Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes walked up the path in the front garden of the yard of the Watson home, a neatly wrapped present in hand, a silk purple ribbon tying together a lavender box. Mrs. Watson, it seemed, had come out and done some gardening. Sherlock gazed over it with a critical eye as he walked: the weeds that had been growing under the brick path, despite the brick's best effort to keep it under wraps, had been pulled out; the rose bushes were thriving from watering; the grass was trimmed low; pretty dandelions were lined up respectfully; and the fence was newly painted with new boards inserted where old ones had rotted.
Something, it seemed, was plaguing the Watsons.
Maybe plaguing was not the word. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was, but plaguing was the only word to come to mind; and a close replacement for the correct one, too.
Raising a clenched fist, Sherlock knocked thrice onto the wooden door. Mumbled words and the shuffling of feet, then the door swung open, Harriet greeting him in her normal fashion. Slightly tipsy.
"Hello, Sherlock," she said with a wavering smile and a small hiccup. Sherlock hummed and walked inside, taking off his jacket, but keeping it in his arms, clutching the present in his hand. Mother told him to always hang a jacket where it belonged; he figured it didn't belong on the rickety and beat wooden coat rack beside the door, so he held onto so he could tuck it into John's neatly kept closet.
"Where's John?" he asked. He didn't see him, and wasn't that worrying? Usually they greeted each other at the door with the quick pattering of feet being the only warning before a door swung open and a small boy thrown bodily into another. It was tradition, and Sherlock, admittedly, thought it strange that John shouldn't want to do the same a day before his birthday.
"In his room, I think. Father's talking to him." Harriet closed the door and made a move to get Sherlock's jacket; Sherlock clutched it tighter to his chest, and Harriet stopped. "Want a drink?" she asked, walking towards the kitchen. "There's loads in the house. John says Mum's got it in her head that she needed some, even though she'll be attending the party and not hosting it. No doubt he heard that from Mother herself, but it doesn't matter what her reason is. She cleaned the house and yard, too. Father wouldn't let her leave without the house stocked and cleaned."
"Is he not attending the party?" Sherlock asked.
Harriet shook her head, and then smiled. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Probably since the moment I offered you a drink." Sherlock shrugged. "Well, do you? Want a drink, that is?"
"I'm fine, thanks. I'd rather wait for John, really." No more words were spoken as Harriet poured herself a drink-not juice, he could see. The silence was awkward, and Sherlock was thankful John barreled down the stairs and into the room a moment later.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed excitedly. He made to squish the life out of Sherlock, but Sherlock quickly showed John the present box. John paused, considering the present, before carefully pulling it from Sherlock's hands and placing it on the table. Then, he resumed his hug of death.
Sherlock's breath rushed out of him, and he smiled.
There's John.
"Alright?" John asked, stealing a seat after pulling one of for Sherlock and making sure he sat on it-his Mum taught him his manners, after all.
"I'm fine," Sherlock said with a smirk, mirth sparkling in his sea green eyes, making waves splash in his irises and color his face. John was sneaking glances at the present that was sitting innocently on the table top, the ceiling fan making the ribbon sway temptingly, almost beckoning. "Would you like your present, John?" Sherlock asked teasingly. John blushed to his roots, an endearing peach tint highlighting his neck and cheeks.
Sherlock gently tapped the present John's way, and John pulled it to him. As he reached to pull the ribbon and undo the knot, his mother walked through the kitchen door in a great flurry of movement, flitting to the counter and to the table, pacing, turquoise dress swirling about and the curls of her hair bouncing.
"Is there something the matter, ma'am?" Sherlock inquired politely, slightly concerned. She wasn't so composed, it seemed to him. Harriet merely watched her out of the corner of her eye, and John put his hands in his lap. He'd open the present later.
"Oh, everything's fine, Sherry," she said distractedly.
Sherlock grimaced at the nickname. "Quite sure?"
"Oh, well. It seems I have misplaced my earring," she admitted.
"Earring? In the singular?" She nodded. "What does it look like?" Sherlock asked. Mrs. Watson gave him an appraising look before seating herself at the table.
"You and John have got yourselves a little business, haven't you, finding things for people and the like?" Sherlock nodded. "Mind finding an item for me, then?"
"Not at all, if it's a worthy case." Mrs. Watson gave him a funny look, and then proceeded to tell him her story, which wasn't very long at all.
"And so you haven't seen it since yesterday when you put it in your jewelry box yesterday with its counterpart?" Sherlock asked. John was seated beside him, present in his lap. Harriet was fumbling in the cupboard for something.
"No, I haven't. I actually have to be leaving soon," she said, standing and looking at the clock. "Think you can find them in maybe-hmm, five minutes good?"
"I think I may have already found you a suspect, Mrs. Watson. Let me confirm?" Sherlock was looking over her shoulder.
"Suspect? Well, alright, deary. Let me know when how you've discovered the culprit, later?" she asked fondly, without mocking. Mrs. Watson learned quickly that while Sherlock was a child and definitely not immune to all of life's hardships, he'd demand you'd treat him like an adult, miniature adult he was, and he'd push his way past any problem of nature he thought below him, just watch him; and over the past few months, she has, and she knows this from knowing him: he was right, most of the time, and it was best to let him do what he did and deduce.
"Sure thing, ma'am." She left. "Watson," he said, turning to John, who watched him eagerly, "do you believe that your mother misplaced the earring?"
John looked puzzled. "Well, she said she did, didn't she? Thanks, Harry," he added to his sister who had placed a plate with toast and jam in front of him, along with two cups of tea.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. "But do you believe it?"
"What do you mean?" John asked around a mouthful of toast.
Sherlock gave him a displeased look and scrunched his nose delicately. "Manners, John!" he reprimanded. John quickly swallowed and took a sip of tea. "I meant that, do you find it very likely that your mother, more anal and organized than even you, would misplace an earring given to her by her own mother?" John began to speak, but Sherlock shushed him. "It's not important how I know it was given to her by your grandmother! What's important is your answer, which I already know," Sherlock looked at John smugly. "The answer is no; and why would she? She seems to cherish those earrings, especially since she was wearing the matching ring and necklace to the ball tonight. No, no she didn't misplace them. Would you do me a favor, John? Get your mum?"
John nodded and went to fetch her, setting the present gently on the table, careful not to ruffle the ribbon or tear the wrapping.
"Harry? Going to a fancy ball, are you?" Sherlock asked loudly to the silent room.
Harry went still, where she had been turning to quietly exit the room. She turned and gave Sherlock a funny look. Sherlock gazed at her silently; small hands clasped in front of him, looking for the entire world a miniature man consulting a client of great importance. Harry smiled. "Alright, Sherry, how'd you find me out?" The taunt fell short as her fondness seeped through. Sherlock glared at her nonetheless; it was the principle of the thing.
"Oh, Harry, you're quite obvious. Did you and your father orchestrate the entire thing?"
At this, Harry tensed slightly, and then relaxed. "Of course, you'd know Father was involved. I told him you would." She glanced up admiringly. "Have you gotten the motive yet?"
"Of course. Your father wanted to detain your mother, pricelessness of the earring be damned; maybe he thought she deserved it. You wanted to prove him wrong, slight him through me, I presume. Who best to show him up then a six your old? It's no matter; it's about time he learned some grace." Harry smirked at him. "What do you plan to tell your mother?" Sherlock asked, picking up his cup of tea daintily.
"Hmm, how much time do you think I have to come up with an excuse?" she returned.
"Not enough. Approximately? Thirty seconds."
"Alright, then. Hmm," Harry made a big show of considering this, and then offered, jokingly, "Can I plead drunken stupor?"
"Only if you'd like to be in trouble for eternity," he replied, calmly sipping his tea.
Mrs. Watson entered the room and surveyed the scene, John behind her. John walked over to Sherlock and took his seat again, grabbing his present. "John said you'd found the culprit."
"I did," Sherlock agreed. "There you have her."
Harry shot him a look, then looked contritely at her mum. "I was going to surprise you and go to the ball with you with the earrings on. I know you wanted Father to go, but I thought, maybe..." She shifted her foot innocently and pouted. Sherlock was impressed. Mrs. Watson seemed to be softening.
She stayed silent for a moment, observing Harry, who squirmed only once under her scrutiny, then said, "Let's get you a dress, then."
Harry squealed with excitement and left the room, presumably to rummage her mother's closet for a dress. Mrs. Watson followed leisurely, stopping before the door to say, "I suppose you're pleased with the result, eh? Two birds with a single stone. Good job." Then she left, leaving Sherlock slightly surprised she knew of her husband's involvement. He smirked, pleased.
John, who had finished his toast and tea, reached for the bow on the present once again. He glanced at Sherlock, smiling excitedly, and pulled the bow. Gently removing it from the box and gathering it up to pile on the table, he opened the box to find a green tuck-stitch crew-neck woolen jumper, folded and new. It was soft to the touch and John pulled it out and over his head. Perfect fit, of course.
A small card fell out onto the floor. Smoothing out his jumper-the one Sherlock gave him, John thought-he picked it up and opened it. Sherlock was watching him intently as he read aloud:
"It keeps you warm,
Warm with love,
It hugs you when you're blue.
A friend in lows,
And a friend in highs,
I got this friend for you.
Keep it warm with love and care,
Cherish it like I do you,
And soon you'll see your jumper
Will never tear,
Filled with love anew."
John looked up and found Sherlock studying his shoes intently, a small smile on his face. "Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, scuffing his loafers.
"I love it, it's brilliant," John praised.
"You think so?" Sherlock asked, looking up quickly, studying John's face.
"Yes, of course. It's the best present I've ever gotten," John admitted. He smiled at Sherlock happily and reached over to give him a hug. Whispering in his ear, he said, "I understand the metaphor this time."
Sherlock grinned and hugged him fiercely.
Pulling back, Sherlock asked, "Ready for your party tomorrow?"
John groaned and buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock laughed.