Chapter Text
It's been five months since the 'Moriarty Incident' as everyone has now come to refer to it, and despite frantic searching and investigation nothing has happened. Zilch, zero, nada.
John Watson has attended more clandestine briefings and read more dry intelligence reports since the New Year than he ever did when he actually was a soldier. It's all rather surreal with not a peep from Moriarty since The Broadcast. He'd have suspected that the whole thing was a set-up by Mycroft in a last-minute fit of filial devotion, especially after the truth about Sherlock's suicide-mission-cum-assignment came out, if he hadn't seen the unmistakable relief in the elder Holmes' eyes for a few seconds before he called the plane back.
The time has been stressful on all of them. If John had thought his feelings about Mary and Sherlock and the whole diabolical mess had been conflicted before Christmas, it was as nothing to what happened afterwards. He hadn't known whether to be angrier at Mary for putting them in this situation in the first place or at Sherlock for his overly melodramatic 'solution'. His respect for Mycroft Holmes had even gone up when he realised that the man had neither arranged for the woman who effectively murdered his little brother twice to 'disappear', nor strangled said little brother for utter stupidity and putting him in an impossible situation.
As time has gone on and line after line of inquiry has drawn a blank even the unflappable Holmes senior's nerves have started to fray. John still pities the poor agent who last week had the report he'd just given thrown back at him accompanied by a blistering lecture on the importance of quality of content over quantity. When even the unflappable not-Anthea decided that discretion is the better part of valour and avoids her boss, ordinary mortals stand no chance. Sherlock had, much to people's surprise, saved the day by entering his brother's lair. No-one else is quite sure what happened inside Mycroft's office, except that it was loud enough to seep through the soundproofing and that the cleaners were called in afterwards, but the atmosphere between the siblings has been more stable since.
It's therefore with some bemusement that John finds himself climbing the stairs of 221B on a wet Saturday evening with a baby carrier in one hand and a carrier bag of supplies in the other. Mary is struggling behind him with the nappy bag and a fold-up cot. He'd been informed, that he and Mary would be attending a gathering tonight 'because we need to relax while we do some important research'.
He enters his old flat and is startled to see that the room has changed. It's clean for a start. John has to admit that Sherlock has made a real effort recently. 221B has been mostly baby-proofed, with dangerous objects and Sherlock's precious violin moved out of the reach of small fingers, even though it will be a while until baby Angela is mobile enough to need it. However, tonight the room has been rearranged, with all the furniture facing the fireplace and even the kitchen looks hygenic enough to actually cook in.
Mrs Hudson calls cheerily from said kitchen 'John! So glad you could make it. Oh! You brought Mary and Angie too!'.
Mary smiles tightly and hovers in the doorway, still unsure whether she's truly welcome or not. Mrs Hudson swoops in like a grey-haired typhoon and relieves Mary of her baggage, her coat and her fears while clucking sympathetically.
Mary keeps charge of Angela's carrier, cooing over her and making the kind of silly voices that adults often slip into around small children. Greg Lestrade claps John on the shoulder and swaps his bag for a freshly opened can of Guinness and pushes him in the general direction of the sofa. Meanwhile, Billy Wiggins is fiddling with some kind of telescopic contraption in a corner.
In the months since the exile-that-never-was and the birth of Angela, John and Mary have settled their relationship into something more solid. John’s still not sure that he really trusts Mary yet, or indeed if he ever will trust her fully but he has come to believe that she will do anything for her... their baby. Little Angela Watson made an unexpected appearance less than a week after Sherlock's parole and John and Mary spent weeks at Great Ormond Street as their daughter fought to survive. Shared anguish had brought them back together, first in fear, then hope, then relief.
John's relationship with the consulting detective is equally an emotional minefield. The truth about Sherlock's exile was revealed by a snide remark from the head of MI6 during a meeting as the man attempted (naturally unsuccessfully) to intimidate Mycroft. John saw the truth in Sherlock's eyes and he still doesn't know whether to hug him, thank him on his knees for the sacrifice or kill him for yet another lie. The puzzle of Mary's continued mixture of relief and fear suddenly becomes understandable. Magnussen may be gone, but she's in the bad books of a man who is potentially even more dangerous. John steadfastly refuses to think too deeply of all the implications of what Sherlock Holmes did for him or why Mary is still alive and free, in the face of the desperate need that his infant daughter has for her parents.
Sherlock’s arrival is heralded by the front door banging open and bouncing off the wall.
‘Careful!’ Mrs Hudson calls. ‘I just had that re-plastered. I can’t be doing repairs all the time, you know.’.
As usual, no apology is forthcoming from the consulting detective. However, he does manage to look at least a little contrite before greeting John and Mary. He sets down the box of glassware he’s just retrieved from Mrs Hudson’s flat before moving over to fiddle with a laptop sat on a kitchen chair in the middle of the room.
John’s bemusement ranks up another notch or two. ‘Is this a party?’
Sherlock looks at him oddly. ‘Of course it is. What did you think we’d be doing tonight?’
John looks at Mary, who’s settled herself and Angie in Sherlock’s chair, using the squishy sides to support her daughter. She shrugs at him as Angie tugs on her hair. ‘I don’t know, I guessed the usual review of what’s gone on this week, planning… just with a drink or two to help it pass faster.’
‘No, no. Tonight is a very important night in international politics.’ Sherlock adds.
John looks even more confused as Greg Lestrade guffaws into his beer. ‘Well, that’s one way to describe it I suppose,’ the policeman adds.
Sherlock ignores him, before darting over to help Billy in his battle with what turns out to be ‘..a projector screen?’ John queries. A shy looking young woman shoves a plate of gently steaming sausage rolls under John's nose, so he snags a couple before flopping down onto the sofa to watch the unexpected cabaret act of Billy and Sherlock mucking about with technology.
It's now seven fifty-five, the projector is apparently now working and Mary has put Angie down to sleep in the travel cot in Sherlock's bedroom. John is making small talk with the sausage roll girl, who's been introduced as Billy's girlfriend Patsy. A phone full of baby photos is a remarkable icebreaker; she chatters brightly about her nieces while making admiring noises at every new snap. Mary is clutching a cup of tea like a shield in front of her (she really is remarkably British in some ways, despite John's firm belief she's anything but) while smiling anxiously at Greg bouncing a gurgling Angie on his knees. Sherlock is hovering by the window, constantly checking his phone.
Just then the door is opened and a smiling Molly Hooper walks in. She's wearing a cheerful fifties-style dress covered in multicoloured tulips and carrying a stack of pizzas. Somewhat more surprising is Mycroft Holmes, immediately behind her and holding the door open over her shoulder, resplendent in a three-piece-suit despite it being a Saturday night.
Sherlock glares at the new arrivals. 'You're late,' he grumbles. Molly manages to look embarrassed despite being mostly hidden by pizza boxes. Mycroft simply smirks, and retorts with 'I am never late, nor am I early. I arrive precisely when I mean to.’ This statement causes Molly to giggle at him, while Sherlock simply glowers.
Mycroft divests himself of coat and ubiquitous umbrella as Molly thanks him profusely for the lift, which he brushes off with 'It was no trouble at all, dear lady'. He perches primly on the far end of the sofa and removes from his well-worn and apparently TARDIS-like briefcase a laptop, no less than three mobile phones, a large gold-wrapped box and a small wooden crate. Sherlock's eyes light up and he virtually snatches the wooden box from his brother's hands, opening it to extract a bottle of amber liquid.
'Oh, you are trying to impress tonight, brother dear,' Sherlock breathes, reverently unscrewing the cap of the whisky bottle and savouring a deep sniff. 'Thirty-year-old Macallan is not something to be treated lightly.’
'Be a good lad and fetch us some glasses then, so that we can appreciate it properly .' Mycroft interjects, looking up from where he's apparently setting up a mobile office. 'It seemed appropriate that we celebrate tradition properly this year.’ A ghost of a smile is shared between the brothers as the rest of the room stares at them.
Sherlock needs no second prompting and hurtles off to collect a pair of crystal tumblers, while Molly spreads pizza boxes strategically about the room and people begin to help themselves. There's a chorus of disapproval as Sherlock steps onto the coffee table in between open pizza boxes and flops dramatically onto the middle of the sofa between John and his brother. He puts the glasses in front of Mycroft who rolls his eyes and pours a finger of single malt into each, while Sherlock claims what Molly laughingly called a Zen pizza ('make me one with everything'), puts his feet up on the table and balances the box on his lap.
A nod to Billy, and the lights are darkened and the projector starts up and the room fills with sound. There's some kind of parade of grinning people being introduced by a woman in evening wear with a continental accent. Mycroft and Sherlock clink their glasses together as the elder intones 'May the best man win' before knocking back his glass in one go. 'I'll even give you a head start this year, as a show of good faith.’ Mycroft tops up his glass again then snatches a slice of pizza with startling speed, even as Sherlock ineffectively tries to bat his hand away. 'Too slow, little brother, too slow' Mycroft drawls before taking a hearty bite.