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It was early morning and Sherlock had still not returned. John reminded himself that the brilliant man could probably take care of himself as long as it did not involve eating and setting a normal sleep pattern. He really needed to have a long chat with the idiot about self preservation, but Sherlock would most likely delete the whole conversation before he left his sulking spot on the sofa. John reminded himself that he was not technically on speaking terms with the man child, not that it ever lasted. Perhaps he would just pop down to the shops in a couple hours after he had a nice cup of tea and some of Mrs. Hudson's homemade biscuits. Some Christmas decorations would brighten up the flat and distract him from thinking too much about what Sherlock could be hiding.
John was just finishing his tea while looking over the morning paper when he heard the distinct creak of the seventeenth step. Either a client had somehow gotten into the flat or Sherlock was giving a warning of his imminent arrival. The still angry part of John's mind wanted it to be a client or even Mycroft, but he was sadly disappointed when he could see the belstaff just behind the opened door.
“Up all night then,” John spoke before Sherlock had even stepped into their living room. “Find anything of interest worth sharing?” He should have had a calming tea, but he honestly believed that Sherlock would not have been back until late. It frightened him to see his emotions as chaotic as they were, but the younger man could be infuriating.
“Mycroft made an appearance,” Sherlock all but whined and John kept himself from smiling. The git deserved to be bothered by his brother.
“Well it is government related. I'm sure he knows all about what is happening.” If he did not know any better, the case seemed like one the older Holmes would have put before them, except Sherlock never would have taken it willingly. The detective flung his coat onto the sofa before he himself took his spot on the far end, his legs stretching out along it's length.
“He knows now, but someone else had brought Lord Hamilton to my attention.” John sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes fixed on the unmoving body of his friend.
“That phone call you received last week?” he asked. Sherlock rarely answered his texts let alone an actual phone call, and he had answered his mobile after the first ring once he had checked the caller ID. “Who was it Sherlock?” For a moment John believed that he would not get an answer, but the dark haired man sighed loudly before fixing his gaze on him.
“There is another one of us I have not told you about,” Sherlock began. “He's MI6.” If John had been drinking tea it would be all over his new oatmeal coloured jumper.
“A spy!” he exclaimed and Sherlock jumped up from the sofa startling the doctor.
“You must keep quiet John. Not even Lestrade knows about him nor Mrs. Hudson.” It explained everything perfectly and John now understood Sherlock's secrecy. Despite how Sherlock acted toward Mycroft, there was a distinct layer to their relationship that carried a sense of duty and protection to family and John was no different with his own.
“And he was the one who brought Lord Hamilton to your attention?”
“Quentin has a problem when it comes to keeping his nose out of other peoples' business and happened across a very interesting operation taking place in Africa that somehow involves a certain Lord Hamilton with whom we are familiar.” John could laugh, but it finally felt like the tension had eased between him and Sherlock. Of course, there was probably more that was being left unsaid, but John would likely forgive the detective before the case was solved.
“So is Quentin the middle child?”
“Oh no,” Sherlock smirked. “Quentin Holmes is the baby in the family and also the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history.” John just laughed and took his teacup to the kitchen to rinse out. The Holmes family never did anything by halves and he was never so thankful to have met the brilliant man.