Chapter Text
When Sherlock comes back, John punches him, then, while he’s still reeling, pulls him into a kiss.
It’s the only time he manages to surprise the otherwise unflappable detective.
“Don’t you do that again,” he says, when they finally break apart. “Don’t you bloody well dare to do that ever again.”
“Duly noted,” Sherlock breathlessly gasps (soft, warm, Earl Grey, strawberry jam, oh, god he's missed him).
He’s home.
—
Things get back to normal, after Sherlock comes back. The papers run articles, claiming that of course they knew he wasn’t a fraud (Kitty Reilly, in particular, gets booted, which is something they know they should be sorry for, but aren’t), Lestrade starts coming to them to solve particularly baffling cases again, Mrs. Hudson fusses over them (Sherlock in particular), the kitchen table gets filled up with experiments, body parts reappear in the fridge and life just goes on.
Granted, at first John’s a little angry at him. He still is, but it’s not as much as it used to be. Besides, he got his miracle, and that’s really all that matters.
“What are you typing this time?” Sherlock says, looking over his shoulder. “Wait, no, don’t mention that!”
“Mention what?” John innocently asks, hitting the Post button.
He has to rein in his laughter when Harry comments with, “He dressed up as a drag queen to catch a gay burglar and got hit on?! Seriously?! Pics or it didn’t happen.”
“It didn’t happen,” Sherlock comments from his phone.
“I’ve got pics,” Lestrade offers fifteen minutes later.
He links them two minutes after, and there is a storm of comments from Scotland Yarders and fans of Sherlock, mostly on how good the man looks in a dress.
Sherlock locks him out of the bedroom that night. It’s still worth it.
—
The months come and go, and before they know it, it’s November, one month away from Christmas.
The first few days go by rather normally, or at least as normal as life with Sherlock can get, which is to say, not much, since they spend it solving cold cases, running through the alleyways to chase after criminals, and just being themselves.
Then John spots an unopened envelope on the kitchen table. On the back are the words, “Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street,” in an elegant scrawl.
“Sherlock,” he says, to the man looking through the microscope at God knows what. “There’s a letter for you.”
“I’m aware,” Sherlock tensely replies. “Throw it away, it isn’t important.”
“It’s addressed to you,” John counters. “You could at least read it before you dismiss it as not important.”
“I know it isn’t important,” he says, adjusting a knob. “That’s why I’m asking you to throw it away.”
“Okay,” John says, as he steps out of the kitchen, but he doesn’t throw it away like he’s supposed to. Instead, he tucks it in his pocket, planning to read it later. (Sherlock has been rubbing off on him more than he cares to admit.)
—
Once he’s sure the detective has gone out to talk to his homeless network (it still amazes him, how Sherlock knows more than half of London’s homeless population), John takes the envelope out of his pocket, opens it and reads the letter.
“My dearest Sherlock,” it begins, in an elegant scrawl matching the note on the back, “you worried me! Two years of thinking you were dead, two years of seeing all those nasty people saying you were a fake, two bloody years of mourning. Do you realize what that does to a woman of my age? The least you could have done was tell me!”
He tries—and fails—to hold in a chuckle. That’s something he and the writer share in common, then.
“But anyway,” it continues, “I am glad that you’re still alive after all. What kind of mother—well, stepmother, anyway—would I be if I wasn’t? So is the rest of the family, so I’ve taken the liberty of inviting them and a few of your friends to a reunion this Christmas, starting on the 19th of December. You’re free to take anyone that you like along, but personally, I have been wanting to meet your army doctor for some time!”
How in the hell does she know? John thinks for a moment, panicking briefly before reading on.
“And don’t try to weasel your way out of this one, either. Everyone wants to know how you did it! I hope to see you soon. Love, Minerva.”
“Annoying, really,” comes a dry voice from behind him, and John almost jumps out of his very comfortable chair. “She knows fully well that I despise going to family reunions.”
“What the hell?!” John practically screeches. “I thought you were going to be gone for a few hours!”
“I will be,” Sherlock replies. “I’m simply getting something. I thought you binned that letter.”
“She sounds like a perfectly nice woman,” he weakly says.
“Ah, yes, Mother,” the taller man sighs. “She’s somewhat less boring than everyone else, but she’s far too obsessed with the family tree. Strange, seeing as she only married into it.”
“It won’t be that bad,” John remarks. “I’ve been through worse family reunions.”
Sherlock gives him a look. “You’ve never met any other member of my family besides Mycroft, then,” he says.
“I like to think that living with you has prepared me for the inevitable meeting,” John defends, then presses a brief kiss to his…well, boyfriend’s cheek. “Look, I’ll come with you. Won’t be so bad.”
“You’ll regret saying that, I’m sure,” Sherlock dryly tells him.
—
Sherlock likes his stepmother well enough. She’s interesting, intelligent, and can hold her own in a fight despite being well in her sixties. The problem is, she has genealogy as a hobby, and ever since she married his now deceased father, has been a little engrossed in researching the family tree.
In his opinion, as long as the rest of the family won’t bother him, he won’t bother them.
It’s why he’s none too pleased to find John chatting with an elderly woman in a pressed business suit one day in their flat.
“Mother,” he icily greets her.
“Sherlock!” she enthusiastically replies, standing up from the seat and coming closer to look him over. “Ah, you’ve been putting on weight. Much better, really. Do sit down, the tea’s still hot.”
“You never told me she was a doctor too!” John injects, grinning.
“You never asked,” Sherlock says. “What are you doing here, Mother?”
“Checking up on you,” Minerva replies. “I wanted to make sure you would attend. To be honest, I was expecting to have to force you into it. Imagine my surprise when your boyfriend says you will!”
He glares at John, who just smiles, ignores it and sips his tea. Traitor.
“Unfortunately, something came up that requires my attention—” he begins.
“We’ll be able to attend, Mrs. Holmes,” John interrupts. “Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”
“…yes,” he mutters.
“Oh, good!” she exclaims. “Oh, and John, since you and Sherlock are very close, you can call me Minerva. Mrs. Holmes is reserved for acquaintances, strangers and my archenemies.”
It’s Sherlock’s turn to grin when the smile falls off of John’s face, and he nearly drops his teacup onto his lap. “Your archenemies?”
“Well, I am a Holmes,” Minerva replies. “It’s almost a requirement to have someone trying to kill you every so often.”
“Really, John,” he remarks, “what did you expect? She is my stepmother.”