he'd seriously contemplate if Sherlock were back to normal. But crazed flatmate or not, he can't in good conscience ask that a child commit a crime. Even if that child likely committed more crimes before he was five years old than most people do in a lifetime.

Besides, he's not sure that would work. He checks out the folder Irene gave them before she left. It's got pictures of the house that this blackmailer lives in and it looks locked up tighter than a prison. There're even a couple of dogs. It really does look like the only way in is by invitation. Still, he's not sure he's comfortable doing this. It's one thing to baby-sit Sherlock (even more literally, now), even to go to crime scenes for him, but this is broaching a level of weirdness that John doesn't think he can tolerate.

He's ready to say no. He really is. But then he makes the mistake of taking a closer look at Sherlock. John knows him well enough to spot the tension in his frame: the stiff way that he's holding himself gives it all away. His jaw is clenched, hands twined into the fabric of John's jumper in lieu of being able to pluck aimlessly at a violin. In a flash of insight he knows that Sherlock is really, truly dreading this, possibly even more than John. Sherlock is a proud creature and this has been enough of a blow to his pride already, he must loathe the thought of having to act like he is a child convincingly enough to sway a stranger.

And just like that John has effectively talked himself into agreeing with the plan. Apparently the idea of Sherlock being as (or more) miserable and uncomfortable with this is enough. He's fairly certain that probably says something unpleasant about him, particularly since he thinks he knows what he can get out of it in return.

"Alright," he says, resigned. "I still think that you're a nutter and I'm not at all sure that this is going to work out the way you're intending, but alright. I'll do it on one condition."

Sherlock's eyes narrow slightly. "What?"

"I want you to actually get on the damn scale tomorrow," says John. Sherlock has outright refused to let John take his weight and measurements and check his general health so far, unsurprisingly, and John has this niggling little worry in the back of his mind that it might be enough to make Mycroft return. "Actually, I want to give you a physical before we leave the house."

The pout returns but Sherlock nods grudgingly, looking like he's just agreed to let John stick his hand in a vat of acid rather than make sure he's not dying. John nods back at him and sets the folder down, standing up. He never did get his tea and he desperately needs a cup, if only to keep himself from wondering what the hell he has just agreed to.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock was younger - the first time around, that is - his brother used to tell him on a regular basis that he was too impulsive, that he never stopped to think his plans through, and that someday it would get him in trouble. As he peers at himself in the mirror, Sherlock is forced to admit that there’s a slight chance Mycroft might have been correct. The sight staring back at him is nothing short of humiliating. He is wearing a pair of dark jeans and a plain red t-shirt, both of which fit him perfectly after John invoked Sarah’s help to “buy a birthday gift for a mate’s son”. The small clothing only serves to make his body look even smaller.

For a long moment he seriously considers calling the whole thing off. The desire to hide in the flat until he’s back to normal is almost overwhelming. But at the same time, he refuses to be beaten by this. Resolutely he squares his shoulders and marches out the door of his bedroom. John is polishing off a cup of tea and he very nearly spits the last of it across the table when he catches sight of Sherlock. He swallows hard at the very last moment and sets his cup down carefully instead.

“You look… good,” he says after an awkward silence.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to dignify that with an answer. “Come on, we’re going to be late,” he snaps.

“We haven’t done your physical yet.”

Damn. Out of all the things for John to remember that would be the one thing he chooses to keep harping about. “When we get home,” says Sherlock. He hates being seen by a doctor, always has. They’re never happy and always find something wrong with him. Waste of time considering that his transport is currently in fine working condition, if a bit smaller than normal. “Come on, John.”

John makes that sound he always makes when he feels Sherlock is being a prat but he stands up and walks over to grab his jacket. They leave the flat together and John flings his arm up for a taxi. As Sherlock climbs in he mentally reviews their plan. Right, the blackmailer’s name is Eugenia Dawson. John will flirt with her and get into her good graces while Sherlock distracts the child, Amy. He’s certain that all he needs is a good look around Eugenia’s house to prove that she’s not telling the truth. The important thing will to be make sure that neither Amy nor Eugenia becomes suspicious.

“You remember the plan?” he says.

“God Sherlock, I’m not a - ” John stops abruptly and the tips of his ears flush pink. He clears his throat and amends, “Yes, I remember. You’re Sherrinford House and I’m your father, Wilson. Your mother died years ago. I’m raising my son alone and apparently am desperate enough to hit on girls ten years younger than me.” He mumbles that last part.

“You’re not really trying to go on the pull,” Sherlock points out, and thank god for that. He has no interest in idly sitting by while a blackmailer tries to get with John. Or anyone else, for that matter. He needs John’s attention strictly on him.

They pull up in front of the park and John pays the cabbie. As they get out, Sherlock surveys the area. It only takes him a moment to focus on Eugenia and Amy, right where Irene’s files had said they would be. “Quickly, John, pick me up.”

“What?”

“Quickly!” Sherlock lifts his arms and after a second of bewildered staring John obliges, lifting him under the armpits with an ease that’s partly thrilling and partly mortifying. He ushers aside thoughts of John picking him up when they’re both adults (preferably while naked and pushing Sherlock back against the wall) and wraps his arms around John’s neck. John stumbles a bit until he gets Sherlock settled and then lets his breath out in a sigh, striding along the path.

Eugenia looks up at them with a polite smile as they approach. John nods back at her and sets Sherlock down. “Go on, go have some fun,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

“Yes Daddy,” he says and the words taste strange, are strange, because he’s certain his own father would have backhanded him if he’d ever called the man such a childish nickname. He wanders over to where Amy is playing on the grass and crouches down, ostensibly to watch a butterfly but really keeping an eye on John and Eugenia.

Watching John flirt is familiar territory; he’s seen it countless times before. But never like this, not while knowing that he’s part of the reason it’s happening. And while it’s gratifying to see that Eugenia seems to be politely rejecting his advances, it’s maddening to know she’s turning John down. John, who is worth more than she could imagine, and his opinion of her intelligence instantly drops a good few points because she’s too stupid to see what’s right in front of her. Idiot. He pouts.

“Do you wanna play?”

He turns his head and looks at Amy Dawson. Her smile is shy, dark hair tied up with ribbons. He looks back at John and Eugenia. “Yes,” he says, making his mind up. If John isn’t going to be able to do this on his own then Sherlock is going to have to intervene. One way or the other they’re going to get into Eugenia’s house, even if he has to force himself to act like a young child. He can do this. “Yes, I will.”

It’s easy to trip and scrape his knee, tearing his new jeans and leaving a jagged scrape all the way down his leg. The fact that it’s even easier to burst into tears and throw his arms up for comfort when John comes running is terrifying.

Chapter Text

Sherlock, John thinks somewhat sourly, needs lessons in how the real world works when it comes to flirting. Mainly, that they can’t all be gorgeous, high-functioning sociopaths that can charm the pants off of anyone if so inclined. His idiotic flatmate’s so-called brilliant plan is falling apart in front of him with every uncomfortable look that Eugenia sends his way whenever he tries to be even a little bit friendly. It’s more than obvious that she’s not interested in being hit on by a man in his late thirties, doctor or no, but for some reason John’s not entirely willingly to admit to himself he keeps pressing. He’s pretty sure that she’s about two seconds way from making her disinterest vocal when he hears a somewhat familiar cry of pain.

He’s moving before his mind has fully realized what’s happened, running towards the spot where he’d set Sherlock down and then sent him off to play with Amy Dawson. He’d not paid much attention to him after that and now he can see that Sherlock is lying on the ground, his jeans torn and edged with blood. At first Sherlock just looks kind of stunned, his childish face twisted in a look that says ‘did that really just happen?’, but as John gets closer his eyes begin to well up with tears and he starts to cry, turning towards John and lifting his arms as though in silent command to be picked up.

“What did you do to yourself this time?” says John, kneeling down next to him instead of lifting him. He parts the edges of the torn fabric but there’s too much blood to get a good look. He can tell, though, that there’re bits of grit and sand covering the wound and he sighs, equal parts amazed and frustrated. Only Sherlock.

“Is he alright?” a soft voice asks and he glances up to see that Eugenia is standing beside him, holding Amy, who is staring at Sherlock with a chin that’s wobbling in sympathy. For her part, Eugenia seems to have forgotten the tension that existed between them moments ago, too fixated on Sherlock and the fact that he hasn’t stopped crying. In fact, when he hears Eugenia speak his sobs become just a bit louder and John thinks, right. They can work with this.

“I’m not sure. There’s really too much blood to say. Do you know if there’s a place around here I could treat him?” John asks, trying his best to sound unthreatening and also not long suffering. He reaches out and smoothes a hand over Sherlock’s curls, the motion mostly automatic and not entirely an act.

To her credit Eugenia only hesitates for a moment. “You can come to my house. It’s just over there.” She nods towards the other end of the park.

“Really? Thanks,” he says gratefully, not wanting to give her the opportunity to rescind the offer. Carefully he scoops Sherlock into his arms, taking care with his leg. It’s weird, holding Sherlock. It reminds John all over again that his flatmate has become impossibly fragile. He’s always felt protective towards the git from the moment that he shot a man to save Sherlock’s life, but when Sherlock curls into him, sniffing, and buries his tear-stained face in John’s shoulder it feels like a punch in the gut, the feeling is so powerful.

This is really a bit not good.

Eugenia leads them through the park and across the street to her house. It looks exactly the way it does in the pictures. She inputs a code into a security box and the gates swing open; the door is unlocked, surprisingly, when she reaches for it. They step into a hall and John gives a perfunctory look around, noting that the décor is a bit more old-fashioned than he was expecting, but that’s all he gets from it. Sherlock, who has tilted his head just enough to be able to see the room, is likely deducing everything from what Eugenia and Amy eat for lunch to whom their last visitor was.

“I’ll put some tea on,” she says. “Loo’s just down the hall. There should be an emergency kit in the cupboard.”

“Ta for this, really,” he says, carrying Sherlock down the hall. As soon as the door is closed Sherlock’s head snaps up and he goes all stiff, like being held by John is akin to being held at gunpoint, and he’s clearly expecting to be put down but John rolls his eyes and puts him on the counter instead. “You’re not going anywhere until I look at your leg.”

“Oh, really John – ”

“Don’t even start, Sherlock.” John bends and rummages around until he finds the kit. He wets a towel and carefully begins cleaning the blood from Sherlock’s leg. It’s more of a gash, small enough to not require stitches but definitely needing more than a plaster, and he shakes his head. “Good god. I suppose I should know by now you don’t do anything by half.”

“It was the only way inside,” Sherlock says, gritting his teeth as John begins picking sand out with a pair of tweezers.

“Yeah, I know. Just hold still.” There’s no point in scolding Sherlock for doing harm to himself in the name of a case; the git won’t listen. All he can do is patch Sherlock up as best he can before letting him go and hoping that he doesn’t end up getting himself killed.

Chapter Text

John’s touch is every bit as tender as always, his fingers moving with caution like he’s treating a severed leg instead of a scratch. In spite of that, Sherlock chews on the inside of his cheek because it really does hurt quite a lot, but he knows it’s not serious and he refuses to let John know that even a fraction of those tears had actually been real. He stays still and silent while John stops the bleeding, removes the grit with a pair of tweezers, covers it with a cream, and then wraps a bandage around his leg. He takes his time with each step, every inch of his focus squarely on Sherlock, until at last he steps back with satisfied look.

“Now if I let you go are you going to hurt yourself again?” he asks with a wry smile, like he already knows what the answer will be.

“It was necessary,” Sherlock says impatiently, bracing his hands against the edge of the counter. He’s more than ready to jump down but John catches him under the arms, lowering him slowly and safely to the ground before turning away to wash his hands. Sherlock frowns at his back and tests his leg gingerly, realizing that, though the wound stings when he puts weight on it, it will hold. Good. “Go distract her. I’m going to take a look at her bedroom.”

“God,” says John and he shakes his head. He clearly wants to say something but refrains, which is just as well because Sherlock wouldn’t listen anyway. They separate at the door and Sherlock ventures deeper into the house while John goes out to the kitchen. The layout is fairly straightforward and it’s not hard to find his way to Eugenia’s bedroom. The door has been shut, but it’s not locked (she’s trusting, then, at least when it comes to her child) and he closes it behind him once he’s in.

There’s not a lot of furniture and what there is looks old and well worn. One thing immediately stands out as being so obvious that even John would notice: no man lives here. Or has visited recently, even, he can tell by the way that Eugenia’s bed is only partially made. The rest of the house is fastidiously neat, so she’s not expecting anyone to see the interior of this room. He moves swiftly across the room to her dresser. A quick perusal of the top drawer reveals underwear, knickers and bras that have seen better days. In the very back, balled up and shoved against the corner and covered by everything else, is a satin pair in a shiny pink. Interesting.

The drawer below yields jumpers and sweats and nothing of interest, same for the drawer beneath. Her clothing is all dreadfully boring, worse even then John’s old cable-knit oatmeal jumper but hiding no other secrets. He looks for all of the normal hiding places: beneath the desk, in her closet, under the bed and the mattress, but frustratingly yields nothing. He sits back on his heels and folds his hands together thoughtfully. Everyone has secrets but perhaps her bedroom is not where Eugenia keeps them, even though it’s the one part of the house she deems able to be messy. The question, then, is where?

As he gets to his feet, his eyes land on her night table and the picture frames, one of them now face down half on top of a pair of reading glasses. He examines them briefly - one a picture of Amy, one of an older woman who looks a good deal like Eugenia, and one is a picture of Eugenia and a man with a strong resemblance to, and who may possibly be, a young Godfrey Norton: the picture quality is too poor to tell for certain. He makes note of the down-turned frame’s exact placement before he picks that one up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening slightly. This changes everything.

“Sherrinford!”

Hearing John’s voice is a jolt. Sherlock sets the frame down carefully and strides over to the door. Before he can reach up to open it, it does, revealing John, who looks harried. “We’ve got to go,” he says, “Eugenia’s got visitors and I think one of them might have recognized me.”

“I’ve found what I needed anyway,” says Sherlock, stepping out into the hall and closing the door. It’s not technically true but he has discovered enough to know that this case warrants a much closer look than he originally anticipated. He follows John down the hall, mind whirling, and is completely unprepared to find a familiar face waiting for them with Eugenia by the front door. Sherlock stops cold and, for one of the few times in his life, is honestly speechless.

“Found him,” John says with a weak grin, shooting a puzzled look at Sherlock. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” Eugenia says politely, casting a less than subtle glance at the front door. She clearly wants them to leave.

“Come on,” says John when Sherlock fails to move and Sherlock, finally, steps forward, following him out the door. John lets out a breath of relief. “God I was beginning to think we wouldn’t make it out of there. What did you find in her bedroom? Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s wrong?” He stops walking and turns, starts to crouch down and then hesitates.

“That,” Sherlock says numbly, “was my mother.”

Chapter Text

John has never thought that there would be a time when he’d miss the sound of Sherlock's violin. But here they are, back at Baker Street, and the past two days have gone by in complete silence, and he does. Sherlock hasn't spoken a single word, hasn't even moved from his spot curled up on the couch as far as John can tell. Forget about the medical check-up, forget about even getting him to eat or drink, since all cups of tea and sandwiches or biscuits have gone completely disregarded. So do any questions or comments, even text messages, including a handful from Lestrade. It's like Sherlock has retreated so deeply inside of his mind palace that nothing else can reach and John is past the point of starting to get worried, he's settled into full on fear.

He glances over at Sherlock again and then peers down at his phone. Lestrade is still waiting for an answer. This case they've been working on has come to a complete standstill, and they have no new information. He wants to know if he can drop by with the case files for Sherlock to have another look. And John wants to say yes, mostly because he thinks this might be the thing that will snap Sherlock out of his state, but at the same he's hesitant. There is something different about this from every other time Sherlock has fallen into a black mood and for the first time he’s wondering if a case may not be the answer. He keeps remembering the look on Sherlock's face when he said, "That's my mother."

Mrs Holmes. Mummy Holmes. John knows basically nothing about her beyond the fact that she is still alive. Sherlock never talks about her and he's not curious enough to risk asking Mycroft. He's tried to remember the women standing at the doors, but to be honest he wasn't paying that much attention, too focused on getting Sherlock out of the house as fast as possible. Now he wishes that he'd been more observant. Sighing, he locks the phone and drops it into the pocket of his trousers as a knock comes on the door downstairs. Not Lestrade, the man doesn't bother to knock anymore, or Mycroft for the same reason, so either a visitor for Mrs Hudson or a new client. He waits a moment to see if Mrs Hudson will answer. She doesn't.

"I'll just go get that, shall I?" he says to no one in particular, not really expecting an answer, and he's shocked when Sherlock springs up suddenly.

"Don't," he says, low and sharp, the first word he's said in days.

"Don't?" John repeats, blinking at him. "Why not?"

"Because I know who it is." Sherlock leaps off of the couch and strides over to the window. He's too short to see out, though, and he has to climb up onto one of the chairs to see. Watching him lean out the window, neck craned so that he can see down to the street, is enough to make John's stomach lurch, and he finds himself hurrying over and grabbing the hem of Sherlock's shirt just to make sure he doesn't fall.

"Who is it then?"

"My mother. Frankly I'm shocked it took her this long to come," he says grimly, his fingers holding onto the sill so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. "Mycroft must have had a hand in that, I expect. But even his stall tactics will only last for long."

"Sherlock..." John stares at him, not really sure what to say. His instinct is to go downstairs and let the woman in, if only because it doesn't seem right to leave her standing out on the step, but Sherlock looks so miserable. No, not just miserable, trapped. The word sinks into John's mind with all of the force of an anchor, leaving him with a curiously heavy feeling in his chest. He's only seen Sherlock look this way once before, when they were at Bart's, right before... "Sherlock," he says and his voice sounds odd, "why don't you want your mother visiting you?"

Sherlock turns around to look at him and reads it all in John's face, of course he does, and he says, "Because she'll try to take me away."

"Take you away?"

"From London, John, do keep up!" Sherlock leaps down from the chair and begins to pace, his hands twisting frantically. "My mother has always abhorred the fact that Mycroft and I chose to move here. She loathes London and always has. Every time we go home she tries to make us stay, and it's only the fact that we're adults that has kept her from trying to force the matter. She still treats us like children." His lip curls in derision and he paces faster, almost a blur. "I wasn't expecting her to be there, I didn't know, I would've climbed out the window if I had. She knows, John, she knows and she's going to try to take me back and I'll never get free, I'll have to - "

"Sherlock!" More sharply this time, cutting through the frenetic pace at which Sherlock is speaking, and John drops to his knees and seizes Sherlock's face in his hands, holding him still. Sherlock is practically gasping, his face pale and eyes enormous, and John realizes that this really, truly frightens him, this idea that anyone might treat him like a child or worse, try to keep him this way.

"I don't want to go," Sherlock whispers.

"You don't have to, okay? Christ, I wouldn't let just anyone take you, pain that you are," John says, attempting to lighten the situation, but he can feel the way that Sherlock is trembling, fine shivers that make his small body seem all the more fragile. And John can't help himself, Sherlock's been keeping this inside for the past two days, he gathers Sherlock into a hug and rubs his hand over his back. Sherlock presses his face into John's shoulder and something inside of John comes so very close to breaking. "It's alright, shh, it's fine. No one's going to take you away from me, I promise."

Chapter Text

John is different from anyone else that Sherlock has ever known. Well, of course he is: even though John Watson should, by all counts, be as boring as every other person on Earth, he has somehow managed to be interesting enough to keep Sherlock’s attention far past the point when he would have otherwise become bored. And now, when Sherlock feels like he should be trying to keep a stiff upper lip by pretending that the fact that his mother is outside of 221b doesn’t bother him, he can’t help melting into John’s warm embrace like that sweet-smelling jumper is enough to block out the rest of the world.

Sadly it’s not, and the sound of the door opening below is enough to make Sherlock go tense, breath catching in his throat at the low sounds of Mrs Hudson speaking to his mother. Then there are footsteps on the stairs and now he’s fully wound up, ready to climb out the window if need be, Christ he’s even willing to accept Mycroft’s help in keeping her away, but John surprises him yet again: he lets one arm slip free from where it was wound around Sherlock’s waist and slides it under his bum instead, and then he stands up, lifting Sherlock with him, balancing Sherlock on his hip with an ease that suggests it’s not the first time he’s handled an upset child.

“It’s okay,” he says again, softly enough that the women on the stairs won’t be able to hear. His blue eyes are calm and his face isn’t strained and his mouth is even quirked up into a faint smile; if Sherlock didn’t know he’s looking at a hardened soldier capable of going to war he wouldn’t guess, not even with all of his “powers of deduction”, as John likes to call them.

“Yoo-hoo, boys,” Mrs Hudson calls out. “You’ve got a visitor, loves, I’ll just let her in shall I?”

“John,” Sherlock says, and he wants to say it’s not too late to jump out the window and you don’t have to do this and I can face her on my own and maybe even thank you but he doesn’t get the chance. The door opens and Mrs Hudson sees them first. Her eyes go wide and she stops short for a split second, barely perceptible to the average person but glaringly obvious to Sherlock, and then she recovers. She’s got enough experience with all of Sherlock’s odder experiments to treat the situation as normal even though she must be bursting with curiosity.

“Do you want me to bring up some tea?” she asks.

“That’s alright, Mrs Hudson, it won’t be necessary,” says John, already looking past her to the doorway where Mummy Holmes is entering the room.

At first glance she doesn’t seem like an overly imposing woman. She’s short, for one thing, with none of the height of her two sons. Sherlock was taller than her by the time he was thirteen. Her hair has gone entirely silver and on the rare occasion it hangs freely around her face it just brushes her shoulders, but currently it’s been pulled back. She’s wearing an expensive, tailored outfit in soft shades of violet and blue and he cringes, those colours never mean her mood is all that pleasant in the first place, and her smile is cold, bordering icy. No one does disdain quite like she does and his fingers clench against John’s shoulders as her dove gray eyes sweep over the two of them.

“If you’re sure,” Mrs Hudson says, picking up on the tension in the room, and she looks glad to escape and Sherlock wishes he could go with her.

Once she’s gone, once the three of them are alone, John speaks first. “Hello, Mrs Holmes.”

“Doctor Watson.” Mummy nods once. “Sherlock.”

“Mummy,” Sherlock says, the word sticking in his throat because he’s never hated the childish moniker more than he does at this moment, spoken in his extremely childish voice. Yet at the same time he can clearly remember the first time Mycroft came home from boarding school and tried to call her ‘Mother’ the way the other boys do, and the rage she had flown into, a frigidly sulking silence that had cast their home into tension and which had lasted for days until Mycroft recanted. Neither of them ever made that mistake again.

“I’m in London,” she says, “for the week. I could hardly allow the occasion to pass by without a visit to my youngest.”

There is a special emphasis on the word ‘youngest’ that makes Sherlock’s skin crawl. The desire to wrap his hands around John’s neck and let the world disappear is overwhelming. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and hopes that it will pass for agreement because he’s not sure what will come out if he actually does open his mouth, but he knows it won’t be pretty, not when he feels like he might vomit. Mummy never comes to London just because. He knows why she’s here and he doesn’t feel ready to face it, knows he might back down under the force of her demands, and the thought of going back there is sufficiently crushing to make his throat burn, his body giving way in spite of his mental demands as the stress of the past few weeks begins to set in.

Only the idea that she’ll be all too delighted if he breaks down keeps the looming tears at bay.

“And I’m sure that the two of us would love to have you by,” John says and in spite of himself Sherlock jumps a little, because even though John is holding him he’d almost forgot John is there, “but you’ll have to call first, I’m afraid. The two of us were just on our way out. We’ve got a couple of cases in the works, you see.”

“Yes,” Mummy says and it’s all there in that one word, the derision she has for Sherlock’s “cases”. “Sherlock – ”

“So I’m afraid you have to leave,” John interrupts before she can finish. And then, like she might not have gotten the hint, he adds firmly, “Now, please. I could call your eldest son to escort you out if you like.”

“No, that is quite alright.” Mummy’s lips thin but she clearly doesn’t want to take the chance that John might follow through on the threat. “I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock. We have much to talk about.”

Sherlock turns his head away from her and presses it back into John’s shoulder in response. He’s not sure if she leaves before he begins to cry or not.

Chapter Text

Watching Sherlock, strong untouchable Sherlock, cry himself to sleep is easily one of the worst experiences of John’s life, possibly surpassing even the day he was shot. It’s frightening to see Sherlock so out of control and worse yet, to know that he can’t do anything about it but hover beside him awkwardly. Sherlock is eerily quiet when he cries: if it weren’t for his trembling shoulders and the tears on his face John wouldn’t know he was crying at all, and that says things about Sherlock’s past that really make him want to punch the wall. He refrains, takes some deep steadying breaths, and instead carries Sherlock up the stairs to his own bed, where he rubs his back until Sherlock cries himself out and falls into a restless but exhausted sleep.

John lies there all night beside him, alternating between watching Sherlock and staring at the ceiling, not even bothering to shut his eyes because there is no way he’s going to sleep even if he wanted to. At around eight in the morning, when the light creeping into the room can’t be ignored, he gets up and shuts the curtains. Sherlock is still sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake him, mostly because it’s been a long time since Sherlock actually slept but also because John isn’t sure what he’ll say. This is a situation not easily fixed and although it’s tempting, he’s pretty sure Sherlock won’t take him up on an offer to shoot Mummy Holmes, even if Mycroft probably could hide the body better than anyone else.

Needless to say by the time he gets downstairs he’s not in the best mood, and that is not helped at all by the fact that Eugenia Dawson is sitting in the living room waiting for him. She looks up at him calmly, apparently completely at home in what is usually Sherlock’s chair, and John just stands in the doorway and stares. Usually Mrs Hudson lets them know if they’ve got a client waiting, which begs the question of how exactly she got in, but that is a matter best left until after he knows what she wants. It’s far too late to think about a disguise and he can tell by the look on her face that she is not here to see Doctor Wilson House, so he does the only thing that he can: he just sighs and shakes his head.

“Tea?” he asks, because if they’re going to have this conversation he’s going to need something to make him feel a little more alert.

“Please,” she says with a slight tilt of her head. The way she’s sitting, the cast of her chin, makes her look familiar, and John stares at her a couple of seconds longer than is probably truly polite, trying to place her. Eugenia raises an eyebrow and he snaps out of it, hurrying into the kitchen while a dull red flush creeps up the back of his neck. Usually Sherlock is the only one who can throw him off this much and he blames it on exhaustion and frustration. But all the same, there is something about her that nags at him.

Going through the motions of making tea is soothing after the night he’s had, and by the time he brings her a cup he’s feeling a bit more pulled together. He sits down across from her and takes a couple of sips before he says, “I suppose I don’t have to ask why you’re here.”

“Well no, I expect not, but since you’re not Mr Sherlock Holmes I suppose I should spell it out for you,” she replies, her mouth quirking a little. “That was a very nice game you pulled off. Was that really your son, Doctor Watson?”

“No,” John says, and offers nothing more.

She nods. “I didn’t think so. I have to admit I didn’t recognize you at first. Bit silly of me, Amy just loves your blog. It’s one of the ways I’ve got her to enjoy reading. But – ” she lifts one slim shoulder in a shrug “ – I didn’t come here to discuss my daughter. The truth is I know why you were at my home. I know what you were looking for. And I wanted to let you know that you’re not going to find it, no matter what you’ve been told by Godfrey or that woman he’s been seeing.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that. He considers her for a long moment, drinking his tea to avoid answering, before he says, “And what is it that you think we were hired to find?”

“Proof that Amy isn’t Godfrey’s daughter,” she replies without skipping a beat. Suddenly she leans forward, setting aside her as of yet untouched cup of tea and folding her hands in her lap. “Doctor Watson, let me be frank. I know that Godfrey’s fiancée came to you for help. She thinks that I’m crazy and I can understand that. If it were any other man in any other situation I would likely agree with her. But I am not being a jealous ex. This is not about me trying to get him back. I would give anything for Amy’s father to be anyone other than him.”

“Then why press the issue?” John asks, because even though he doesn’t fully believe her he is curious to know the full story as she tells it. “Clearly he wants no part of her or you. Why not just let the matter drop?”

Eugenia draws in a weary breath and hunches her shoulders. “You’ve attended therapy,” she says. “Haven’t you?”

He tenses marginally, wondering where this unexpected line of questioning is going. “Yes…”

“My therapist,” she says very quietly, “has always told me that it is partly my responsibility to make sure he never does to another woman what he did to me. You may think me a fool, but I am going to do whatever I can to keep her from making my mistake.” She looks up and her eyes are blazing with raw emotion. “You may think me a poor mother for dragging Amy into the middle of it. But I cannot in good faith allow him to hurt anyone else, and this was the only way I could think of to make her lose interest.”

The hair at the back of John’s neck is prickling. “Are you suggesting…”

“Godfrey Norton is a rapist, Doctor Watson, and a murderer. He has never been caught before. He’s threatened me often and recently. In spite of that, I am doing my best to keep him from marrying anyone else because I do not know how to get him locked behind bars where he belongs. But rest assured if you don’t help me, his fiancée, and I assume she is a friend of yours, is going to be his next victim.”

Chapter Text

It's dark again by the time that Sherlock wakes up, and he can tell that he has slept for a long time. His head feels muzzy and thick, the way it does after he's drunk too much or taken one hit too many or cried. And since he hasn't shot up in years and rarely consumes alcohol, he is forced to concede that the last and most disgusting answer is therefore the most probable. The thought is less than thrilling. He grimaces into the pillow, which smells comfortingly like John, and opens sticky eyes to see that he has somehow ended up in John's bedroom. He's still wearing the clothing he was dressed in the night before, but he's been tucked underneath the covers and they've been pulled up around his shoulders; ergo, John must have carried him here at some point last night.

Just remembering his total loss of control is enough to make Sherlock shudder. It was the one thing about cocaine that he disliked, those times when he would lose his sense of self, but usually Mycroft - or rather, Mycroft's people - was there to make sure that he didn't do anything too stupid or humiliating. But in this case, John had been the one to witness his distress and Sherlock hates that. He didn't want John to know how much this situation is bothering him. If it weren't for this damnably childlike body he might have been able to keep it together, but his mother's appearance had simply been the last straw and his control, already stressed from everything that had gone on, had snapped.

At least John doesn't seem to have minded, judging by the fact that he carried Sherlock upstairs to his own room and, Sherlock shifts and eyes the bed beside him where this a fairly clear imprint from John's body, slept beside him all night. What does it mean? Not for the first time he wishes that he was better at interpreting human emotions. He sighs and rubs his eyes, clearing away the residue from both crying and sleeping, and hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He wonders for a split second if it would be better to pretend that he is still asleep, but the decision is taken out of his hands when the door is fully nudged open and John steps into the room carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.

"Ah, you are awake," he says with that crooked smile that never fails to make Sherlock smile in response. "I figured you might be hungry for once."

"Not really," Sherlock says, which happens to be the honest truth. His stomach feels too tight for his appetite to be stimulated. He watches as John carries the tray across the room and sets it carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you ate something anyway. You'll be thirsty, at least," John says, and, because he does not point out why Sherlock would be thirsty after losing so much water from hours of crying, Sherlock accepts the offered mug and actually drinks from it. Surprisingly the soothingly hot tea goes a long way towards easing the nauseous feeling in his belly. It feels even better when John sits down on the bed beside him with his own mug. For the moment the biscuits lay on the tray, forgotten.

"Who was downstairs?" asks Sherlock after a couple of minutes of companionable silence. At John's startled look, he smirks and says, "You're still wearing the clothing you wore yesterday. Normally you shower and change first thing in the morning unless something else pops up to distract you. Lestrade hasn't texted me, I'd have heard my phone, and Mycroft is probably too busy dealing with... with things to bother us." He hopes that John didn't notice the way his voice caught briefly at the near mention of Mummy and barrels on. "Mrs Hudson always goes out to breakfast and the shops with her friends on the second Thursday of the month, and she'll not have broken that for anything minor. If it had been someone you knew you still would've made the effort to change, especially once they left, but you haven’t, you’ve been too distracted even hours after the fact. That means we've had a client of some sort who intrigued you, but not one you felt important enough to wake me for."

"Jesus," John says and then he shakes his head with a little laugh. "I'll never get used to that. You're right on all accounts except one. This client was definitely important and I probably should've woken you up, but I thought it was better to let you sleep after the night you had." His voice remains carefully bland.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock mutters, a touch put out that John would allow him to sleep through something important. The perils of having a doctor for a flatmate, indeed. His curiosity is burning now and he regrets the night before even more now.

John looks at him like he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking and says, “Eugenia Dawson came to visit.”

“Oh.” For once Sherlock is genuinely surprised, and he does nothing to hide it. Without thinking about it he reaches out and takes a biscuit, absently breaking a small piece off and popping it into his mouth. Eugenia Dawson, here? Obviously she’d recognized them, then, though whether or not that’s due to her own observations or Mummy’s interference remains to be seen. He glances at John, studies him quickly, noting the tell-tale signs that suggest Eugenia’s visit had brought details that perplex John and make an oddly attractive line appear just above his eyes. Sherlock looks away and says, “What did she say?”

Swiftly, John gives him the run down, starting with Eugenia’s surprising revelation about Godfrey Norton and ending with, “and she wouldn’t give me much more than that. She said she would need to speak with you before she shared any more details. Left us her contact information and took off, even though I promised to pass it all on to you.” He sounds both apologetic and frustrated.

Sherlock doesn’t mind. This is interesting in a way he wasn’t counting on. “I have to do some research on Norton,” he announces.

“I figured. Eat the rest of the biscuits and I’ll bring you my laptop.”

Startled, he glances down at his hands and the crumbs in his lap, then over at the half empty plate. John’s eyes are twinkling with suppressed amusement. Sherlock huffs, half tempted to just fetch the computer himself, but in the end he grabs another biscuit. The laptop is all the way downstairs, and besides, the biscuits are quite good. It really has nothing to do with the warm feeling he gets when eating another biscuit makes John smile.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock is preoccupied with something, the whole world could fall apart around him and he wouldn’t notice. Some eight or nine hours after John talked him into eating the platter of biscuits, he’s still up there and John is left enjoying the relative peaceful state of the flat. He putters around the kitchen, cleaning here and there and sending the occasional affectionate glance towards the stairs. He hasn’t been up to check on Sherlock in over three hours, but he has every confidence that Sherlock is exactly where John left him: tucked in amongst the blankets on John’s bed with a cup of tea, another half-eaten plate of biscuits, several files (including the one that Irene Adler had originally brought to them), two laptop computers and both of their mobile phones. The main reason John isn’t up there with him is because there is no longer any room for him on the bed.

Of course, Sherlock probably would’ve probably made room if John had pressed the issue, but he has the feeling that they may be having another visitor soon. He’s proven right when the door opens as he’s scrubbing at a suspiciously acid-like stain on the table, and he hears the sound of footsteps combined with a light tapping sound that can only be an umbrella hitting the floor. John closes his eyes briefly and lets out a sigh before dropping the wash cloth and going to make up some more tea. By now, he knows how Mycroft takes it - black if he’s in a good mood, with sugar if the situation calls for it, and in this case John thinks it does - and he uses the time it takes to prepare himself for whatever revelations or information the coming talk might present.

Mycroft is seated on the sofa by the time that John comes out of the kitchen carrying two cups of tea. Unusual, considering that he normally takes a seat in either of the chairs, and John eyes him closely as he crosses the room. Even in a man like Mycroft Holmes, there are certain tells that give away a long night and he can see them now. The slight wrinkles in Mycroft’s waistcoat, the way he holds himself a bit too stiffly, even how he sips at his cup of tea. John goes back into the kitchen, fetches the last of the biscuits, and brings them out with him.

“Eat,” he says before Mycroft can protest, plonking them down on the man’s knee. “I can see the signs of low blood sugar, Mycroft, and I know what you Holmes’ are like when you get involved in something. I’ll not have you collapsing on the stairs. Sherlock would never let you hear the end of it, you know.”

Likely because he knows John is right and doesn’t want to deal with the teasing that would result, Mycroft picks up a biscuit. “I’ve been to speak with our mother,” he says.

So there will be no beating around the bush this time. John appreciates the bluntness; it’s a refreshing change. “Sherlock was not pleased that she came to the flat,” he says carefully, not wanting to give too much away. Mycroft probably already knows about Sherlock’s breakdown, but on the small chance he doesn’t it’s not John’s place to give him any details.

“No, I don’t suppose he was. Mummy is... an odd sort of person, if you will. From the time when she was young, she was obsessed with having a child. Part of that likely stems from the fact that she was told she would be unable to have children.” Mycroft bites into a biscuit, finally. John watches closely, waiting patiently, until it is gone. “Medical breakthroughs in fertility allowed her to become pregnant with first myself and then Sherlock. She was a very doting mother when we were young.”

There’s something about the way that Mycroft says that. “And when you were older?”

A brief smile crosses Mycroft’s face. It is not a nice smile. “I was fortunate. Father was able to take me under his wing. By that point Mummy had become pregnant with Sherlock, and I was jealous of the attention she had lavished on him, attention that had once been mine. For a long time I could not understand why it mattered how old I was. I was still her son, after all.” He affects an indifferent shrug that doesn’t quite come off that well. “But then Father died, and Sherlock began to grow up, and I noticed that Mummy was doing everything she could to keep him as childlike as possible. She knew she would not be having any more children. Sherlock was her last chance.”

“Her last chance for what?” John really hopes he is not understanding this properly.

“Sherlock was – is – her baby, John. She wanted him to be dependent on her in the way that only young children are. I did what I could, but Sherlock and Mummy were unusually close. He was homeschooled, and there were things that I could not teach him.” Mycroft looks upset now. This genuine touch of emotion in his face is disturbing. “It wasn’t until he went away to school that he understood that things were not right and rebelled against her attention. It caused a terrible fight, particularly when he decided to move to London. There was little she could do to stop him at that point, but she was furious.”

This makes sense in a weird way that John sort of wishes didn’t. Why Sherlock acts like such a big child sometimes. Why he never visits Mummy. Even why he has such an odd relationship with Mycroft. He sits back in his chair and breathes out slowly. “And now you think... what, that if she had the chance she would spirit Sherlock away and keep him a child forever?”

“That is exactly what she would do,” Mycroft says simply. “I am certain that I need not tell you that the very idea terrifies my brother more than anything else in the world.”

There is a suspicion looming in back of John’s mind. He looks up at Mycroft and hopes to every deity that might be listening that he is wrong. “Mycroft... you don’t think – I mean, your mother couldn’t have... she wasn’t… was she the one who sent Sherlock that package?”

There is a pause, and that pause tells John more than words ever could. At last, Mycroft sighs. “I can’t be sure. That is my suspicion. Mummy is very intelligent when she wants to be. If she had heard of this project and knew what it was for… well. I truly believe that she would not be above manufacturing a situation that would put Sherlock into contact with it.” He looks very old, suddenly, and John is left feeling chilled. “You must never leave Sherlock alone with her, John. If she removes him from London, we will be hard pressed to get him back.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s favourite moment on a case is when all of the little bits of evidence that previously didn’t make any sense suddenly begin to slot together at a pace that would alarm most people. Huddled over the files that Lestrade left with him, his eyes dancing madly over the pages, he is filled with an unholy sense of glee that makes it difficult to remain still. If what he believes to be true is - and the chance that he is wrong is looking smaller with every passing moment, especially when he takes into consideration the photograph he saw in Eugenia’s bedroom - then he and John have stumbled onto something that is far more twisted than he had originally believed.

“Glorious,” he breathes out at last, clenching his hands together. “This is - yes.” He launches himself off of the bed, pausing just long enough to push John’s laptop back into a safer position before he scurries out the door. By the time he gets to the top of the stairs, his excitement has waned considerably at the realization that there is someone else in the flat. Not Mummy, Mycroft, which is only marginally better at this point. He and John are not speaking and the odd silence piques Sherlock’s curiosity considerably.

He moves down the stairs and into the sitting room, glancing between the two of them. Mycroft has been talking to Mummy: he can tell just from the way that Mycroft’s eyes are squinting. Only Mummy has the ability to give Mycroft a migraine of such proportions that his brother can’t quite hide the effects. John, on the other hand, looks like someone has just told him something utterly shocking. Of course, that’s become a common look for John Watson ever since he moved in with Sherlock Holmes, but in this case Sherlock has the feeling that it’s not because John has just been awed by an amazing deduction.

“John?” he says, and he doesn’t even mean to speak, not really, but his traitorous body has taken to doing things without his permission lately and this is just one more instance.

John jumps and even Mycroft startles. The fact that neither of them were aware of Sherlock’s presence pushes the case to the back of his mind temporarily. He takes a cautious step forward, intending to deduce what the two of them have been discussing, and stops when John gets up and hurries into the kitchen without looking at Sherlock. Momentarily confused, he glances at Mycroft, prepared to scold his brother for having unsettled John so much. But the expression on Mycroft’s face stops him before he can speak. He’s never seen his brother look like that: lost, like he has no idea what his next move should be. Mycroft always knows what to do.

“Mycroft?” he asks.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs, the way someone sighs when they’ve got a very heavy weight on their shoulders and they’re not sure what to do about it. “I’ve been talking to Mummy.”

Sherlock goes still. He’s not sure he wants to have this conversation, because he suspects he knows what Mycroft and John were talking about. “Isn’t that brilliant for you,” he says flatly, walking towards the kitchen. John is standing at the sink, his hands holding onto the counter so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. There is tension written into every muscle. “John. I’ve made a breakthrough. I believe that our case and Lestrade’s case are connected.”

John lets out a slow breath and turns around. He looks at Sherlock and something silent passes between them, a bit of communication that need not be spoken out loud: in the span of a second, Sherlock’s silent plea for the matter to be temporarily put aside is answered, confirmed, and John says, “I guess it’s a good thing, then, that you agreed you’d keep helping Lestrade out. He’ll probably be relieved.”

“I’m not going to contact him yet,” Sherlock replies, relaxing ever so slightly. Out in the sitting room, he can hear sounds that mean Mycroft has picked up on the less than subtle hint and is leaving. He doesn’t turn around to bid his brother good-bye. “I need to make sure that what I’m thinking is right, first.”

“And what are you thinking?” John keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s face. He doesn’t acknowledge Mycroft’s departure either, and Sherlock smiles.

“I believe that those murders may have been committed by Godfrey Norton as a warning,” he explains. “There was a photograph at Eugenia’s house, showing her and one of the victims together.” He frowns briefly, because this means that his initial assumption that the perpetrator had been a member of the victim’s family, notably the mother, is incorrect. Stupid. He’d been distracted by everything else and hadn’t given the case the attention it deserved. Otherwise he would’ve noticed sooner, because he feels certain that Norton left evidence behind. They always do.

“You really think that Irene could have been so wrong about him?” John asks, sounding doubtful, and Sherlock knows why. Irene is a smart woman.

“Everyone has a blind spot,” he says quietly, because it’s true. Irene, with all of her tricks, is not immune to sentiment, after all. Sherlock has proven as much before. He thinks back to their meeting, to the earnestness in Irene’s face when she passed him that folder, and he knows that she has been taken in by Norton. She truly believes that Eugenia Dawson is in the wrong. It will take proof. He’s going to find it.

There is something odd in John’s face for a moment, but it smoothes out too quickly for Sherlock to be able to determine what it is or what it means. “What’s the next step, then?”

“I need to look at the bodies. Do a closer examination of the files that Lestrade has. Find out what Eugenia’s connection to the victims were and confirm that this could have been Norton’s work.” He’s almost certain that he has stumbled across the truth, but confirmation will not hurt. “And then, find proof that Norton is the one who killed them before he and Irene get married.”

John nods. “I guess we’ll have to visit the morgue, then,” he says, carefully not mentioning what a problem that could be. He pauses, looks at Sherlock a little more closely. “Hey - I think you’re taller.”

“Really?” It’s hard to deny the surge of excitement Sherlock feels at that.

“I don’t know for sure. It’s hard to say without a frame of reference,” John says pointedly, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh, very well,” he says with a put-upon sigh. Frankly it’s astonishing he’s managed to put John off for as long as he has, but at least it will be an easy way to spend the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

In the light of the new day, Sherlock appears to have fully recovered from the trauma of the night before. But it doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock sticks close to him the whole way to Bart’s: even in the cab, he sits right beside John instead of on the other side of the seat like he normally does. It’s like he’s worried that Mummy Holmes, or someone working for her, might come out of nowhere and try to steal him away. At first the idea is a little amusing, until John realizes that sounds exactly like something a Holmes might do. After that he starts watching everyone who passes them by a little more closely, and he has to fight the urge to take Sherlock’s hand.

Once they’re actually in Bart’s, he feels slightly more relaxed; this is a familiar environment to both of them, even if most of the people who walk by look at John oddly for heading down to the morgue with a child in tow. John ignores them all and hopes that Molly will respond well to this. If Sherlock needs to really look at the bodies then a webcam won’t do, and they’ll need Molly’s help. He’s not sure that letting her in on this is the best idea, but they haven’t really got a choice. Besides, Molly has kept Sherlock’s secrets before. The reminder of that sits heavy in John’s stomach as Sherlock opens the door.

Molly is bent over a cadaver and holding a scalpel. She’s humming under her breath, a tune that John doesn’t recognize. When she hears the door open, she straightens up and looks at them over her shoulder. She’s got make-up on and her hair is fastened with a pretty clip. “Oh! I thought you might be in today,” she says with that eager little smile that always makes John feel guilty. Her eyes look straight at John, not even noticing the diminutive body right in front of him, and then flick past him expectantly. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Right here,” says Sherlock, and the only sign that he is even a bit nervous is the way he squares his shoulder when Molly glances down.

Her mouth drops open and for a full minute she is actually struck speechless. John winces and stops, deciding to let her come to terms what she’s seeing before he does anything. Sherlock has no such intention. He seems to take her silence as implicit agreement that he’s got permission to be here, because he struts by Molly and starts examining the names on the drawers, searching for the victims. When he finds one, he yanks the door open - it seems to take most of his strength - and rolls the body inside out. Molly turns slowly, still staring, and then sets her scalpel down on the stand. She finally blinks and then looks, bewildered, at John.

“It’s a long story,” John says wearily. “Basically, he got into something that he really wasn’t supposed to have got into and this happened.” He jerks his chin in Sherlock’s direction. “It’s temporary and not catching, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Is it… is he…?” Molly’s voice fails her.

John understands anyway. “He’s still Sherlock,” he confirms, taking a few steps closer. She’s gone awfully pale and he wants to be close enough to catch her in the event that she faints. “Just… smaller.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” she says weakly. “What are you doing here?”

“A case, what else?”

“I don’t know if I can let you be here now. I mean, if my supervisor came around and saw…” She nods at Sherlock, who is examining the body as best he can when he’s really too short to be able to see properly. “I’m not even supposed to let him in when he’s… normal.”

“I need to see these bodies, Molly,” Sherlock says earnestly, finally turning to look at her. He’s wearing the same red t-shirt as before with a fresh pair of black jeans. His curly hair is ruffled from the wind and his eyes look huge, too big for his face. The disarmingly sexy smile he uses as an adult comes out looking perfectly adorable on a child of seven? eight? years old, and John can see Molly folding faster than ever.

“Well,” she says, visibly softening. “I suppose if it’s just for a moment, I could let you.”

“Are you sure? We don’t want to get you in trouble,” says John, ignoring the glare Sherlock shoots at him.

“It will be alright. I’m the only one here this morning, I think. My supervisor’s popped off for a coffee.” She gives a slightly nervous giggle. “As long as you’re quick about it.”

“He will be,” John says, giving her a kind smile. Even now, he wants to shake some sense into her and very gently point out that Sherlock will never be interested in her. He wants to tell her to move on, to find a nice bloke who will treat her the way she deserves to be treated. Sherlock doesn’t even notice him in that way; he’s fairly certain that Molly will never have a chance.

But he doesn’t, and, after another few seconds of watching Sherlock, she leaves rambling something about coffee. John hasn’t got the heart to tell her that Sherlock shouldn’t be drinking coffee and just lets her go. Once she’s gone, he moves across the room and grips Sherlock under the armpits, lifting the child the last few inches so that Sherlock can actually see. Predictably, Sherlock utterly fails to acknowledge the help, acting as though he has managed to somehow achieve this better view all on his own. He bends closer to the body, taking a much closer look at the vivid marks on the girl’s throat.

“The marks were likely made by a man’s hand,” he says. “Too large for a woman, but he wasn’t able to finish the job with his hands alone. Strange. The depth of the bruising indicates a good deal of strength, more than enough to strangle someone.”

“There are loads of things that could cause that,” John points out. “Maybe he got distracted. Or maybe she was fighting back and he couldn’t get a good enough grip.”

Sherlock makes a soft sound, neither agreeing nor protesting, and continues his examination. When he’s done, John sets him down and closes the drawer. They move onto the next body, the second victim who was found first. Here the work is neater: the bruises from the hands are fainter as though the killer had known their hands would not be enough. There is also a series of bruising across the stomach and ribs and scratches around the arms and hands. This one fought, John knows.

“He took the first victim by surprise, but this one knew he was coming,” Sherlock murmurs at last, indicating that he is ready to be put down again. “She definitely knew her attacker. She was wary, but let him get close enough. They were killed close together with the same instrument, likely a finely woven scarf of some sort.”

John isn’t entirely certain how that helps with the case, but Sherlock’s got that look on his face. “To Lestrade?” he ventures, and Sherlock nods.

Chapter Text

Getting into Lestrade's office is not difficult. After years of haunting New Scotland Yard on a regular basis, Sherlock knows more ways in and out of the building than even the most seasoned of veterans who have been working there since before he was born. It used to frustrate Lestrade to no end; he calls it a "security breach" or some such nonsense. Sherlock usually dismisses him when Lestrade starts prattling on about the matter, and after a while the man gave up and now he doesn't mention it anymore. Doesn't stop him from giving Sherlock pointed glares whenever Sherlock finds his own way in, but Sherlock has learned to ignore those as well.

Lestrade is bent over his computer when John opens the door. He's got a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other, and when he looks up there's mustard on one corner of his mouth. He blinks at them and says, "Oh bloody hell."

"Good morning to you too," John says with that faint, awkward smile that means some social line that Sherlock doesn’t care about is being crossed. He closes the door behind them and moves to shut the blinds. It won't stop most of the place from being curious, but Sherlock would rather not have the majority of the met gawking at him while he tries to do his work. No one has seen him yet and he hopes to keep it that way.

"I thought I told you to stay away until you were back to normal," says Lestrade.

"You told me not to come to any crime scenes." Sherlock corrects him. "Last time I checked, your office was not a crime scene. Unless there has been a recent offence to which I was not informed, and as far as I can tell there has not been." Although it is possible that the stack of files perched precariously on the edge of the desk may soon murder someone; he can tell at a glance that the weight would be enough to crush the chest cavity of a child, if not an adult. He skirts them as he approaches the desk, just in case.

"My office was kind of implied along with that," Lestrade says in his best long-suffering tone.

Sherlock just shrugs and, spotting the newest information on the part of the case that Lestrade's been working on, grabs it to see what's been happening. That's one of the things he appreciates about Lestrade. Once the man gets his hands on a case, he never lets it go, doesn't let it rest until all possibility for a satisfactory conclusion has been explored, successfully or not. It means that when most DI's would have moved on to new cases and let this one rest, Lestrade is still doing what he can when he has a spare moment. He flips through the file eagerly and is only vaguely aware of John's phone ringing. It stops, then starts again, and only stops this time when John answers it, and a moment later when Sherlock looks up John is gone.

Something goes cold in his stomach and his throat tightens, not panic of course but too close for his tastes. John hasn’t left him since they stepped outside of the flat, and now he is very aware of being alone. He stares at the door and is halfway to opening it when Lestrade says, "He just stepped out for a minute, Sherlock. Got a call from his sister, wanted to take it in private." His voice is very kind. Too kind, pretending that he hasn’t noticed the way Sherlock starts when he speaks. That's the voice he uses with victims who are upset or suffering. The last time he used it on Sherlock, he'd taken too much cocaine and had been just this side of an overdose.

"Have you any other new developments?" he asks, because it’s easier to ask than respond to the implicit question about John.

Lestrade watches him carefully, all protests about Sherlock’s presence temporarily assuaged. "No. The trail's gone rather cold. I know you said you thought it was a member of the family, but I questioned them all repeatedly and -"

"It wasn't," Sherlock interrupts, relieved to have something else to focus on, something that is not the icy knot in his belly. The irrational thought that his mother or the people who work for her could be anywhere won't stop creeping up on him. "I was wrong. I believe that this case is related to a new one that was recently brought to John's and my attention."

"What case would that be?" Lestrade recovers nicely from his momentary boggling over hearing Sherlock Holmes admit that he was wrong.

"Godfrey Norton," says Sherlock, relishing the way the words roll off of his tongue. If their suspicions are correct, Norton's an active serial killer, the very best sort of case. And he can tell just by the look on Lestrade’s face that the name means nothing to him, which makes the situation just a little bit sweeter. He closes the file and sets it back on Lestrade’s desk. “I need to see the witness statements you collected.”

“Alright, but -” A brief hesitation, and then Lestrade gets up. He moves over to Sherlock, stands too close, the uncertainty visible in every line of his body even in the darkened room. Sherlock wishes he wouldn’t. It’s hard to breathe with Lestrade this close. There is a part of him, a very small part but one that is there regardless, that wants to curl up in Lestrade’s lap and close his eyes and let everything pour out. It doesn’t help when Lestrade crouches down so that the two of them are face to face. “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” he says dismissively, automatically, and Lestrade’s hand grips his arm.

“No, you’re not. I may not be as bloody clever as you are, but don’t think for one second that I can’t tell when something is wrong with you. I won’t pretend I know what it is… knowing you it could be anything…” He shakes his head just once and sits back on his heels. “You have no idea how hard it was to wrap my mind around this whole situation. I know you’re angry because I banned you from crime scenes, but that doesn’t mean you get to be a child about it.”

“I am a child,” Sherlock points out.

Lestrade’s hand tightens briefly and then abruptly lets go. Before Sherlock can decide whether or not he misses the contact, that hand runs across his curls. Brief, soft, fleeting - and his throat goes tight as Lestrade stands up. “Yeah, you are,” he sighs to no one in particular. “That you are, god help me.”

Chapter Text

John's conversation does not take long, not when it turns out that the caller is Harry and that she's drunk and babbling something about Clara. He listens to her talk for about five minutes, doing his best to push away his mounting annoyance. She might be his sister, but honestly he has more important things to worry about. It is with this thought in mind that he cuts her off mid-sentence and says briskly, "Look, Harry, I'm busy right now. If you want to meet up sometime in the week to talk, that's fine, but I haven't got the time to spare." He makes the offer only because he knows she won't take him up on it.

"You're busy?" Harry repeats, and if it were anyone else listening to her they would probably swear that she sounds perfectly sober. But after long experience, John can hear the very slight slur to her voice, the brief pause before each new word as though she needs that extra second for her alcohol-soaked brain to remember how to speak. "Busy doing what? Or maybe,” and her voice grows a shade bitterer, “I should ask busy doing who?”

"Harry," he warns softly. That's the thing about his sister: when she gets drunk she gets mouthy, wants to lash out against everyone she talks to. She's the sort who thinks that the world is against her. It's caused many a fight and 4am wake up calls for John from strangers who have either intervened before said fight can break out, or arrested her. It’s the reason he has never introduced her to Sherlock.

"No, Johnny, tell me. I bet it's that detective, the one you can't shut up about. It's written all over your blog posts. You're absolutely mad for the bloke and he doesn't pay one bit of attention to you." She laughs, the sound revealing her state of mind with even more clarity. Drunk as a skunk doesn't even begin to cover it. It's frankly amazing she's still conscious.

"I'm hanging up," John says. "Go - go drink some water and then sleep this off." He rings off before she can respond, knowing that she will ignore the medical advice he’s given her. The hair on the back of his neck has risen, and he shifts his weight uneasily as he puts his phone back in his pocket. Harry and Sherlock have never met, and if John has his way he'll keep it exactly like that. But that hasn't stopped Harry from dropping less than subtle hints about the nature of John's relationship with him: she's convinced they're fucking, and John's protests have done little to convince her because that's exactly what he wants.

He stays there for a long moment, trying to gather himself back together because a call from her always rattles him, before opening his eyes and heading back down the hall. Lestrade's door is still shut, and when he opens the door he pauses for a moment and stares, trying to absorb this. Lestrade is sitting behind his desk, looking at his computer. Amazingly, Sherlock is perched on the man's knee, one hand flung out to point exuberantly at the screen. And really, the two of them don't look anything alike, so John wonders why he immediately thinks of a father and son when he looks at them. Perhaps it's the way that Sherlock leans trustingly against Lestrade, however unconsciously the position may be, or the way that Lestrade has one hand placed cautiously on Sherlock's hip to keep him in place. Together, they fit. It's extraordinary.

"John?" Sherlock says, glancing up. It's clearly meant to be only a cursory look, an invitation to stop loitering in the doorway, and he only focuses his full attention on John when he notices that there is something wrong. "What happened?"

"Nothing," John says, snapping out of his reverie. He gives his head a shake and attempts a smile as he steps inside and shuts the door, suddenly aware that anyone could've walked by and looked in while he was standing there gawking. "It was just - Harry, that's all." He affects a one shoulder shrug that will hopefully tell them as much as they need to know, aware that Sherlock has likely deduced the whole conversation already.

"We're looking up Godfrey Norton," Lestrade says to fill the silence, and John shoots him a grateful look. He walks closer to the desk and looks over the dark and silver heads to peer at the screen. The photograph is familiar, a balding bloke in his mid thirties with a charming smile. The information on him is paltry at best, listing only his current address, where he works, and a speeding ticket from when he was twenty-two years old. According to the info, he’s had no encounters with the law ever since.

"No murders," John mutters.

"No, he's too smart for that," says Sherlock, and there's a familiar note of excitement evident in his voice. "Remember, Eugenia said that he's never been caught before. She was right not to go to the police without evidence. They wouldn't have believed her, and Norton might have taken steps to silence her permanently if she had."

Lestrade sighs at that, but he doesn’t protest at what they all know is true. “And what, you’re just taking the word of this - this Eugenia Dawson, who may or may not be blackmailing someone and is certainly threatening to - without even knowing that it’s true?”

“It’s true.” There’s a mulish cast to Sherlock’s mouth, a certainty that this is the answer they have been searching for, and just a hint of worry that’s only visible to those who know him well. John sees it instantly and has to swallow the brief, undesirable flare of jealousy that shoots through him. Part of Sherlock is doing this to protect Irene Adler, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

“So what’s the next step, then?” he asks once he’s sure he can speak without it being too obvious. Still, Sherlock casts him a sharp look, eyes flicking over John’s face in a way he’s really not comfortable with.

“Research,” he answers after a long moment, nodding towards the witness statements that have been piled up on the desk. John glances at them briefly, knowing that they’ll only be the starting point: that in a handful of hours Sherlock will have entirely researched Norton’s public and private life. “We need to gather more information about Norton, find out how he spends his days and if he’s got an alibi for the two murders. We’ll have to speak to Eugenia again and see if she remembers the exact date and times of his other kills.” He pauses briefly. “And then a visit.”

To Irene Adler, John silently concludes, and does his best to pretend that the idea doesn’t bother him as much as it does.

Chapter Text

Eugenia Dawson takes Sherlock’s appearance about as well as can be expected. The expression of frank disbelief on her face as she surveys the tiny detective would be, under any other circumstances, amusing. As it is, Sherlock can’t help feeling a little indignant. Everyone else has taken the change reasonably well so far, though he’s not sure whether to be insulted or not that they all seem to chalk it up to something that’s not outside of the realm of his “antics”, as Lestrade calls them. But Eugenia just stands there and stares for a good two minutes, and every thirty seconds she looks at John like she thinks John is going to break and tell her it’s a joke.

“You’re having me on,” she says at last. “I knew he wasn’t your son, but - I figured he was the child of a mate. You can’t honestly expect me to believe that this is Sherlock Holmes?”

“It’s the truth,” John says wearily. He looks like he has a headache, though to his credit his voice remains patient. “I didn’t tell you before because - well, for obvious reasons, I would think. But this is the real Sherlock Holmes, and we’re here to help you so if you could just…”

“Is this some kind of joke? Did Norton put you up to this? Are you really John Watson?” She stares at hard at John as though she can figure out the truth from sheer willpower.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock says, losing what little patience he possessed. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and if I must waste important time proving it to you then let’s do so.” He gives her a quick up and down. “You’re actually younger than you say you are - you’re only twenty three, but you tell people that you’re twenty eight to make them feel better about Amy’s presence in your life. You had sex yesterday morning, and your daughter was sick but she’s feeling better. This morning you had toast without jam and scrambled eggs for breakfast because you’re trying to drop a stone. You -”

“Alright. Alright,” she says, throwing a hand up to stop the verbal assault. “How did you - no, wait, actually I don’t want to know. I believe you now.” She straightens her back and stares at Sherlock in fascination. It’s obvious that she’s dying to ask how it happened, but she’s too polite to come right out and do it. Sherlock narrows his eyes, making it clear that such questions will not be appreciated.

“You wanted my help,” he says, every word carefully clipped. “Now is your chance.”

“Yes. Okay. Um.” She goes quiet, thinking, and Sherlock can practically hear the gears grinding but doesn’t say anything because John is giving him a Look. Finally, she says, “Godfrey and I met when I was sixteen. I was at school and I thought he was really something. He swept me off my feet.” Her eyes go soft and a pink blush paints her cheeks. “He told me - oh god, he told me loads of things. Said he was going to leave his family for me, that he didn’t care about anything as long as we could be together. I was too young to know what a crock of bullshit he was feeding me.”

“When did you first find out?” John asks.

“Oh, that’s easy. I was eighteen and we were living together. I’d had Amy by that point, you see, and Godfrey had told me that we would get married. Never happened, of course, but I was still stupid enough to believe what he said. There was a murder, a prostitute by the name of Lisa Egan.” She pauses, swallows hard. “I knew for a while that he’d been cheating on me. And he’d hit me, once or twice. Never Amy, just me. I started thinking… it was the occasional odd thing he’d say, just weird. One day I went looking.” Her face goes flat. “I found a lot more than I wanted to find.”

John shifts his weight restlessly. He doesn’t like hearing about domestic abuse victims, Sherlock knows. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t hide it. I tried, but Godfrey figured it out. He was good at that. At me. I threatened to go to the police and he beat me so badly I passed out. He raped me while I was unconscious.” Her voice is remarkably steady. “For the next two weeks, he kept me locked up in the flat. Every day he would -” She stops and then visibly takes a deep breath. “I think he murdered another prostitute. I can’t remember. One morning he left the door unlocked, and I took Amy and ran for it. He knew where we were, kept me in line by reminding me what he could do - would do - if I ever dared report him.”

“He’s killed the people around you before,” Sherlock says.

Eugenia bows her head, like it weighs too much for her to hold up, and nods. “Yes. Kristen and Delilah were my friends. Warnings when he realized that I knew he had found another wife. He wanted me to disappear, to stop trying to smudge his perfect reputation. I - can’t bear the thought of another woman going through what I did.” Her shoulders start to shake with sobs. John steps forward immediately, ever the concerned doctor, and guides her to a chair.

Sherlock is only half paying attention to this. His mind is working furiously to absorb the new data and see how it fits with what else they already know. If Eugenia is correct, it means Norton has been active for quite some time. Family influence and money likely went a long way towards covering up, especially when he was young and might have made some mistakes. Once Eugenia tells them the city and the years he can have Lestrade look up the murders and investigate them more thoroughly to see if Norton was ever considered a suspect.

What’s bothering him the most, though, is why Irene hasn’t picked up on any of this. Irene Adler is a very smart woman. In the past she’s matched herself against Sherlock and nearly won. So why hasn’t she seen Norton for what he is? Has she been so blinded by sentiment that she doesn’t recognize the peril she has walked into? Or is there something more going on than Sherlock has been made aware of? Perhaps Irene knows after all. Has she been playing Sherlock this whole time? If so, why? He frowns slightly. His next step is definitely a consultation with Irene.

Chapter Text

The idea of seeing Irene Adler again makes John uncomfortable to the point where he finds himself dawdling, deliberately taking his time in picking out his clothing and getting dressed the next morning. He knows that it's only a matter of time until Sherlock barges in demanding to know what's taking him so long, but until that happens he'll put the encounter off for as long as possible, thank you. There is just something about Irene that puts him on edge. She's completely different from Sherlock, though arguably just as fantastic in a different way, and yet he feels unable to relax around her. He's always too busy watching her every move like she's going to pounce on Sherlock and devour the detective if he doesn’t.

"John! John!"

Of course, John thinks wryly as Sherlock's excited voice fills the flat, when it comes to Sherlock nothing is outside the realm of the impossible. He turns, shirt held loosely in his hands, just as the door flies open and Sherlock bounds in. He's wearing one of John's jumpers again, the woollen material long enough that it tangles around his knees and trips him up if he's not careful. His curls are mussed and tumbling over his eyes and he looks, god he looks endearing and John can't help the pang of adoration that hits him right in the heart. As a child, Sherlock's just plain cute side is far more visible than it ever was as an adult and John isn't entirely sure that he’ll be able to go back to not noticing it when Sherlock is an adult again.

"Sherlock? What is it?" he prompts when Sherlock just stands there, silent and staring. If Sherlock weren't a seven-year-old child at the moment, John would almost venture to say that Sherlock is verging on aroused: his eyes are dilated and there is a telling flush spread across his cheekbones. But as attractive as that thought is, the fact that Sherlock is a child is too much to ignore and he turns away, pulling his shirt on.

Sherlock blinks, startled out of whatever daze he's fallen into. "Right. My clothing is too small."

That catches John's attention. He twists back, taking a closer look, and realizes that Sherlock is right. The change has been subtle until now, but overnight Sherlock has become at least a head taller, and his legs, arms and torso all look significantly longer. "You're growing," he says slowly, stepping closer. He holds a hand out to measure. "And quickly, too. That can't be good for you. Are your muscles sore? Anything hurt?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock says dismissively, rolling his eyes, and basically that means John is right and he's just being too stubborn to admit it.

"We should weigh you again," says John, realizing that he should probably also let Mycroft know about this. Sherlock's weight had been lower than it should have been for the average seven-year-old. He wonders if it will turn out to be the same now. He wonders if it is worth the effort of trying to get Sherlock on the scale for two minutes to find out. "How old are you?"

"Ten," comes the quick response. Sherlock sounds certain, which is good because John would've guessed that he was about eight, nine if he was being generous. Judging by the pout Sherlock is giving him, Sherlock is well aware of that.

"Alright, I guess we'll have to get you a new suit of clothes." He sighs at the thought. God he loathes shopping for clothes. "I'll head down to the shops. You stay here and don't... don't blow anything up."

Surprisingly, Sherlock just nods and disappears out the door. When John comes downstairs twenty minutes later, Sherlock barely acknowledges his presence. His face is blocked by the screen of his laptop and he's typing furiously. John fully suspects that if he takes a look later, he will see that Sherlock is trying to figure out his rate of growth and how fast he'll return to his adult body if he keeps growing at a steady rate. It could take months at this rate, which is not a thought that is appealing to either of them, and he hopes that Mycroft finds some sort of cure sooner than that. Spending weeks cooped up in the flat with a stroppy teenaged Sherlock Holmes could well be grounds for murder, and he doubts any jury will convict him.

Forgoing a cab in light of the new costs he can see in their near future, John takes the tube. He sends a quick message to Mycroft to update him on the situation. There is no response, but that does not surprise him: Mycroft hates to text. He much prefers to kidnap people and have a chat in person. Fortunately there is no car waiting for John when he emerges back onto the street, and he continues on into the store without pause. The place is bustling for it being so early in the morning, and it takes him several minutes to find anything that looks like it will fit Sherlock. He’s reaching for a pair of jeans when a coolly familiar voice interrupts him.

“I think you’ll find, Doctor Watson, that my son does not wear denim.”

John pauses, registering the comment, and then defiantly picks up the jeans anyway. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think,” he says idly, because he knows for a fact that Sherlock Holmes can and does wear jeans. The first time John had come downstairs and seen that magnificent arse covered in jeans tight enough to display every curve, well. He’d gone right back up again and had a cold shower.

Mummy’s mouth thins in displeasure at the remark. “My son,” she says in a short, clipped tone, “remains a mystery to you even to this day. You will never fully be able to understand him. At heart, Sherlock is a child that needs to be directed with a firm hand. The best thing for him would be to return home with me where he will be safe, loved and disciplined.”

“Sherlock is an adult, in case you haven’t noticed. Just because he temporarily has the body of a child does not mean that’s changed,” says John. He grabs a shirt at random, hefts his load, and turns to meet her eye squarely. Where before he might have quailed at the thought of interacting with Sherlock’s family, this is an enemy he knows how to face and he will protect Sherlock regardless of what it takes. He knows that’s written across his face for her to read and he hopes that she finally gets it. “I won’t let you take him from me, and if you or anyone else tries I will not hesitate to make you regret it.”

Chapter Text

John has been gone for approximately seventy-eight minutes, far longer than he should be. The nearest shop is about a ten minute ride on the tube away, and even factoring in the possibility of crowds… He is at least fifteen minutes overdue. Sherlock’s texts have gone unanswered, and the knowledge that he can’t just go out and look for John like he would have in the past is wearing on him. Not only is it dangerous, but clothing that fit him perfectly yesterday is now several sizes too small, leaving him with nothing to wear but John’s jumper. The trousers are too tight and stop inches above his ankles, and he can’t even get the shirt over his head. He knows this from experience, and has the tattered remains of it for proof.

He stands in front of the window, watching the street, now just tall enough to be able to see out if he strains. There is no sign of John, and the people passing by are all frankly boring. He spots two adulterers and one man who just lost his job before he gives up, spinning away in disgust at the sound of slippers squeaking against the stairs. “This is intolerable!”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says with a hint of scolding in her voice as she shuffles into the room. In spite of her claims that she is not their housekeeper, she’s got a tray laden with fresh ham sandwiches and a pot of tea. Before John moved in, before Sherlock came to 221b, she used to invite him back to her flat regularly and ‘feed him up’, as John would say, and the habit is one that persists even now. She sets the tray down on the corner of the table that is not covered by chemistry equipment, a fond smile edging at her lips as she begins clearing more space.

He looks briefly at the food, the idea of sitting down to eat while John is god knows where making his stomach twist. But under Mrs Hudson’s watchful eye, he finds himself doing just that. She has been good to him, Mrs Hudson: even Sherlock, who knows and cares so little for those kinds of things, can’t help but be aware of this. She has treated him the way he has often wished Mummy would treat him, like a child, like her child, but never in a smothering or overbearing way. She tolerates the worst of him and loves the best of him and she takes everything in remarkable stride, and he loves her for it with a strength he can never give voice to.

The worry in her face softens as he takes a sandwich and begins to pick at it, and she eases herself down into the other chair. “John will be back soon, Sherlock.”

“He might’ve run into trouble,” Sherlock grumbles, thinking - for once - not of Mycroft or a criminal but of his mother. He fully believes that there is little she wouldn't do to get her way.

“I’m sure that John can handle just about anything. He’s a very strong young man, you know. He’s survived much worse.”

There is something in her tone that gives Sherlock pause. After he returned, Mrs Hudson was the only one who accepted him back with no anger whatsoever. Lestrade punched him, John refused to speak to him for a month and acted coldly towards him for weeks after, and even encounters with Mycroft had contained an additional layer of tension, but Mrs Hudson had been her wonderful self straight away. When he was upset about John, she would invite him down into her flat and feed him and tell him to give John space and time, and that someday everything would be alright. Though he’d doubted her at the time, she’d turned out to be right.

He looks up at her slowly. “You mean my absence,” he says flatly.

“Well, yes, but Afghanistan too, and his sister’s problems.” She reaches out and pats his hand gently. “He’ll be fine, and back in no time.”

Sherlock sips his tea. There’s too much milk, he never gets it quite right, not like John does. He says, “I received a package from an unidentified source that made me this way. My brother has people working on a cure, but they’re beginning to think the only way for me to go back to normal is to grow up again.”

Mrs Hudson pauses briefly. She has not asked, which is why he told her, and she does not seem to know what to do with this information. “Oh dear, the messes you get yourself into,” she says at last, and pats his hand again. “I’d wondered about why it was so quiet, but I never thought - well. You just do what you need to do, Sherlock. I have every confidence that John will be right there behind you when you need him. Like I said, he can handle anything or anyone.”

Does she know? Sherlock wonders. How much did she hear that night his mother came to visit? The truly frustrating thing is that he doesn’t know, not for certain. There are few people in the world that Sherlock has trouble deducing, and Mrs Hudson is one of them. Oh, it’s easy to read that which is blatantly obvious: serial killer for a husband, enjoys ‘herbal soothers’ on a regular basis, watches a bit too much daytime telly. But there are some things that he cannot read no matter how closely he watches her, and after so long she has become too careful.

“Thank you,” he says finally, the words awkward and stilted, and she smiles a little wider and squeezes his hand before standing up.

“You’ll be alright, Sherlock,” she murmurs. “It will be fine.”

He watches as she bustles out of the room, his racing mind soothed by her presence and the comfort, however paltry it might be in the end. Mrs Hudson tries, which is more than can be said for nearly every other human being he has ever met. He even finishes his sandwich and tea, and leaves the rest for John because John gets stroppy if he hasn’t had the chance to eat breakfast before being pulled out on a case. Normally Sherlock doesn’t care, but considering that this will involve meeting with Irene and that has already put John in a bad mood it’s probably for the best.

Then there is nothing to do but wait.

Chapter Text

Loathe though he might be to admit it, John thinks that he can see a faint resemblance between Mummy Holmes and Sherlock right now. The woman is every bloody bit relentless as her son when she is convinced that she’s right. He’d hoped that paying for the clothing and leaving the shop would be enough to dissuade her but she’d actually followed him out onto the street, and now she’s keeping pace with him as he pushes his way through the crowd towards the tube. He wonders for a split second if she’s so determined that she’ll actually follow him down onto public transport, a place that Sherlock staunchly refuses to go no matter what he is bribed with.

As it turns out, she won’t. Mummy grabs his arm instead, hard enough to wrench him to a stop just before the stairs. For a small woman, she is stronger than she looks. “I will not let you depart until you listen to me,” she says, an undercurrent of steel running through her voice. “I know what’s best for my son, Doctor Watson. You have not known Sherlock all that long. You have not seen him when he’s succumbed to the worst of what he can be, the habits he picked up from living amongst those people at university.” She spits the word out with vitriol and rage.

“I’ve seen a fair amount,” says John calmly. There is no point in bothering to explain to her that he thinks he has seen the worst of what Sherlock can be. He’s not seen the man in the middle of a drug binge, no, but he’s watched Sherlock be reckless and daring and stupid. He’s watched Sherlock be afraid, and he’s watched Sherlock sacrifice himself, and he’s watched Sherlock laugh and love and live. John Watson has seen the worst, but he has also seen the best. His grip, when he takes hold of Mummy’s wrist to forcibly remove her hand, is not gentle.

“I could make him into a great man!” she says, seemingly unaffected by the pain. “I could, if you would only let me try. He hurt you, didn’t he? When he leapt from that roof? I have no idea what he was thinking, but -”

“Enough.” John’s voice goes low and cold. Some lines are not to be crossed, and Mummy has just sailed over one. “Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Some days he’s even a good one. He may be a git and a bastard and an idiot, sometimes, but he is also brilliant and amazing and - and extraordinary, and I wouldn’t want anything to change between us.” His fingers are cold, and he remembers those days without Sherlock, days that he thought might not end. “I meant what I said. Let this go. You can’t have him. I won’t let you take him from me. The last person who tried is no longer around to talk about it.”

He leaves her there and storms into the tube, where he knows she will not follow. He also knows that his parting sentence will confuse her because she’ll think that he is referring to Moriarty. But he’s not. Even Sherlock is unaware of the exact circumstances surrounding the death of Sebastian Moran. All he knows is that Moran confronted John one night and John emerged the victor. That’s all he needs to know. The real truth of the matter, the disgusting things that Moran had whispered to him that night, remains only in John’s nightmares, along with the shocked expression on Moran’s ugly face when John got his hands around the bastard’s neck.

John takes the tube back to Baker Street. By the time he walks in the door he feels slightly calmer, even ready to face another visit with Irene Adler. First, though, he has to face the consequences of being late, and those come in the form of a tiny consulting detective who launches himself off of the sofa the second John enters. John finds himself being subjected to a level of scrutiny most people can’t even begin to conceive of. He bears it with good grace as he sets the bag down on the table, takes his coat off, and grabs one of the sandwiches that have been left out. Bless Mrs Hudson, he thinks fervently.

“You’re late,” Sherlock says unnecessarily, looking troubled. His eyes narrow slightly, reading, and then he draws in a sharp breath. “You ran into my mother.”

“Yes, I did,” John agrees, because there is no point in trying to hide it. He is certain that Sherlock is deducing the truth from a hundred small bits of data that John will never notice. “I’m not sure how she tracked me down, but she caught me just I was picking out clothing for you. Here, by the way. Hope it fits.”

Sherlock takes the bag, but he doesn’t open it. “She wanted you to give me to her,” he observes, and there is a telling tightness in his voice. “What did she offer? Money? Women? Your own practice?” His hands are shaking.

“God give me strength,” John mutters, setting his sandwich down on the table. Without giving Sherlock the opportunity to back away, he turns to his small friend, hooks his hands underneath Sherlock’s arms, and lifts him up. Sherlock gives an (adorably) surprised squeak, the bag falling to the ground, his hands flailing uselessly for a moment before he grabs onto John’s shoulders. Now that he is a little bigger and taller, he is just this side of being too big for John to comfortably hold him. John can admit, if only to himself, that he will miss this. It is easy to give affection to Sherlock when he is a child.

“John, what are you -”

“I’m going to say this slowly, so that you will understand,” John says, automatically bracing Sherlock on his hip. Skinny legs wind around his waist and hold on. “I am not letting you go unless you want to. There is no price someone could offer me that’s high enough. If you ever decide that you feel like growing up all over again, you’re welcome to go with her. But until I’m sure that it is your decision, made without the influence of anyone else or anything else, you’re staying here.” He bites back the urge to add anything about how he’s already lost Sherlock once, but there is a good chance it shows in his face.

Sherlock just stares at him for a long time, his eyes wide, too speechless to respond. Finally, he gives what looks like a shaky nod and whispers a solemn, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The hotel where Irene Adler is staying is quite posh - Sherlock expects nothing less, of course, and he feels perfectly at home. But poor John is already looking uncomfortable as the cab pulls up before the doors, but Sherlock pretends not to notice as they both climb out. A few people look curiously in their direction as they stride together into the building. This is not the sort of place to find a man comfortably clothed in jumpers accompanied by a child, and Sherlock is aware of that. If Norton is paying even a little bit of attention to what’s going on, they will have advertised their presence to him by being out in public. He hustles John into the staircase as quickly as he can and feels marginally better once the door swings shut silently behind them.

“No lifts, then?” says John. If there is anything that is going to bother his leg, psychosomatic or no, it’s climbing a dozen staircases. Sherlock’s made note of this before. But he also knows that there is nothing to be done for it. He does not want to be seen by the cameras in the lift, and the ones in the staircase can be far more easily avoided.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Right.” John sighs and follows him up the first few sets in silence, the combined sound of their footsteps the only things breaking the quiet, but Sherlock can sense that he’s got a question he wants to ask. By the time they hit the sixth floor John finally breaks down and asks it: “How exactly are you planning to catch Norton?”

“Norton is just like any other serial killer, John. Eventually they all make mistakes.”

John considers this for half a second and then lets out a soft huff of laughter. “In other words, you’ve got no idea.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock mutters, leaving it at that. He’s hoping that the information Irene gives them might lead to something. So far they haven’t found anything beyond Eugenia’s word that connects Norton to the crimes, and that’s not nearly enough. They need actual physical evidence, which may mean waiting until he kills again. But he knows enough to not bring that up to John. It’s caused fights between them before, and he does not want to fight with John right now.

They climb the rest of the way without speaking.

Irene’s room is on the second to top floor, not quite the best that money can buy but close, and Sherlock knocks on the door just once. It moves underneath his knuckles, swinging open just a little to allow them entrance even though there is clearly no one waiting on the other side. A frown touches his face, and he pauses briefly before going inside. Unusual for her to have left the door open, but then Irene has never been the sort of person who does things normally. He wonders, half-amused and half-resigned, if they will find her naked again. She seems to enjoy that, mostly because it leaves John unsettled and awkward.

“Maybe she’s not here,” says John, and there is no mistaking the note of hope in his voice.

“Possible but unlikely, she knew that we were coming and that I had information on Norton.” Sherlock walks towards the bedroom, leaving John behind to inspect the room. The suite is large enough that the bedroom is separate from the rest of it, and the double doors have both been shut. He reaches for the knobs and draws them open without bothering to knock.

Immediately, he realizes that knocking would’ve been pointless.

It takes almost a full three minutes before John realizes that something is wrong. He turns around and looks at Sherlock, who has not moved, and says, “Sherlock? What is it? What’s wrong?”

The words get caught in Sherlock’s throat and refuse to come out, and possibly some air does too because he feels like he can’t breathe. Irene Adler is naked, yes, but the glossy beauty of her skin is marred by a single line of crimson. She’s laying on the super king sized bed, her hands at her sides and her head reclining on the frankly enormous pillows. Her hair has been carefully arranged into the knot she tended to favour when Sherlock first met her. In spite of how serene she looks, his eyes keep being drawn to the gaping slash of brilliance just underneath her chin.

“Sherlock? What - oh my god.” John staggers to a stop behind him. “Is that - Jesus fucking Christ.” He pushes past Sherlock and hurries over to the bed, fingers outstretched and searching for a pulse. It’s useless, of course, because her chest is obviously not moving and she has probably been dead for at least an hour, possibly longer.

If Sherlock ignores the fact that it is Irene on the bed, there are certain things he can tell with just a glance. She knew her attacker, as there are no visible signs of defensive wounds, and she was not killed in the bedroom. There is not nearly enough blood for that. She was killed elsewhere and then her clothing was removed, and she was arranged on the bed. Judging by the angle of the wound, the killer came up behind her and drew the knife across the soft flesh of her throat before she was even aware there was a danger. He can picture it happening in his mind’s eye, the way she would’ve stiffened and turned, betrayed.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounds like it is coming from very far away. He appears in front of Sherlock suddenly and picks him up, this time without the subtle little pause to ask permission. Sherlock hangs limply in his grip and John carries him over to the sofa. “I’m going to call the police.”

“No!” Sherlock snaps. “I have to - I have to see, John, I have to know -” He stops, realizing that his voice is shaking. Uselessly, he clenches his hands. Seeing her dead, seeing her on that bed, she’d always got away before. She’d always made sure that she survived. His trembling hands fist.

John looks at him for a long time. “I’ll call Lestrade,” he says finally, gently. “Is that alright?”

Sherlock’s throat feels unbearably tight, and he knows that if he opens his mouth more than just words are going to come out. He settles for a short nod, because at least Lestrade will let him look at the crime scene to his heart’s content. John nods back and half-turns, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He speaks quietly and Sherlock listens absently, his eyes still focused on the doors to the room. He knows who did this, and he will make sure that they pay.

Chapter Text

John has never appreciated Lestrade more than he does when the detective inspector walks in less than twenty minutes after John called him. Sherlock is still sitting on the sofa, uncharacteristically quiet, staring off into space. He hasn't said a word this whole time and John is already well beyond worried, but when Sherlock doesn't respond to Lestrade's entrance it escalates into genuine fear. He exchanges a long look with Lestrade before the man goes to check the bedroom while John drops down onto the sofa beside Sherlock and rubs a hand over his face. Why the hell this all has to be so bloody difficult, he has no idea, but now he feels guilty for not having given Sherlock's mother the slip sooner. If they'd got here faster, Irene might still be alive.

"Oh Jesus," Lestrade says from the bedroom, having just got his first look at Irene's body, and John winces. He should've better prepared the D.I. for that, he thinks too late. No matter how dead bodies a man sees, it never gets any easier. He looks up apologetically as Lestrade comes stumbling out a minute later, one hand on his phone. "I've got to call this in, Sherlock."

That gets a response. "No! You can't!"

"Sherlock -"

"I have to examine the scene before anyone else does. Just give me twenty minutes with her. Please."

Sherlock never says please. Lestrade has to struggle to keep the shock from his face. He looks from John to Sherlock and back again before sighing. "Alright. Make it quick, and don't touch anything."

"I won't. I promise." Sherlock slides down off of the sofa and vanishes into the room, deliberately closing the door behind him. Lestrade makes an aborted movement, like he wants to follow Sherlock in but isn't certain that his presence will be welcomed. He stares at the door for nearly a full minute in contemplation before he gives up and sits down on the sofa beside John in the newly vacated spot. Both of them remain quiet for nearly five minutes, straining to hear any sound from the bedroom. But all is silent, and John's not sure if he should be concerned about that or not.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade says finally. "You think it's Norton?"

"That'd be my best guess, though Irene did have a fair few enemies who might have wanted to do her harm if they knew she was back in London." John can't imagine Irene Adler being that foolish, though. She would have taken every precaution, coming back to London, to make sure that none of her old "friends" knew that she was in town. She'd taken a terrible risk just being here, though. Why was she so willing to risk everything for Godfrey Norton? What made the man so special that she would have overlooked the fact that he was a serial killer? He snorts, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"John."

He sighs. "I was just thinking, I always thought that Irene was gay. That's what she told me."

"Oh." Lestrade looks briefly stymied by this, and it's obvious that this is the last thing he was expecting John to have been thinking about. He recovers nicely, though, and comes back with, "Well, not that I'd know much about that sort of thing, but didn't she have a thing for Sherlock?"

John considers this. That's true. He's not sure what Sherlock thinks, but John does believe that Irene was in love with him for at least a little while there. Maybe it had led her to realize that she found certain men attractive after all. And hell, he's not really one to speak. After insisting for years that he wasn't gay, it only took one fall off a building and the thought that maybe he'd lost his chance for good to make him see that sometimes it's not so much about the outside. "It seems weird to think, but she'd have been better off just sticking to women."

Lestrade makes a non-committal sound that indicates he's not too comfortable with where the subject has turned, and John obligingly lets it drop. He knows it's not his place either way. Irene had been with Norton, and to all appearances she did love him, and for whatever reason she couldn't see the ugliness and insanity that was just beneath the man's skin and it had ultimately led to her death. Because even though John knows there is a possibility someone else killed Irene, in his heart he knows it was Godfrey Norton. He doesn't know why - maybe Norton got bored of her, maybe he found out she'd involved Sherlock, or maybe Irene found out the truth - but he knows that’s the truth of it.

They sit in silence for the rest of the twenty minutes, and just as it's beginning to creep a lot closer to thirty and Lestrade is about to get up and open the door Sherlock comes out. His face is pale and wan, and he looks even younger than he did when this whole mess started. John is seized with the painful but powerful urge to scoop Sherlock up and protect him from all of the horrors of the world, and it galls him that he can't do that. Not only because it's impossible, but because Sherlock would hate him for it.

"All done?" he asks instead.

"Yes." Sherlock looks down at the ground for a few seconds, then back up at them. "Thank you."

It is one of the rare times that John has ever heard those words pass through Sherlock's mouth with a grain of sincerity. Lestrade seems flummoxed. "You're welcome," he says at last. "I'll call it in, then?” He probably doesn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but it does.

Sherlock gives a tense nod and turns away, heading quickly towards the door. John catches up in a handful of steps and follows him out into the hallway, back down towards the stairs. "Sherlock."

"I have research to do, John."

"Yes and that's fine, but -" John gives in, he leans down and picks Sherlock up again. He'll miss this when Sherlock is grown, being able to stop the man from running away so easily. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock's voice is perfectly steady, but there is a hint of a quiver in his bottom lip that suggests he is not quite as alright as he'd like to be. John's heart just about breaks into a thousand little pieces. This time around, Sherlock will not be able to pretend to be unaffected by Irene's death. He can't. He's holding it in for now, but there is a tidal wave of grief just waiting to crash down and he has no idea what to do about it and John wishes, god he wishes, that there was something he could do to fix this.

"Come on love," he says very quietly, "let's go home."

Chapter Text

This is all wrong. It's all wrong and Sherlock doesn't know what to do about it, he really doesn't. He stares down at his mobile phone, re-reading every single one of the texts that Irene had sent him back when he was working on the original blackmail case that Mycroft had given to him. The case that brought them together. Mycroft had kept this phone for him, had found it after Sherlock tossed it away on the roof before he jumped, and returned it when Sherlock came back from chasing down what remained of Moriarty's network. Getting this phone back had been a little like coming home in its own right.

Now he almost wants to smash it, would do so eagerly if it meant that he could get a proper answer. There are too many facts spinning around in his mind that aren't making any sense, and it is driving him crazy. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Irene's body. He can see her throat, the glaring streak of blood, and the pallor of her skin made even more obvious by the striking lack of make-up. He can see the graceful curve of her empty hands, the gentle swell of her breasts - not moving.

God. He opens his eyes and tosses the phone down with a low sound of frustration. Sliding his hands into his hair doesn't help, not even when he tugs hard enough to make the hot sting of tears even more threatening than before. He wants to deal in facts, not emotions. Sentiment does not help when solving a case, that's exactly how Moriarty trapped him last time. But this is, he doesn't know how to handle this, it's not coming together because even though Norton has left another victim behind and that's what Sherlock wanted he can't make himself think about Irene objectively.

"Sherlock." The soft voice is accompanied by strong hands that gently tug his fingers away from his hair without pulling the strands anymore, and of course it's John. John, who has been sitting in his chair watching Sherlock silently but worriedly for the past hour, who hasn't spoken a word since they walked in. At first the cacophony of John's thoughts had been aggravating, but then Sherlock got used to it and forgot that John was even there. How did he forget?

"I'm fine," he says raggedly, looking up into John's face. He can read the worry and concern there, and maybe even a little bit of regret too: John doesn't - didn't - like Irene, but he is a doctor and he feels guilty for not having been able to help her. He knows as well as Sherlock does that if they had just been a little sooner, Irene might still be alive. Such thoughts are ultimately useless, and they're clogging up Sherlock's brain and he can't make them stop.

"I can tell," John says, the pinch of his mouth stating more clearly than words that he knows this is a complete lie. He sits down on the couch beside Sherlock and keeps holding Sherlock's hands in his. "Tell me what's running through your head. I'm not you, I can't deduce it."

The mention of their game makes Sherlock's lips quirk up in a blank smile that falls apart seconds later. Normally he likes it when John tries to deduce things. It make him proud to see how far John has come since they first moved in together, and since the game never fails to make John look at him in that awe inspiring way and utter at least one breathless compliment they tend to play it fairly often. But not now. He has never felt less brilliant in his life.

"It doesn't make any sense," he says. "Irene was a smart woman. She should've known there was something wrong with Norton, that the story he'd told her was a lie. Why didn't she know, John?" And he hates the way his voice comes out plaintive, just this side of a whine.

John sighs. "I don't know, Sherlock. I wish I could tell you, but I don't." He rubs the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb, just meaningless little circles that actually feel quite soothing. He looks like he's searching for the right words to say, and apparently even doctors never get used to this part. Finally, he says, "You're right, Irene was a very smart woman. I'm not disputing that. But she was also human, and she was in love. Maybe she just... saw what she wanted to see."

"And she died for it?" Sherlock mutters, because there is something about this explanation that doesn't feel right. It feels so empty, so pointless. Surely there should be more to it than that? That Irene was finally fooled by someone and paid the price for her blindness? He swallows roughly, watching their hands. But then, maybe it does make sense. That's the thing he doesn't want to consider. Irene was brought down before because of love, because of sentiment, so who is to say that the same thing hasn't happened this time?

"Oh, Sherlock, love." John's voice is full of sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes are burning now, and he blinks rapidly. He's already broken down once, and even that was too much. He needs to hold it together. The last time Irene had died, he'd still had the puzzle to keep him entertained, and his violin when the thoughts of it all became too much. "I need to play."

"Right. Okay." But John doesn't let go of his hands, just keeps sitting there rubbing circles across his palms and fingers, and when Sherlock doesn't move away the circles gradually spread to include his wrists and the lower part of his arms. John's fingers leave behind little bits of warmth wherever they touch, and that's actually nice because the rest of him is cold.

Slowly, he shifts. John's hands never stop, not even when Sherlock closes the remaining distance between them and leans against John's side. He's still short enough that he can comfortably rest his head against John's shoulder - the unwounded one, of course. The room is growing dark, but John doesn't suggest that they get up on turn on the light. It's just as well, because this way the only evidence left behind is the growing patch of dampness on the shoulder of John's jumper, and by morning it will have dried.

Chapter Text

If someone had asked him whether or not he'd be angry about the death of Irene Adler, John would have said no. But as the early morning sun hits him right in the eyes, stirring him from what's been an uneasy and restless sleep, he knows that the answer is actually a definite yes. He hadn't liked Irene all that much, but no one deserved to be betrayed by someone they cared for. He'd seen the wound and knew, after a good hour spent thinking it through, that there was logically nothing that could have been done for her, just like he knew that Irene would've had just enough time to realize what was going on before she died.

He shifts slightly, wincing at the needles shooting through his bad shoulder from spending a night in the same position. Bad form, that, but Sherlock is still curled up against John's other side. Somehow over the course of the night he's migrated partially into John's lap, so that his long legs and feet are tucked in between John's thighs for warmth and his head is cuddled on John's chest. John closes his eyes briefly and lets out a sigh, suddenly grateful that his days of waking up with a morning erection are gone. This would've been beyond awkward.

He'd known that Sherlock was crying last night, had seen the breakdown that was threatening to sweep Sherlock away entirely, but the morning light brings new evidence: salty tear tracks have dried on Sherlock's thin cheeks, and there's a good portion of John's jumper that feels oddly stiff. Not surprising, the poor thing: he fully suspects that this is more emotion than Sherlock's had to deal with in years. He can't resist dropping a tender kiss right on top of those tangled curls.

Across the room, Sherlock's mobile beeps. It's a sign of how emotionally exhausted Sherlock is that he does not spring awake and go sprinting across the room to check the message. John waits, and sure enough a minute later his own phone beeps. There is no easy way to get to either phone, not without disturbing Sherlock, but it turns out not to matter. A knock comes at the door downstairs, and then Mrs Hudson's soft voice mixes with Lestrade's rougher tones. John doesn't need to be Sherlock to know that Lestrade's had a long night. The tired footsteps on the stairs speak volumes about that.

Lestrade opens the door without knocking this time, and he looks openly relieved when he sees the two of them. "I wondered what was up when neither of you answered," he says, letting the door fall shut behind him. "Is he alright, John?"

The kind thing to do would be to reassure Lestrade, but in this case John thinks honesty matters more. "I'm not sure," he admits. "He was pretty upset last night. It definitely would have been a danger night if he'd been old enough to seek out drugs from anyone." In that respect, he is the tiniest bit grateful to Mummy Holmes.

"I figured as much." Lestrade sighs and sits down in one of the chairs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've just come from the crime scene. Fat lot of good it did to even bother calling it in. Mycroft's men showed up and told my lot to get packing. The only reason I got to stick around was because I'd been first on scene. Apparently I've got higher security clearance now." He does not look terribly pleased by this distinction.

John huffs a laugh. "Aren't we privileged," he says, and Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Did Mycroft say anything?"

"Nothing useful. He wasn't even there all that long, just showed up for about an hour and skulked around the perimeter of the room like a bloody bat. The man's even creepier than Sherlock sometimes, and that's saying something!" He sits up and reaches into the pocket of his coat, withdraws a small envelope. "He did find this, though he wouldn't say where. Gave it to me and asked me to hand it over to Sherlock. It's got his name on it." He holds it up, and even from across the room John can see Sherlock's name written across the front in decidedly feminine cursive.

The warm weight leaning against John shifts, and Sherlock says sleepily, "What is it?"

"You mean you haven't deduced it yet?" Lestrade raises an eyebrow in mock-surprise. "I don't know what it is, Sherlock. Mycroft told me not to open it and I haven't. It's not mine to open." He stands up stiffly - too stiffly, John's going to have to take a quick look at his ribs later - and takes a couple of steps closer until Sherlock can reach out and take the envelope.

It's a cream colour, the paper oddly thick for all that there doesn't seem to be very much inside. Sherlock brushes a finger across the black script before turning the envelope over and running a nail underneath the flap. He opens it up and takes out a single sheet of paper. The heady smell of spice floats out with it, and John can't help wrinkling his nose. He knows that scent, it's the perfume that Irene was wearing when she came to the flat before. Subtle but strong, and he tries to squish the little feeling of smug pettiness that wells up when Sherlock's nose wrinkles.

Sherlock unfolds the paper slowly to look at the contents. John is at just the right angle to see if he wants to, and he tries not to - whatever it is, it's meant for Sherlock - but in spite of his best efforts curiosity gets a hold of him. As it turns out, it doesn't matter much: there's a time, and a location, and not much else. He frowns faintly, wondering what that means, and catches sight of the single word down at the bottom of the page just as Sherlock folds the paper up again.

Dinner?

"An invite?" he says incredulously, and Lestrade's eyes jump to him.

"No," Sherlock says slowly. He's thinking.

John tries to wait patiently. It's easier said than done. "Then what does 9pm, Loyal China mean?"

"It's a warning." The haze begins to clear, and Sherlock slides the paper back into the envelope. He's gone tense with the chase, now. "Irene knows where Norton is going to strike next. Loyal China is an upper class Chinese restaurant, he must be planning to wine and dine his next victim."

"Did she say when?" Lestrade asks.

"No."

"So what, I'm supposed to just have units stake out Loyal China every night?" Sherlock just stares at him, and Lestrade sighs. "Yes, of course that's what I'm supposed to do. Right."

Chapter Text

It is exactly two days before Lestrade calls them with word that Norton has been seen entering the Loyal China with a woman on his arm. Sherlock's heart is pounding as he and John head out the door and catch a cab into downtown London. The Loyal China is one of the more expensive restaurants, though Sherlock has never found that the food or service has ever been that great. One glance at the bottom of the door handle would be enough to tell him that even if he hadn't suffered through a meal there.

He is familiar enough with the area to have a general idea of where Lestrade is going to be hiding. As soon as they emerge from the cab - which takes ridiculously long, the traffic is terrible and do people not know there is a murderer walking free? - he grabs John's hand and pulls him into the small, local cafe that is right across the street. The cafe is mostly empty, and there is Lestrade: sitting in the corner with a half empty cup of tea and an empty plate covered with crumbs. He's right beside the window and has an excellent view of the Loyal China's front door. He does not look surprised to see them less than ten minutes after he called.

"Are they still there?" Sherlock says without bothering to greet him.

"Yes, and hello," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes. When Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow, Lestrade shakes his head. "As far as I can tell, they're still in there. No one has seen Norton leave." He indicates, with a sweep of his hand, the radio that is clipped to his belt. "I'd have heard."

"What is your plan?" John asks. "I mean, you haven't got enough evidence yet, do you?" He glances briefly at Sherlock. "Unless... did you find something implicating him at the hotel?"

"We've got enough to question him," says Lestrade.

"But if you catch him in the act, you'll be even better off," says Sherlock, keeping his gaze locked on the front door. "All you need to do is follow him once he goes off with his date. He won't be able to wait. It's been a while, he'll be excited." It takes him a moment to realize that both John and Lestrade are staring at him. He looks up, examining their faces, and lets out a disgusted sigh. "Oh, sentiment."

"It's called being a decent human being, Sherlock, not to mention procedure," Lestrade says through gritted teeth. "I am not giving Norton the opportunity to kill anyone else. We will find the evidence to charge him."

"If you take him in now without having proof, you'll spook him and he'll throw money and solicitors around until this all goes away," Sherlock snaps back. He should've looked more closely at the crime scene at the hotel, but Irene's body had been distracting him. He'd missed his chance to connect Norton to the case when he had it. He knows that if Lestrade acts too soon, Norton will walk away from this. He stares intently at the door to the Loyal China, mind racing, and catches sight of a familiar man starting towards the door. This is their only chance.

Later, he will claim to John that this is why he did what he does next. The waitress is walking by with a tray piled high with coffee, tea, and cola, and, in one quick move, Sherlock hooks his foot around her ankle and jerks her off balance. She stumbles to the side, shocked, and the tray slips from her hands and sends its contents all over the front of Lestrade's shirt and trousers. He leaps up with a shout and the waitress slips in the mess when she tries to jump back, and John rushes forward to catch her before she hits the floor.

In the midst of all this confusion, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slip out the door. Norton and his date have, fortunately, chosen to walk instead of taking a cab. He keeps an eye on them, and when he's crossed to the pavement and got close enough he realizes that the woman looks familiar. It only takes him a minute to place her as one of the women from the photographs in Eugenia's room, the one who looks a lot like her only about twenty years older. Mother, he thinks, and doubtless she is to be intended as yet another warning. He wonders if Eugenia has been told who her mother has gone out with this evening.

About five minutes in, as the two of them are entering the park, Sherlock's phone begins to ring. He doesn't need to check it to know who it is, but he does regardless. Sure enough, the caller is John. He debates about answering it and finally puts it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Sherlock! Where the hell are you?" John demands. There are voices talking loudly in the background - it sounds as though the waitress is shouting at Lestrade for having tripped her, and Lestrade is trying unsuccessfully to placate her.

"I'm following Norton," says Sherlock. "Really, John, I'd have thought that would've been obvious." He tracks the couple as they linger by an ice cream stand, then turn and begin walking away from most of the crowd, into the trees.

"You're following - for fuck's sake, Sherlock, it's bad enough when you do this as an adult. Do I really need to remind you that you are in the body of a ten-year-old child at the moment? What are you going to do if he notices you're there and attacks you?" John's voice is growing increasingly irate. "Tell me where you are right now."

"I'm -" The words die in Sherlock's throat as someone steps in front of him, blocking his path. Instantly he realizes how incredibly stupid he has been, and not at all for the reason that John thinks. He clears his throat. "I'm in Victoria Park," he says carefully. "Though I don't think I will be for long."

John pauses, and then he says very quietly, "Sherlock?"

"Tell Lestrade to hurry, John. The victim is Eugenia's mother and Norton is ushering her away from any witnesses towards the north side of the park." His hands are shaking slightly. "Hello, Mummy."

"Sherlock -"

Whatever else John is going to say is cut off as Sherlock hangs up, and Mummy Holmes smiles her approval. "Hello dear," she says, and then there is a stunning pain blooming across the back of his head. Dizziness floods over him, along with bursts of light and flickering black specks across his eyes. He stumbles, trying to stay on his feet, and he hears an annoyed grunt and then he's struck a second time. This time, he falls.

Chapter Text

There is a peculiar ringing in John's ears as he pulls his phone away and stares dumbly down at the blank screen, and it has nothing to do with the phone. He can still hear the sound of Sherlock's voice as he greets his mother, and the audible fear in those two words shakes John to his very core. The last time he heard Sherlock sound like that, the man was standing on the edge of the roof and preparing to jump off. He jams the phone into his pocket, not bothering to try calling back, and looks around for Lestrade. The inspector is still trying to pacify the waitress, hands extended peacefully as the annoyed girl and her manager stare him down, and they haven't got time for this, not now, not when Sherlock might be halfway across London in the boot of his mother's car.

"Greg," John says, and there must be a fair amount of urgency in his voice because Lestrade's head snaps around instantly. John doesn't bother to explain; he legs it for the door, trusting that Lestrade will follow, and takes off down the pavement as fast as he can. It's reassuring to hear the footsteps behind him almost immediately, and he looks over his shoulder to shout, "Send your men to the north side of Victoria Park. That's where Norton is taking his latest victim!"

He doesn't hear Lestrade's response, as the park is coming up fast. John sprints inside, ignoring the people who are jumping out of his way, and looks around frantically. He doesn't know exactly where Sherlock is - or was. But there aren't many places where Mummy Holmes would risk a confrontation, not unless she wanted a potential witness, and even fewer of those places have a decent view of the north side of the park. He strides forward down the right path, searching the ground for anything that looks out of place. It only takes about five minutes for him to discover what he's been searching for: the scuffed ground, as though there has been a struggle, and a small pool of blood along with a child's-sized trainer.

His heart sinks and squeezes all at the same time. It's a curious feeling, leaves him lightheaded, and it seems to make perfect sense to slump to his knees and pick up the trainer with shaking hands. He recognizes it, having purchased the set not that long ago. Sherlock had complained, saying that he hadn't worn trainers for years, and John had told him to deal with it. He wishes now that he'd returned to the store and purchased something else. A sturdier shoe might have stayed on while Sherlock was spirited away, and wherever he is now John hopes that his foot is not cold.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade pants out a moment later, coming to a stop right beside John. He takes in the scene quickly and swears again. "The little bastard - his mother's gone and took him."

"You knew?" John looks up at him in surprise.

"Sherlock didn't tell me, if that's what you're thinking - or at least, he doesn't know that he has. I've known for a while there was something not quite right about that family. I figured out some of the details on my own. I'm not as poor of a detective as Sherlock likes to think," Lestrade says, whipping his mobile out. Noticing John's curious glance, he adds, "Back when he was trying to get clean he didn't mind when I took care of him, but he'd freak out at the slightest sign that my wife was trying to mother him in any way. And of course, it turns out that even the great Sherlock Holmes can't keep his mouth shut during withdrawal."

John nods and looks back down at the ground. Sherlock is injured, that's evident; he'd put money down that this is Sherlock's blood. The question is how injured. The fact that it is not a large pool gives him some hope, but not much. He takes out his phone and dials a familiar number.

"John."

"Mycroft," John says, his throat tight. "Sherlock's gone."

There is a deliberate pause, and then, "How?"

"He -" John tucks the trainer under his arm so he can rub a hand over his face "- there was this case, and Sherlock wanted to do things his way, and Lestrade was protesting. Sherlock created a distraction, tripped a waitress, and then ran out the door while Lestrade and I weren't paying attention. By the time I realized he'd left, it was too late." He stops and swallows hard. Even though this is not his fault, it damn well feels like it is. He knows what Sherlock is like on a case, knows that the idiot will risk personal injury or even death as long as he gets to solve it. And this case is personal on top of everything else. John closes his eyes and speaks his next words in a hushed whisper with the hot taste of guilt in his mouth. "I should've known."

"I'm sending a car for you," Mycroft says, and then before John can get another word out he hangs up.

Left with only the dial tone for the second time in less than twenty minutes, John looks around again for Lestrade. The detective inspector is speaking quickly into his phone. He catches John's eye and ends the call. "They've got Norton. Found him just as he was sedating Regina Dawson."

That's a relief, but a small one. John gets to his feet, wincing slightly as the familiar pain in his thigh makes a reappearance. "Have you got enough to pin this on him?"

"We have enough to hold him, yeah. We'll have to search his car, that might give us more detail, and his flat. At the very least, I'm fairly certain we'll be able to get him for attempted murder of Regina Dawson and the murder of Irene Adler." His smile is quick, slightly cruel, and John stares at him as he adds, "And even if the court doesn't throw the book at him, Mycroft will make sure that he never walks again."

John contemplates the agony he'd seen in Sherlock's face that night, compared with Mycroft's determination to protect his brother, and concludes that Lestrade is correct. Now that he has been caught, Godfrey Norton is finished. "Are you heading back, then?"

"Are you kidding?" Lestrade shoots him an incredulous look. "Not a chance. I'm coming with you and Mycroft to find Sherlock, John."

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes is an excellent consulting detective, but he is also human and that means he has, in his time, made a few mistakes. So this is not the first time he has been kidnapped, though admittedly it is the first time he has been kidnapped by his own mother. Still, that does not change the procedure he has developed. As he slowly comes back to consciousness, he takes care not to change his breathing or move in any way. If there is someone in the room with him, and there he knows from experience that there is a fair possibility of that being the case, he does not want them to know that he is awake before he's had the opportunity to take a full inventory of where he is and whether or not he has been wounded and what is around him.

He begins by taking stock of his body. The back of his head is throbbing steadily with a deep, cutting pain. His neck and ears itch from what is likely dried blood, and it's possible that he's got a concussion. The entire right side of his body also aches, but at least that pain is something that can be ignored. He suspects that it results from a long car ride, probably while he was curled up in the boot or on the floor to avoid detection. Other than that, he is not in pain or injured. However, he does note that his hands are tied behind his back with rope (complicated knots, that) and that his arms are numb from lying on top of them. Furthermore, his ankles have also been tied. Tightly.

There is no movement or sound to indicate that anyone is around, so he risks opening his eyes a little. The light in the room seems ridiculously bright and he swears softly before he can stop himself, fighting the instinct to close his eyes and sink back into the comfortable darkness. He must know what's going on. He waits, sweating, until his eyes have adjusted to the point where he can see. The sight of his childhood room is instantly familiar, and the nauseous feeling gripping his belly suddenly becomes a good deal worse. He swallows raw, holding back bile. It would not do any good to throw up at this point. But as the door opens, he realizes that it might not be up to him for much longer.

"Hello darling," Mummy says. She's changed from was she was wearing at the park to a light pink sundress. This is her version of comfortable clothing. "I've been watching you on the camera for the past fifteen minutes. You look like you've got a dreadful headache, love."

Love. Some part of Sherlock is intimately acquainted with the memory of John picking him up and calling him that nickname in a low voice, roughened with sorrow and guilt. Now Sherlock really wants to be sick. He says nothing and Mummy tsks, pushing the door shut behind her as she comes further into the room. She is alone, but there is no doubt in Sherlock's mind that just beyond the door is a handful of guards. Mummy knows better than to underestimate Sherlock or Mycroft at this point in her life. It's a knowledge that makes him cold.

"Cat got your tongue? That's fine, I'd rather you listened anyway. I've tried to be patient with you, Sherlock. I really have. But you just keep disappointing me. I thought that if I gave you some space you might stop being so wild, but instead it only seems to have made you worse. Imagine, going after a serial killer by yourself!" Mummy gives her head a disapproving shake. "What if he had caught you? You're just a child."

"John," Sherlock says, and the word comes out thick and tired. For the first time, he entertains the notion that he may have been drugged. He's not even sure if he's trying to offer a protest to what she's saying or whether he's just calling out for the man. Mummy takes it as the former.

"That doctor? As though he could have helped, Sherlock, really: I've told you before that you're a dreadful judge of character. You always seem to hang around with the bad sort." Mummy finally steps away from the door. She's coming too close. He tries to squirm backwards, away from her grip, but her hand still lands on his head and combs through his hair in a gesture that is likely supposed to be comforting. It is not. "Don't worry. Now that Mummy is here, you're going to be raised properly. I know what sort of mistakes we made last time, and I'll do by you right this time. I promise."

Good god, Sherlock wants to say, you have lost what was left of your bloody mind. He doesn't, though, not just because he's not sure the words would come, but because he finally seems to have found a trace of that self preservation that John is always insisting he doesn't have. He may be concussed and possibly drugged, but that does not mean he can't recognize that his mother has finally lost her mind. There might not have been much for her to lose, but it is all gone. She will keep him here, and he thinks somewhat wildly that if the house were searched they would probably find more of that blue serum. She'll give it to him again and again until she gets it 'right', until there is nothing of him left.

He makes a low, moaning sound and Mummy shushes him. She seems to think his arms are paining him, because she carefully unties his hands and brings his arms around to the front of his body. She rubs them gently to promote circulation and he wishes that he could swing at her, punch her in the face and make an escape, but his muscles only twitch weakly when he tries. If Mummy notices what he's attempting she ignores it, and when she feels that he's been given enough attention she ties his wrists back together and leaves them resting against his belly.

"Don't want to have to punish you," she quips, giving him a pat on the bottom. She studies his face and adds, "There now, love, no need to cry. It will be alright." She retreats from the room, taking the light with her, and leaves Sherlock in darkness.

That, at least, is something to be grateful to her for: at least the darkness will hide his shame.

Chapter Text

"The problem," says Mycroft, "is that we know exactly where Sherlock is being held."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and then even once they do John is still not sure that he's heard properly. He glances over at Lestrade, hoping that he might find more of an explanation there, but Lestrade looks as bewildered as he feels. John turns his gaze back to Mycroft. "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice coming out a touch more sharp than he really means. "I don't - why is knowing where Sherlock is considered to be a bad thing? Isn't that good?"

"It would be had he been taken by anyone other than Mummy." Mycroft's hand drums faintly against his desk. It could almost be considered a nervous tic if this weren't Mycroft Holmes. "But our mother knows the estate better than anyone else, maybe even better than Sherlock. She did not return to work after I was born, and as I recall she spent a good portion of her time investigating the grounds. I suspect, though I do not have proof, that she continued to explore after Sherlock and I left for London. It will be next to impossible to get anyone onto the grounds without her knowledge, never mind the house. She knows that we will be coming, and she'll be prepared for it."

Every word makes the shard of ice lodged in John's heart feel that much colder. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath. "So what do you suggest, then?"

"Can we wait until she leaves?" Lestrade says.

"She'll have been too prepared for that, I'm afraid. I'm certain that the house has all of the supplies that they will need," Mycroft says.

"Can you turn off electricity, water, that sort of stuff?"

Mycroft cocks his head, considering. "I could," he says at last. "It wouldn't take much. But I hesitate to do anything that would upset her."

"You think she'd take it out on Sherlock," John says flatly.

To his credit, Mycroft does not even try to lie. "Our mother is not stable, John. At this point I can't be sure of what she would do." He hesitates. "There was a time when I would have said that she wouldn't do this to Sherlock, but I would have been wrong."

"So that's it, then? You just plan to - what? Wait?" John stares at him.

"No." Mycroft's response is swift and sharp. "We are not going to leave Sherlock there any longer than is absolutely necessary. For one thing, I was recently contacted by one of my researchers. They feel that they are close to a cure. Once we recover Sherlock, there is an excellent chance that we will be able to return him to his normal age - or at least expedite the process so that it will not take months. But the longer he stays this way, the more of a strain it will be on his body and the more risk there will be. And I am concerned that Mummy may do something in an attempt to make his current state permanent."

John can't conceal a shudder. He's not sure what Sherlock would do if told he had to grow up all over again, especially if he believes he will have to do so under the suffocating care and attention of his mother. But he does know that Sherlock will not take it well. Images of pills held too close to lips dance briefly through his mind, and he takes a deep breath. "We've got to get him out of there now," he says firmly, quietly. "Is there a way that I could sneak in?"

"And me," Lestrade says immediately. "I'll go with you." He glances at Mycroft. "There must be some way, Mycroft. I refuse to believe you haven't got some sort of plan in order."

"There may be a way," Mycroft agrees. "But it will be dangerous."

John huffs out a laugh. "That's life with Sherlock. Tell us."

Instead of replying, Mycroft leans back and removes a laptop from a drawer in his desk. He sets it gently upon the top and swivels the laptop to face them. On the screen is a picture of a mansion - no, an estate. Mycroft taps a button and the picture zooms in, becomes a set of blueprints that look more intricate and detailed than any other map John's ever seen. "You can't simply arrest her," he says to Lestrade, "because there is a risk that Sherlock will be brought to the attention of some other... less appealing facets of the government that I do not control who will want to run experiments. And it will be difficult, not to mention messy, to bring her up on charges of kidnapping under these circumstances. However, if you can get Sherlock out then I will make certain that she is never an issue for any of us ever again."

John leans forward slightly to get a better look. "You're not coming with us."

Mycroft says nothing, and John - for a split second - gets lost in remembering the comment Sherlock had made once about how much his brother hates leg work. But then he sees the look on Mycroft's face, and he realizes that he's asking, they're asking Mycroft to choose between his brother and his mother. Even though Mycroft has already made the choice, it's still a lot to ask. Too much. He straightens up again and gives a calm nod, because Mycroft has gifted them with trust and that is priceless.

"If Sherlock sees me," Mycroft begins. He stops, and his fingers begin to tap again. Continues with, "I am not certain what his state of mind will be like after spending any amount of time with Mummy. My presence may not help the matter."

"Right," Lestrade says, sensing that this is becoming uncomfortable, "that's fine, that's - you can wait, be ready for us when we come out. When do we head in?"

"As soon as you have memorized the best route. I've been over these several times and combined them with what I remember. You can see, I've highlighted -" Mycroft taps another button, and a route begins to glow in a deep red. But it starts inside the grounds. He gives John a nod and says, "I believe that we will be able to smuggle you inside. Memorize the route, because -"

"We'll be on our own to get back out." John never expected to be staging a rescue mission after he let Afghanistan. That he is doing so now for Sherlock Holmes is entirely fitting. He glances over at Lestrade, risks a smile. "I'm going to need my gun."

Chapter Text

It's hard to tell how long Sherlock has been here for. His sense of time is muddled. Mummy likes to keep the curtains drawn, and they're good curtains: thick, with black panelling on the back to make extra sure that the light stays out, so he can never really be certain whether it's day or night when he wakes up. He thinks that he hasn't been here all that long, but he's not really sure and there's no way to for him to keep track. Mummy wears different clothing every time she comes in, but he knows better than to think that means anything.

He opens his eyes slowly at another touch on his shoulder, a gentle touch. She's standing over him with a bowl in her cupped hands. "Breakfast, love," she says, in spite of the fact that he's almost positive that he just had breakfast not three hours ago. It's entirely possible she is feeding him the same meal three and four times a day, because that is the sort of thing that Mummy would do.

She has help, this time, and he knows what that means. The man with her - unfamiliar, but clearly smitten with his mother - unties Sherlock's hands and feet and then picks him up. He carries Sherlock into the loo and stays with him while he uses the toilet. For all of the indignity of having a stranger in the room with him, Sherlock can only relieved that his mother remains on the outside. His hands are clumsy and shake from the drowsiness, and she may well decide a step down is necessary if she sees the mess he makes. Fortunately the man cleans it up without comment, and then carries him back out.

"All done?" Mummy says, bright and cheery.

"He's a good lad," says the man, and he sets Sherlock back down on the bed. There is an unfamiliar, though not entirely unwelcome at this point, emotion in his face when he steps back: pity. Perhaps not as smitten as Sherlock thought.

"That's what I like to hear. Now, sit up and eat what Mummy has brought you." She lifts his upper body easily and pushes pillows behind his back to support him, because Sherlock cannot sit up on his own. She's brought scrambled eggs, soft and salty, and mixed them with an expensive mulberry jam. It used to be Sherlock's favourite as a child, but now he finds the jam appallingly sweet.

He opens his mouth.

"There you go," she coos softly, slipping the spoon in past his lips. "You're being a lovely boy, Sherlock, yes you are. If I thought you could act this way all the time, we wouldn't have to do it like this. I do hate seeing you so docile." She pauses to wipe at a dab of jam on his cheek. "But then, I know better to believe that you would have seen how much better this is for you that quickly."

So he can't have been here long, Sherlock thinks. It is hard to focus. It seems to take all of his concentration to close his mouth and chew the eggs, to swallow. And he knows that this food is drugged, of course it is. Already he can feel the exhaustion increasing, digging its claws into him and trying to drag him back down. He resists, forcing heavily lidded eyes to remain open. Mummy clucks her tongue and wears a satisfied smile as she feeds him another spoonful, and then another.

"So stubborn," she murmurs softly. "And yet so easily distracted. If I'd known that all I would need to do to take your guard down that easily was hurt one of your little friends... well."

He is so tired that the words take almost a full minute to process. But when they do, Sherlock's back stiffens with new tension and he looks up quickly, examining her face. She can't mean what he suspects she does... but yes, the truth is right there. She's not even trying to hide it. There is a smug tilt to her chin that Sherlock is intimately familiar with, the one that means she thinks she's pulled something over on one of her clever sons. His throat aches when he opens his mouth again, and it takes all of his strength to force the question out.

"What did you do?"

"You really want to know?" Mummy sets the bowl aside and puts her hands in her lap with a prim little nod. "Very well. Doctor Watson was watching you so closely that I knew I'd have to manufacture some way to get you out from under him. It didn't take much effort on my part to get the details of the case you were working on. Miss Dawson was more than willing to tell me everything for the right price." She gives a soft little laugh. "From there, it was simple. Oh, Miss Adler... you should have seen the look on her face when she realized who I was. She was so curious to know all about you. I half think she was in love with you, dear."

Sherlock stares at her, mutinous.

"It wasn't me, of course. You know I'd never dirty my hands like that." She gives an airy wave. "I had help. She never saw it coming, poor thing. And then you reacted just the way I thought you would. You were so sure that it was Godfrey Norton, you never even suspected that someone else might have had a hand in it... And he was so pleased that I took care of his meddling fiancée that he was more than willing to do me a little favour. All I had to do was make sure you knew where to be. He didn't realize it would be his undoing, but -" and she shrugs lightly "- needs must."

There is a low buzzing sound in Sherlock's ears, but for once it has nothing at all to do with the drugs. Understanding is settling over him, harsh and fast, weighing so much that his breath comes short and he feels like he can't get enough oxygen. His hands curl into loose fists and he turns his head away with the last of his strength. Mummy just pats him on the head and gets up and walks out, and the man trails along behind her, and Sherlock is left alone to deal with this awful, terrible knowledge that makes him want to scream.

John had told him that Irene's death was not his fault, but it turns out John was wrong.

Chapter Text

Two nights after Sherlock disappears, Mycroft has John and Lestrade specially outfitted with lightweight armour that can be worn under clothing. Bullet-proof, the guard tells them, the latest innovation on the private market. He gives them both holsters and handguns, identical to the one stashed in John's drawer back at the flat except that the numbers have been filed off. John hefts the gun in his hand, liking the weight of it. Having a gun makes him feel safer, even if the rescue mission will hopefully go so well that he won't have need of it. He's half-tempted to use it on Mycroft just to test it out.

Lestrade catches the look on his face and sighs. "I'm not impressed about it either, but you've got to admit it was probably for the best," he says, resigned in the way of someone who has dealt with the Holmes men for far too long.

"For the best?" John demands, because he has kind of a thingnow about being drugged without his consent, thank you very much Sherlock Holmes.

"Look, at least now we're both rested." Lestrade glances around quickly, leans closer. "John, I'm not happy. Believe me. Nothing irritates me more than when Mycroft gets up on his high horse and thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants. But this is about Sherlock, yeah? If you want to shoot Mycroft, then by all means do so. I won't even arrest you for it. Just wait until we've recovered Sherlock."

John looks at him for a long moment before his shoulders slump. "You're right," he mutters. He hates the fact that Mycroft sedated them and then kept them unconscious for over a day, hates that he let his guard down enough for it to happen, but Lestrade is right. Sherlock is what matters here, and stopping to yell at Mycroft (or shoot him) will only waste more precious time that Sherlock probably does not have. "But I'm going to hold you to that, you know."

A quick smirk flicks across Lestrade's face, and he gives John a friendly clap on the shoulder. "By all means, mate. At this rate I might even help you hide the body." He lets go and finishes adjusting his clothing. He's dressed casual in a shirt, jeans, and jacket. No one would mistake him for anything other than a hiker. The line of his gun is hidden by the clever fall of his jacket, and the knife strapped around his left ankle is concealed by the hem of his jeans. Dangerous in a subtle way, John thinks, and his opinion of Lestrade slides ever higher.

"Let's go then," John says, striding to the door. His clothing is equally casual, a jumper, jeans and boots, only he's got a gun in his ankle holster as opposed to a knife. The weight is comforting and he adjusts for it automatically, so that by the time they get down to where Mycroft is waiting - with another bodyguard hovering inconspicuously nearby - he's walking normally.

"Gentleman," Mycroft says pleasantly.

John looks at him with, he hopes, the sort of expression that conveys exactly what is going through his mind. He suspects that Mycroft could care less, so it's really a moot point. Sherlock has always warned him about Mycroft and what he had the potential to be capable of, but John has never really believed it, always thought that Mycroft was an alright sort underneath it all. Even with the so-called kidnappings, he's thought that part of, if not most of, what Sherlock said was just a bit of brotherly paranoia. He's beginning to think he's been wrong and may owe Sherlock an apology.

"Mycroft," he says at last, having successfully repressed the urge to call him something much worse.

"We're ready," Lestrade adds, stepping up beside John.

"Excellent. I have arranged transportation for you to the town nearest the estate. Any closer will risk alerting Mummy to your presence, so you'll be travelling the rest of the way on foot. It is a approximately three miles to walk to the estate through the road, so I suggest that you use your time wisely and cut through the woods. If you are cautious about where you step, it will be much faster." Mycroft nods to the guard, who steps forward and hands Lestrade a GPS. "This will help to guide you. Do not lose it. If you go the wrong way, you could conceivably walk all the way back to London." His smile is mirthless. "It would be a cold walk."

"What about when we've got Sherlock?" says John.

Another nod to the guard, and this time the man hands something to John. It looks like a cell phone, only smaller, and it's strung on a length of chain. The metal is smooth and warm to the touch, and it's tiny enough to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. Mycroft says, "You'll notice there are two buttons. Press the green one if you have managed to successfully extract Sherlock and have left the estate's boundaries. A team will proceed to your location via the GPS and pick you up."

There is also a red button. John runs a thumb over the plastic case. "And the red one?"

Mycroft looks at him squarely. "That is only for emergencies," he says, quiet and intent. "If you have Sherlock and you are trapped, that button will let a team know they are to go in and rescue him."

John hears everything that is not being said as clearly as though Mycroft has actually bothered saying it, and Lestrade's quiet intake of breath lets him know Lestrade does as well. If he and Lestrade get into trouble, there will be no help for them if they have not found Sherlock. And even if they have got Sherlock, the rescue team's primary objective will to be save Sherlock. John doesn't doubt for a minute that the team will know if the two of them have found Sherlock or not. Perhaps that should bother him, if only because it brings the likelihood of something going wrong for him or Lestrade or both of them on this mission into sharp focus, but it doesn't. As long as Sherlock comes home, that's all John really cares about.

"Right, then," he says simply, sliding the chain around his neck. The little box slips snug around his throat, hiding beneath the hem of his collar. He suspects that, were he to look in a mirror, it would be nearly invisible to the naked eye. "What are we waiting for?"

Chapter Text

Do you ever think that there may be something wrong with us?

Sherlock remembers giving into curiosity, to sentiment, and asking his brother that question just once, after the first time they'd been told that Irene Adler was dead. At the time, he'd wondered about the grief that he was supposed to feel but which he didn't. The idea of Irene being gone had not been nearly as vexing as the idea that he'd never have the chance to solve the case, that she had died before he could finish his work. Grief is not a concept that Sherlock is familiar with: he was young when his father died, and of course Mummy is still around and Sherlock knows for a fact that he will not mourn the day that she dies, in fact he'll probably take John to Angelo's to celebrate. So grief has always been something of a mystery he has never really cared to solve.

Right now, he suspects he knows what grief feels like. It is a curiously heavy weight on top of his chest, his ribs, making it feel as though they could potentially be crushed at any moment. Every breath he takes becomes a struggle. He keeps seeing Irene's face when he shuts his eyes, and how she'd looked when she'd come to the flat and asked for his help. Perhaps, he thinks, she might have died anyway. From the sound of it, Norton had jumped at the opportunity to get her out of the way - probably because she was starting to learn too much. But the knowledge that she died because of Sherlock, because Mummy wanted to bring him back here, burns. Even when he tries to give in to the drugs that feeling drags at him, keeps him from sinking too far, keeps him on the surface.

In the distance a door slams shut and Sherlock lets his eyes open, looks up at the ceiling. It seems very far away. His whole body feels slow to respond to any command. The drugs are potent, and this child's body is not used to it the way his adult body would be. But that does not mean he has forgotten all of his old tricks. Grief, he decides, is a useless emotion, making him want to remain exactly where he is and wallow in the fleeting memories that he has of Irene Adler. That sort of reaction helps no one, least of all Sherlock. He'll end up going through puberty again if he does that.

The thing about Sherlock is, when he was a child he had a dreadful reaction to sedatives and anaesthesia. It is not the sort of knowledge that he freely spreads around, and Mummy wouldn't know that, of course, because she rarely - if ever - took him to the hospital. That was an enjoyable task reserved for his nannies or Mycroft when he was home from boarding school. As an adult, Sherlock trained his mind and body to be able to withstand both drugs as best he could. He no longer gets unbearably ill, and - with his history in drug abuse - he can actually fight off a sedative far more quickly than most people would. It's the reason that most kidnapping attempts don't actually work. He always wakes up sooner than the idiots think he will, even if he is a little bit sicker afterwards than most.

It takes effort to roll over onto his side. He pants with exhaustion just from that simple move. A nauseous feeling slides up from his belly, gripping his throat, and it only gets worse when he tilts his head up from the pillow. Excellent. Smirking, he hefts his weight up onto his hands. The key is to keep pushing, even when it means that the world swirls around him in a dizzying circle. Bile surges up from his stomach, hot and disgusting, and he gags. Leaning forward, he vomits over the side of the bed as best he can. Most of the food he has consumed for the past few days comes up in one vile rush. He spits and chokes again, then throws up for a second time: more bile, and water, and the last of the food.

"Sherlock!" The door flies open and Mummy rushes in, a gun in her hand. She looks around wildly.

Sherlock blinks up at her. This is new. His mind quickly catalogues the way she clutches the gun, how familiar it is in her hand. She knows how to use it, he realizes. He vomits for a third time.

"Darling, are you sick? What's wrong?" Mummy starts to approach him, then stops. Her gaze drops to the spreading pile of vomit on the floor, and a fleeting expression of deep distaste flashes across her face. She turns back to the door. "Brown!"

The man from earlier - Brown, apparently - comes in and takes one look around the room. "I told you that you might be giving him too much," he says, wrinkling his nose as the stench begins to rise. "He's only a child, Violet."

"I gave him what the dosage said!"

"At every meal," Brown counters. "And now look, you've made him sick."

"Well..." Mummy gestures with the gun and Sherlock flinches back, too aware that she is pointing it in his direction. "Clean it up!"

"I'm not your maid!"

"Clean. It. Up." She points the gun at him now, steady, and his eyes go wide. Sherlock wants to call him a fool. He lays quiet on the bed instead, breathing raggedly, trembling. "Then wash him and change his clothing. I'll go call the doctor and make sure that we haven't poisoned him."

"We?" says Brown, sounding highly insulted at the implication. "I had nothing to do with this! And just how the hell are you going to call a doctor? What exactly are you planning to tell them?"

"I'll decide that! You get to work!" She storms out, roughly pushing past him. Brown stands where he is for a very long minute, his face twisted into an expression of annoyance. Sherlock hopes that he will ignore the commands, and - were he capable of speaking - knows he would be able to goad the man into doing just that. But in the end, Brown comes all the way into the room and plucks Sherlock off of the bed.

"Little brat, if I'd a way to prove that you'd done that on purpose..." he says, roughly carrying Sherlock into the bathroom. He drops Sherlock on the floor in front of the toilet. "Stay there and don't you bloody well move, or some drugs will be the least of your problems." He walks out before Sherlock can bother to tell him that he's already got far more problems than Brown could imagine.

For a couple of minutes, he remains where he is. His throat burns and his head aches, and his side throbs from where he hit the floor, and he's still exhausted. It takes several seconds of intense concentration. But when he's able to lift his right hand and clench his left into a loose fist, that makes it all worthwhile.

Chapter Text

An unsmiling woman drops them off exactly where Mycroft had specified that she would. The coolness of the air surprises John, and he shivers a little as Lestrade examines the GPS he'd been given. And rightfully so: John still has trouble working his mobile phone and he's had the stupid thing for well over two years now. He waits patiently while Lestrade works it out and then falls into step behind him. They head into the woods instead of following the road, and right away John has to take out his torch and switch it on because he can't see a bloody thing. The torch doesn't really help either, considering that he can either aim it at his feet and not trip or aim it in front of him and not get slapped in the face by branches, but it's all he's got.

They travel in silence for a good five minutes before Lestrade clears his throat and says, "When this is all over and Sherlock is back to himself, are you two finally going to stop pretending that you're not arse over heels in love with each other?"

For a moment, John is so wrapped up in being relieved that Lestrade had said 'when' Sherlock is back to normal, not 'if', that the second portion of his sentence doesn't really sink in. When it does, he stops dead in his tracks. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I -" John stops, because he's not really sure how to respond to that. He's really not. "What do you mean?"

"Are we really going to do this?" Lestrade shoots him a raised eyebrow. It's enough to get John moving again, and Lestrade pushes a branch aside for him before he continues, "It's so obvious, John. I've never seen Sherlock so fascinated with anyone, and I mean that literally. The only thing that used to occupy his attention the way that you do is the work. And you, well." He shrugs. "I guess I've been assuming that you feel the same way, considering that you've stuck by him all this time. You don't?" And there's a shard of worry there, ready to fragment.

"No. I mean yes, I do. I mean..." He gives his head a rough shake and sighs. "You really think Sherlock likes me?"

"He loves you," Lestrade says without hesitating a second. "And judging by the soppy look on your face, I'm guessing you feel the same way."

John is ridiculously glad of the dark for the first time, if only because it helps to hide the warmth he can feel in his cheeks. "I do," he confirms in a low voice, like someone else might hear if he's not careful. "Sherlock is - he's just different, you know? I started realizing it right around that whole disaster with Irene Adler. Sherlock was so fascinated by her and I was, I was jealous; I admit it now even if I couldn't back then. But then he disappeared, and after he returned I wasn't sure... Things have been tense between us." He gestures lamely. "And then the idiot went and got himself turned into a child, so there's that."

Lestrade snorts. "Yes, there's that." He goes quiet, their boots snapping debris, and then he says, "Don't - don't hurt him, John."

"Is this the I break his heart, you break my legs warning?" John says in astonishment. In retrospect, it makes so much sense he wonders how he didn't see it coming sooner. Mycroft is certainly not the sort of person to ever admit that he cares enough about Sherlock to make those sorts of threats, and Lestrade is easily the closest thing to a father Sherlock's got. John's reminded all over again of when he saw the two of them at the station, with Sherlock on Lestrade's lap, and he thinks that there may be more to that than he realized.

"I suppose. Except I won't just break your legs. I might keep this gun, and I should warn you that my work as a Detective Inspector has given me loads of ideas about where to hide a body."

"Fair enough," John says faintly when he's recovered from nearly tripping and falling on his face. "I wouldn't, though. Hurt him, I mean. I - I care a lot about Sherlock, Lestrade. You must know that by now."

"Of course I do. I just wanted to make sure," Lestrade says easily, glancing down at the GPS. He stops suddenly, throwing an arm out to halt John as well. "Hang on. According to this, we're on the estate now. The mansion should be somewhere up ahead. From now on, we'll have to be quiet. Let me know if you see the house."

Instead of responding, John settles for a nod. This time he tries to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible when they begin walking, though that's easier said than done: there are so many branches and dead leaves on the forest floor that each step practically announces their position. He watches Lestrade's back thoughtfully when he's not looking at his feet. That conversation was unexpected, though really it shouldn't have been. Awkward though it was, at least on John's part, he realizes that he's relieved Lestrade cares enough about Sherlock to bother initiating it. Sherlock hasn't got nearly enough people in his corner.

The mansion seems to sneak up on them for all that it's a massive place. Looking up at it, John has no idea how they're going to get Sherlock out. But at least he knows how they're going to get in - and they won't even need Mycroft's fancy blueprints to do it. Someone's left a window open on the ground floor. He catches Lestrade's eye and they both move forward at the same time, stealing across the grass. The room beyond looks like an old-fashioned parlour of some kind, and more importantly it's empty. John wastes no time in putting his hands on the sill and boosting himself up with Lestrade's help. His shoulder aches with the effort as he scrambles inside.

Lestrade hoists himself up with an ease that makes John envious. As he swings his legs inside, he says, "Alright, that was a lot easier than Mycroft was expecting. Let's hope that the rest of this goes the same way." He reaches for his gun, pulls it out of the holster. The click of the safety sounds enormously loud.

Not knowing where Mummy Holmes is makes John nervous. He wishes they had the opportunity to do a little more recon instead of going into this blind. But he knows that Sherlock's bedroom is on the third floor, and chances are that's where Sherlock will be. He takes out his own gun, both because Lestrade has the right idea and John is almost hoping they run into Mummy so he can shoot her, and says, "Let's go."

Chapter Text

Brown huffs and puffs around the room for about half an hour, walking back and forth past the bathroom several times with cleaning supplies and, once, soiled laundry tucked under his arm. Sherlock just smirks, mostly because he can tell that every time Brown catches sight of him the man gets just a little bit more pissed off. After about the fourth trip he starts muttering and swearing under his breath, and it doesn't take a genius to know that most of what he's saying is pretty unflattering. It is extremely tempting to try and say something to add more fuel to the fire, but - and this is yet more proof that he's got an instinct for self-preservation no matter how many times John insists he doesn't - he stays quiet.

Mummy comes in about 45 minutes later, a notepad tucked under her arm. She's got a phone cradled under her cheek, and she's staring at Sherlock. "Yes, that's right," she says into the receiver. "My son is about eight years old -" she ignores Sherlock's huff "and I'm not sure what's wrong with him. He's been having trouble sleeping at night so I gave him something mild to help, and a few minutes ago he started vomiting. He's stopped, but - yes. Yes, that's right. Well, I didn't give him very much. Only a small dose."

A blatant lie, Sherlock thinks, and it's a very good thing that he's not actually in danger of dying because Mummy sure as hell wouldn't be any help. How she expects the doctor to be able to give accurate advice when she's lying about most of it, he's got no idea. He tilts his head back, watching as she fumbles the bottle out of her pocket and reads off the label. It's a sleeping medication that's available by prescription only, and Sherlock knows from prior experience that the main side effects are extreme grogginess and fatigue - which explains why even though most of it is out of his system he still feels exhausted. It will probably take a while before the last of it is gone.

"So do you think he needs to go to A&E?" Mummy says tightly. "I mean, we're quite far out. I wouldn't want to have to make the trip unless you felt it was necessary - no, that's not what I meant. Of course I want to do whatever it takes to help my son!" Her voice goes shrill and she looks over at Sherlock. He does his best to look as pathetic as possible. "I'm just saying, if you think he'd be able to sleep it off... I know I haven't poisoned him! I don't appreciate you making those kinds of accusations! I would never hurt my child!" She wrenches the phone away from her ear and chucks it across the room. The phone hits the wall right above Sherlock's head and shatters. He can't help flinching as one of the metal shards slices a thin line of hot pain across his right cheek.

She looks stricken. "Oh god, Sherlock, darling, Mummy didn't mean it. Are you alright?" She hurries across the room and drops to her knees, turning his head so that she can get a better look at the damage. Her finger traces the small gash and Sherlock estimates it to be about six inches long. It stings like mad and he can feel the coolness on his cheek that means he's bleeding. Mummy shakes her head and sits back. "I don't understand why this is happening. I just want to protect you and make you a better person, the man I know you can be. Why do you have to keep fighting me? If you would just behave yourself, things wouldn't have to be like this."

Sherlock kind of really wants to tell her that the only reason things are like this is because she's certifiably insane, but Brown appears in the doorway before he can speak. The man looks exhausted after just a few minutes of labour. "I've cleaned up the room," he says, just a shade too brightly, and Sherlock wonders just what he's done. Because there is something here Brown's not mentioning, something he thinks might set Mummy off. Sherlock studies him briefly, but frustratingly can't discern the reason. Has he used the wrong cleaner? Caused a stain on the carpet? Anything might be enough to make her lose it at this point.

"Good," Mummy says, swiping a hand across her forehead like the events of the night have completely exhausted her too. "I talked to a couple of doctors. Two of them suggested that I take him to A&E."

Brown's face twists with doubt. "You're not going to?"

"No, of course not. I know that Mycroft will have people watching us, you idiot, and he'll be waiting for me to leave. And I'm sure that he'll have an eye on the local hospital, too, for any children that match Sherlock's description. Even if I could get a doctor to visit us here, I wouldn't." She lifts her chin slightly, a proud move that Sherlock vividly remembers. "I can't be certain that anyone else could be trusted. There's just too much of a risk. You don't know what kind of power that Mycroft holds."

"So... you're just going to hope he's okay?" And now Brown looks really uneasy. Interesting. Apparently he's alright with kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment as long as it's a child (and really, maybe he can't be blamed for that because fuck knows what sort of story Mummy's been telling him), but not murder. "That doesn't sound very safe. What if he.... you know, during the night?"

"He'll be fine," Mummy says. She turns to look at Sherlock, something hard glittering in her eyes. "You'll be fine, won't you, darling?"

It doesn't sound like a question. It comes across as more of an order, like Sherlock doesn't really have any choice but to be fine.

"Right," Brown says into the silence. "Right, well, I think the kid's bedroom will have to air out for a little while. Some of the chemicals I used were pretty strong. Have you got anywhere else we can put him?"

"That room had special locks! What have you done to it?" Mummy stands up, incensed, and storms past him.

For an idiot, Brown moves fast. The second she's out of sight, he's across the room and scooping Sherlock up. "Don't fight me, kid," he hisses into Sherlock's hair when Sherlock starts trying to squirm. "I didn't sign up for fucking murder. We're getting out of here."

Chapter Text

They scout the downstairs briefly, but it's clear after just a minute or two of searching that there is no one around. It's strange, John thinks as the two of them approach the stairs, to see a mansion this size with no people in it. He was expecting to see servants, maids and butlers and chefs, but it doesn't look as though there has been anyone like that around for a very long time. He wonders if Mummy Holmes has been spending all of her time here alone with only memories for companionship, if maybe that's why she got so fixated on Sherlock and what he was like as a child versus what he's like now. If so, that's probably enough to drive anyone mad.

"I'll go first," Lestrade says in an undertone, jerking his head towards the stairs. John blinks at him and then nods, resolving to keep his mind firmly on what they're doing. There will be time to think about Mummy later, when they're safely away from the estate with Sherlock. He stands back and allows Lestrade to ascend the stairs first before following, noting that each stair is covered with a thick layer of carpeting that sufficiently muffles the sound of their footsteps.

From somewhere up above, there comes the sound of a gunshot. The blood freezes in John's veins and he feels, for a split second, like he can't breathe. He's running before he even realizes it, his body taking the remaining steps two at a time. Lestrade still makes it to the top ahead of him. He starts to the right and John follows automatically, both their guns held at the ready. For a couple of minutes, John can't hear anything over the pounding of his own heart. He can't stop wondering about Sherlock, whether that shot was meant for him, whether it hit him...

If Mummy's done something to him, John is not going to rest until he shoots her.

Lestrade stops him suddenly with a hand to his shoulder, and John pauses. Quiets his breathing and listens.

"You're an idiot," Mummy's voice is saying, clear and crisp. "Did you really think that I was going to fall for such a stupid ruse? Honestly, Brown. You should know better than that by now."

"Fucking hell." The voice is male and older and wracked with pain, not Sherlock, thank god. "You've lost your sodding mind, woman."

"Oh, have I now? That's funny. You didn't seem to think that I was so crazy earlier. You were all too happy to help me after I promised to pay you the right amount of money for it. And you know, if you'd actually listened to me and done what you were told I might have even sweetened the deal by marrying you. All of this could have been yours! But you just had to be stupid about the whole thing. Tell me, is the idea of an accidental death so appalling to you even after everything else we've done?"

"Letting a kid die because of a drug overdose is not accidental, you crazy bitch. It's murder, and yeah that's a line even I'm not willing to cross!"

Drug overdose. The ugly words revolve in John's mind until he feels lightheaded. He can see the look of horror on Lestrade's face and knows it's probably a perfect match for the one on his own. What has Sherlock been given? Is he dead already? Still alive? How much more time do they have?

"So what were you - oh." Mummy lets out a derisive laugh. "I see. You thought you were going to take him away and then what? Go to my other son for protection? You're the one who has lost it if you really think that Mycroft would help you. One look at you would tell him exactly what sort of role you've been playing in this, and then he'd make you sorry - if he even allowed you to live. He can be quite vengeful when he wants to be, so really it's a pity that I stopped you before you got that far. I could still let you go, you know. Keep my baby with me and watch from afar as Mycroft rips you apart trying to get the necessary information out of your worthless corpse."

"That won't be necessary." Lestrade sounds perfectly calm in spite of the obvious tension in his shoulders. He steps around the corner smoothly, exposing his body but gaining a better look at the situation than John has. From what he can see, still hidden, Mummy is standing over the man who must be Brown and - oh god - Sherlock. He can't tell if Sherlock's unconscious or dead, but he prays hard for the former and tries not to even consider the latter as an option.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Mummy says. "What a surprise to see you here. I don't remember calling the police, and you're really quite a ways from London. I suppose my interfering son sent you. And Doctor Watson, you might as well stop hiding. I know that you're there."

John grits his teeth at the amusement in her voice, but obeys. He and Lestrade stand side by side, guns pointing at Mummy. She smirks at them and casually moves her gun so that the target is Sherlock. "I suggest that you toss your guns away from you," she says. "I would much rather bury my son as a child than watch him grow up into the pitiful excuse for a man that he was before."

"No need to do that," Lestrade says, and he sets his gun down and gives it a light kick with his foot. It goes spinning across the floor, where it hits the opposite wall a good ten feet away. Sadly, it fails to discharge and shoot Mummy through the heart. John slowly copies him, sliding his gun towards Mummy, ever once taking his eyes off of her.

"There you go," she says with a wide, satisfied smile. "See how easy that was?"

It takes effort to ignore the condescending look on her face. As politely as he possibly can, John says, "If Sherlock's sick, let me look at him. I can help."

"You must think I'm stupid, Doctor Watson, if you expect me to fall for that."

"He doesn't look well!" John can't help looking away from her then, even though that's stupid. Sherlock looks so small and frail. He's crumbled into a tiny heap on the carpet, his face turned away from them, half-tucked underneath one of his hands. But there's no mistaking the pallor of his skin or the sweat dampening his hair. He looks sick. Really sick. John just hopes that the blood on the floor is all from the bullet wound in Brown's stomach.

"He'll fine," says Mummy, and she makes a sharp motion with her gun before turning the safety off. The click sounds ominously loud in the sudden silence. "Come, now, all three of you. I want all of you in this bedroom right here, and if you try to pull anything you know what will happen."

Chapter Text

They get about half a dozen steps down the hallway before Mummy appears from around the corner and neatly puts a bullet into Brown's upper thigh. He crumbles instantly, squalling like a child, and he and Sherlock hit the ground together. Pain explodes through the right side of Sherlock's body and he bites his lip hard to hold in the cry of agony that wants to come out. Even though his body strains to move he locks his muscles up, just remains as still as possible when Mummy starts walking towards them.

She and Brown start ranting at each other, and honestly it's enough to make Sherlock wish that Mummy would just shoot them both already so he wouldn't have to listen to them. His opinion of the situation does not improve when first Lestrade and then John come around the far corner. They've got guns, but instead of just shooting her already of course Mummy threatens them both and they fold. Sherlock wants to rail at them for the sheer amount of stupidity that seems to be filling the room, but he forces himself to remain quiet and still. Mummy seems to think he's unconscious from the force of the fall and that may work in their favour.

She starts directing Brown, Lestrade and John back down the corridor, and he knows exactly what she's planning to do. She's cold blooded enough to do it, too, get them all in one room and then shoot them one at a time. He tries not to think about Lestrade or John dead, because it makes his breathing pick up to the point where he thinks Mummy might notice. He waits. He waits while Brown picks himself up, muttering and whining, and hobbles past her. He waits until she turns her back and starts to follow them.

Then he moves, one quick roll to the side to get at the gun that John deliberately kicked in his direction. His childlike hands are ill-equipped to deal with a gun, and he's not strong or steady enough to aim with just one, but Sherlock makes the best of the situation and ignores the pain that goes roaring through his right arm when he moves it. He grips the gun with both hands and shoots Mummy in the back. She staggers against the wall with a surprised gasp.

John and Lestrade are on her instantly, John grabbing her gun and planting it between her eyes. "Give me a fucking reason," he says, cold and calm, and she stops fighting because even an idiot would be able to tell that John is completely serious.

Lestrade gets her down on the ground and pulls handcuffs from his pocket. "I'm good," he says, and John only waits for another second to make sure before he steps back. He tucks the gun into his waistband and starts striding back down the hall towards Sherlock. His face is a strange mix of anger and worry, and Sherlock lets the gun fall to the floor and holds his arms up.

"Sherlock." And then John is there, physically lifting him up off of the ground and hugging him so tightly that it hurts. Sherlock doesn't care. He slings his legs around John's waist and clings to him, pressing his face into the warm crick of John's neck and shoulder. He's shaking now, or maybe that's John, and then John starts murmuring soothing words in his ear while rubbing one trembling hand up and down Sherlock's back.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, hardly aware that he's even speaking. His face feels wet and he coughs on a sob. "I'm okay, John, I'm fine, she didn't -"

"She did enough," John mutters, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Holy shit, you scared ten years off of my life, you stupid idiot. What the fuck were you thinking, going off on your own? God, Sherlock." And he sounds absolutely wrecked.

"Sherlock!" Mummy cries from somewhere behind them.

Sherlock stiffens and John actually growls.

"Sherlock, darling, please don't let them do this to me. You know that I was only trying to protect you. You're my baby, we were separated too soon and they forced you to grow up wrong. You could be so much more. Don't you want to be with me? Wouldn't you like to grow up again with Mummy?" She's straining against the handcuffs, her expression more than just a little mad. "Just come to Mummy, sweetheart, I swear that I'll give you the best childhood you could ask for, come here love -"

The back of Lestrade's hand makes contact with her temple, cutting her off mid-sentence. Mummy's head snaps around and she goes blessedly quiet, sinking back against the wall. Lestrade checks to be sure she's unconscious, and then he says mildly, "She was getting on my last fucking nerve."

"You're not going to hear me complaining," says John.

Lestrade's smile is grim as he walks over to them. He's retrieved his gun and it dangles loosely from his fingers. As soon as he's close enough, Sherlock can't stop himself from reaching out and latching onto his shirt, forcing him closer still. Surprise flickers momentarily over Lestrade's face, but once he regains his balance he obliges by standing so close to John that their legs are pressed together. Sherlock is surrounded on all sides and it helps, just a little, until John ruins it.

"I guess I should go make sure neither of them is going to bleed to death."

"Why?" Sherlock says instantly.

"Because... well, to be honest I'm not too sure at the moment." John sighs and squeezes him tightly before reluctantly passing him over into Lestrade's arms. Lestrade takes him eagerly, but Sherlock can't resist pointing out one very important fact.

"If you want to let her bleed out, no one is going to know."

John hesitates, looking at first Lestrade and then Sherlock, before something in his expression hardens. "I have to treat the most serious wound first," he says. He smoothes a hand over Sherlock's hair before walking back down the hall, and Sherlock watches in satisfaction as he promptly bypasses Mummy completely and instead kneels down next to Brown.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asks quietly. He holds Sherlock a little awkwardly, not quite as practiced as John, but no less tight.

"I'm fine." The answer comes to Sherlock's lips automatically, even if it's not quite true. Honestly, he's exhausted and his whole body aches from head to toe. He wants to put his head down on Lestrade's shoulder and fall asleep for the next week. But he's also not sure he wants to do that, because if he falls asleep there's a chance that he could wake up and this might turn out to have been a dream brought on by drugs.

Lestrade studies him for a minute before shaking his head with a little sigh. "No, you're not."

Sherlock doesn't argue. In the end, he does put his head on Lestrade's shoulder but he doesn't fall asleep. He and Lestrade stay there watching John treat Brown until Mycroft's men swarm the house.

Chapter Text

The look of naked relief on Mycroft's face when he walks into the house and sees Sherlock, relatively safe and at least partially sound, breaks John's heart, if only because Sherlock is sleeping and doesn't get the opportunity to see it. The expression is gone by the time Lestrade glances up, replaced by the infamous Holmes composure. Mycroft swings his umbrella gently as he strides closer for - presumably - a better look. Lestrade is sitting on a sofa in one of many sitting rooms, holding Sherlock on his lap. Sherlock is sprawled all over the man, hands tightly fisted in Lestrade's shirt and head tipped down onto Lestrade's shoulder, legs tightly wound around Lestrade's waist. There is literally no way for Lestrade to get out from under him without Sherlock knowing.

"He's alright," John says from where he's been leaning against the wall, just watching. "I checked him over and so did the paramedics when they arrived. She drugged him, sedatives, he said. He had a bad reaction to them, but he managed to throw most of them up so I think he just needs to sleep the rest of it off. He bruised his right arm pretty badly, but other than that I don't think he's hurt."

"Where's Mummy?" Mycroft asks, leaning back from his perusal to glance at John.

"Dead." John meets his eyes squarely, without a hint of remorse. It goes against everything he's ever learned as a doctor to let Mummy Holmes bleed out without at least trying to give her some aid. But after everything she's done, there was no way he was going to do anything but put a bullet between her eyes - and while he can ask Lestrade to look the other way in regards to some things, there are certain limits John doesn't want to cross. Besides, he feels a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that, even unconscious, her death had been a fairly slow one.

Mycroft simply nods, like he was fully expecting that answer. "I have a team of doctors waiting for Sherlock at this location," he says, handing over a small slip of paper. The street address means nothing to John, and Mycroft adds, "They believe they've found a cure, and they're waiting for Sherlock to arrive so that it can be administered. The plan is for them to keep Sherlock sedated over the course of the next week so that his body can be given the chance to return to normal. They're hoping that there won't be as much stress on him that way. If they were to do it overnight, I'm told that it could cause some issues for him later in life."

That's true. John tilts his head. "Sherlock says he doesn't deal well with sedatives."

"I know," Mycroft says with a grim smile. "But would you like to be the one trying to keep him entertained over the next week while he's confined to a bed, in pain and unable to move even to feed himself or go to the bathroom?"

John considers this for about two seconds before shaking his head. Sherlock doesn't even like to slow down long enough to sleep for four or five hours. He'll never make it the full week. But it's not really John's decision to make. He thinks Sherlock has had enough people making choices for him. "I'll talk to Sherlock about it in the car," he says. "I assume you do have a car waiting?"

"Yes. I'll take care of things here."

Giving him a brisk nod, John walks over to Lestrade. The detective gets to his feet slowly, doing his best not to wake Sherlock who stirs anyway. "Go back to sleep, baby," Lestrade murmurs in his ear, low and soft, and Sherlock subsides with a cute little wrinkle of his nose. They both stand there for a moment, just watching him, and then Lestrade says, "You know, I'm almost going to miss him being this size. It's a lot easier to forget how much I'd like to punch him sometimes when he's this adorable."

It takes everything John has not to laugh. "Agreed," he says, knowing that what he'll miss is being able to hug and cuddle with Sherlock whenever he wants. Being able to take Sherlock's hand, to hold it, to hold him - it's one of those things he's come to take for granted, and knowing that soon he won't be able to do that anymore is painful. But there is nothing to be done for it. John would never want to keep him like this, and he knows that Lestrade feels the same way.

By unspoken agreement, both men turn and begin to make their way out of the mansion. There are still men and women in dark suits coming in the front door, but no one pays them any attention. The car Mycroft mentioned is waiting right out front. John gets in first and then takes Sherlock, settling the warm, limp body on his knees. Lestrade climbs in and shuts the door and the car starts moving immediately. Anthea turns around and looks at them from the front seat; she nods and then puts the little window up to give them some privacy.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock mumbles. He's got his face tucked against the curve of John's throat and he doesn't seem to be inclined to move anytime soon. That's fine with John. He'll take every minute of this, having Sherlock safe and sleepy in his arms, that he can.

"Back to London," says John. He hesitates, then adds, "Mycroft thinks they know how to fix you. Make you yourself again."

Sherlock's eyes actually open at that. He studies John's face for only a few seconds. "But?"

"It'll take about a week and you'll be unconscious for the whole thing."

"I can ask the criminals of London to take a week-long vacation, if you like," Lestrade offers when the silence drags on.

Sherlock huffs. "Perhaps if they had a week-long start they would actually prove a challenge to catch," he shoots back.

"Boys," John says, rolling his eyes. "Are you alright with this, Sherlock?"

"If that's what it takes," Sherlock says without the slightest bit of hesitation.

"Okay then." John's not going to argue, because he's known this was coming for a long time and more than that he knows that Sherlock needs to be an adult again. But he can't say he's not relieved that Sherlock makes no move to climb off his lap, just puts his head back down on John's chest and closes his eyes. John rests a hand on Sherlock's back and tries not to think about how this will be the last time he's allowed to hug Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

The ride back to London is short and the meeting with the brisk doctors turns out to be even shorter. Sherlock feels as though he has barely got the chance to be assured that he is safely out of Mummy's grasp forever before he is on the hospital bed, tucked safely away in a corner of a private hospital that Mycroft funds, with doctors bustling around him. John is standing on one side and Lestrade is on the other, and neither man looks ready to let anyone touch him. The head doctor had only protested John's insistence on a lack of masks for a minute before he wilted under the glare that John was giving him and agreed that none of the staff would wear masks, that they will leave their faces bare. It seems to make John feel better, but only a little.

"You're sure about this?" he says, not taking his eyes off of the far corner. One of the doctors is fussing around with an IV pole. There are two glossy bags hanging from it. One of them is filled with a clear liquid that is most likely water, but the other contains a glossy blue substance that looks eerily familiar. Sherlock doesn't want to admit it, but if he never has anything to do with the colour blue again that will be perfectly fine with him.

"Yes, I am," he responds after a few seconds, pretending not to notice the way that John and Lestrade exchange looks over his head. The simple truth of the matter is, being a child again is horrible. He can't work cases. He can't go anywhere by himself. He can't even walk down to the corner store and buy some cigarettes. Not that he would, but the point is no one takes him seriously; every person he's come across has the tendency to treat him like a child even after he proves that his mind has remained intact, even John. Even if Mummy hadn't lost her mind, Sherlock would want this process reversed. He's already grown up once and he has no interest in re-living those years.

Except. It would be different this time, he thinks. He can't imagine that Lestrade would take kindly to the children that mocked him for being small and pushed him around in the schoolyard. Lestrade would not act like Mummy, who had tried to convince him to stay home from school instead of doing something to solve the problem, or Mycroft, who had sighed and told him that he had more important things to deal with than petty, childish squabbles. Lestrade would be kind to his children, he'd take them out on his days off and encourage them in what they wanted, and he'd always have time to listen no matter what else was going on. He lets himself think, for just one moment, about what it might be like to come home at the end of the day and find Lestrade waiting for him instead of Mummy and Mycroft. He thinks that he might have liked that.

But then there's John, who - if possible - is looking even more worried with every passing second that the procedure is delayed. John has... well, he's John. He's steady and dependable and predictable, but at the same time he is the only person who has ever consistently managed to surprise Sherlock on a regular basis. And he still has no idea how John does that, because he's almost positive that John doesn't do it on purpose. He's the only one who never stopped waiting for Sherlock to come home after his fall, even when Mycroft told him that Sherlock was dead and that waiting was useless. John is the one thing about his life that actually made Sherlock want to come back and that has not changed. Will never change.

"I'm certain," Sherlock says firmly, meeting John's eyes this time. He pretends not to notice the uncertainty, the faint wistfulness and regret he can see creating new lines in John's face. He thinks - hopes - he has deduced what's causing them, but if he is correct then it is not something that can be fixed right now.

"Alright. You're not feeling any pain?"

Sherlock glances down at his arm. He's not broken anything, which would have interfered with the cure. But the doctor who examined him had reported that he'd bruised the muscles quite spectacularly, even pulled a few, and that they couldn't really say how the growing would affect injury. It might heal completely or it might get worse, but it was unlikely that there would be irreparable harm done so it doesn't really matter. "It's fine," he says dismissively, even though that's a lie. It does hurt with a bone-deep throb, but painkillers are not an option.

"Then we're ready." John says it loud enough for the doctors to hear, and the head doctor - Sherlock doesn't bother to remember his name - comes over towing the IV stand behind him.

"We're supposed to wait for Mr Holmes," he says nervously.

"Do it," Sherlock says instantly. There is no point in waiting around to see what Mycroft's going to go on about. Probably some nonsense about Mummy's funeral or something equally banal that Sherlock has no interest in hearing about. He'd much rather be unconscious when his brother shows up. He wiggles his good arm impatiently. "Go on, go for it."

"Bet you've never seen a kid so anxious for a needle," Lestrade mutters. His tone is warm and a bit amused, but his eyes remain grave.

The doctor looks from John to Lestrade like he's expecting them to step in, but when neither of them do he heaves a sigh and takes hold of Sherlock's wrist. He gently slides the needle home in one smooth movement and presses it there while he tapes it into place. He turns the IV on. "You're going to feel very light in a couple of minutes, like you're floating. That's the sedative kicking in. I don't want you to fight it, understand? Just let yourself fall asleep."

This, Sherlock wants to point out, is exactly why the procedure needs to be done. He does not need to be spoken to like he is a child. But he doesn't, because he's too busy watching the progression of the light blue liquid down the thin plastic tube. As much as he loathes to admit it, panic is tightening his chest the closer it gets to his wrist. He can't stop thinking about the last time he'd been sedated, that disgustingly heavy feeling of being swept under and helpless, unable to fight.

"Sherlock." John steps in front of him, blocking his view of the IV, and takes his hand. "It's alright, love. Just close your eyes. We're right here, we won't let anything happen to you."

"That's right," says Lestrade. "Just think, soon you'll be up and chasing the criminals of London again."

"John," Sherlock says, or tries to say. His tongue feels strangely think. He blinks once, slowly, and sees John smile down at him. When he blinks again, his eyes remain shut.

Chapter Text

The procedure takes longer than the doctors originally anticipate, and Sherlock remains sedated for the better part of two weeks. John and Lestrade aren't permitted to see him while he's unconscious, and the only reason that John doesn't ignore the orders and break the door down is because Mycroft isn't, either; Sherlock's on full lockdown to keep his body from being exposed to any possible infections while he's in such a delicate stage. Everyone who goes in, and that list is very limited, has to be dressed in full suits to avoid contamination, and even then they limit check-ups to twice a day.

John puts his foot down about leaving the very first day and fortunately no one argues that. He does end up going home for a little while each day to shower and change his clothes, but otherwise he stakes out the door of Sherlock's room and does not move. The nurses who don't know what's going on all think that he's waiting for his boyfriend to come out of an experimental procedure, and as a result they all go out of their way to coo over him and make sure his every need is met. For one thing, he's pretty sure the sheets on the little bed he's been given aren't exactly hospital-grade.

That's where he's sitting, staring at Sherlock's door, when Lestrade walks in. Unlike John he can't spend all of his time at the hospital, but he does come by after every one of his shifts regardless of whether it's three in the afternoon or three in the morning. Today he comes bearing hot coffee and takeaway, the former of which he pushes insistently into John's hands with a brisk, "Drink up, mate, you look awful."

"Cheers," John says wryly, taking a sip. It's sweet enough to make his teeth ache, but it does help to perk him up a little. He rubs a hand over his face as Lestrade takes the seat beside the bed, plopping the bag of takeaway in his lap. "There's nothing new yet. The doctor did tell me this morning that he thinks Sherlock is done growing. Now they're just trying to make sure he hasn't done any damage to himself in the process. They're hoping to bring him out of sedation in the next day or two."

Lestrade blows out a breath, looking relieved. "That's good. Got a couple of cases I wouldn't mind an opinion on," he says with a crooked grin.

"You say that now." He sets the coffee aside and accepts the container Lestrade offers him. It's noodles of some kind with a spicy red sauce. He digs in with a plastic fork and only realizes how hungry he really is after the first bite hits his stomach. It's been a while since he ate anything other than the horrible cafeteria food. Even private hospitals don't have the best chefs.

"It'll just be nice to not have to come here anymore," Lestrade says quietly. He takes a bite of his wrap, chews, swallows. "Anything from Mycroft?"

"Yeah. He was here last night." John had been surprised to see him, mostly because Mycroft's been scarce ever since the doctor put Sherlock on lockdown. He doesn't visit often, and while John thinks it's probably because Mycroft has been taking care of things it still annoys him.

"And?"

"He said that they ended up letting Brown off with a severe warning and several hefty fines. I guess the man was completely taken in by what Mummy Holmes told him." Easily believed, that. Brown hadn't seemed like the brightest crayon in the box while John was tending to his injury. "Mycroft sent him out of the country, though. Said he wasn't about to let me or you come face to face with him on the pavement."

"Smart man," Lestrade mutters, taking a swig of coffee. "Where'd he end up?"

John shrugs. "I didn't care enough to ask. As long as he never comes near Sherlock again, that's all that matters." He takes another bite of his noodles, licking the sauce from his lips. He knows what Lestrade's going to ask about next and decides to spare them both the question. "Mummy Holmes is dead. Really dead. They checked repeatedly. Mycroft told me that he was going to have her buried in a private ceremony and that he would do it before Sherlock woke up. I didn't ask where."

Lestrade nods, satisfied. "Probably for the best. Well, I just came by to tell you that the case against Norton has been pushed through the system. We've got him on Irene's murder, the attempted murder of Mrs Dawson, and a couple of others. It's supposed to go to court sometime next week, but I'm not sure it'll get that far. Mycroft's kept his fingers out of it until now, but I suspect you're going to see Norton's file be mysteriously misfiled at about the same time he goes missing." He doesn't sound disheartened by that and John raises an eyebrow.

"You don't sound like that bothers you," he says suspiciously.

"Well..." Lestrade shrugs. "Normally it'd piss me off. I hate the way Mycroft thinks he can do whatever he wants." Their eyes meet in a shared grimace. "But in this case I can make an exception. Irene was one of the few people who genuinely liked Sherlock. He deserves to rot for what he did to her."

John can't disagree with that. At least in Mycroft's hands, there is no way that Norton will ever see the light of day again - and that's provided he actually survives whatever plans Mycroft has for him. "Sherlock will be pleased, though he'll probably never admit it."

"Probably not. I also spoke to Eugenia Dawson, John." Lestrade gives him a significant look. "I made sure that she knew not to mention the particular details of how this case was solved."

"Oh, right. Thanks," John says, because that hadn't even occurred to him. Eugenia was one of the few people who actually saw Sherlock as a child, and she could have caused trouble with her knowledge if she'd wanted to. "Was she glad to hear that Norton was out of her hair?"

"I think so. Hard to tell sometimes." Lestrade drains the last of his coffee and gets up with a faint groan. "I've got to head out; I'm technically still on call. Text me as soon as you hear anything about Sherlock."

"I will." John watches him go and shuts the container on his food, setting it aside even though he hasn't eaten much. The case is all but finished and it seems weird that Sherlock isn't here to fall into his usual post-case sulk. He never thought he'd see the day when he actually missed that again: the last time he felt like this, he'd still thought Sherlock was dead. He looks back at the door and shifts with a sigh. Sherlock is alive. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.

Chapter Text

Sherlock wakes up slowly to a fierce headache and a lingering pain in his shoulder. As he becomes more conscious, his body slipping away from the grip of sleep, he realizes that his whole body hurts. Literally, there is not a single muscle that is not aching in some way. He sucks in a sharp breath as he opens his eyes, gazing up at a deep blue ceiling. It looks somewhat familiar, enough so that he automatically begins to relax and that helps with the pain. He is not with Mummy, not anymore, he's at a private hospital in London and the doctors are returning him to normal. He breathes more deeply and the furious beeping that he hasn't even registered until now begins to slow.

The door swings open and a woman steps in, clad in the white coat that marks her as a doctor. She strides over to the bed and sets her clipboard aside. "Good evening, Mr Holmes. With us again, I see." She leans down, prying at his eyelids, torch in hand that she shines right into his eyes.

"Again?" Sherlock says hoarsely, and it's only once the word is out that he realizes it's no longer the soft, high voice of his younger self. A surge of excitement floods through him, chasing the remnants of sleep from his system, and he opens his eyes fully and bats at her hand. She snorts but steps back as he freezes, examining his adult hand with wide eyes.

"Yes, again. You've been in and out for the past 48 hours, ever since we took you off of sedation. Each time you awoke you didn't remember anything about the previous times, but considering that you were pretty ill perhaps it's for the best." She studies him critically, reaching for her clipboard and pen. "How about now? You complained about pain the last time you were awake. Do you still hurt?"

"No, I'm fine." It does hurt, but unless it's dire he prefers not to take drugs. Too much of a chance of falling into bad habits. "I don't remember waking up before."

"That's fairly normal. Your body was put through a very strenuous experience, after all." She's making notes on her clipboard as she speaks, her pen scratching across the paper. "I'm pleased to let you know that the procedure was a complete success, though it did take a bit longer than we had originally anticipated. We didn't want to put too much stress on your internal organs, particularly your heart, and your brother approved the change so we went ahead with it. You may experience some difficulty when you begin walking, as it will take you time to get used to a heavier weight and different centre of balance. But overall, I would say that you are back to normal." She beams at him.

The relief Sherlock feels at hearing that can't be put into words. "John?"

"You mean Doctor Watson? He's right outside. Been there pretty much the whole time. I'll get him for you, but he won't be able to stay for long. You seem to be lucid this time so we'll have to give you a full examination as soon as possible. But I understand the two of you need a minute." She keeps smiling as she walks over to the door and it's annoying, but Sherlock forgets all about her just as soon John walks in.

John. Even though it hasn't been long, he looks remarkably older. New lines have been etched into his face, giving him a distinguished look, and there's a little more grey around his temples. He walks with a slight limp, the old psychosomatic wound paining him again, but he's smiling and it's not annoying at all. He moves quickly over to Sherlock's side as the door closes, leaving them alone, and the first thing he does is shake his head and say, "Bloody hell but it's good to see you again. I was beginning to think I might have to live through your teenage years, and then I'd never have got the chance to see adult you again because I'd have probably killed you."

Sherlock chuckles, feeling a private thrill at the deep sound. "I think you would've got along with my teenaged self fabulously, John. I'm told that there was a period when I didn't mind watching ridiculous drama on the telly."

"Really?"

"I considered it research."

"Huh." John quirks an eyebrow and sits, perching on the edge of Sherlock's bed instead of the chair. "Well, I'm told that it might be a while before you'll be up to taking cases again so you may have the opportunity to get reacquainted."

"Not likely," Sherlock says. It feels as though it's been years since he had the chance to sink his teeth into a case without having to worry about being taken seriously, or chasing down criminals, or Mummy, or any of the other bother that's preoccupied him during the past few weeks. The thought is sobering. He looks up at John. "What happened to -"

He can't bring himself to say her name, but fortunately John understands. "She's dead," he says bluntly, reaching for Sherlock's hand. "Brown survived, but her... Mycroft already had her buried. We didn't think you'd want to go to the funeral, so he had it done while you were unconscious."

She's dead. Sherlock is expecting this confirmation to bring forth some feeling of relief, but there's nothing. He feels hollow, empty. There was a time, back when he was very young, when he loved his mother very much. She'd been everything for him, to him. Even though she'd changed radically over the years and become someone to fear, there's a part of him that is crushed to know that she's dead. To know that he is, ultimately, the one who killed her, because if he hadn't picked up that gun she would still be alive.

John is watching him closely. "Sherlock?" he says, and his voice is very gentle. "It's okay, you know. She was still your mother. No one is going to fault you for missing her."

"I won't miss her," Sherlock says immediately, and maybe that's part of the problem: he can't miss her, not after all she's done, and he's not sure he knows how to handle that. If he was still a child, he could cry until John picked him up and made things better. But he's not a child anymore.

"Yeah, I know." John's smile is sad. He starts rubbing little circles on Sherlock's hand. It's familiar and soothing, and Sherlock realizes it's the same thing he did the night that they found Irene. He swallows hard against the hot sting of tears, forbidding his adult body to do something so childish, but unwilling to pull his hand away from the comfort.

Maybe John can still make things better after all.

Chapter Text

Seeing Sherlock awake and sitting up, talking and smirking like nothing has changed, is surreal. John can't stop staring at him. He's relieved when the doctors end up giving him a mostly clean bill of health; the only notable issues being the mild dehydration and muscle pain and cramps. "That'll fade with time, but you'll probably want to have some warm baths or showers and apply ice to the worst of it," the doctor tells them. "Make sure you drink loads of water and consume meals consistently, at least three a day. I'll have the nurse bring you something now that you're awake. We'll start with a light broth and if you handle that alright you'll be able to eat something more substantial for dinner."

Sherlock makes a face at her back as she leaves. "How long do I have to stay here?" he asks, not quite a whine but close.

"I don't know," John admits. He was allowed to stay during the examination, and he's glad for that because he doesn't think he can tear himself away. He feels like Sherlock might disappear if he blinks. "Hopefully it won't be for long. I can take care of you at home just as well as here. Of course, I guess that also depends on whether or not you think you might go dashing off on one of your cases. Because if so, I'm all for leaving you here."

"I would never do that," Sherlock lies, and John snorts.

"Pull the other one, I'm not that much of an idiot. I still remember what happened the last time I left you alone with one of Lestrade's case files..." he trails off, feeling slightly awkward, because they haven't acknowledged this yet. What happened to Sherlock lingers between them, the unspoken elephant in the room that neither of them wants to mention. John can't tell how Sherlock is feeling about it, thinks there's a good chance that Sherlock will want to just ignore everything. And if that's what he wants, John will go along with it... even if he doesn't want to.

"Yes, well." Sherlock glances down at his hands. He's openly fascinated with his adult body. It's adorable. "I was bored."

"That's your answer for everything."

"I had to." The words are spoken so quietly, so reluctantly, that John has to strain to hear them, but once Sherlock begins he doesn't seem to know how to stop. "I had to do it, John. I needed to prove to myself that even though my physical appearance had changed, everything that mattered was still functioning. Being reverted to the age of a child was bad enough on the outside, but had the same thing happened to my mind... It would have been unbearable. I had to know that I was still able to deduce things, to solve cases. It's the only part of me that matters."

John shakes his head. "You idiot," he says with far more fondness than is probably safe. "Sherlock, I can understand that. I might not like it, and it doesn't get you off the hook for being stupid enough to take off after Norton, but I do. You're wrong, though. That's not the only part that matters. And if you'd been changed into a child on the inside as well, I'd have still taken care of you and kept you away from your mother as best that I could."

"You'd have had a difficult time with that. I was rather attached to her as a child and I probably would have deliberately sought her out," says Sherlock, grimacing at the thought.

"Thank god that didn't happen, then. Anyway, the point is I do understand." John looks at him intently. "But you're so much more than that, Sherlock. You're brilliant, yes, but you're funny and sarcastic and you - you care, even though you don't like to show it, sometimes I think you care more than anyone else. Your mother was crazy to want to change you. She kept saying that you could've been a better man, but she was wrong. There's nothing wrong with you. I like you just the way you are, you're my best friend." He feels a bit embarrassed at the sudden torrent of words, but once they're out he can't take them back - and he suspects that maybe this is something Sherlock needs to hear.

"John." There's a strange look on Sherlock's face, one that John has never seen before. He's not sure what it means, but it makes his heart skip a beat.

"Yes?" he says, the word coming out more breathily than he intended.

"What happened to Norton?"

John blinks. Okay, that's not what he was expecting. He leans back, realizing with a flush of horror that he'd been unconsciously leaning forward, and tries to get his mind back on track. He should've guessed that Sherlock would become preoccupied as soon as he heard about Norton. Should've known better than to mention any criminals. "Um, Lestrade said that he's being charged with murder, including Irene's. But he also said that he thinks Mycroft is going to step in and take over before very long, so... he'll probably disappear."

"My mother is the one who killed Irene."

"What." It comes out so flatly, so shocked, that it's not even a question.

Sherlock does not look at him. "She admitted it to me while we were at the house. She told me in detail how she met up with Irene and had her murdered, how she got the necessary details from Eugenia Dawson and hired someone to take care of it. I suspect she then had the body taken back to the hotel and staged the room to make it look like Norton was guilty. It was all a ruse to distract us. Me. You. And it worked."

"Bloody hell," John mutters, his head spinning with this new information. It changes everything. Sherlock had become even more obsessed with stopping Norton after Irene's death. That was part of the reason why he'd gone out the door after the man, why he was so determined to make sure that Norton saw justice. And Mummy Holmes had set it up perfectly. She'd been operating from behind the scenes all along, making them do exactly what she wanted. He's not sure whether to feel horrified or admire her intellect. It's like having another Moriarty around.

"I didn't tell anyone," Sherlock continues quietly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't."

"I - no, of course, I won't." He's shocked Sherlock even told him. Technically it's wrong to let Norton be charged with her murder, but John feels no desire to change that. Mummy is dead and someone might as well be punished for it. "Thank you. For telling me, I mean."

And there it is again, that strange look when Sherlock says softly, "You're welcome."

Chapter Text

"Might I have a word with my brother, John?"

The voice, while unexpected, is not entirely welcome. Sherlock scowls even more fiercely at the unappetizing meal that John has been unsuccessfully trying to coax him into eating. After a solid day of consuming only broth, the doctor's decided that he can have something a little heartier. Or at least, that's what she claims. As far as Sherlock is concerned, the weak, watery soup he's been given isn't fit for an animal to consume. The vegetables are all limp and the chicken is dry and tasteless. He refuses to even bother trying it, much to John's annoyance.

"No problem," John says with obvious relief. Apparently he's given up, because he removes the tray from Sherlock's stand entirely and gets up. "Lestrade should be on his way over soon, anyway. I'll text him and ask if he can bring a takeaway with him."

"I'm pretty that's not on the list," Sherlock can't resist pointing out. Earlier one of the nurses had shown them both a list of foods that would be safe for him to eat, and as soon as she had left Sherlock had tossed it in the bin where it belonged.

"Yeah, well, I'm your doctor and I say any food, even if it's not particularly nutritious, is going to be better than no food at all." John tosses him a grin and, were it not for the fact that his hands are occupied with the tray, probably would've given his hair a fond tousle on the way out regardless of Mycroft's presence. Sherlock tries to pretend that he wouldn't have leaned into such a touch and pointedly ignores his brother's knowing look.

"You're looking well, Sherlock," Mycroft says quietly once the door has closed. He's dressed in his normal suit, but the material is not as crisp or clean as it usually is: he's been wearing it for more than one day, and for Mycroft that's as good as a sign around his neck stating that he's overworking himself. He crosses the room slowly but does not sit in the chair that John vacated. Rather, he stands at the end of the bed and lightly taps his umbrella against his shoe, a restless move entirely unbefitting someone who knows better.

"Really, Mycroft? Guilt?" Sherlock says, rolling his eyes to cover his discomfort. He knows why his brother has shown up, of course, but that doesn't mean he wants to sit here and listen to it without even his violin to drive Mycroft away. He glances at the door, hoping that John will decide to come back into the room. No such luck. It remains firmly shut.

Mycroft says, "Yes, actually. I realize that it was largely your fault, the fact that you fell into Mummy's hands, because if you had done as you were told and remained with John instead of going off on your own she never would have had the opportunity to take you. Honestly, what were you thinking? Every time I think you're starting to learn something about the world, you end up doing something like this." He shakes his head.

"It was a chance to solve the case," Sherlock says, sulking.

"It almost got you killed." The heaviness of those words causes an immediate silence that Mycroft seems reluctant to break. In the end he does, though, with a quiet sigh. "But I did have my own part in this. I should have put the clues together more quickly than I did. If I had realized from the beginning that Mummy was the one who sent you that package, all of this could have been avoided. I would have advised you and John to leave Baker Street and go on a vacation until we had a solution to the serum created. She was counting on the fact that you would want to stay and continue working, and the mess with Miss Norton and her case provided her a unique opportunity. For that, little brother, I am sorry."

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the blanket, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. His only saving grace about this situation is that, while he was a child, he did not act differently towards Mycroft. He can handle whatever John and Lestrade may be thinking or how they might choose to act now, but Mycroft? "As you said, it was partly my fault," he mutters at last. It won't change anything about how he handles cases in the future, but - "John said... she is dead, Mycroft, isn't she?" And there's an almost plaintive note in his voice that he loathes.

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft says with unbearable gentleness. "She is truly dead. I oversaw the funeral myself. We're in the process of settling her will." He hesitates briefly, uncustomary, which just goes to show how truly awkward this is. "The estate has been left to me, but it turns out she left you a large sum of money."

"Really?" he asks before he can stop himself, astonished.

Mycroft nods. "It seems that the last time Mummy changed her will was some time ago. I suspect that it was before her sickness reached the point that she couldn't control it anymore. Nevertheless, once everything has been said and done the money will be yours to do as you see fit."

His first, instinctive reaction is to say that he doesn't want the money. And really, he doesn't - doesn't want anything that Mummy touched. But if Mycroft's right, she gifted him that money long before she truly lost her mind. So does he turn it down? Or accept it? "Alright," he says when the silence has stretched on just a bit too long. "You can make it out in John's name."

If Mycroft is surprised by that, he hides it well. "As you wish. I spoke with the doctor and she mentioned that they want to monitor you over the next day. If you don't have any relapses or problems and John consents to look after you, you should be free to go home sometime tomorrow."

Relief washes over him, strong and warm. He wants to go back to Baker Street, even if he won't be allowed to take on cases right away. He loathes being confined to a hospital. "I'm fine," he says.

"I know, but let them come to that conclusion in their own time." Mycroft smiles, just a little. "I suspect that the detective inspector is quite eager to see you, so I'll go now. I just wanted to make sure that you were alright." He turns towards the door but pauses, can't seem to resist adding, "Sherlock, I know that you may have a difficult time accepting the behavioural changes from those you see most often. But I strongly suggest that you try to keep yourself from shying away too much. This could work in your favour."

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage?"

"As did I." Mycroft does not look back as he proceeds to the door, opening it and slipping out before Sherlock can say anything else.

Chapter Text

The door doesn't need to be open for John to know that Sherlock is probably glaring after him. It's always a risk to leave the Holmes brothers on their own without a chaperone, particularly when one of them is trapped in a bed and can't go anywhere, and he suspects that Sherlock will not be pleased with him later on. But that's fine. He knows that Sherlock and Mycroft need a few minutes to talk, and if the payment for that is Sherlock having a bit of a strop, John has lived through worse.

He dumps the tray he's carrying on an unattended cart, not sorry to see the unappetizing mess disappear into the bin where it belongs. Considering that this is a privately funded hospital he'd been hoping that the quality of food would've been a little higher, but no such luck. Sherlock can be a finicky eater at the best of the times. Right now he's recovering from a lot of stress, much as he might not want to admit to it, and his appetite is virtually non-existent. They're going to need something a lot more palatable than that.

He takes out his phone and sends a quick text to Lestrade as he heads into the loo. By the time he comes out, there's a response waiting. John reads it and, curious, follows the directions: he leaves the secluded hall where Sherlock has been placed and trots down to the main floor of the hospital. It's much busier there, with nurses and doctors and patients hurrying back and forth, and it takes him a minute to spot Lestrade - as well as the woman who's standing there with him.

"Lestrade," John says, not smiling as he looks past the man at Eugenia Dawson. He's not sure why Lestrade chose to bring her along out of all the people who could've come to visit. Sherlock probably would've benefitted from a visit by Mrs Hudson or even Molly. But her?

"Hello, John." Lestrade shifts the paper bag under one arm and steps closer, forcing John to half turn away from Eugenia in order to listen as he says in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry. I know that she's probably the last person you want to see after this mess. But she came around my office this afternoon asking after Sherlock, and Donovan let it slip that he was in the hospital. After she heard that she wouldn't leave, and I didn't have the heart to tell her no when she asked if she could see him. If you think he's not up to it, though, just say the word."

It's not Sherlock who isn't up to it. John shakes his head. "I'll talk to her," he says, because he has no intention of letting her go up to Sherlock's room but he also doesn't think she'll agree to simply leave without a fuss. "Sherlock's talking to Mycroft right now, but once that's over see if you can get him to eat something. The idiot is dead set on leaving tomorrow but he refuses to eat."

Lestrade smirks. "Been there," he says with a roll of his eyes, clapping John on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I learned a few tricks when I was looking after him. I'll leave you to it."

John doesn't watch him go, but instead glances at Eugenia again. She's kept distance while he and Lestrade spoke, but after realizing that he's looking at her she walks over. "I know you probably don't want to talk to me," she says without waiting for him to begin. "I know that I made a huge mess of this situation and that it ended up causing everyone a lot of trouble. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

Just like that, a good portion of his anger drains away. It's not her fault, not really. According to Sherlock she was the one who'd given Mummy Holmes a lot of information about the case and Godfrey Norton and Irene Adler, but she's certainly not the only person who'd fallen right into that particular trap of giving Mummy exactly what she wanted. "Apology accepted," he says, though he pointedly does not say that she is forgiven. Eugenia chews on her lip, clearly picking up on the difference.

"Is Sherlock okay?" she asks finally.

"He's doing better. That... affliction... you saw him suffering from has been cured." He gives her a significant look, hoping that she'll understand without needing too much detail. It's not safe to discuss that sort of thing out in the open where anyone could hear.

She nods, her lips quirking into a hint of a smile. "That's good. I, um, won't tell anyone. I already told that detective inspector, but I thought I'd mention it to you as well. I don't understand how it happened, or what exactly was going on, but... for what Sherlock Holmes did for me and my daughter, you have my silence."

Even though Lestrade had already told him the same thing, actually hearing it makes John relax a little. "What will you do now?" he asks, making an effort to sound marginally friendlier.

"Oh. I'm not sure." Eugenia sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She looks tired, old and worn out, like she hasn't been able to rest for a long time. "I have some relatives, cousins, that would like the opportunity to meet Amy. They live in France. I'm thinking that we might move there, try to start over without any of... of his influence."

"Good luck," John says, and he really does wish her the best.

Eugenia gives him a small smile. "Thanks again," she says quietly, already turning away without waiting for another response. She walks over to where a few children are playing on the floor of the waiting room and leans down, speaking to a vaguely familiar little girl with dark hair in pigtails. Amy Dawson pouts, but reluctantly leaves the toys behind and, taking her mother's hand, allows herself to be led out of the hospital. John lingers until he can't see them anymore, until they've been swallowed up by the crowd out on the pavement.

They won't be back, he knows, not unless Eugenia or Amy becomes a part of another case - and he hopes that for all their sakes that doesn't happen. He tucks his hands into his pockets and walks back towards the lift. There's a long line of people waiting to get on but for once he doesn't mind. He knows that Lestrade or Mycroft is with Sherlock, and it's nice to have a moment to himself where he doesn't need to be worried about whether or not Sherlock is safe. He closes his eyes briefly, leaning against the wall, and sighs.

Sherlock isn't the only one who can't wait to go home.

Chapter Text

No one comes in for the first few minutes after Mycroft's departure, and Sherlock is relieved for the opportunity to collect his thoughts. He has not had much privacy since he woke and, as much as he enjoys having John at his side, he savours the solitude while it lasts. It does not take long, though, before his mind grows restless with the boring little white room that he's been confined to. If this, he reflects, is what he would have been reduced to staring at while waiting for the cure to work, he is relieved that they gave him a sedative. He would've gone mad from sheer boredom otherwise.

He glances over at the door. It's partially open, but there are no sounds and no movement on the other side. Carefully, moving slowly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and uses his hands to push himself into a seated position. The world swims around him in a dizzying rush as he sits up for the first time on his own, without support from the bed, in over two weeks. He takes a few deep breaths, focusing on inhaling and exhaling until the white walls stop spinning into a blur.
The muscles in his back ache from the effort of sitting up without support and the rest of his body feels as though it weighs at least a stone more than before, but he still plants his feet solidly on the ground and stands up. His balance feels off and it's not just because he hasn't stood for a while: the last time he was walking around, he'd been several feet shorter and a good deal lighter. He places a hand against the wall, bracing himself when his knees threaten to buckle and send him right back down onto the bed. He's not going to give up that easily, not when the tempting thought of returning to Baker Street if he can prove himself healthy enough is looming.

Still, standing should not be this difficult, he thinks, straightening his spine and looking longingly at the door. He'd love to find the clothing that John brought for him - though, if necessary, he's not above returning home in only his pyjamas, because god knows he's gone outside in worse things than that - and then go striding over and out, leave this foolish place entirely without bothering to wait around for permission from the doctors. It's ridiculous, John could care for him just as well as anyone else, so why can't he just...

His legs tremble badly when he tries to take a step, nearly sending him crashing to the floor. Sherlock pauses, hands clenching into fists with frustration, not willing to concede and lay back down just yet, but knowing that if he actually tries to move it's not going to end well. The only thing worse than being an invalid in the hospital bed is having someone, even John, come in to find him sprawled on the floor because he couldn't make it to the door. But the thought of spending even more time in the bed is abhorrent, and he knows he might still go mad if he has no choice in the matter.

"Well, well. Why am I not surprised in the slightest?" Lestrade's voice is warm and soft for all that he's caught Sherlock doing something he's not supposed to be. Sherlock tenses in surprise and glances up, realizing that Lestrade's standing just out of sight, watching him. How long has he been there for? And he hadn't noticed the man, stupid.

"Go away," he says, trying to ignore the shaking that is gradually travelling up his body. He estimates that he has maybe a minute and twenty-five seconds before his legs give out and deposit him onto the floor, and he does not need witnesses to that. This is humiliating enough.

"I could, but I'm pretty sure John would frown on having his patient take a fall to the floor." The door gets nudged open the rest of the way and Lestrade steps in. He's dressed casually and is clean shaven, even though the dark, puffy rings under his eyes tell of long and sleepless nights. Sherlock doesn't need to see his arm to know that he's likely got at least one, probably two, patches on.

He scowls, hand clenching into a fist against the wall. "I don't need your help!"

"Tough. You're getting it anyway." Not put off in the least by the angry comment, Lestrade approaches as quickly as he dares, hands out as though to soothe a startled animal. He remains both careful and exceedingly gentle as he slides an arm around Sherlock's waist, allowing him to rest the majority of his weight against Lestrade. In spite of his protest, Sherlock sags automatically against the offered warmth. He tells himself that it's been conditioned into him to accept this without question after all those times that John or Lestrade picked him up when he was a child, and that it's not because he craves the comfort.

"There you go, sweetheart, there's a lad. Shh, it's alright, you're safe," murmurs Lestrade, slowly taking a step backwards and drawing Sherlock along with him. In less than a minute he's easing them both down on the bed. Sherlock only then becomes aware that he's breathing heavily, almost panting, and still trembling, muscles protesting the work out.

He's never enjoyed having his mind be overtaken by the demands of his body, but it's been a long time since he's felt this deplorably weak, this helpless. It's suffocating, particularly since he'd thought things would be different when he returned to being an adult. He grits his teeth. "I suppose you'll be informing the doctors that I'm not ready to go home yet."

Lestrade chuckles, breath wafting across Sherlock's forehead from the proximity of his mouth. His arm slides up, settling around Sherlock's shoulders in what could almost be termed an embrace. "Would there be any point?" he says teasingly, affectionately. The tone hits Sherlock right in the belly. "Now that you've been on your feet it's only a matter of time until you sneak out, even if you've got to hire someone to carry you. No, I think you'll be just fine provided you don't push yourself unnecessarily. God knows I wouldn't want to be the one to inflict your lovely temper on the nurses any longer than required."

Relief is hot and heavy, sweet. Sherlock exhales slowly. "I want to go home," he admits.

The split second of raw honesty is enough to make Lestrade pause, his expression changing not to sympathy but to understanding. Then, slowly, he reaches up and smoothes his hand across the top of Sherlock's head. He doesn't say anything, just lets his palm skid down the soft curls and his fingers trail after, tips seeking out his scalp. Sherlock tenses briefly before relaxing into the feeling, tilting his head up into it and allowing Lestrade to continue the soothing stroking.

Chapter Text

The return to 221b feels fairly anti-climactic after everything that's happened, but the joy on Sherlock's face as he and John manoeuvre their way across the threshold is something to behold. It's worth the solid ache in John's shoulder as he helps Sherlock limp over to the sofa, where he carefully deposits the man onto the cushions. Sherlock is still weak, but his muscles are regaining strength rapidly: now that they've left the hospital behind them John is fully expecting to see a miraculous recovery within the next day or two, if only because Sherlock is too damned stubborn to let the constrains of his body hold him back for very long.

"There, home again," he says, taking a step back and wincing as he rotates his arm. The pain is sharp and hot, deep in the muscle, and he knows he'll pay for that tonight. Getting up the stairs had been the worst part, with Sherlock's legs threatening to buckle and send them toppling backwards every other step, but he doesn't regret refusing Lestrade's offer to help. This moment feels like it should be shared between the two of them and no one else.

"You needn't state the obvious, John," says Sherlock, rolling his eyes and shifting around until he's in a more comfortable position. It's a process that seems to take several minutes. John watches with a raised eyebrow, until at last Sherlock sinks back with a deep sigh and it becomes immediately obvious that he has no intention of moving anytime soon.

"Git," John says with a shake of his head, exasperated but fond. "Tea?"

He doesn't wait for a response, already turning towards the kitchen. But he hasn't taken more than a step before he hears footsteps on the stairs and then Mrs Hudson appears in the doorway. "Sorry if I'm interrupting," she says, bustling into the room with a tray in her hands. John's nose catches the scent of freshly baked biscuits and bacon sandwiches, and even as his belly growls hungrily he notices Sherlock sitting up and taking notice. God bless Mrs Hudson, he thinks, already moving to free her of the tray.

"You're not interrupting at all," he tells her, setting the tray down. There's fresh tea too, he notices with pleasure, the steam from the kettle wafting against his face as it rises. "Sit down and have a cup with us, won't you?"

"Oh, I couldn't. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, Sherlock. It's been such a trying few weeks." She looks Sherlock over with a critical eye, not bothering to try and hide the fact that she's blatantly searching for any serious injuries. John hides his laugh with a cough and puts out three cups anyway, pouring in the tea and adding sugar, milk or cream as necessary. He sits down beside Sherlock and, after a moment of contemplation, Mrs Hudson perches in the chair.

"He'll be alright," John says, hoping to assuage her worries. "You know Sherlock. Nine lives, this one."

"Are you comparing me to a cat?" Sherlock demands.

"Yes."

"I can see it," Mrs Hudson says thoughtfully, and Sherlock bristles. She grins. "Now dear, there are worse things to be compared to. Why, I happen to think cats are lovely, majestic creatures that are underappreciated by most people. They're quite graceful, and so resourceful, and I've yet to see a cat that couldn't get what it wanted one way or another. Humanity could stand to learn something from cats, you know."

Sherlock stares at her, looking uncertain as to whether he should accept that for a compliment, and finally says, in as dignified a voice as possible, "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Not a problem." She winks at John and he chokes on another laugh. Sherlock frowns at them both and swipes one of the bacon sandwiches, biting into it with a huff that doesn't quite conceal his smile.

They chat for several minutes over sandwiches and biscuits, until John's stomach is begging for surrender and Sherlock's eyes are beginning to droop in spite of his best efforts to remain awake. Mrs Hudson takes the hint and gets up, collecting her tray and waving John aside when he offers to carry it downstairs for her. She leaves, closing the door behind her, and a calm silence settles on the room. It's the first time in a while that John feels like he doesn't have anything to worry about, because Sherlock is right beside him in a safe place and that's almost become a foreign feeling by now. It's nice, though, and he dozes for a little while, head tilted against the back of the sofa.

He wakes up some time later to find that Sherlock's shifted in his sleep and is now leaning heavily against him, head resting on John's - thankfully - uninjured shoulder. John smiles to himself, pleasantly warm with that comforting weight curled up by his side, and is prepared to let his eyes slide shut again when Sherlock suddenly stiffens. At first John disregards it, but then Sherlock whimpers. It's very clear and it catches at John's heart, makes him feel sick as he sits up and looks down at the dark head of curls. He can see at a glance that Sherlock is caught in the grip of a nightmare.

Shit, he thinks, his heart picking up speed. He can guess what Sherlock's dreaming about and if he's right, it's not pleasant. "Sherlock," he says, keeping his voice quiet and as non-threatening as he can. "Sherlock, wake up. You're at 221b with me, John. You're safe."

Sherlock's face twists into a painful grimace and he whimpers again, eyes fluttering madly behind his closed lids. John does something stupid then, he reaches around and grabs Sherlock's shoulder to give it a rough shake - anything to get him out of that nightmare and into the real world, but he should know better, should know that's not the best idea. He gets an elbow to his midsection for his trouble when Sherlock comes awake with a violent yelp, scrambling to get off of the sofa. John lets him go and stays where he is, not even putting an arm across his belly. He stares silently into the room as he listens to the sounds of Sherlock bolting into the loo and throwing up into the toilet.

Chapter Text

Sherlock doesn't talk about them. The nightmares, that is. Once or twice John tries to open up a conversation about his sleeping - or lack thereof - but it doesn't take much, only the occasional cool look or pointed comment, before he gets flustered and stops trying. They're nothing to be concerned about, and Sherlock would really just prefer it if John forgets that he is having them entirely. The less he dwells on haunting worlds where John and Lestrade never come for him and Mummy killed Brown before stealing away with him, the better. In those worlds, by the time he grows up again his mind has been entirely bent to her will and he never manages to escape.

On those nights, frequent as they are at first, Sherlock takes to going downstairs and playing his violin for hours. After weeks of not being able to play the sweet music is soothing, comforting, and more than once he glances up from a particularly involved song to discover that John is sitting on the sofa listening. There is a comfort in having John nearby during those moments that Sherlock tries not to examine too closely. He puts bow to strings and allows the music to build up a barrier between them and the outside world, one where he needs only the feel of the lovingly polished wood beneath his fingertips as a reminder that she is dead.

"Sherlock," John says one morning. "You know this can't go on, don't you?" And then, when Sherlock ignores him, he persists, "you haven't slept well for over a week now. I hear you get up every night. I know you can get by on less sleep than the average person, but -"

"What would you have me do? Visit a therapist?" Sherlock asks, mouth curling up at the very idea. Not many people know about his visits to a therapist when he was younger, but there is a reason he does not hold them in high regard. The woman he had frequented as a child was firmly in Mummy's pocket, and she'd fed him all sorts of lies about what was right and wrong until Mycroft found out and had her fired. Then there are the therapists like the one John used to visit - idiots, the lot of them, not capable of making a proper diagnosis if their lives depended on it.

"No. I know you'd never be on board with that."

"Then what? I won't take sleeping medication."

"I wouldn't suggest that you did," says John patiently. "I was thinking -"

He cuts himself off when Sherlock's phone rings, and for a moment the two of them just look at each other. John licks his lips and is clearly reluctant to continue after the distraction. Sherlock, much to his annoyance, finds he can't read what John was about to say. Insufficient data, he thinks, and it seems to be happening more and more when it comes to John. Scowling, he carefully sets his violin down and storms over to the kitchen table where his phone is. John twists around to watch but remains silent as Sherlock picks it up and jams it against his ear with a thinly snarled greeting that would probably cause a lesser man to just hang up.

Greg Lestrade, however, is immune to such nonsense. "Good morning to you too, Sunshine. Still sleeping well, I take it."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demands, choosing to ignore the blatantly ridiculous greeting.

"New crime scene," says Lestrade. "I'm ringing to find out if you're interested. Provided, of course, that you promise not to go off anywhere by yourself without me or John."

"Tedious."

"I don't care what you think. That's my term. It's an interesting case, too. Bugger up and hanged himself with what looks like a piece of tinsel. Can't figure out how he did it, the bloody stuff snaps like a twig. Anderson's been driving himself and all of us around the bend for the past forty-five minutes trying to work it out. At this rate his mind's gonna explode soon."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the far wall. This so-called "term" is not unprecedented and not, were he pushed to admit it, unwelcome. Not that he'll ever be willing to admit to it. He takes care to make his voice sound grudging when he says, "How many strands of tinsel have you found?"

"Five and counting, placed strategically 'round the flat."

"Fine, then."

"You won't go off without me or John? I want to hear you say it."

"I won't leave without you or John." Sherlock hisses the words through gritted teeth, all too aware that somewhere to his left John has turned his head away in a vain attempt to hide a smile. "Satisfied?"

"Yep," Lestrade says cheerfully, apparently not put-out by the venom being directed his way. "I'll text you the address. Try to make it here before Anderson ruins the crime scene by popping." He rings off before Sherlock can respond with a truly acerbic comment about how the world would be a better place if that happened.

"New case?" John asks innocently, as though he hasn't been listening in.

The phone beeps and Sherlock recites the address absently, already turning to grab for his coat. He barely notices John helping him to put it on, too preoccupied with the steady stream of pictures that Lestrade's sending through. It only occurs to him when John's already turning away to get his own jacket, and Sherlock regards him suspiciously for a moment. He's been watching John closely over the past few days to make sure that John hasn't got the wrong idea, but so far things appear to be normal without much change between them.

Oh, certainly, John is a little more protective than he used to be - so is Lestrade, for that matter. But the little things that Sherlock has somehow become used to, his hair being ruffled, being lifted into a set of strong arms and braced against a hip, seeing that expression of outright affection, all of them have been scaled back into practically non-existence. For the most part things have gone back to the way they used to be, two flatmates living and working together. It's just the way he wants it to be.

"Ready?" says John, doing up the zip.

"Right." Sherlock turns, stepping through the door.

He refuses to acknowledge the little twinge deep inside that says otherwise.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock deduces that there are actually two killers, both colleagues who had grown so jealous of the victim's success that they had devised a way to kill him under the guise of a practical joke, it ends up leading them on a wild chase through the heart of London. One of the men, a Mr Samuel Kennedy, has apparently heard of Sherlock considering the way he bolts the second he catches sight of them, and - much to Sherlock's disgust - he manages to get the best of them once. Sherlock, nearly close enough to reach out touch their prey's jacket, rounds a narrow corner and is apparently not expecting the heavy bin that has been dragged right into his path. He goes down hard, wrenching his ankle and striking his shoulder against the wall, gasping at the sharp biting surge that bites through him.

"Sherlock!" John stops immediately. He glances in the direction that their man has gone, half-tempted to keep going, before hesitating. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock bites out, refusing to acknowledge, much less admit to, the renewed flare of pain in his already tender shoulder. He pushes himself up, kicking away the bin. "Get after him, John! If you allow him to reach the street, he'll be gone. He's already made an escape plan, he's got a plane ticket to -" He stops speaking abruptly when John turns and dashes away, sprinting up the alley with a little more caution now that he knows Kennedy is not above trying to trip up his pursuers.

Kennedy has not stopped running, now pushing through the crowds at a much slower speed than he probably wants. He finally reaches the lights just as the walking sign flips on, and he immediately turns and starts to hurry across. Determined not to let him get away, John puts on a burst of speed and dashes out onto the street. He hears a car screech to a stop somewhere to his left and voices swearing at him as he leaps forward, tackling Kennedy around the waist and slinging them both to the ground. Kennedy starts cursing and flailing around as a woman screams. John ignores them both, seizing Kennedy's wrists and yanking them down.

"If you don't stop, I'm going to take out my gun and kill you," he says very quietly, the words low and intent and only audible to the struggling man pinned underneath him. Instantly Kennedy goes still, the only indication he's even conscious the slight trembling of his shoulders. John gives a small smile of satisfaction, ruthlessly pressing on his arm as he wrenches Kennedy to his feet and thoroughly enjoying the resulting wince of pain. By the time they make it back to the pavement, a couple of officers and Sherlock have caught up to them.

"Thanks Watson," one of the officers says brightly, snapping a pair of cuffs around Kennedy's right wrist. Kennedy goes quietly enough, shooting terrified looks at John. "That was a nice tackle. I saw you take him down from up the street. You play rugby in school?"

"A bit," says John distractedly, already glancing over at Sherlock. "Alright?" he asks as he steps closer, openly looking Sherlock over. Sherlock straightens up and scoffs.

"I'm fine," he says in exactly the tone of voice that is guaranteed to get John's hackles up. He doesn't do anything as obvious as shifting his weight onto his uninjured side, even though his ankle is paining him badly and doing so likely wouldn't be purely for John's benefit. He's such a stubborn git. John huffs, shifting the last few inches into Sherlock's personal space.

"Your version of fine and my version of fine tend to vastly differ," he mutters, knowing better than to sling an arm around Sherlock's waist when NSY is around. He settles for standing close enough that Sherlock can unobtrusively lean against him if he desires, and Sherlock does so automatically. It's almost enough to make John smile, though he bites it back at the last second.

One of the officers not involved in arresting Kennedy looks up at them and says, "Lestrade's on his way, seems he stopped by the lab to arrest the other colleague. He wants you to stick around."

"He'll have to wait, come get our statement later." There is no arguing with John when he gets that tone in his voice and he knows it. The officer looks uncertain, glancing over at Sherlock as though hoping that the detective might intervene, but when Sherlock says nothing he apparently decides that he would rather face Lestrade's wrath than John's.

"That's fine, I'll let him know," he says awkwardly.

John just gives him a nod and turns, tugging Sherlock with him, both of them walking over to the street. It actually takes a couple of minutes before a cab stops, and though Sherlock will never admit it John knows that he's relieved to have the chance to sit. His limp is not obvious but that doesn't change the fact that it's still there, and really it's not that surprising considering how hard he collided with that bin. Not for the first time, John hates the fact that Sherlock is taller and has longer legs than he does. It means that Sherlock is often in the lead on their chases, so any stupid tricks their prey tries to pull usually end up on him.

"John, really, I'm okay," says Sherlock.

"No, you're not. You hurt your ankle, and judging by the way you keep twitching you banged your shoulder up again as well." John sighs, turning his head to glance over at the man beside him. He has to grin when he catches the brief look of surprise on Sherlock's face. He always gets a little jolt out of knowing that Sherlock can't hide everything from him.

All too quickly, the surprise fades into a pout. Before Sherlock can voice the protest John knows is coming, he adds, "And you're going to let me look at them, too. It would be a shame if you got laid up so soon after returning to normal. You can't go on any cases if you can't run around, right?" And honestly he's more concerned about Sherlock's shoulder after the damage it took when he was a child, but whatever it takes to make Sherlock agree to being checked out.

As expected, Sherlock scowls even more deeply. But not even he can come up with an argument to counter that, which means that his ankle and shoulder must be paining him a fair amount. "Fine," he bites out after several seconds, sulkily turning to stare out the window. John grins again. Adult or child, it's comforting to know that some things about Sherlock will never change.

Chapter Text

Even though it's been several minutes, John is still warm from the run and Sherlock tries hard to ignore the fact that it would be so nice to be lifted up right now, to be able to take the pressure off of his ankle and tuck his head against John's shoulder where it's dark and safe and it smells so very John. He can't resist turning his head slightly as John helps him limp up the steps, nose just barely brushing against the scruff of John's blond hair. There's a lot more grey than there used to be, Sherlock notes absently, though it does not take away from John's appearance the way he knows that John thinks it does. It lends him an air of being distinguished, makes him look stern. Sexy.

"Did you just smell my hair?" John asks incredulously, stopping right in the middle of the staircase.

"No," Sherlock lies hastily, hastily pushing away any and all unbecoming thoughts about his flatmate. Now is not the time, he thinks. He avoids looking at John and leans more heavily against the rail, hopping up another step on his own. His ankle throbs and his shoulder aches, and he grits his teeth against the urge to just sit down right where he is and not move again.

"Right," John says after a long pause, sounding wholly unconvinced, and moves to help him again. Pushing the door of the flat open, he propels Sherlock inside and nods towards the couch. "Go ahead, sit down and let me see what you've done to yourself."

"I'm fine, John, really."

John stops and just looks at him, face twisted up into something that might be disappointment. "Really? After everything we've been through, you're still going to sit there and lie to me. Expect me to believe, after the fall you had today, that you're fine and don't need medical attention. Even though I can see from here that your ankle is swollen and you can barely move your arm."

"... I might be in a bit of pain," Sherlock mutters reluctantly, sitting down on the sofa. John seems to take it as the concession it is, not remarking but instead sitting and gently lifting Sherlock's ankle into his lap so that he can explore the injury with tender fingers. Sherlock is reminded all over again of falling and hurting his knee, and how natural it had felt to lift his arms up to John and cry for attention. And John had done it, too, scooping him up and tending to his injuries with all the fuss of a worried parent. Partner. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh of contentment unwittingly escaping, and when he looks again John is watching him.

"I think you sprained it," he says quietly, and then, with a crooked smile, "Want me to kiss it better?"

Sherlock furrows his brow. "That's not scientifically possible."

John laughs a little, sliding his thumb across the top of Sherlock's foot. He keeps the pressure deliberately light, but the touch is soothing and Sherlock finds himself relaxing into it. He's missed this, he realizes, as John says, "I know that. It's just a thing my mum used to do when I was a kid. Whenever I hurt myself, she'd give me a kiss and say that would make it all better. I thought about doing that when you were a kid, but I thought - well, there were some lines I figured you wouldn't want me to cross."

Although John keeps his voice light-hearted, there is a notable tension evident in his shoulders. Sherlock eyes him curiously, sorting through what John said versus what he'd really meant. He finds he has to do that a lot, with John. Finally, he says cautiously, "I wouldn't mind."

"Yeah right," John says with a snort. "You were dead set against anyone treating you like you were a child, Sherlock. You didn't even want to stay away from crime scenes, even though going near one could've got us all arrested and made Lestrade lose his job. If I'd done something like that to you, you would've thrown a strop. And as much as I didn't mind you being a child, that's not something I want to live through."

"I said I wouldn't mind," Sherlock repeats, putting emphasis on the last word to make the tense really clear, and John's eyes go wide when he catches the hint.

"You wouldn't," he says, and it's a question.

"I wouldn't," Sherlock says. His mouth is dry and his heart is suddenly beating very fast, and he can't look away from John's face no matter how much he wants to. They've always lived on the brink of change, one step just to the side, and he feels like they're rapidly approaching the point of decision: have been since he returned, though god only knows how long it would've taken if Mummy hadn't decided to interfere. Perhaps there is something that he'll be able to thank her for after all. The thought makes him smirk even as he watches John closely, waiting for him to come to a decision.

John laughs. It's not what Sherlock is expecting and he stares at him, and John laughs again, the sound bitter. "Do you know how long I've waited for some hint you'd be okay with that?" he asks, his hand moving up to cup Sherlock's ankle. His fingers are warm and firm, but gentle. "I never thought - you always made it seem like you weren't... and then there was Irene."

"Irene was married to someone else, John."

"You cried the night she died."

Sherlock looks him in the eyes and confesses something he has never admitted to anyone else, something that no one - not even Mycroft - knows. "I cried on that rooftop, John, and nearly every night we were apart. When it got too hard... I couldn't stop myself from thinking about you. And it just. Happened." Because god knows he'd tried to fight against it, done everything he could to distract himself until finally - in fits of exhaustion - he'd give in and curl up on whatever was passing for his bed until he couldn't cry anymore.

"Sherlock..."

"Irene was my friend. I don't have many."

"No, you don't." John's mouth tilts into a sad smile and he looks down at Sherlock's ankle again. "It's not just... because..."

He doesn't need to know how John would finish that sentence. "It's not," he says firmly. "You... took care of me when I was helpless, John. You've always done that. You always do. I was at a loss without my blogger."

Finally John's face softens, the suspicion disappearing to be replaced with hope. "You're sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock says impatiently, because talking about emotions have never been appealing and now that he knows he can have this he wants it even more, and John just gives him a fond grin.

"Alright. I'll get you some ice for your ankle and your shoulder."

"Ice?"

"To keep the swelling down." John sets his ankle down gently and gets up, and Sherlock blinks at him because - has he missed the point entirely? Were they having two separate conversations?

John catches the look and stops. In a move so smooth that you'd swear he had practiced it a hundred times, he bends down and places a light kiss against Sherlock's mouth. Then he straightens up and walks casually into the kitchen. "How about some telly?" he calls out, opening the freezer. "I'll call for a takeaway if you like, you probably won't be going far tonight."

He thinks, briefly, about the experiments that have been waiting for him, about the cases that have likely been piling up in Lestrade's absence, and then remembers Mycroft's unusual admonishment about caring and advantages. He can fight this or he can give in, but it seems to be happening either way and if nothing else Mummy has taught him to pick battles carefully. Some are just not meant to be fought. Sherlock sighs and relaxes back against the sofa. "I want Chinese," he says.

For a moment, John looks startled. Then he grins, blue eyes bright, and nods. "Done," he says easily.