Archive of Our Own ^beta

1998

Sherlock doesn't need to look up from his book to know it's Mycroft in the doorway. There is the sound of the engine idling and car doors opening and closing--the driver's, a moment later Mycroft's, then the driver's again. Mycroft's footsteps in the hallway, his left foot landing just slightly heavier than his right. The moment of hesitation just outside the door.

"If you've come to scold me, I'd rather we just get it over with," he calls out.

Mycroft comes into the room and stares down at where Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa, not yet dressed even though it's mid-afternoon. "I shouldn't have to come out here to scold you at all, Sherlock."

"So why did you? You could have saved us both the trouble," he replies, turning a page.

Mycroft takes hold of his chin and tilts Sherlock's face into the light, taking in the sewn up gash on his forehead before Sherlock brushes him off.

"It's fine. Leave it."

"And the others? Are they fine?" Mycroft asks, stepping back and laying his coat over the back of the chair.

Sherlock sighs, slams his book shut, and swings his feet to the floor. "Everyone was gone for the holidays!" he explains for the hundredth time. "The building should have been empty."

"But it wasn't."

"Three people with minor lacerations and some smoke inhalation. Barely worth the ambulance ride."

"You're lucky they're not pressing charges."

It's simply habit when he says it was an accident. He forgets that won't work with Mycroft.

"No, it wasn't."

"No," Sherlock concedes, the corner of his mouth curling up in a small smirk as he picks up his book again. "Did you know you can blast through ten inches of concrete using only things you'd find in the average kitchen?"

"Why would you--"

He shrugs a bit. "Might be useful."

"Useful," Mycroft repeats with a mirthless laugh. He slips his hands in his pockets, fumbling with the coins there, a habit he'd do well to lose, Sherlock thinks. Agitation. Anxiety. Signs of weakness. A chink in the armor that his enemies would happily exploit. Sherlock makes note.

"And what about your chin? Your eye?" Mycroft asks. "Those bruises aren't from any explosion. They're a week old at least. Who's that from, then?"

Sherlock turns another page even though he hasn't read it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mycroft bristle at his disinterest. "There was a disagreement. Nothing important."

And it isn't. Certainly not worth explaining, especially when Mycroft probably already knows given his tendency to stick his nose where it doesn't belong. It was one of Sebastian's friends. Sherlock doesn't remember what he said to set him off. Something stupid. Something obvious because it was always obvious. No one in that fucking place paid the slightest bit of attention. Not one of them. He remembers the words coming out of his mouth, and his head snapping back when knuckles landed. He remembers skin on skin and the dull, wet thud of his own fists against a bloody face until Sebastian finally managed to pull him off.

Mycroft paces the room, shaking his head, coins clinking together between his fingers. "You have the ability to do so much good with your life, Sherlock. But instead you choose to do this."

"Good is boring."

"Yes, but good won't get you sectioned!" Mycroft yells, and it's enough to at least draw Sherlock's gaze up. Eventually Mycroft will realize he needn't bother with the shouting. He's much more frightening without it.

"You wouldn't," Sherlock says. He aims for challenging, but even to his own ears, he sounds worried. "You couldn't."

"I could, and I will if I have to. You're a danger to yourself and others. I wouldn't need much more than that, and certainly not knowing the people that I know."

Sherlock drops his book onto the coffee table and pulls his feet up onto the cushion.

Mycroft frowns at him. "You know Mummy doesn't like to see you like this."

"I don't particularly care what Mummy does or does not like right now," Sherlock snaps, "and as she still can't bring herself to be in the same room as me for more than a few minutes, I don't think it should concern you much either."

Mycroft looks down at the floor, his face softening a bit. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize she was still...upset."

It's been three years. Three years since he discovered their father's affair (one of many; he hadn't realized at the time. How could he have missed that?), and Father made a hasty exit from their lives. Mother still has not forgiven him. She looks at him, betrayed and alone, like he is the one who destroyed everything she knew when all he did was tell the truth.

He could never comprehend how ignorance is bliss; he hates the not knowing, how it crawls inside him and makes him twitchy and anxious, keeps him up nights. But now he watches Mother move through the house, distracted, haunted, and thinks he understands a bit.

Mycroft sits on the arm of the sofa and looks down at him. When he speaks, his voice is oddly hushed. "Are you happy, Sherlock? Going on like this? Is this what you want?"

"People like me don't get to be happy."

"Then what do you want?"

"For the world to speed up. For my head to slow down." He scrubs his hands through his hair, back and forth, trying to shake off the prickly tension building in the back of his skull. "Quiet. I want quiet. And I want the quiet not to...to hurt. Not to roar in my ears and creep under my skin and..." He stops and swallows. "Can you do that? Make one of your phone calls and fix that?"

Sherlock looks down at his knees and tries to swallow away the tightness in his throat. He shouldn't have said all that, especially not to Mycroft. Chinks in the armor.

"I wish I could," Mycroft says, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. He lets out a long sigh and tentatively places his hand on Sherlock's back, rubbing his thumb back and forth between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I wish it was that easy. For your sake."

"Just get out."

"Sherlock."

"Now, please."

"Come and stay with me and Elizabeth. Just through the holidays. Please."

Sherlock shakes his head, and he knows Mycroft can feel him trembling. "Out," he growls.

Mycroft sighs and lets his hand fall away. "You need to make some decisions, Sherlock," he says as he stands and picks up his coat. "You can take my offer for assistance or you can ignore it and face the consequences on your own. But you can't go on like on this."

Sherlock shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to his knees. He can hear Mycroft hesitating in the doorway.

"I'll come round in the morning. Pack some things."

"I said--"

"Would you honestly rather stay here? With her?"

"Let's see. The mother who can't stand the sight of me or the brother who's threatening to have me sectioned. And you wonder why I was staying at school for the holidays."

"No, I wonder why someone so intent on not coming home would be so foolish as to get himself thrown out," Mycroft replies.

Sherlock grits his teeth and drags his fingers through his hair. "Fine." He lets his hands drop heavily into his lap, and he shrugs. "Fine."

Mycroft gives him a nod and disappears. A few minutes later, his car pulls away. Sherlock drops back against the couch, picks up his book, and does his best ignore the ringing in his ears.

2000

There's a row. There's always a row because the Watsons are incapable of gathering in a room together for more than a couple of hours without screaming at each other.

John counts the number of times Harry fills her glass as the meal progresses, but as she clearly started before she even arrived, it doesn't make much difference. By the time Mum's pulling out the pies, Harry has informed everyone that she was sacked for the third time this year. John lets it go, but Dad just can't.

"Look, it's not her fault she got sacked," John offers in a weak attempt to calm him. It's not true. They all know it's not true, but maybe the Christmas spirit will prevail.

"Isn't it?" Dad snaps. "It's about time she realizes--"

"I'm right here!" Harry shouts. "Don't talk about me as if--"

He rounds on her. "It's about time you realize that you need to grow the fuck up! You're throwing your life away and you don't even--"

"Right!" Harry pushes away from the table, knocking over her chair in the process. "Thanks for the lovely evening. Happy fucking Christmas."

"Harriet, love, don't."

But Harry slams the door behind her, leaving the house silent in her wake.

"Well done, Dad. Cheers." John's already on his feet.

"Someone has to say something--"

"No. No, you really could have left it tonight. No one would have minded."

Harry's coat is still hanging in the hall next to his, and when he checks the pockets and finds her keys, he breathes a small sigh of relief. She may be out wandering the streets, but at least she's not behind the wheel. He pockets Harry's keys, tosses her coat over his arm, and turns to find his mother leaning in the doorway, watching him.

"Where are you off to, then?" she asks quietly as she fixes his collar.

"You saw the state of her. I'm going to make sure she doesn't kill herself trying to get home," John says, kissing her cheek. "I'll come round in the morning, yeah?"

"Will she be all right?"

"Just needs a bit of sleep," John lies. "Don't worry."

John only gets as far as opening the door. Harry is sitting at the bottom of the front stairs, hunched in on herself against the cold, a bottle of pinot noir snagged from the kitchen in her hands.

She looks up at the sound of his footsteps and quickly ducks her head again to wipe her fingers across her cheeks.

He drops her coat over her shoulders and sits down beside her, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Thought you'd gone. Seems a waste of a dramatic exit."

She shrugs and sniffs loudly. "Couldn't find my keys."

"Left them in your coat. Which you left on the hook. Good to see you remembered the important things, though," he says with a nod to the bottle.

"Leave it."

"It's not helping anything."

"That's your opinion."

"Harry."

She rubs her nose with the back of a shaking hand.

"It wasn't my fault this time, getting sacked. They didn't like me there from the start, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they tried to get rid of me."

"Harry, they sacked you because you didn't show up, and you didn't show up because you were hungover, or worse, still drunk. It's why they always sack you. Each and every time."

She lets out a soft, choked sound, and he can't tell if it's an aborted laugh or a sob. He puts an arm around her shoulders either way.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself," John says.

She brushes her hair back from her face and fixes him with a look. "Don't. Don't start this."

"I'm worried is all. It's Christmas, Harry. You can't even keep it together for one bloody day."

She groans and shoves him off, getting to her feet. "Oh, fuck off, John!"

"Keep your voice down!" John hisses.

"No, no, no, I'm done. I'm done with this, and I'm done with you. Thank you very much, Dr. Watson, but we will no longer be requiring your services." She makes a grab for her keys, but misses by a wide margin and stumbles. John grabs her around her waist just before she heads for the pavement.

"Right. Let's go. I'm taking you home."

"I don't need--"

"Stay here, then. I'm sure Dad has plenty more to say to you."

Harry glares at him, but she's still holding onto his arm to keep herself steady. "I'll take a taxi."

"Don't be a brat. I'm driving you home."

Getting Harry into the car is a little awkward. Getting Harry back out of the car after she spends much of the ride back to her flat asleep against the window is another task all together.

"Harry. Harry. Harriet!"

"G'way," she mumbles, swatting him at him blindly and slumping lower in the seat.

"You're not sleeping in your car, Harry. Up you go." He manages to grab hold of her arms and haul her to her feet. Harry promptly thanks him for efforts by vomiting all over his shoes.

"And Happy Christmas to you as well," he says.

He maneuvers them up the stairs, into Harry's flat, and deposits her on the bed. He slips off her shoes, throws a blanket over her, and sits on the edge of the bed for a minute, watching her breathing. Grateful that she still is, despite everything, because sometimes in the middle of the night, he wakes and has his doubts.

With a sigh, he gets to his feet and heads to the kitchen, opening the cabinets, searching for something to clean the sick off his shoes. The third door he tries, he stops and stares.

"Oh, Harry."

Bottles. Wine, mostly. Two dozen of them, easily, maybe three. He pulls one out to check and is entirely unsurprised to find it empty as he's sure they all are. He looks at the other closed cabinet doors and wonders how many of the others hold similar stashes, wonders where else in the house Harry might be stuffing her empties. Part of him wants to tear the entire flat apart, but he's too afraid, too worried to make it that real, to make it something they can no longer fight about when it's convenient and then ignore when it becomes too dangerous.

John sits back on the cold tiles of Harry's kitchen floor, covers his face, and takes deep breaths until his hands stop shaking.

2002

Sherlock frowns down at his brother's name on the caller ID of his mobile as it merrily chirps away while he does his best to slip out of the lab at Bart's unnoticed. He silences the phone, shoves it in his pocket, and lets it go to voicemail twice before answering from the safety of the street.

"I told you to text me," he hisses.

"If you spent less of your time in places you weren't supposed to be, I wouldn't have to."

"Checking up on me?" he asks with a glance to the CCTV cameras.

"Always, Sherlock. Might we expect you for dinner tomorrow night?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Where are you staying?"

Lots of places. Wherever there's a spare sofa, mostly. Sometimes there aren't any, especially around the holidays. Last night, he found a bench. It served its purpose. "As if you don't know. As if you don't know every step I take in this city."

"If you would only tell me of your own accord, I wouldn't have to play these games."

The games keep it interesting, though. One day, he'll escape Mycroft's reach, and it will probably be the greatest accomplishment of his life. Until then, the games suffice when there's nothing else to hold his attention.

"You know you're welcome to stay with--"

"No."

Mycroft sighs. "Do you still have my card?"

He does. He lifted Mycroft's wallet months ago just to spite him. Mycroft cancelled all his cards but one. Sherlock hasn't made use of it except to see now and again if it's still valid, but he keeps it close.

"Sherlock, I know you took it. Do you still have it?"

"Yes."

"Then for heaven's sake, use it. Why do you think I haven't cancelled the damned thing?"

"I don't need--"

"Sherlock, please don't argue. Buy yourself some food. Find somewhere to stay for a few days."

Sherlock doesn't argue, but he doesn't agree, either.

Mycroft lets out a muffled sigh, and Sherlock knows he's pulled the phone away for a moment to keep his frustration from being too audible. Sherlock smiles to himself.

"I found a room for you," Mycroft says after he's collected himself. "Use it or don't use it as you like, but it's there and it's paid for. Consider it a Christmas gift."

"And to think I didn't get you anything."

Mycroft lets out a genuine laugh at that, and Sherlock scowls. "I'll text you the address."

"I won't forget it."

"No, but in your...less lucid moments, you might find it helpful to have it saved somewhere."

"I don't do that anymore," Sherlock says. It's almost true. He's been busy lately, which has helped.

"Two weeks is hardly long enough to leave me unconcerned, Sherlock." After a moment, he adds, "Or Mummy. She does worry about you, you know."

Sherlock shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against the bricks with a sigh. "Send a car tomorrow," he says before he can think too hard about it. He hasn't seen Mother since Easter, and he feels that he should out of some sense of familial obligation that he's been unable to misplace entirely despite repeated efforts.

"You'll come? I'm not sending someone just to have you--"

"I don't know yet, but if you don't send a car, I couldn't even if I wanted to."

"I'm texting you the address now. I'll send the car there. Around eleven?"

"Fine."

"Sherlock, take care of yourself."

"But then what would you do, Mycroft?"

"Tomorrow," Mycroft repeats. "Eleven."

2005

The year Harry brings home Clara, things are different. Maybe it's because everyone is on their best behavior for company or maybe because they're all of them getting just too old for the usual bickering, especially with Dad unwell the past couple years.

It's not just because Harry doesn't touch a drop the whole meal, but god, it helps. Instead, she sits with Clara's arm across her shoulders, her hand on Clara's knee, and the smile of a woman in love.

It suits her.

John likes Clara. She's sweet, but loud and a bit crass, like Harry. She likes to tell stories, and they tend to ramble a bit, but she always finds the point again in the end. She makes Dad laugh, which is nothing short of a miracle these days, and John's well prepared to tell Harry to give her a ring right then and there.

After dinner, John gets up to help Mum with the tea and coffee, but when he passes by the door, there's Clara in the garden, fumbling with a lighter in the cold, cigarette between her lips. He slips out the door before Harry can spot him and intervene.

Clara glances up as the door shuts behind him and grins. "I was waiting for this. Do they pull all the boys aside in school one day and teach them how to intimidate their sisters' partners? 'Don't you hurt her' and all that sort of thing?"

"Lucky for you, I was ill that day," he tells her, leaning back against the side of the house.

She blows smoke into the wind and brushes her hair out of her eyes. "Won't stop you from having a go at it, though, will it?"

"You hurt her or not, that's your business," he says with a shrug. "Though I wouldn't recommend it. She's the one who'll make you regret it, not me."

"I'll keep that in mind," she laughs.

"So, how long have you known each other?" he asks. He may not do the menacing brother thing much, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to know things. "She doesn't tell me much these days. Not that she ever did," he adds.

"There's not much to tell, really. Met at a party. You know Bernie? It was at his mate's. Bit of a bastard, really. We've been together, what? About three months, now?"

"Just three months, and you got her to stop drinking?" he says.

"I didn't 'get her' to do anything," Clara says, shaking her head, and she has a point. Harry does what she wants and only what she wants, and no one can change her mind until she's ready. "She gave up the drinking. I gave up smoking. She's doing better than I am, in case you hadn't noticed," she says, waving her cigarette. "But this is just nerves. Meeting the family, and all that. First one in weeks. And the only one, promise. But she's doing well! I mean, I know it could all still go tits up, but it's a start, isn't it?"

"It's more than I could ever do."

Clara grins and leans in close. "Never underestimate the power of sex as a motivator," she whispers.

"Oi," John says with a wince. "That is my sister you're talking about."

"Oh, don't be a prude." She knocks her shoulder with his. She looks in through the door where Harry is pulling out the pie she brought: a sad, oozing little thing that's too brown and a bit caved in. But the fact that she made the effort at all is impressive.

"Moved in to hers two weeks ago," Clara says, biting her lip. "I mean, I know it's a bit quick and all, and we didn't plan it. It was just my landlord was a bit of a prick, and it all sort of made sense, you know?"

"And is it still making sense two weeks later?"

"So far," she says with a shrug and a grin. She nudges him with her shoulder again. "You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

John nods. "Just after the new year." He still isn't sure how he feels about it. He knew it was only a matter of time before they sent him over, and he's ready. He knows he can do good there, but it's still all a bit frightening. He's doing his best to ignore the whole thing until the absolute last minute.

She stamps out the last of her cigarette, then leans in and kisses his cheek. "Good luck. Stay safe."

"Thanks. You, too."

"Me?"

"Well, I'm off to Afghanistan, but you're staying here with Harry. You'll need all the luck you can get."

She smiles at him and watches Harry laugh with Mum over the pathetic state of her pie. Clara shakes her head. "You know what? I think I'll be just fine. And you will, too." She reaches back and tugs him toward the door by his sleeve. "Come on. If I have to eat that thing, so do you."

John lets himself be dragged back inside with a laugh and hopes that she's right.

2006

Sherlock stands next to DI Lestrade and watches Scotland Yard's finest ushering their suspect into the back of the police car.

"Funny how you keep turning up like this," Lestrade says, his tone implying that there's nothing funny about it at all.

"Is it? I would have said 'fortuitous.'"

"This is the third lowlife you've all but dropped in my lap in as many months. What are you playing at?"

"Nothing?" Sherlock tries with a shrug.

Lestrade pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Sherlock hasn't been able to afford cigarettes in a week, but he refuses to ask for one. "I had you followed after last time," Lestrade says.

"I know. You might want to train your DC a bit more before you next ask her to follow someone."

Lestrade purses his lips and considers this for a moment, which he should. The whole endeavor had been pathetic, really. Sherlock had spotted her within half an hour, lost her briefly down a back alley where he slipped a kid twenty quid and his coat. He spent the rest of the afternoon following the DC as she followed a rather tall sixteen year old on an incredibly mundane journey through London.

"She found out enough," Lestrade says. "Good to see you were able to get your coat back. Would have been a long winter without it."

"Maybe you lot aren't as useless as I thought," Sherlock says. "But I doubt it."

"Anyway, there's not much to know that isn't already in your file, is there? You don't stay in one place long, and that's when you have a place to stay at all. You get into trouble with alarming regularity, but you haven't been picked up for anything too serious since you were still a teenager. And yet you keep turning up at my crime scenes."

It's easy enough to see the point Lestrade is trying to make. Sherlock has rather been expecting it.

"Have you found any evidence connecting me to these crimes?" he asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "No."

"And have I any motive to commit these crimes?"

"Not that I'm aware of. But you always happen to be here right when things are about to get interesting. Sherlock, you have to admit that it's all a bit suspicious. You know more about my suspects than I do."

Sherlock turns up the collar of his coat against the wind and eyes the clouds rapidly blotting out the stars. "I'm doing you a favor. Several favors, in fact. If your men were capable of actual police work, I wouldn't have to."

"Not really a people person, are you?" Lestrade asks with a wry smirk.

Sherlock sniffs. "No."

"Look. Have you got somewhere to go tonight?" Lestrade asks, watching him carefully. "A bed? A proper meal?"

"I don't need looking after."

"All the same. Do you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He was evicted from the pitiful bedsit he'd been staying in the end of last month. He could tell Mycroft, and his brother would sort him out, but he'd also have to explain why he was evicted, which involves three more illegal substances than Mycroft is willing to forgive. It's not worth the lecture.

Lestrade sighs and rubs his palm across the three day's growth of beard on his cheeks. "Come on, then," he says with a nod back to his car. "I've only got the sofa. It's small and uncomfortable, but it's yours for the night if you want it."

Lestrade heads over to his car and doesn't wait to see if Sherlock follows. Sherlock surprises them both by doing exactly that, more out of curiosity than anything else. Knowing more about DI Lestrade could be useful to him later. Besides, he's been sleeping rough the past week, catching what bit of pavement he can. He's stubborn, but not stupid.

Lestrade pauses with his hand on the car door and leans across the roof, catching Sherlock's eye. "You don't bring any drugs into this car or into my flat, understand?" Lestrade tells him in a hushed voice. "If you've got anything on you, you get rid of it now."

"I don't have any--"

"I mean it, Sherlock. I'll bring you straight to jail myself."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and holds out his hands at his sides. "I don't use it when I'm working. You can search me if it matters that much to you."

Lestrade hesitates a moment longer, tapping his keys against the roof of the car, before finally giving a nod and getting in.

It's a modest flat, cleaner than Sherlock would have expected with bare walls, freshly painted, and very few things, none of the usual bits and bobs that one acquires over time. There are a few magazines on the coffee table, mostly news and sports related, and a handful of DVDs stacked by the television, all meant for small children. Interesting. No toys, no mess, no spare rooms by Sherlock's estimation. Grey fur on the sofa cushions, but only in the crevices, so recently cleaned, and no other sign of an animal around the flat, but there clearly was one wherever that sofa used to be. No holiday decorations, but there's cards--dozens of them--some tacked haphazardly to the back of the door. Most of them in a stack on the counter, some still in envelopes, all forwarded from another address. Old cases, Sherlock supposes. People Lestrade has helped in the past, who like to remember the man who saved their son or convicted the man who killed their wife, but few to whom the DI felt strong attachment or possibly even remembers.

"I hope Chinese is all right. I've nothing in." Lestrade asks. "Tea?"

Sherlock nods absently, still taking it all in, piecing Lestrade's life together. Recently divorced. He still wears his wedding band, so she left him. "Thank you," he adds a full minute later than he should have. If Lestrade notices, he doesn't say anything.

He turns to the bookcases. More books than he would have guessed, too. Case law, some novels, most of which haven't been touched in a while, if the thin layer of dust on the lip of the shelf is anything to go by. Lacking the time for such frivolities, or perhaps the inclination. Depressed, possibly.

"Working?" Lestrade calls from the kitchen.

"Sorry?" A picture of two small children--about ages four and six--smiling with their arms around a sheepdog nearly twice their size. That would explain the fur on the sofa. Lost wife, kids, and pet all in one go. Definitely depressed.

"You said you were working. Got a job, have you?"

"What? No." It's all running circles in his head, all the information. Buzzing. Vibrating. It's better than any high, really. Everything else just sort of fades into the background.

"Then why did you say you were working?" Lestrade appears beside him, holding out a cup of tea.

Sherlock flounders for a moment and covers it up by taking the tea and swallowing down too much, too quickly. There doesn't seem to be much point in lying about it anymore. Sounds like Lestrade is finally beginning to figure it out. Scotland Yard's finest, indeed.

"The case," he mutters.

"Sorry?"

"The case. The murder. I was--"

"What? My case?"

"Technically, I solved it which I think makes it my case."

Lestrade goes absolutely still, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Sherlock, how did you know where to go tonight?"

Sherlock doesn't flinch. "I stole the file off your desk on Tuesday."

"Jesus, Sherlock," he groans, dragging a hand down his face. "You can't just--"

"Solve what you morons can't?"

"I could be sacked if someone finds out! And while you might not care about that, you might want to consider that whoever takes my place might not be so willing to cut you slack when you land in front of 'em once a week spouting nonsense. I could have done you for possession three times over in the past two months alone."

Sherlock smirks at him. "But you didn't. And you won't. Anyway, no one saw me, so as long as you don't say anything, no one will ever know. I'll even let you take the credit for solving it. And the one you left on the table, which was the sister, by the way."

Lestrade glances behind him at the file on the table, still half buried beneath yesterday's newspaper and this morning's tea.

"You're just winding me up now," he says. He yanks the file out and stuffs it into his briefcase.

"It's all there," Sherlock insists. He grabs the file back and starts flipping through it. "You just don't see."

"Sherlock. Give it to me."

Sherlock tries to stare him down, but Lestrade just stares right back, hand outstretched, waiting. Sherlock sighs and drops the file on his palm. Lestrade doesn't look away.

"I can't have some...junkie working out my cases for me. There are rules."

"I'm not--"

"You are, sorry to say. Believe me, it'd make my life a hell of a lot easier if you weren't." Lestrade flips open the file and scans the report. Sherlock resists the urge to point out the sister's chipped tooth, the pollen on her sleeve, the polished locket around her neck. Lestrade sighs and closes the file again. "I could use someone like you. I'm good at my job, and I don't care if you disagree. I've saved lives, and I've helped people, and I work hard to do it." He holds up the file. "But I can't do what you do. Not if I trained and studied for a lifetime."

"Obviously," Sherlock snorts.

"Don't take the piss," Lestrade says, jabbing the file in Sherlock's face. "I'm trying to... You're brilliant, Sherlock. You could help people."

"People don't matter."

That catches Lestrade off guard. He lowers the file and frowns for a minute. "Then why do it? I've seen enough of you to know that you're not keen on justice and right and wrong and all that. So if not to help people, then why?"

Sherlock considers for a long moment. There is no why to it. He just does it, like breathing. He can't stop. When he does, everything starts to go black around the edges. Everything slows down, every minute dragging against his skin.

He takes a deep breath. "Because I like it. Because I'm good at it. Because I can't do anything else."

Lestrade smiles a bit at that. "I know what you mean."

"You couldn't possibly."

The door buzzes, and Lestrade disappears to collect their takeaway.

A few minutes later finds them tucked in to several cartons of Chinese around Lestrade's coffee table.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Lestrade asks around a mouthful of lo mein.

"You practically accused me of having a hand in that murder tonight. Then you offered to let me spend the night at your flat. Why?"

Lestrade looks down at the case file on the coffee table, then at the bookcase behind him before his gaze settles back on Sherlock. "You already know, don't you?"

"Because it's Christmas, and the holidays always make you feel guilty, but this year in particular as your wife kicked you out, I'd say about three months ago by the look of this flat. You'll see the children tomorrow, but for now it's your first Christmas on your own in... eight years. And you think I can't take care of myself."

Sherlock watches him: the tight grip on his chopsticks, the way his eyes lose some of their focus, the way he can't hold Sherlock's gaze for long. When he speaks, his voice is rough, strained. "Yeah, that's about the size of it. And you can't. At least, not from what I've seen."

Sherlock doesn't see the point in arguing. Not right now, not when he's eating his first hot meal in two weeks.

"You solve things on your own sometimes, I hear. People come to you for help."

"On occasion." Not recently, not without a permanent address.

"If you cleaned yourself up, I might--might--consider bringing you in on a case from time to time."

Sherlock stills. "What about your rules?"

"Yes or no: are you interested?"

He considers for a moment. It would mean more cases, better access, but more constraints, and he doesn't work well with constraints. But it's better than not working at all.

"I am."

Lestrade nods. "Then let me worry about the rules. I'll bring you in as a consultant or something. There are loopholes for everything if you look hard enough. But I mean it, Sherlock. The second you give me a reason to doubt you, this is done. No second chances."

"I can do it," Sherlock assures him. It won't be easy. It won't be fun, but he can. He's done it before. The drugs are only to numb him during that dreadful time in between cases, anyway. He wouldn't need them if he had more work.

"All right." Lestrade sets his carton of noodles aside and picks up the file. "You say this was the sister?"

Sherlock nods, and Lestrade hands it to him.

"Show me."

2008

John spends much of Christmas trying to assure one of his closest friends that he's not going to die, that John won't let him because he still owes John fifty quid from poker last week. All the while there is just too much blood for any of it to be true, and they both know it. Iwan slips away, and John sits there for a very long time, too shattered (unprofessional, he tells himself over and over again, but it does nothing to motivate him) to even wash the blood off his hands.

Later, he calls home, and he forces a smile the whole time so he doesn't sound as run down and hollow as he feels because they don't need that. His mother coos at him, her voice ragged with tears, and wishes he was home for the holidays. Harry clearly has indulged in a bit too much Christmas cheer, but he bites his tongue and tells her he loves her because he does, for all her faults, just as she loves him. He wishes them well. Makes empty promises to stay safe. Says his goodbyes.

There are others with husbands and wives at home. Babies and sticky-faced children who grab at the screen when they see their mums and dads. People who weep and ache with the separation not just because it's Christmas, but especially because it's Christmas.

John goes to sleep that night for the first time in 38 hours, and he doesn't feel a thing.

2009

Ever since Florida, Mrs. Hudson sends him small notes and cards every few months. She has loopy, elegant handwriting and uninteresting gossip about everyone on her street, but she always makes sure to ask if he's heard about this string of murders or that burglary, and bet you're well pleased by that, Sherlock, aren't you, love? He reads each one and smiles, and while he never writes her back, not properly, he sends her a simple postcard whenever he travels. He likes Mrs. Hudson. Likes the way she still calls her late husband "that bastard" loopy handwriting and all, and how she's never put off when sometimes she doesn't hear from him for months and months. The notes still come, always with sincere hopes that he's well, not that he was eating more or running around less. I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I know how you like a bit of trouble now and again. He does. Oh, how he does.

Two weeks before Christmas, he gets a familiar lavender envelope in the post: I know you probably have other plans, but it's always just me for Christmas, and that's hardly worth raising a fuss over. Haven't had anyone to cook for in years. Don't suppose you'd be interested in stopping by for a bit of Christmas dinner? There's also a clipping from a Parisian newspaper about a series of unsolved burglaries.

Sherlock buys a postcard on his way to Paris and writes her back: Love to.

He brings her flowers and a bottle of wine (courtesy of Mycroft's card), and she pulls him down to kiss his cheek before ushering him inside.

He fetches a vase for her from the top cupboard when he sees her struggling, and watches as she trims and arranges the flowers just so as if there is more to it than simply giving them enough water to survive. His Gran died when he was very young, but he wonders if this is what it would have been like. If she wouldn't have minded that he was a bit odd or that he doesn't understand people sometimes. Mrs. Hudson would rather see him happy than proper, and though she can't help trying to push him in the right direction now and again, Sherlock finds he doesn't mind it from her. Not much, at least.

They sit together on her sofa after dinner with some sappy holiday film on the telly. Sherlock is slumped low in the cushions, stuffed full, but not unpleasantly so. He's sleepy and warm and a bit sluggish from the wine, which is why he usually avoids it.

"I was surprised you came," she says. "I never know if you get those notes or not, the way you run about."

"I always get them," he assures her. "You're the only person who writes me letters."

He's just stating fact, but she beams at him. He finds himself smiling back.

"You just need to find a nice girl, Sherlock. That's all. Or a nice young man," she amends quickly when he doesn't respond.

Sherlock tips his head back against the cushions and watches the light of the candles on the table dance on the ceiling. "I was never good at that sort of thing," he says because it's easier than trying to explain.

"Everyone's good at that sort of thing once they find the right person, love," she says.

"I think Mr. Hudson might disagree."

Mrs. Hudson titters and clucks her tongue. "It wasn't like that in the beginning, you know. In the beginning, it was fun. A bit dangerous, a bit exciting. You know. I liked it. I liked him."

"Do you miss him?" Sherlock asks, turning his head again to look at her. She is small and frail, but there's a flush in her cheeks from the wine, and her eyes are still sharp, keen. Forty-three years, she was married to that man. To Sherlock it seems an unfathomably long time.

"Oh, I don't mind being lonely. It's the quiet that bothers me most of the time. Gets to be too much sometimes is all."

Sherlock chuckles and turns back to the ceiling, letting his eyes fall shut. "That it does."

He can hear his pulse rushing in his ears because the wine has slowed everything else down. The bottom half of his face is tingling and everything is scraping along, but for tonight, he'll be all right. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow the quiet will scratch at his brain like a radio playing static at full volume, and the boredom will gnaw at his nerve endings, and yes, sometimes it gets to be too much.

"I've got those rooms upstairs, you know, Sherlock. Or the basement, if you prefer it. More space than I need. Be nice having someone else around. And it might keep that brother of yours out of your business."

"I don't need a nanny," Sherlock spits before he can catch himself. It's not her fault. It's bloody Mycroft. "Sorry."

"It's all right, love. Just a thought. Tea?"

"Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson pats his knee as she stands and disappears into the kitchen.

Sherlock listens to the click of the kettle, the shuffle of teacups, the crinkle of paper as Mrs. Hudson unwraps some biscuits. She hums to herself, some song from the film they're not really watching. He doesn't know how it goes or what it's called, but it's better than silence.

"Maybe after the new year," he says, "I could come take a look at those rooms."

"If you'd like," she calls from the kitchen. He can hear the pleased smile in her voice.

In the end, the rooms are more than he can afford even with a mostly steady stream of cases and Mrs. Hudson's offering them at a discount. But in the end, there's John Watson, and everything changes.

2010

They run halfway across London and back again, burst through the door to 221B, and collapse down in their chairs, still panting. Somewhere in there, they get shot at ("Only a bit," Sherlock insists), but also they find the evidence to lock up a very bad man so at the end of the day, it's a job well done.

"You're an idiot," John tells Sherlock for the tenth time since they left the scene. It lacks the necessary bite given that he can barely speak for laughing.

Sherlock just tilts his head back and grins, clutching at his side. "Oh, it all turned out all right in the end, didn't it?" he tells the ceiling in between chuckles.

John watches him, remembers that first run through the London streets, feeling that buzz of adrenaline in his veins properly for the first time since he left Afghanistan, feeling like he could breathe again properly, if he wanted to be completely honest.

It was madness. It was brilliant.

Life with Sherlock is no less mad now, and John doesn't know that he'd change a thing. Even if it means getting a bit shot at now and again.

Sherlock is still laughing when John gets up and starts to dig around behind the pile of old newspapers next to the sofa. He's been after Sherlock to bin them for weeks, which is what makes them the perfect hiding place from a man who won't let you have secrets. Underneath is the small, brown package he bought the other day in between poring through stolen medical files for some case of Sherlock's. He drops it in Sherlock's lap. "Here."

All laughter ceases, and Sherlock sits up a little straighter. "What's this?"

"It's for you. Open it."

He looks at the small package in his hand. "I didn't... I wasn't expecting--"

"It's Christmas. How can you not expect presents? Anyway, it's not anything special."

"I don't have anything for you."

John just shakes his head and grins. "I don't care. Sherlock, just open it."

"You just said that one should expect presents at Christmas. You obviously expected me to--"

"No, Sherlock," John says, settling back in the chair. "I have no expectations when it comes to you."

"That's...probably wise," Sherlock mumbles, staring down at the package in his hands.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glances up sharply, and then quickly unwraps it before John can tell him to for a third time.

It's just a few cigars. Not even really, really good cigars because John can't afford them at the moment what with how Sherlock forgets that getting paid for their troubles every once in a while is useful. But they're decent enough. The tobacconist assured him Sherlock would like them, even though Sherlock doesn't like much of anything.

"Honduras," Sherlock says, oddly quiet, bringing them to his nose and breathing them in.

"If you don't want them, you don't have to take them. But I know you still indulge once in a while. Can smell it when you come back from Angelo's when you stay past closing. You and him and Billy."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls up. "How did you figure out Billy?"

"Because when he stopped working the weekend, so did the late Friday nights. It's Tuesdays now, usually. I imagine Billy's new girlfriend keeps him occupied Fridays."

"Well done," Sherlock says, and it very nearly sounds sincere. He looks back down at the cigars in his hand. "Thank you. This was very...nice."

"What do you say, then?" John gives a nod. "Little celebration? It is Christmas after all. And we caught a kidnapper."

Sherlock is still for a moment then jumps to his feet. "Not inside. Mrs. Hudson would kill us both."

"So explosions and body parts and god knows what else are all fine, but she draws the line at you smoking indoors."

"She has to draw it somewhere," Sherlock says as he tosses John his coat. "Come on."

A few minutes later finds them sitting on the step outside, enjoying a clear, cold night and a couple of cigars, and it's almost as if they're just a couple of blokes instead of...whatever they are. Two men who just put a kidnapper behind bars for the fun of it.

"There's just one thing about this case that I don't understand," John says, watching as Sherlock blows smoke into the night.

"Oh? What's that?"

"How exactly does someone only get 'a bit' shot at?"

Sherlock lets out an undignified, high-pitched giggle like nothing John as ever heard before, and he can't help it. He howls with delight until his stomach starts to ache, and he clutches at Sherlock's arm, feeling him shake with his own laughter.

The door opens behind them, and they both look up over their shoulders at Mrs. Hudson, still fully dressed even though it's got to be near three in the morning by now because if there's anyone who keeps stranger hours than Sherlock, it's Mrs. Hudson.

"I can hear you two from inside," she says. "You'll wake the whole street."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John says, thumbing away tears from his eyes.

"What have you got there?"

"It's not bothering you, is it? The smoke?"

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Hudson ducks behind the door to grab her coat and settles down on the step between them. "Reminds me of my husband. One of the few things I still liked about him by the end."

Sherlock pulls out another one of the cigars and offers it to her, clearly not expecting her to take it, but she does, clips and lights it expertly, rotating it slowly above the flame, while Sherlock and John grin behind her back. It's a bit obscene to be honest.

But Mrs. Hudson just takes a long draw and says, "Ooh, these are lovely!"

John hides his giggles behind his sleeve, and Sherlock says, "They were a gift."

Mrs. Hudson proceeds to fill them in on all the happenings of daytime telly plus who was just voted off of Strictly Come Dancing this past week since John was off running about with Sherlock, and Sherlock should know these things because, you never know, love, you might need it, like that Connie Prince business. And for once, Sherlock's eyes don't glaze over, but he sits and listens and nods along all the places where he should. Maybe because he's in a good mood. Or maybe because it's Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Hudson has nothing better to do than sit outside with them, smoke mediocre cigars, and talk about telly.

Whatever the reason, he lets her talk without a single snide comment until she realizes her cigar has gone out. "Oh, listen to me, going on, and at this hour! I'm as bad as the two of you."

"Worse, really," Sherlock says, and she clucks her tongue at him.

"Don't you boys stay out here all night," she warns as John helps her up.

"Of course not," John promises. He bends down and kisses her cheek. "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."

"You, too, love," she says with a soft smile. She turns to Sherlock and drops a kiss on top of his head. "And you."

Sherlock reaches up and takes her hand for a moment, giving her one of those looks of genuine and unguarded affection that he seems to reserve only for her. She squeezes his fingers, gives him a wink, and slips back inside, closing the door behind her.

John leans back on his elbows and smiles up at the sky. He'll make his way to Mum's in a few hours on too little sleep, and there will be the usual tense dinner. But for now he's relaxed and content, warm despite the cold, and when Sherlock suddenly leans in and kisses him--a short, chaste press of lips against lips--it's hardly the surprise it should be. In fact, it's Sherlock who seems a bit shocked by his own actions, turning sharply to look back out into the still of Baker Street, lips pressed together in a tight line.

"Sorry," he says. "I don't--...Um." He stops and frowns down at his knees, and John watches his throat bob as he swallows.

John shrugs with a crooked grin. "It's all right," he says because it's probably the least offensive thing Sherlock's done to him without asking if it was all right first.

But Sherlock has that puzzle look on his face, that one he gets when he's trying to work something out. John knows there's no stopping that look, so he just slides across the few inches between them until Sherlock is warm and solid presence beside him from knees to shoulders and waits until he works it out. Sherlock glances down at the contact between them, and John just starts laughing again. His face hurts with it, and the exhaustion of the past week is finally settling in, his head rolling loose on his shoulders. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, and John just shakes his head, cranes his neck, and kisses him. Properly. Or at least as properly as he can given how Sherlock's gone rigid, Mrs. Hudson's half-finished cigar clutched in his fist.

When John pulls back, Sherlock's eyes are wide, his lips still slightly pursed.

"There," John says, settling back again. "Now you can make your confused face. Not worth it for whatever it was you just did. Call that a kiss, do you?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough that John starts to think maybe he's got it wrong.

"Look--"

Sherlock clears his throat loudly, rubbing his palms on his trousers. "You only got a bit shot at. You only needed to be a bit kissed."

John snorts, his chin dropping to his chest, his shoulders shaking with laughter, and Sherlock gradually grins back at him. They lean back against the door, still shoulder to shoulder, and enjoy one of the few quiet moments in their life together.

They don't exchange Merry Christmases, but it is one just the same.

2011

Sherlock makes it through dinner and most of the gifts before he has to slip outside. The house is too warm, and the cold air outside makes his lungs ache, but in a good way.

The whole affair with Mother and everyone isn't nearly as bad as he had expected, but then, bringing someone home for Christmas dinner is quite possibly the most normal thing he's ever done in their eyes. It's something they can understand, not like consulting detective, not like addict or sociopath. Even if that someone is John. This is a situation they have experience with, one that they can smile through (or fake it in at least one case) for the sake of the holidays, for the sake of family.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes in deep. Normal is still overrated. Dull.

He hears the door open behind him, recognizes John's footsteps, the sound of the fabric of his coat rustling as he slips into it.

"Too much for you?" Sherlock asks without opening his eyes.

"They're not as bad as you make them out to be."

"That's what you said about Mycroft."

"No, I said Mycroft isn't as bad as you want him to be. There's a difference."

Sherlock cracks one eye open and looks sideways at him. John is smiling at him, just a bit smug, just a bit like he knows one of Sherlock's secrets. Maybe he does. Maybe he knows more than one.

"All right?" John asks.

Sherlock nods. "Just needed some air. I'd kill every single person in that house for a cigarette right now."

John leans against him a bit, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder as they peer into the dark edges of the garden. "No, you wouldn't."

"I might."

"You could try, but I think your Aunt Susan would put up quite the fight," John says with a laugh. "I thought your brother was the one I had to worry about."

"You just said they weren't that bad."

"They're none of them bad, Sherlock," John says, tilting his head up a bit to look at him. "They're family. All families are like this. Everyone has an Aunt Susan."

"God save us all," Sherlock mutters, but he laughs when John starts to giggle.

"Here." John fishes in his coat pocket for a moment and pulls out five cigars bound in red ribbon. "For later? After everyone's gone?"

Sherlock smiles as he takes them, John's fingers warm when they brush his. "Later."

They stand there for a while, not talking, John gradually leaning a bit more heavily on him, hugging Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock can tell he's had a bit more than his share of wine. Just enough to leave him a little loose and pliant, enough for him to lose the soldier's rigidity that he carries with him. It was worth the drive out here just for that.

"I used to come out here as a child," Sherlock says, "and watch the shadows. Try to figure out who was who."

John looks down at the grass, the shadows cast from people moving inside long and distorted by the angle of light from the windows. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" Sherlock asks, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Instead of letting himself be baited, John grabs hold of Sherlock's collar and tugs him down for a kiss. John tastes like sweets and pinot noir and home, and Sherlock doesn't let go for a very long time.

"You're freezing," John laughs as Sherlock slips his chilled hands beneath John's coat. "Come back inside."

"Soon." John clearly hasn't noticed Mycroft lurking just inside the door. Waiting. Sherlock doubts he'll escape the night without one of Mycroft's inane chats. He ducks down and kisses John again. "Big Brother is watching."

"Isn't he always?"

"God, I hope not. He'd be a bit shocked by last night, I imagine."

John laughs against his neck. "Want me to stay?"

"I'll be all right," Sherlock assures him. "I've had plenty of practice."

John presses one last kiss to the underside of his jaw and pulls away, giving Mycroft a nod as he passes into the house. Mycroft nods back, but Sherlock sees the small smile he gives John's back.

Mycroft strolls over to where Sherlock is standing as if that wasn't exactly his intent in coming out here. It's a talent, Sherlock has to admit.

"What's this?" Mycroft says with a nod to the cigars in Sherlock's hands.

"A tradition."

"I thought you'd given up all of your vices."

Sherlock smirks to himself. "I only partake under supervision of my doctor."

"I see," Mycroft says, and Sherlock braces himself for the questions, the digging around for the details of his life that are none of Mycroft's concern.

"Are you happy?" is all Mycroft asks.

Sherlock considers for a minute, then offers him one of the cigars, and Mycroft takes it with a small, confused smile. It takes a lot to rattle Mycroft these days. It's rather robbed it of all the fun, so Sherlock barely even bothers anymore. He never considered it could be this simple to turn Mycroft's world a little sideways.

"People like me don't get to be happy," Sherlock tells him. Always the same answer for the same inane question.

Mycroft slips the cigar into his jacket and leans back against the garden wall. "Yes. How could I possibly forget?"

Sherlock watches the shadows. He cannot tell who is who, and it doesn't bother him like it should. Like it used to. And that itself should be bothersome because he doesn't like when things get deleted without him realizing it. But over the past two years his brain has become full of John instead: how he takes his tea, the way he purses his lips when he wants to say something but holds back, how many beats per minute his heart rate increases when Sherlock drags his lips against the skin of his hip.

It's possibly a fair trade. And even if it isn't, it's one Sherlock is more than willing to live with.

"He turns the volume down," Sherlock says. "Not all the way. But enough. He makes it all balance."

It's all Sherlock's ever wanted. It's what the drugs were for. The cases. The experiments. Everything was all an attempt to dull the roar in his brain. None of them even come close to what John can do, does do. Sherlock never thought it possible that a person could be the answer. Seems too simple. Too neat.

"Good," Mycroft says. "Good." He reaches out and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder, just briefly. Sherlock doesn't shrug it off like he would have in the past. Mycroft pulls back with that tight-lipped smile of his, and Sherlock watches as he wordlessly walks back to the house.

"That's it?" he calls back at him. "Nothing about how I should answer my phone or am I able to pay the rent or why did I break into that flat in Chelsea three weeks ago? Just 'are you happy?'"

Mycroft turns back, hands in his pockets, and shrugs. "That's it. That's all there ever was, Sherlock."

He disappears into the house, and Sherlock stares after him for a moment, thinking himself just a little bit thick, but then, he's never been too perceptive about this sort of thing.

He starts to follow Mycroft inside, but pauses at the door, delaying the return to bustle and noise and a stuffy, old house he rarely visits for just a moment longer. He tips his head back and looks up at the sky.

Tonight, they are just stars. The constellations are there, the patterns, the myths, the gases and chemicals. He learned them all once in a desperate attempt to show up John, but John had only laughed and told him that wasn't the point. He could have deleted it all again, but he was too worried he'd lose that laugh as well, the vibration of it against his skin as John had pressed his face into Sherlock's neck and called him an idiot. He doesn't know what he's lost to hold onto that laugh, what useful things faded away to make room for enough rubbish about the night sky to fill a book. It's all there scratching away at the back of his brain, ready to flood through, take over. But tonight, he clamps down, and they are just stars, so many more than one could ever see in the urban glow of London, burning bright and beautiful in the cold.