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Barred from any investigations requiring footwork, forced to once more suffer the restrictions of a sling for another three weeks, Sherlock could feel the restlessness like ants in his skin. Anxiety had left him twitchy and temperamental and when he wasn't fighting insomnia his unsettling dreams assured no rest was to be had when he did manage to drift off.
Unable to even lose himself in the violin he was left to pace before the windows while waiting for John to make his way back from wherever he'd gone. He'd muttered something of his destination but Sherlock, at that moment, had been peering at a slide. Ah well it wasn't as though John ever wandered far. The options were the clinic, the pub, or Tesco. Sherlock managed exactly thirteen seconds weighing probability before settling on Tesco as the most likely option. It was too late in the morning to be going to the clinic and too early to be going to the pub. Besides they were out of chocolate biscuits and given Sherlock's observation of such not half and hour ago, along with the throwing of an empty package, a resupply run seemed likely. At least Rosie was still down for her kip. Sherlock wasn't confident in his ability to manage a stroppy toddler with his current physical limitations.
Sighing, he stopped before one of the tall windows.
The pre-requisite of the mundane horror/thriller – rain hammered from the skies and obscured visibility of anything beyond the buildings across the street. A lesser mind would find it all rather fitting. Sherlock was above such fancy and only found it inconvenient; a hamper to his exit should the attempt be had. And he truly wished for escape as a black car pulled up out front.
Keeping his back turned, Sherlock listened to the downstairs door opening and Mrs. Hudson's voice. Then followed a steadily nearing tread until, finally, the half open door received a double rap.
At his back, easily spied via the window's hazy reflection, Mycroft stood in the doorframe.
“What do you want, Mycroft? Here to test my urine for opiates, perhaps? In which case a sample will be forthcoming should you allow me the use of one of your shoes. The left one, perhaps?”
Having made his way through the room, Mycroft paused near the kitchen where, clearly, he was wanting to keep well away from any currently running experiments involving fluids. As it was, Sherlock had made fine use of the latest cadaver from Barts – a shallow dish containing liver, heart, and pancreas soaking in solution whilst the brain and kidneys sat in a cool box packed with dry ice.
Mycroft smirked in return. “Are you saying you're unable to deduce my intent?”
The jab was an expected opening – turning Sherlock from his scrutiny of the weather towards the stiff angle of his brother. Eyes flicking heels to head, Sherlock returned an upward tilted smirk.
“You'd known there would be rain today – you've never been unprepared for the weather a day in your life so no deduction, there. The intermittent rainfall means a long time away from the office with an uncertain timetable. Best to be prepared; as you often are, with your ever present brolly. Crumbs on your lapel – I detected the aroma of orange when you breached the threshold as well as a recent tea stain on your trousers at mid thigh. You would have been seated whilst partaking and as you aren't given to tremors and display neither intoxication nor illness I can only conclude you'd received a startle – news bad enough to lose temporary control of motor functions. Coupled with your loathing for orange and a general state of aggravation I am left with only one question. How is our dear Mummy?”
Less than pleased with the rapid-fire reveal, Mycroft replied, with a tilted eyebrow. “Unchanged.”
Crossing to the table to check the progress of decomposition, Sherlock turned momentary attention back towards his brother when the door abruptly shoved open and John entered the flat. Mycroft made barely a move at the abrupt entry – though his knuckles whitened and he made a single, sharp, inhale.
“Mycroft. Didn't know you were coming 'round.” John edged inside; arms loaded with groceries of which neither Holmes man offered assistance. A disgusted eye roll, John kicked the door shut with his heel and lugged his purchases to the kitchen – stacking the parcels on the counter.
Sherlock, still eyeing his brother, allowed a smile to widen. “Expecting someone else? And who could that be, I wonder... Not a member of staff – you'd have arranged a meeting at your office and well away from the rain. Not a welfare check, either, as I've been clean for the past three weeks; something you'd have known from frequent interrogations of my flatmate.” Not that his recent intoxication had been his fault as forced injections scarcely qualified as falling off the wagon.
In the kitchen, John straightened – his lip bowing down in a grimace. Sherlock bypassed the discomfort as one would ease around a mound of horse manure in the street so as not to soil their shoes.
“While your enjoyment of my company is as enthusiastic as my own; today you are particularly put out. A necessity – no, a debt. Oh, Mycroft, you should have known better than to owe favors to Mummy. She has a particularly twisted humor when calling them due. Finally, returning back to initial observation – you are here. Meaning your debt is now incurred by myself, as well – thank you for that. Conclusion; a person we both know, and also known by Mummy. Someone we both find distasteful as your anxiety carried a kernel of venomous delight in the sharing. Given that Granny Charlotte has been deceased for well past a decade that diminishes the pool of candidates...”
Downstairs, on cue, the door buzzer sounded.
Primarily occupied with loading the refrigerator, the goal, as ever, to tip the balance back towards food and away from corpses and related paraphernalia, John allowed a momentary pause in his labors to acknowledge the slightly cryptic conversation.
“I'm sorry – are you saying we've got visitors?”
Both Holmes men flinched. John, of course, noticed.
“Would you like me to fetch my weapon?”
“Yes.” Spoken by both so quickly their voices overlapped. John crossed his arms. Below, rose the sound of Mrs. Hudson engaging with the visitor – though the vocal range of the other person was a titch too low to make out a reply.
“Either of you mind filling me in?”
Thin lips pressing tight, Mycroft merely shifted his shoulders; his reply aimed at Sherlock. “He's your flatmate.”
Eyes rolling in disgust, Sherlock eased stiffly into his chair by the fireplace; left arm carefully cradled in his lap. “It would appear that my brother has seen fit to loose Aunt Nadie upon us.”
John's brow furrowed – his hands now going to his pockets and jamming tight. “Aunt – Aunt... Nadie? You have an aunt?”
“Not a blood relation, thank God.” Mycroft stabbed the tip of his umbrella against the rug with a muffled thunk. “Back when Sherlock was around six, Aunt Nadie moved into an estate near our home in Surrey; shortly after her husband died.”
“Of mysterious causes.” Sherlock interrupted – facing the cold hearth. John studied him in silence until, without a word, he crossed to the kitchen. Moments later he returned with a glass of water and two tablets. Sherlock glared but accepted the medication.
Ignoring them both, Mycroft continued on with the conversation. “It was some time afterwards that both Mummy and Father were called away for work and would be gone for several weeks. Our parents had become acquainted with Nadie over the summer and she had been to our home for tea a number of times so that was apparently adequate vetting. So, it followed, that Mummy took her on as a child minder. This would become a regular occurrence whenever our parents were both required to be gone for longer than a day and the usual carer wouldn't suffice.” Then his face became thoughtful. “It's been ages since we've seen her. Quite frankly, I'd have thought her long dead.”
“Further evidence that there is no God.” Sherlock snarled; starting to curl into himself before reconsidering after the warning twinge through his ribs. John was now studying him a bit too attentively.
You alright?”
“Never better.” The answer may have been delivered with a bright grin but the tight grip his fingers had on the arm of the chair told a different story. Restless, nervous energy, had him bouncing his heels against the rug. John frowned.
“Okay, seriously, what's wrong?”
Still near the door, Mycroft barked out a tight laugh. “Oh, I know what this is.”
John stepped closer towards the fireplace – hands freed from his pockets and hanging tense at his sides. “Sherlock... what...?”
Slamming his fist against the chair arm, Sherlock, abruptly, roared. “She touched me!”
Suddenly two steps back – John blinked. “Wait... a-are you saying...?”
Mycroft was the one to roll his eyes, now. “She pinched his cheeks.”
“She pinched your...?” John tipped his head.
Sherlock finally subsided, petulant. “Her hands reeked of cat litter and humbugs.” He glared back towards his brother. “For the life of me I cannot fathom her tactile infatuation with my flesh. Surely a better grip could have been had with your own, pillowy, cheeks. You were always the portly one, after all.”
Beyond the door, the steps of someone of slight build, wearing hard soled heels, could be heard ascending the 17 stairs to the flat. John had resorted to rubbing his forehead. “Isn't it just possible you've blown this a bit out of proportion?”
Sherlock offered a poisonous look in return. Mycroft lowered his eyebrows and frowned.
Not long to wait, at all, it appeared – there was a sharp knock and a voice to follow; a sing-song cadence that it seemed most elderly employed.
“Sherlock? Myyyycroooft... Are you lads home?” Another rapid-fire series of knocks before the trill of her voice had even faded.
Shaking his head, doubtless seeing neither man overly inclined to answer, John resumed his position as primary eye roller and stalked towards the door. “No, that's fine. I'll get it.”
He heaved the door wide, without preamble, and was nearly knocked in the forehead for his trouble.
“Sherl-! Oh...” An older woman, somewhere in the range of early-80s, squinted at John before lifting penciled eyebrows. “Well clearly you're not him.”
Remaining on the far side of the room, Sherlock scowled openly. “Auntie. Here to pinch my cheeks again?”
“Ah, there you are, Lockie!” Turning, Aunt Nadie pushed an oversized leather bag into Mycroft's arms – nearly unbalancing him. “Take that for me, won't you, sweetheart?” Chuckling as she approached the younger Holmes, she tugged white gloves from her tiny hands. “Oh, dear, I'd rather think not. Whatever happened to my darling boy? You're quite angular, these days, aren't you.”
Leaning in, Sherlock managed a truly maniacal grin. “Do try.”
Shoving the ungainly bag into John's arms, Mycroft dusted his palms before tugging his cuffs back over his wrists. “Auntie Nadie. A pleasure. I must, however, extend my apologies. I received a message just before I'd arrived and it appears there's some, rather, unavoidable business needing my attention back at the office. You'll take care of things, here, won't you Sherlock?”
“Myc – Mycroft! Shoving out of his chair and past an overloaded John; nearly toppling him to the floorboards, Sherlock was caught up short when Mycroft turned back around in the doorway. “Do be so kind as to show Auntie a good time, won't you, dear brother?” Nearly scrambling – Mycroft legged it downstairs and out before Mrs. Hudson had even had time to return to her own flat.
Sherlock tilted his head at his landlady. “Mrs. Hudson. You're unoccupied. Some tea would make the afternoon moderately more bearable.”
He shut the door firmly under her usual protests – knowing, full well, she wouldn't be able to resist some up close eavesdropping on their unwelcome blatherskite.
At his back, Nadie had now cornered John; the latter having dispensed with the weighty bag on the kitchen table.
“I will say I'm pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock has finally found someone. Always a bit of a loner, him. Though I had hoped it would be someone... well, I know his parents were hoping for grandchildren. No offense, dear; you seem respectable enough, for working class. But, then, who am I to talk. Not all relationships are bound for permanence. My second husband was a good twenty-five years my senior. Apparently I was the younger wife after he'd divorced that nasty old hag he'd been married to. Bit of a champagne socialist, that one. I've told you about Herbert, haven't I, Lockie dear? He's the one who got me into finance. Bought me this stunning bracelet. All diamonds, too! Cost a bomb but Herbert did love to spoil!”
John's face had contorted through several emotions – settling on something with equal portions of miffed and stoic.
“Gracious, I'm knackered. Quite a mountain climb, those stairs! Would one of you gentlemen direct me to the loo? After that long drive I need to spend a penny.”
Pointing her down the hall, still struggling to craft a response, obviously, John made his way back into the sitting room. He chewed his lip. Then, after a beat, “She seems... interesting.”
Sherlock, bending over his microscope, lifted one narrow shoulder. “That's rather like referring to a rabid dog as misunderstood.”
A toilet flush later and Auntie reappeared – tugging her gloves back over her fingers.
“There was mention of tea, as I recall.”
Perfectly timed, Mrs. Hudson's steps could be heard on the stairs. While Sherlock kept his focus on his experiment, John went to open the door for their landlady. Smiling as she entered, she pressed her hands together.
“I'm sorry, we didn't get much of an introduction. I didn't realize you were Sherlock's Aunt. He's never mentioned you; not that he's one to talk much about family. Do you know, I'd known him for five years before I found out he had an older brother? And not even from himself. I came out of my home one day, this was in Florida, mind you, only to find this great black car...”
“My gracious, you do love a gab, don't you? How is that tea coming along? Over-brewed I shouldn't wonder.” Aunt Nadie tugged at her gloves – pulling them in a fiddling manner without removing them.
Sherlock, slipping away from the table, was across the room in three long strides. “Mrs. Hudson is a close family friend. She is not a servant.”
For just a moment, a dark look passed in Nadie's eyes. And then she chuckled; patting Sherlock's arm. “Of course, dear.”
Mrs. Hudson, however, pressed her lips together. “Why don't I just pop down and fetch it? You go right ahead and put your feet up. No doubt you could use a rest after those stairs.” Then, without a further word, she walked out the door.
John, until this point, had been standing silently near the fireplace. At Mrs. Hudson's exit he cleared his throat and pointed towards the chairs. “Uh, perhaps you would like to take a seat?” However, his eyes were on Sherlock the entire time – message delivered with an upward tic of his brows.
Challenge kept Sherlock standing a few beats longer. However, the softening effect of medication, taking hold, sapped through his limbs and he finally gave in; passing Nadie on the way back to his chair. While he welcomed the reduction of pain he was also frustrated by the endlessness of it all. It wasn't even the boredom – though that factored, certainly. His fingers brushed across the hated sling. Three weeks to go. Of course, John had reminded him, repeatedly, that this was a best case scenario. No early release for good behavior. He sighed as he sank into the cushion – his one elbow propped up while he traced his thumb back and forth across his lower lip.
Across from him, Aunt Nadie took John's chair. As for John, he contented himself with standing.
“So, uh...” clearly casting about for a proper term of address, John's mouth flapped, not unlike a fish.
Aunt Nadie, against her better angels, came to the rescue. “Nadira Finch. You can call me Nadie.”
“Nadie,” John nodded – still unsmiling, “Sherlock told me you'd child-minded for them when he and Mycroft were small?”
Sherlock withheld his eye roll but only by pressing his palm over his eyes instead. Certainly childhood was the last topic he wished to revisit – particularly his own.
Nadie chuckled. “Yes – and no easy task, mind. Mycroft was bad enough being he was thirteen and thought he knew more than God on every subject. Oh he'd follow the rules, of course, but always was a bit puffed up. Thought he knew better.”
“Hasn't changed,” Sherlock muttered – though his commentary was ignored by Nadie who had just gotten a head of steam.
“This one, though,” her thumb indicated the chair across from her, as though there were any doubt as to the subject, “would disappear off into the wildness like some sort of wild thing. Scarcely spoke a word, him, though not for me trying. Tried everything short of taking a switch to his backside but he'd go into a rage if I so much as took him by the arm. Goodness could he scream. And then, of course, little Mycroft would drag him away. I could have torn my hair out. Of course it all got easier once Mycroft went back to school.”
Sherlock kept himself still – noting that John had also become audibly silent. Well, Nadie had never taken long in revealing herself – at least not to those whom she had no reason to impress.
Thankfully the moment ended with the sound of Mrs. Hudson returning up the stairs.
“I'll, uh, I'm just going to go lend a hand.” John murmured – though he paused to give Sherlock a speaking look with one raised eyebrow. Sherlock raised his in return with all the inflection of boredom that he could impart. Apparently it was enough as John shook his head and jogged to the door in time to take the tea tray from Mrs. Hudson.
“Here, I've got that.”
“Thank you, John. Now, you go sit while I pour.” As Nadie had his usual seat, John pulled out one of the wooden chairs and settled alongside Sherlock. Sherlock carefully swiveled his eyes towards his friend – narrowing his vision. John eyed him back – a slight frown around his face; mouthing 'what?'
Mrs. Hudson glared at the both of them as she arranged the tea tray on the side table. She filled their cups to just the right amount before lifting free two to hand to the boys; leaving Aunt Nadie to fetch her own.
Nadie's face darkened as she collected her cup – a mismatched piece of china with a chip in the rim. She took a careful sip, no doubt mindful of the broken edge, and winced. “Well – you do prefer an assertive brew. I wonder if I might bother you for a bit of honey.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled as she took a long sip from her own cup. “My apologies, love. I used the last of it this morning.”
John nearly choked around a mouthful. If his cup was anything like Sherlock's it was actually a bit sweeter than typical. Out of honey indeed. Sherlock took another sip.
“Sug- sugar then?” Nadie coughed around the dry bite of tannins.
“Used it all in a batch of biscuits, I'm afraid.”
Nadie sat back; making a show of looking around. “And where, then, are these mythical biscuits?”
Sherlock hid his grin behind his cup, though not enough that Mrs. Hudson didn't take note; her own lip curving just a bit. Then, nose wrinkling in mock apology, she tutted. “Oh, burnt the whole batch – can you believe it? I'm absolutely hopeless with a gas oven.”
It was John's turn to cough – hacking until Sherlock leaned awkwardly over his sling to thump him, helpfully, on the back. John threw off his hand with a glare.
Placing her mostly full cup back on the tray, Nadie smoothed down her blouse. “Dear, dear – not even a biscuit to wash it down? Sherlock, wherever did you find this hopeless old thing? Surely there's more competent help to be had – even in a rundown flat such as this. I should have a talk with Mycroft about it.” Auntie cast her eyes around the room – attention lingering on the crude, yellow, face spray painted on the wall and peppered with bullet holes.
“Perhaps you're right,” Sherlock offered – stirring his tea before taking a long swallow, “Mrs. Hudson usually does a much better job at keeping the riff-raff at bay. Her skills seem to be lacking, as of late.”
He didn't miss the twinkle in Mrs. Hudson's eyes nor the snort John did his best to hide in a series of coughs.
Offering a gimlet eye in return, Nadie pointed a painted fingernail his direction. “You would do well to mind those manners, child. I'm certain it would distress your poor mother, no end, to hear how you've treated an old family friend. You may be too old to turn over my knee or to shut up in the wardrobe, until you learn to mind your tongue, but I am still more than capable of meting out appropriate punishments.”
Sherlock met her gaze – confused, at first. He had never been shut... and, like that, one of those occasional fragments of missing memory snapped back into focus. His hands began to tremble – those hours locked away in the dark – screaming into father's great coat so as not to disturb Nadie's television...
Nadie saw, of course, for in that moment of horror her mouth turned up in satisfaction.
In the other chair John had gone, suddenly, very still. “You did what?” he asked; in that soft tone that carried a thread of danger. It was the tone of a soldier fresh from battle with blood still wet on his bayonet.
Nadie, never one to back away from any measure of conflict, appeared nearly to gloat at the challenge.
“He was always an impertinent one, Sherlock. His dear mother wasn't ever up to the task of managing a child with his... behaviors. Of course she welcomed my years of experience, and gratefully I might add-OH! Oh you horrid wretch!”
Because, of course, in that moment, Mrs. Hudson had emptied the remainder of her tea cup over Nadie's head. Nadie made it to her feet – quite rapidly for a woman her age – and rounded on Mrs. Hudson; who glared – cup still held slightly aloft.
“Yours wouldn't be the first blood to stain this rug. Trust me, dearie, I know how to clean up a scene so well that not even Sherlock Holmes could tell where it had dripped. Be grateful I didn't upend the kettle.”
Sherlock could actually argue that point but the look of uncertainty, on Nadie's face, was worth allowing Mrs. Hudson her fib. Besides, were actual blood to be spilled he'd want to preserve it for posterity.
Arms held away from her sides like some sort of skeletal cormorant, Nadie sputtered while her complexion shifted through several shades. Finally her upper lip stiffened and both hands tightened into fists. “You're nothing more than a done up scrubber. Sherlock may like you but he's never had good taste; clearly,” her eyes flicked to John, who had also stood.
Mrs. Hudson, though, grinned in return. “Oh, bless. Didn't I tell you? I own this building. And I'm the one who decides who gets to stay and who gets kicked to the kerb. And you, Missy, have worn out your welcome.” Setting her cup back on the tray, she gestured towards the door. “John will see you out, won't you, love?”
Mouth still slightly agape, John blinked, once, and then nodded as though to a superior officer. “Uh, yeah, yes – come along then, Nadie. Wouldn't want you dripping on the rug.”
“Don't we?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and just caught Mrs. Hudson's smirk before she schooled her expression.
Nadie, still unmoving, shifted her gaze onto Sherlock while John collected her heavy bag.
“You have no idea the influence I have. It would take very little to have this eyesore of a building razed to the ground. Then we'll see who's willing to take in you and your little tapette.”
Sherlock took a single step forward.
“If you prefer not to leave via the window I'd advise you speak no more and exit promptly. Should you like to test your luck I suggest aiming for the canopy over Speedy's. Bit of a hard landing if you miss and yes, I speak from experience. I merely suffered a broken ankle and fractured tibia; however, given your frail state, I'm uncertain of your prospects – care to make a wager?”
He held her stare – held it for nearly ten seconds. And then she blinked; blinked again; and turned to face John – who now stood behind her with his mouth in a firm line; mobile in hand.
“There will be a cab to collect you to take you wherever you wish to go.”
Back to hell, drifted through Sherlock's mind, though he managed not to speak it aloud.
Without another word, Nadie walked ahead of John, as he all but marched her through the door and down the stairs.
With the menace out of sight, Sherlock abruptly stumbled back to his chair and dropped heavily into the cushion.
“Oh!” At his side in an instant, Mrs. Hudson laid a hand against his shoulder. “What an awful woman. Imagine, placing someone like that in charge of small children! I should speak to your mother about her.”
Sherlock hummed. Then, tugging her hand from his shoulder, he brought it to his lips to kiss her fingers. “You, my dear, Mrs. Husdon, were absolutely brilliant. Though I do, rather, think you should have gone with the teakettle.”
She blushed pink while offering a beatific smile.
A moment later, John returned. “Well, she's off. And good riddance.”
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands. “Lovely. Now – how about a proper tea this time? I have a sticky toffee fresh from the oven. You boys relax while I go fetch it.”
John, however, held up one hand. “Ah, no. How about you have a seat while I go fetch it?” By the time he returned back upstairs with the pudding, Rosie was just beginning to fuss – her complaints carrying over the baby monitor left sitting on the mantle. John set the pudding down on the table and continued on upstairs while Mrs. Hudson rose to go spoon warm sauce over each decadent piece.
A short while later they all sat around the table – Rosie chirping in delight over her small portion, which she insisted on sharing with “Shoo-Shoo”. Sherlock pretended to nibble bites from her plastic spoon while she giggled and batted her eyes in baby flirtation.
It was lovely.
John settled into his chair after Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat – a chatting Rosie playing with her toys at their feet. “Well. That was... something. How is it I've never heard about this aunt of yours until now?”
Sherlock lifted one shoulder – his free hand cupping ice against his side.
“She wasn't relevant. I haven't seen her in over two decades and with any luck she'll be dead before we hear from her again.”
John grinned – then shook his head. “I shouldn't be surprised, anymore, that your brother would manage to slip away from his share of this business. Seems a bit unfair there wouldn't be some sort of comeuppance for his part in this.”
Moving the ice pack to his other side and carefully shifting his seat, Sherlock dipped his head. “While Nadie was in the loo I may have programmed her mobile with Mycroft's calendar for the coming week.”
There was a moment for John to take in the implications. Then Sherlock smiled as John began to laugh – Rosie joining in the hilarity though she had no idea what was so funny. Which, of course, made it funnier, still.
They were still giggling, minutes later, as John went to fetch Sherlock's evening medication.
“I would love to see his face when Nadie shows up at the Diogenes Club to see her nephew with surprise dinner plans.”
Because, of course, Mycroft had even his leisure time scheduled.
“It's regrettable Anthea is so loyal; I'd bribe her for the security footage.” He'd be lucky if she didn't, in fact, hunt him down to break his other arm.
John hummed and stretched his feet towards the fire. There was peace for many minutes. So, of course, it didn't last.
“Is that where it comes from? Your claustrophobia?”
By this point the medication had taken enough of an edge off things that Sherlock was willing to give consideration to that question. Rosie patted at his knee and he rubbed his fingers through her soft hair.
“I can't say for certain as I hadn't remembered it had even happened. Not until this evening. Of course, I also hadn't remembered Eurus. Or... Redbeard. Yet the echo of their lives still had an affect.”
Standing, now, Rosie attempted to climb into his lap. John quickly lifted her – though she squalled in protest.
“Now, now, sweetheart; remember what we talked about? Shoo-Shoo has a bad hurt and can't pick you up just yet.”
Face still puckered, Rosie sniffed and rubbed a small fist over her nose. “Shoo-Shoo ow?”
John nodded. “So we need to be very careful we don't hurt Shoo-Shoo until he feels better.”
Rosie seemed to ponder that – one hand twisting through her hair. Finally she looked up at John with worried eyes. “Kiss better?”
Smiling, John gave her a pat on the back. “I think a kiss better is a grand idea. Here, I'll help you so you can reach.” Walking to Sherlock's chair, he leaned Rosie close so she could press a delicate kiss on Sherlock's cheek.
“Feel better Shoo-Shoo?”
Sherlock leaned up and kissed her forehead. “Yes, much better. Thank you.”
That evening, Mrs. Hudson invited them down for dinner. She had made one of Sherlock's favorites; individual Shepherd's pies, along with an apple crumble. Sherlock even allowed himself to be cajoled into a few games of Snap – with John holding Rosie's cards and all of them, on unspoken agreement, allowing her to win; upon which she cheered and clapped.
Afterwards, carrying a drowsing daughter and chivvying a fading Sherlock, John guided them all upstairs.
“It wasn't Mummy's fault,” Sherlock said – after Rosie had been laid in her cot and John had returned downstairs to help with his sling while Sherlock sat on his bed. He hadn't planned to speak and blamed his exhaustion and the paracetamol.
John, gently manipulating Sherlock's bad arm, frowned without looking up. “Sorry?”
Sherlock pulled his arm back to his lap – wincing at the sting of pain that came with the movement. “I never told her what Nadie had done.” He felt there was more to say, and yet, when it came to it, he couldn't think of a single thing. Positioning the small network of pillows, John helped him ease onto his back.
“It's no surprise. You were very young and non-verbal to boot. You'd just come out of one trauma after... after Victor.” Because, even now, that was a subject they rarely revisited. “And, from what you'd told me before, Eurus had been...”
“Abusive.”
John sighed and leaned against the wall. “You know, I don't talk about my own family much. It wasn't... we don't talk about it. Abuse. God, we didn't even have a label for it. It was just 'how it was done' – growing up. Which translated into getting the belt for being late home from school or for having a smart mouth. That was the 'approved' method of parenting, of course. But, then, Dad had his own way of doing things. Get into a row at school and come home with bloody knuckles? Pat on the back. Get in a row with your sister where Dad had to hear it? Four hours standing in the corner of the room and you'd better hope you didn't have to take a piss before the clock started.” His fingers tapped against the wall. “I never told anyone. Never breathed a word about it – until now.”
Sherlock turned his head. John was half lit by the hallway light – a contrast of yellow and blue in the dark of the bedroom.
“Your mother?”
“Died when I was twelve and Harry was ten. Dad had always been a drinker but after Mum passed I almost never saw him without a beer bottle. Except, maybe, for when he was throwing it at my head. He died a year after I enlisted. Cirrhosis.”
Turning his face upwards, Sherlock watched the play of lights across the ceiling, from the cars going by, outside. There was a rustle as John shifted his feet.
“You know... it wasn't your fault. Not about Eurus and not about what that... what Nadie did.”
Sherlock swallowed. He nodded. After another moment, John breathed out and tugged the duvet up a bit – then adjusted the pillows before straightening. “Yeah – see you in the morning, then.”
Resting one hand across his middle, Sherlock closed his eyes.
“She never believed it. About my... that I was...”
John returned to the room – though instead of leaning against the wall, he settled on the far end of the bed. “Mute?”
Sherlock nodded, once, with a small jerk of his head. He licked his lips – feeling the tackiness on his tongue and reached carefully for the bottle of water left on his night stand. After a few swallows of water, he placed the bottle back on the table and rested his hand on his middle. Through the evening, the memories had been building in clarity. At one point, when John and Mrs. Hudson had been busy chatting, he'd gone to his mind palace where he'd unearthed more of those forgotten moments. Or, as he now understood it, deliberately buried traumas.
He hadn't quite realized he'd begun speaking to John until, coming back to the present, he looked towards the foot of the bed to see horrified fury. He pressed his lips tight while mentally evaluating the damage. John, though, breathed out and rested both fists on his knees. He sniffed – looking off towards the opposite wall. Then, finally, turned his head to the right.
“What would you like to do?”
“Do? Do about what?”
“What do you mean, 'what'? About Nadie – obviously.”
Sherlock wanted to sit up – feeling foolish having this conversation while prone. Instead, he furrowed his eyebrows. “What, exactly, are you imagining we would do – pack her onto a cargo ship bound for the 'New World'?”
He was relieved to see John snort at the suggestion.
“Yeah... s'pose one can hardly get away with that these days. Shame.”
“Not that Mycroft wouldn't have the connections to make that happen.” Sherlock allowed.
“And you... don't want him to?” By this point John's hands had loosened and Sherlock felt his breathing come a little easier.
“Waste of resources. I highly doubt we'll be seeing much of Nadie, do you?”
Though John appeared as though he'd still like to carry out some sort of retribution, he finally shrugged and pushed back to his feet. “I guess not. Though I suspect we'll be hearing from your brother again, sooner than later.”
Sherlock grinned, then. “Oh, I look forward to it.”
This time, when John wished him a good night, Sherlock returned it in kind.
And, before long, the sheet of night slipped over his consciousness.
The final thought to walk through his mind, as he drifted off, was a question. One with an answer which could, quite possibly, gain him that retribution after all.
Just how, exactly, did Nadie's husband die? Might be worth looking into...