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Like a scene out of some cliché comedy, Sherlock Holmes was staying at his parents’ house.
For how long, they didn’t know- he seemed to keep forgetting to tell them. And why?
“Need to clear my head, get out of the flat. John’s off immersed in domestic bliss, I haven’t any cases, Mum- Mum, quit it with the head shaking, you’re constantly phoning me to come here- n-” Sherlock yelped and suavely avoided a peck on the cheek from his mother, sulking away in a huff.
Mrs. Holmes turned to her husband with a look of clear doubt upon her face. “He’s absolutely bored, isn’t he. There’s got to be more to this ‘loving son’ business than he’s letting on.”
Mr. Holmes merely nodded his head in agreement, his thoughts elsewhere. He was more concerned with how his wife would react to her youngest son’s tendency to disrespect furniture, a habit that had carried on into adulthood, although it had been a long time since they had had to deal with it.
For the most part, he was looking forward to this ‘little visit’, curious to see how Sherlock lived now. It was too rare an occasion that he was able to go and visit that quaint little flat Sherlock had settled into a short number of years ago. He wanted to wake up and find Sherlock nestled comfortably into the sofa, snoring as he did in a way that would bother Mycroft immensely on trips during which they had been forced to share a bed as children.
He wanted to stumble upon some strange experiment Sherlock had felt the need to start somewhere in the house when he least expected it, and he wanted to sit with him at breakfast, maybe have a conversation that wasn’t gruesome or tragic; the types that didn’t seem to affect Sherlock at all.
It was reaching near 10pm now, and both of Sherlock’s parents were exhausted, preparing to go to sleep.
Naturally, Sherlock was not.
He did not go to sleep until the early hours of the morning, usually in bizarre places around his flat, such as at his microscope with his head resting on his arms, positions that strangely did not give him discomfort come morning. Here, he could do none of that, his only options for sleeping being the couch or one of the bedrooms upstairs.
“Er- hello,” Mr. Holmes greeted in a cheerful manner, finding Sherlock in the sitting room, still donning his elegant trim suit and trousers. He was stationed on the floor cross-legged and pouring over some newspapers spread out upon the floor.
Looking up, Sherlock acknowledged the new company without a sound, pressing a finger to this mouth in thought.
“Alright,” his father said quietly to himself, sitting down on a chair near his son and squinting at the papers.
“Interesting...news...is it?” How does one even communicate with this man casually? He was sickened at the fact that this question popped into his mind. This was his own son. He’d watched him grow up, he’d seen him change, he should be able to do this.
“Mmmm, not really.” Sweeping the papers shut, Sherlock lay on his back, resting up on his elbows. “Quite dull, nothing going on. Good god.” A sharp intake of breath and his hands were covering his mouth out of the frustration boredom gave him.
“You could try getting some rest.” Sherlock looked at him as if this were the most ridiculous suggestion he’d ever voiced.
“I’m going to the kitchen to make myself some tea, then. Would you like anything?”
“Hmm, no. But..thank...you,” the last part sounded like a question, but Mr. Holmes didn’t mind.
He took a bit longer in the kitchen than he’d intended, uncovering and proceeding to consume some strawberry ice cream in the freezer, returning to the sitting room to find Sherlock having changed into his ridiculously ordinary pajamas that made him look so innocent and out of place. Sitting down, he saw what Sherlock had in his hands.
“Oh, goodness, I’d completely forgotten we’d had that in here.”
Seeing the awkwardly small photo album brought a smile to the old man’s lips. Sherlock was studying a photograph of him and his older brother, their ages roughly being around 6 and 13. It was some beach holiday that was a struggle to remember; both boys wore ridiculous looking swim trunks, Mycroft’s skin reddened by the sun, his childhood freckles still obvious. He was standing tall and proud next to the gangly little curly-haired boy who seemed to cling to him, arms thrown around his older brother’s waist.
“Sherlock. Sherlock.” He looked up upon hearing the stern tone of his father’s voice.
“Sherlock, you’re not here to reminisce about childhood memories, are you? John’s...John’s still cross with you isn’t he?” Mr. Holmes noticed immediately the change in mood that swept throughout the room.
“What does it matter?” Sherlock hopped up into a chair in one sweeping motion. “I’m home, you should...be...happy.”
“You sound unsure,” Mr. Holmes laughed. His smile faded away as he looked on, wondering who it was that sat before him.
Sherlock was more than extraordinary, it had come as more than a surprise when he and his wife had realized they were going to be faced with the raising of not one but two highly intelligent, highly unique children. He wondered often if they had gotten it all wrong; something had happened along the way, Sherlock’s emotional growth had become stunted, he’d lost interest in many things and focused too much on others. Were his parents at fault? Did he yearn to be a miniature of his big brother when he was younger too much for his own good?
His thoughts flew off somewhere else as the snapping shut of the photo album jerked him back to reality and he watched Sherlock gently toss it onto the coffee table and curl up in the depths of the chair in a huff. There was a brief moment where Mr. Holmes swore he saw him reach as if to pull one of his dressing gowns up against him in further protest and sulking, but there was none to be found so he kept his arms up to his chest. Silence ensued.
“You going to sleep there?”
A grumble. Sherlock shut his eyes and nestled his head further into the arm of the chair.
“Thought you weren’t tired.” Sherlock glared and pulled the neckline of his shirt up to his eyebrows.
Mr. Holmes laughed, realizing that not much had changed from childhood to the transition into adulthood.
“Alright, then, help yourself to any throws in the closets. There’ll be pillows...everywhere, so. Pick yourself one and sleep well, Sherlock.” He turned to go, but paused upon hearing something quiet, a slight muttering. “What?”
“You too,” said a sleepy voice. Mr. Holmes smiled and went up to bed.
In the early hours of the morning, Mr. Holmes returned downstairs, blissful in remembering he was retired and had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and the sunshine pouring through the windowsills were a brilliant reminder. He stood looking out at the front yard, coffee in hand, suddenly aware again that they had a houseguest. Sherlock’s coat was hanging up by the front door, his seemingly out of place lavish black shoes tucked away by the rug. Walking quietly and avoiding the parts of the floor he knew stuck, Mr. Holmes made it to the sitting room, where, surely enough, his houseguest remained.
The temptation to wake his youngest son up and bid him a too-cheery ‘good morning’ was immense, but he did not give in to it. He was utterly amused and in love with the sleeping position and innocence he saw before him.
Sherlock was sprawled out upon the sofa, lying facedown and snoring softly into the fabric. His arms were reaching towards the other end, one barely hanging off the edge, one leg stretched out as well. The telly was on at a low volume, and Mr. Holmes was positive Sherlock had not been watching it with interest; this was definitely intended to give the whole thing a more normal feel.
He noticed, however, that Sherlock hadn’t taken his advice to use any blankets or pillows. Not very surprising, considering his sleeping history of dozing off wherever and whenever his body found it appropriate.
A distant ‘ping’ rang out and Mr. Holmes’ focus turned to the table beside the sleeping figure; Sherlock’s phone. He wouldn’t look at the message, no, but he knew the lock screen code.. Sherlock always underestimated him, thinking everything to be above his level of intelligence. But his son’s lock screen code he’d known for years.
“Aha,” he said quietly, gaining access into the phone. This wasn’t a sneaky move on his part, he wasn’t the type to go into other people’s business. He finished what he intended to do and placed the phone back where he had found it as if nothing had occurred, idly preoccupying himself with the telly as Sherlock stirred and grumbled himself awake, stretching and yawning quietly.
“Morning,” he practically breathed, sitting ramrod straight and blinking wildly, tousling his mop of bedhead-curls.
“Morning, kid.” He cherished the look he earned from this.
It had always taken Sherlock a long while to fully wake up, and if he wasn’t given the time or space to, whoever violated his first moments of the morning, well, they ought to count themselves lucky if they got off easily. Or weren’t plotted against.
“I..ought to be off, then,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet and lazily walking to the pile of clothes he had formed the night before. Slowly and uncaring to having company in the room he changed out of his loose-fitting pajamas and into his elegant dress-shirt and trousers.
Putting his suit on with a flourish, Sherlock cleared his throat, still not fully awake, making small nervous movements in an obvious attempt to further wake himself up.
“It was...fun,” was all he said, moving towards the kitchen and proceeding to sit at the table and tie up his shoes.
“Going to make things better with John, then?”
“I need to get out, this was obviously a mistake, too...quiet,” he waved his hand at the kitchen and scrunched up the bridge of his nose.
“You’re going to make things better with John,” his father repeated with a smile, this time not phrasing it as a question. Sherlock acted as if he didn’t hear and swept his coat onto his body.
“I’m bored,” was all he said, putting a hand on the doorknob and glancing back just once. “Tell Mum I had to go, and tell her I’ll get myself a case, but do make sure to make it sound as if no harm will come to anyone from it. You know how she worries.”
Mr. Holmes couldn’t help but laugh. “That I do.”
“Take care,” the old man said hopefully just before the door shut. And with that, Sherlock was gone.
Later that evening, Sherlock found himself seated at the cluttered table within 221B, the cattle skull above not yet dusted since he had returned. John was across from him eating some biscuits Mrs. Hudson had laid out. Tension still existed, it hung in the air as plain as anything possibly could- but Sherlock was making every attempt at progressing ‘chats’, as people called them, taking time (usually not enough) to let John express his anger.
“Hm, just a moment- oh,” Sherlock glanced down at his phone. Someone had set a reminder for a message to pop up on the screen, and he did not need a second’s thought to deduce who.
“Important?” Questioned John in a rather sarcastic manner.
“N-no. no. Sorry, you were saying?” John continued ranting about the concerns he had about his wedding, Sherlock half-listening, a smile playing on his lips, although John did not notice.
If you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here you know. I may be old but I think I did a rather good job raising you and your brother. I’m sure of it even more every time I see you.