Archive of Our Own

It is getting dark by the time the black BMW pulls into the driveway of the Holmes’ family house. John alights first from the car, moving around from the driver’s seat to the back, where Greg is already unbuckling a sleeping Emma from her car seat as gently as he can. John lifts her over his shoulder gently, and she mumbles something incoherent in his ear. Mycroft, who has been in the passenger seat, is shutting his door and making his way towards the house, the front door of which is already opening, letting a beam of yellow light fall on the shadowed path to greet the weary travellers. Mycroft’s designer grey dinner jacket hangs over his arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his shirt untucked at the back, visible as he has forgone the waistcoat. Sherlock hasn’t seen him this relaxed and casual since they were very, very young.

He is standing in the opening, and meets them with a stony silence and a frown. Mycroft takes in his brother’s expression and sighs, knowing already that there is an issue of some kind. Sure enough, on making his way into the kitchen he finds his PA, who currently goes by the name of Amelia, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by a mass of wires and cables that encircle her like a force field. She looks up as he walks in, and gives him a fleeting grin of greeting whilst he glares at her.

“I’ll start making dinner,” Greg is saying in the hallway, where he and John are hanging their coats up and putting their walking boots away. Although Mycroft couldn’t see the scene, he knows that Emma would be sleepily clinging to Sherlock’s hand, ignoring his expression of intense discomfort. John didn’t seem to notice, or maybe even care, that Sherlock wasn’t good with his best friend’s daughter, or any children at all really. But despite his obvious frustration, Sherlock wasn’t actually going to object. Their odd arrangement had been working fine for the past eight years, and really wasn’t going to change any time soon. Sherlock did try, although he wouldn’t admit it, and was improving. He didn’t swear much anyway, but he wasn’t unkind to people so blatantly any more, and whenever John asked him to stop doing something, he nearly always did. Since Emma had come to stay at Baker Street, there were never any body parts in the fridge or the bath or the kettle, nor were there any dangerous experiments within easy reaching distance of a child. There weren’t actually any at all anymore, despite John’s constant teasing about the matter.

John picks Emma up again, relieving Sherlock, and says to Greg, “You don’t have to, you know. You’ve been cooking all week, I’m sure someone else can do some for a change.” He smiles, and then adds; “Although yours is by far the best.”

Greg snorts in amusement, following John through towards the kitchen, and being followed in turn by Sherlock. He says, “I would take that as a compliment, but look at you lot. Who besides me can actually do anything in the kitchen, really?”

John shrugs. “Mycroft can cook.”

“Mycroft can slice vegetables when I ask him to, but burns toast in the toaster, which has a preset timer, for goodness sake! And he puts butter with the foil wrapping still on it in the microwave!” John laughs. He has heard this story a lot. Greg keeps attempting to use it to blackmail Mycroft. “And Sherlock and you are both useless. I don’t know how you two manage when you’re at home, especially with Emma!” he continues, and shakes his head. “You need me to cook because all the local takeaways are useless, and anyway, I quite enjoy it. I’m used to it, actually.”

He almost walks into John, who has stopped in the kitchen doorway, and has to grab the radiator in the hallway to stop himself slipping on the smooth tiled floor. John has seen the nest of wires that has become the new decor.

“That’s the first time I’ve come back this week and not had to yell at Sherlock for something. Hello Anthe… Amelia,” he corrects himself.

Greg looks put out.

“Dinner will have to wait then, I guess,” he says, and Mycroft gives him an apologetic look.

“I’m afraid this is rather my fault. I asked Amelia to rewire the internet and broadband connection centre so that you could access your blog more easily, John.” John looks a little surprised at Mycroft’s unusual act of consideration, but then he continues, “I wouldn’t have bothered, but it saves time trying to get onto other local networks, and the connections around here are so slow anyway, so bothersome for work matters. I texted Amelia and told her to fix it while we were out. I assumed she’d be finished by the time we returned.”

Amelia shrugs. “I would have been, if the system hadn’t been so old and rusty, and if that idiot hadn’t insisted on messing around with things all the time!”

Mycroft sighs. “It appears I did not take into consideration all the contributing factors. My apologies, gentlemen.”

Greg shrugs and wanders into the kitchen, following John and Emma.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the ones who are going to have to eat late now, so you’re getting your just desserts.”

“Oh, I doubt there’ll be time for pudding, if we’re eating so late,” says Sherlock, from the doorway. John glares at him.

“Sherlock, stop being aggravating and take Emma upstairs and put her to bed for me. My room, if you don’t mind. I’m going to give Amelia a hand moving all this to the drawing room so Greg can save us all from starving to death.”

Sherlock looks wary, but takes the little girl from John and awkwardly rests her on his hip as he carries her away. She snuggles into his shoulder and mumbles again in her sleep, and he relaxes a little, happier when they are out of sight of the others.

Greg is already detaching the plugs from the walls and loosening all the wires. When he gestures, John steps forwards and starts to help, gathering up piles of wires and little boxes of electronics. Mycroft is suddenly on the phone, talking in low tones as he makes his way out into the hall and then the dining room, shutting the door behind him to muffle the sound of his voice. Even without his help, working together, they manage to transport all the wires in one go with minimal disruption to their order. Amelia seats herself at the coffee table and continues to work, ignoring and then dismissing them without thanks. Greg isn’t paying attention, but watching the now-closed door to the dining room.

“You know, he’s supposed to be retired,” he says, sounding a little annoyed. John pats his shoulder as he moves past, heading back to the kitchen.

“It’ll be difficult though, going from being one of the busiest men in the world to having the rest of your life stretching ahead of you like a blank slate. You know that, actually. I seem to remember you still getting up at six every weekday and coming down to Baker Street to bother us for months after you first retired.”

Greg grins, pacified. “Yeah, I know. It’s stupid of me, but nobody likes to think they’re getting old,” he sighs, trying to cover for his irrational irritation. “He keeps telling me; we’ve got the rest of our lives together, a few minutes every now and then isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

John nods sympathetically, knowing that Greg doesn’t agree with Mycroft on this, and probably never will. “Come on, let’s get started on dinner.”

They move across to the kitchen, and Greg begins to move around pots and pans as quietly as he can, going through cupboards and picking out various ingredients. John mirrors him on the other side of the kitchen, fetching out the teapot and the kettle, preparing to make tea for the five of them. He is just retrieving the exquisite china teacups and saucers from the topmost cupboards when there is a sudden commotion upstairs. The clatter of feet echoes through from the wooden floors in the rooms above, quickly followed by a shout that sounds a lot like Sherlock yelling “Emma!”

There is a clattering on the stairs, and Emma suddenly appears by her father’s side, looking reproachful.

“You were making tea without me!” she cries. John sighs and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, who has followed her down and is now standing sheepishly in the doorway again.

John looks back at his daughter and smiles.

“You were supposed to be having a nap, sweetheart. Weren’t you tired after our walk?”

“No,” she lies. “You were making tea without me.”

John smiles. “You want some too, then?”

Emma rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of Sherlock.

“Obviously,” she declares. John and Greg can’t help but laugh at her antics, and she looks pleased, especially when she sees Sherlock glowering in the doorway. Even so, she runs over to him and wraps her arms around his things, pressing her face into his stomach, the highest up part of him she can reach.

“Sorry, Uncle Sherlock,” she says, so he ruffles her hair awkwardly, and is rewarded with a bright smile as she lets go, and then goes running back to John, who is lifting down the tea rack.

It is a large wooden box with a glass front, split into hundreds of little wooden partitions, each containing a portion of fancy tea leaves. It is a wonderfully complex structure, and John and Greg both spent many days happily taste testing their way through every single one over the New Year, when they first came to stay at the mansion. Since then, Mycroft has finally retired and Greg and he moved down from their London flat to live here permanently, taking up residence in one of the old bedrooms that used to belong to one of the brothers, though they have never mentioned which. What intrigues John more is that there are four identical doors on the fourth floor corridor, three of which he knows lead to identical bedrooms, and one of which is always locked. He has always wanted to ask Sherlock about it, but the detective never gives him a straight answer, or even completely ignores him and talks about something else.

He has stopped asking, now, even though he suspects that the room Sherlock sleeps in is his own, and Mycroft and Greg share Mycroft’s. He and Emma share the third, and he can’t help but wonder whose it is. There are no defining features of any kind, and he knows - seeing as Emma seems to prefer sleeping in Sherlock’s room than their own and he has to collect her from his friend most mornings - that they are identical in every conceivable way. He knows too, that the room didn’t belong to the Holmes’ parents, because Mycroft often uses his mother’s old bedroom on the third floor to hide out in when making business calls, because the walls are soundproofed. Greg assures them that he and Mycroft have tested them, and John really didn’t want to know, thank you very much, to Greg’s great amusement.

He offers Emma the box of tea, and she chooses a Chinese blend that is curiously labelled ‘Silver Needles’ in Mycroft’s neat, flourishing handwriting. John knows everyone else’s preferences already, and doesn’t even need to check when he chooses the segments that contain Rou Gui for Sherlock (who he never knew drank anything other than the rubbish they had at Baker Street), Darjeeling for himself, Jasmine infused for Mycroft, Lapsang Souchong for Greg who had always been a little adventurous, and Keemun Xin Ya for Amelia, who he suspects dinks latte when no one is looking and only chooses to drink tea because the names are more exciting. It still amazes him that there can be so many varieties, with such a wide variety of names and flavours. For most of his life, especially in the army, tea was just tea, a hot drink you got when you put a teabag in boiling water and added milk and sugar. It had come as a great surprise to him when Mycroft had presented him with his tea rack. Sherlock had had to teach him how to strain tea leaves, and then scolded him when he tried to add milk and sugar. He still rebels against that, and is the only one (apart from Emma) to take sugar in his blend. Mycroft gives him a dirty look every time he sees him do it, and when Emma catches that expression she sticks her tongue out at him defiantly, which secretly makes John very proud, though he would never admit it.

Emma hangs off his arm as he carefully spoons out the tea into the strainers, but he makes her let go while he pours the boiling water over the leaves, and she hops off to bother Greg instead, who is frying something on the hob with one hand, and trying to dig something out of a cupboard to his left with the other. Sherlock, noticing that Emma could inadvertently cause a disaster of some kind, calls out to her, stopping her in her tracks.

“Emma, why don’t you take Amelia’s tea through to her?” he says, knowing that Amelia likes her tea weakest, and so it steeps for the shortest amount of time. Emma looks at him curiously.

“Mine will be ready in a minute, though!” she says. He nods.

“Yes, but you need to wait for it to cool anyway, don’t you? Your daddy could do with a hand, I think.”

So Emma bounces back over to John, who grins at Sherlock over her head and then gives her the cup, balanced perfectly on its little matching saucer.

“Carefully, sweetheart,” he says, but she doesn’t respond as she takes the tea, already concentrating hard, her forehead creased into a deep frown of childish determination. Sherlock steps aside as she moves past him incredibly slowly, completely focused on her task, and never spilling a drop.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” says Greg, now digging through the drawer under the hob.

The door to the dining room opens slowly, and Mycroft appears, looking apologetic, and tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“An unavoidable call, I’m afraid,” he says, shutting it behind him, and wincing a little under Greg’s glare. When his partner doesn’t relent, he goes over to relive him of his task of stirring the onions he is caramelising on the hob, and gives him a quick kiss. Greg can’t help but smile at that, though he still looks a little put out.

John ignores Sherlock’s groan of protest at the obvious display of affection between his brother and the retired detective, and shoves his ridiculously posh tea into his hand, grinning. In his opinion, the relationship is good for both of them. He puts Mycroft and Greg’s tea on the side next to the hob, and Greg smiles at him in thanks, but he just gets a nod from Mycroft, who is concentrating on not letting the onions burn. Then Emma comes skipping back in to claim her ‘Silver Needles’, and when father and daughter sit to enjoy their tea, Sherlock joins them at the table.

Greg puts the CD player in the corner of the kitchen on, always preferring to have music to listen to while he cooks. Mycroft rolls his eyes when the first few bars of Greg’s favourite Meatloaf CD play out across the space, and Greg gives him a playful punch, beginning to sing along. He is not bad, actually, even though he is deliberately winding Mycroft up, so John joins in, and Emma follows suit, all three singing ‘Heaven can wait’ at the tops of their voices. Emma jumps up and grabs Greg’s hands, which are currently thankfully empty, and begins to twirl round and round with him, still caterwauling unashamedly. Sherlock groans and puts his head on the table, folding his hands over his ears to block out the din.

“Hey, I can’t hear myself think!” Amelia yells from the drawing room, and they collapse into giggles, even Mycroft joining in the merriment with the jolly little chuckle that is his trademark. They are laughing so loudly, they don’t hear the doorbell going, and John jumps up to get it with a smile still fixed on his lips, but quickly fading as he tries to work out who could be visiting. As far as he knows, nobody apart from them actually knows this house exists, and even they didn’t until Mycroft suggested spending the New Year here instead of at Baker Street, where Christmas had been a particularly melancholy affair in the absence of Mrs Hudson, who had passed away from cancer at the ripe old age of eighty-three that summer.

The others are quiet in the kitchen as John goes to answer the door, listening intently over the sound of Greg’s sauce boiling in the pan and the music from the stereo, which Greg surreptitiously turns off to hear better the click of the lock turning and scrape of the door swinging open. Emma listens so hard that she almost jumps out of her skin when John gives a loud exclamation of surprise and delight;

“Quentin! How lovely to see you! What are you doing here?”

There is the sound of someone laughing nervously, and then a voice that they all recognise, for very different reasons, says, “John! I’m sorry; I probably should have explained when we met earlier. My name is Quentin Holmes, you see. I’m Sherlock and Mycroft’s younger brother,” he says.

There is silence for a second, and then the house erupts.

Mycroft stands and dashes out into the hall with a loud cry of “Quentin!” which is uncharacteristically emotive for him. Sherlock stands too, so suddenly that he knocks his chair to the floor behind him and stumbles, grabbing the table for support and causing it to rock on its legs, banging against the floor. Greg gives a shout of surprise, and John laughs, the only one to see Quentin’s expression.

Emma peers around the door to the Kitchen, tucking her head around the frame underneath her ‘Uncle’ Mycroft’s, so that there are two heads peeping, wide-eyed, around the corner. Quentin stands in the doorway, flanked by his family; James’ hand is clamped on his lover’s shoulder, and Hamish holds his daddy’s hand tightly, cowering away from the bright light and the strange people.

Mycroft steps out into the hall, staring open-mouthed at his little brother.

“Quentin? It’s really you! My… it’s been years!”

“Thirteen years and seven months,” says Sherlock, stepping out beside his brother. John moves aside to give them room, opening the door wide. Quentin takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Sherlock, Mycroft, this is my fiancé, James, and our son, Hamish. Hamish, James, these are my brothers.” Mycroft looks like he is struggling to restrain himself, but steps forward, and offers his hand to James, who takes it immediately. Hamish hides behind his daddy’s legs when Mycroft bends down to him, and so he just smiles, and then stands up and steps back. Sherlock just nods at all of them, too busy staring at his little brother and probably deducing him to offer any coherent sentences.

Mycroft clears his throat, awkwardly. John is surprised – he has never seen Mycroft lose control of a situation like this before. He is always cool and in control. Right now, though, he seems lost for words. John fishes for something to say as Amelia finally gives in to temptation and peeks around the door, mirroring Emma on the other side of the hallway.

“Um, sorry, would you like to come in?” John offers, and Quentin smiles gratefully at him.

“Yes, thank you. We won’t be staying long, but it would be nice to catch up with my brothers.” Mycroft nods, mutely.

Greg appears out of the kitchen, the only one who hasn’t been spying on what is going on.

“Hello again, Quentin, James, Hamish. We were just about to have dinner, actually. You can stay if you like, I’ve done plenty.”

Quentin looks scandalised.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I assumed you’d already have eaten, we don’t want to intrude…”

Greg interrupts. “Oh, it’s not a problem! We’d be glad to have you!”

Quentin is still blushing, and looks like he is about to protest, when he is cut off by a long howl from the garden. James’ expression suddenly transforms from polite indifference to resigned frustration.

“Damn!” he says. “I really thought he’d got it this time.” And he vanishes out into the night, Hamish taking after him. Quentin curses under his breath and hovers in the doorway, dithering. John looks at him, questioningly.

“Um… I apologise for what’s about to happen. Greg, I’d shut the kitchen door if I were you, and quickly!” And he vanishes after his family. He leaves complete silence in his wake. Greg carefully moves Emma out of the way and shuts the kitchen door, and Amelia, for good measure, does the same, so that they are all standing together in the hallway. From outside, there is the sound of frantic yelling, muffled orders to ‘come back, you great lump’, and ‘sit, you flipping oaf’, and ‘stay down, blasted thing’. They all look at each other in complete bemusement. Sherlock understands first, and he just manages to haul Emma up onto the hall table and to safety before a huge black hound charges through the door and straight down the hallway, muddy paws slipping all over the place. Emma screams.

The massive beast knocks the adults over like bowling pins, so that Amelia finds herself with a bemused looking Greg sitting in her lap and a large paw-print on the front of her skirt. John ends up tangled in the coat rack, and when Mycroft attempts to leap out of the way he ends up crashing into Sherlock, who slips on the mud and tumbles them both into a muddy pile under the table. The dog bumps headfirst into the wall at the end of the corridor, spins around, and sits down abruptly, looking pleased with himself. James bursts through the door in hot pursuit, slips on the mud, and falls. The dog gives a bark of joy and leaps at him, licking his face. James tries to push him off, and they end up locked in a kind of wrestling match, James trying unsuccessfully to pin the overenthusiastic beast down. Quentin follows, dragging Hamish by the hand, and slams the front door behind him, trapping them in with the mad black thing that is barking happily and easily beating James without even trying. Quentin launches himself to the rescue, pulling the dog’s paws away from his partner and trying unsuccessfully to pin them to the ground where they can’t do any more damage. Hamish is beside himself with laughter, giggling so hard that tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“Hamish!” Quentin yells, before disappearing under a mountain of muddy, shaggy, smelly dog. Hamish wipes the tears from his eyes and manages to stutter out a ‘st...sto...stop!’ that does absolutely nothing to halt the thing in its relentless struggle.

“Hamish! Do something!” calls James, lying on his back, trying to push off the dog’s back legs, which are right on his stomach.

Hamish finally regains control, and shouts “Beowulf! Sit!” in his childishly high-pitched voice.

The dog sits immediately, right on James’ stomach, his front paws still pinning a struggling Quentin down with ease. He stares at Hamish expectantly, tail wagging madly.

“Bad dog! Bad Beowulf!” says Hamish, but he is still giggling.

Beowulf gets up, with a soft ‘oof’ from James, and trots sedately over to the little boy, who pats his head fondly.

Quentin finally sits up, attempting to rub wet mud off his forehead and only succeeding in spreading it round more.

“James! I thought you put him in the garden!” he says. James groans.

“I did! But he’s a bloody great Newfoundland, Q, he can jump that fence easily, it’s only three foot high! I just didn’t think he’d be smart enough to actually do it.”

“Blasted dog,” says Quentin, pulling himself to his feet and then helping James up. Hamish, still ruffling the dog’s massive black ears, frowns.

“Hey, don’t be mean. He was just lonely, weren’t you, Beowulf? He just wanted to be with us!”

“How… charming,” says Mycroft, and the little family suddenly seems to realise that there are other people around.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” Quentin cries, taking in John, extracting himself from the tangle of coats, boots and scarves, Greg, trying to pull himself off a disgruntled-looking Amelia, Emma who is standing on the table, and Sherlock and Mycroft, crawling out from underneath it. They are all completely covered in mud, except Emma and Hamish.

“Oh, my God, that dog… I just… sorry! Shit… look at this! That bloody, bloody dog. God, I’m so sorry, he’s completely out of control, that thing.”

“We’d noticed,” says Greg, amused, finally being helped to his feet by Mycroft.

Quentin looks around again, and then at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and suddenly he looks very small, like he is trying to hide from the intense disapproval that he seems to sense radiating off most of the room. “Um…” he begins again, but then stops, and shrugs his shoulders hopelessly.

John stares at him, then at the mud and the mess that has become the hallway, and the jumble of people getting to their feet. He begins to laugh, quietly at first, his distinctive high-pitched chuckle beginning deep in his throat, then gradually growing to a full-on, lung-bursting, unstoppable laugh that rings out around the hallway. Hamish stares at him, astounded, and then around him in bemusement as Greg, then Emma, then Hamish all join in, with varying pitches of chuckles and giggles. James still looks grumpy, and runs a hand through the mess of mud that used to be his hair, but Quentin looks astonished. Even Sherlock is laughing, the deep, throaty chuckle that vibrates around the whole space, and Mycroft is joining in too, creased up with merry laughter, clutching onto Greg for support. Only Amelia isn’t laughing, her face contorted into a scowl that says she thinks all of these people are imbeciles. John finally regains a little control and puts a shaking hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

“You’re a Holmes, alright. You lot always did know how to make an entrance.” He chuckles again, leaning over to tousle Emma’s hair who has leapt down from the table to join him.

Greg finally pulls himself fully upright, and grins.

“Well, that was first class. Well planned, that entrance, an Ice-breaker if ever I saw one.”

Quentin looks shocked.

“Oh, it wasn’t…” But Greg has moved back into the kitchen, and most of the family are beginning to follow.

Hamish looks delighted, and turns to the massive hound that is waiting on his every command, tail wagging in anticipation.

“Sit!” he commands, and then, “Stay!”

Beowulf obeys immediately, his tail brushing a pattern of mud into the tiles in front of the door, which Hamish pulls shut to stop him escaping. James is carefully pulling off his mud-coated jacket and hanging it on one of the hooks, making himself at home with ease as he does in every situation.

“Come on, you’re here now, and by the looks of it, you need a shower. We can’t send you home like that.”

John beckons as he vanishes into the kitchen, Hamish scampering eagerly after him. Quentin looks at James, who shrugs, and follows them through. Before Quentin can follow though, he finds a hand on his shoulder, and turns to see Sherlock, who has been standing quietly for a while.

Sherlock stares down at his little brother, and Quentin braces himself for a deduction. Instead, Sherlock manages a sort of smile and pats his shoulder.

“Mycroft had given you up for dead,” he says. Quentin puts his head on one side.

“You didn’t.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“No. My judgement was not so clouded with sentiment.”

Quentin laughs, knowing that he should probably be offended.

“You know, I’d forgotten why I convinced myself to stay away for so long. You’ve just reminded me. Holmes’ are insufferable .”

Sherlock actually smiles properly at that, the corners of his mouth curling up to match the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“I thought that too. John and Greg say otherwise. Who are we to argue?”

Greg sticks his head out of the kitchen door, and Sherlock hurriedly lets go of his brother’s shoulder, but not before he is spotted. Greg just raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, instead saying; “I’m afraid the sauce is burnt. I left it for too long. I’ll have to start again, so you’ve got plenty of time to have a shower, if you want one. Mycroft and I are going up in a minute, so we can get the dinner started up again as soon as possible, but the other two showers are free, and the hot-water metre has been refitted, so it should cope. Quentin, I’m assuming you know where to go?”

Quentin nods, at a loss for words. Greg grins, and then turns when John appears behind him.

“I’m making tea again, seeing as it’s all gone cold now. Would you like me to have some waiting for you when you come down, Quentin?”

Quentin looks like he is suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, does Mycroft still keep that tea rack that he’s always had?” John nods, and Quentin practically jumps up and down with joy. It reminds John of a time, many years ago, when he first met Sherlock and he was given the case about the serial suicides. The two brothers really are very similar, a comparison all the more easily made when they are standing right next to each other. Quentin is perhaps a little shorter and wears those thick-rimmed glasses, but he is just as pale as Sherlock and his eyes are almost exactly the same colour, as is his hair. His cheekbones aren’t as pronounced, and there is something else to the shape of his face that is more in keeping with Mycroft’s. He fits the bill of the third Holmes brother almost perfectly, and his glasses are his only completely individual feature. He is the missing link between Sherlock and Mycroft, who couldn’t look more different if they tried, which he suspects they actually do. John isn’t aware, unlike Greg, that Mycroft wears contact lenses.

“Fantastic! Oh, he has the best Earl Grey I’ve ever tasted! Please, John, that would be brilliant!” Quentin cries, and John grins, happy to be of service.

“Alright. How do you have it?” he calls to the youngest Holmes, who is already moving towards the drawing room door, quickly followed by Sherlock, on their way to the stairs that are in the corridor on the other side of the room.

“Milk, two sugars!” he calls, and Sherlock groans.

“I taught you better than that!” he is saying, and Quentin is laughing, as they disappear upstairs to take a shower, Greg and Mycroft following quickly behind, careful not to leave muddy footprints on the carpet. John grins and goes to make tea in the kitchen, where James is standing awkwardly, and Hamish and Emma are chasing each other round the table, squealing in delight.

“Would you like some tea, James?” John asks, politely. James shakes his head.

“No, thanks. I’m more of a coffee person,” he says, and Amelia chooses that exact moment to walk in, looking grumpy.

“Thank goodness! Someone sane in this madhouse!” she says, and turns to John. “Don’t make me tea again, please. I’ve got an excuse to get the coffee maker out now. You want cappuccino, (comma) James?” she asks, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder, thrusting her expansive chest out and flirting shamelessly. James ignores her completely, reaching down to catch his son, who is just about to slip over on the smooth floor, and swinging him high up into the air. John smiles, knowing that this kind of reaction is well-practiced, and that Hamish is well-educated in providing such distractions. It is not surprising that James gets a lot of attention, even when he is quite obviously seriously involved with Quentin. He is tall, blonde, and very well-built, handsome in a rough-edged, ‘rebel rouge’ sort of way. He has a tiny scar above his lip that John can tell from medical experience was actually quite a serious cut before it healed. When he leans down his shirt reveals the edge of what John recognises as a bullet wound scar under the layer of mud, a pattern not dissimilar to his own.

He wonders how James and Q met, and how they became involved. They seem so different, one quiet and sullen, the other chatty and outgoing. He wonders if they complement each other, like he and Sherlock are said to. It would certainly explain a lot.

Amelia looks suitably annoyed, but determined, and John wishes he could chastise her for even trying to attract James’ attention like that, but James is giving her a look now which Sherlock would be proud of.

“How are you getting on with the broadband, Amelia?” he asks instead, drawing her attention away from Quentin’s thunderous-looking fiancé. James sets Hamish down, and Emma happily drags him away to show him something ‘fantastic’ in the living room.

Amelia flops down in a chair opposite James and exclaims.

“Oh, you have no idea! It’s all such a mess; I’m going to really struggle to do it on my own,” she says, and John almost physically winces when he sees the flirtatious look she gives James, who bristles visibly, and lashes back.

“You should ask Q...uentin…” John doesn’t miss the slight stutter that makes it sound like James was just going to call his partner by the first letter of his name. He suspects it is a nickname of some kind. “…to try and fix that for you. He’s brilliant with computers, I’m sure he’d get it done in seconds,” James says, and turns away from her. Amelia frowns, embarrassed by such a blatant put-down of her advances. John tries not to grin. James is clearly devoted, even if he does have a funny way of showing it. He clears his throat to fill the silence.

“So, um, how old are you James?” he asks, and James glares at his hands, knotted together underneath the table. John has noticed that there seems to be quite an age gap between him and Quentin, and James knows that he has noticed, and isn’t pleased.

“Forty-one. And Quentin is thirty-five, before you ask,” is the short reply John gets, which surprises him a little. James looks much older than that, almost the same age as him. John thinks back to Quentin’s almost anxious expression when he told them what James’ job was, and then remembers the scarring of James’ shoulder. The man must have a very difficult job as a bodyguard, he thinks, probably very dangerous. No doubt the stress is what causes him to look much older than he says he is. Pleased with this little deduction, he presses forward, eager for information on a brother he didn’t even known existed until about ten minutes ago.

“So, how did you meet Quentin?” he asks, spooning the various doses of tea into several more china cups, preparing the second brew of that evening. James shrugs, non-committal.

“At a party. I was working, Quentin was someone else’s reluctant plus one, and we got talking. Never looked back,” he says.

John recognises the signs of lying that Sherlock has taught him, and tries to suppress a grin. The situation is quite clearly an engineered response, but the last sentence rings with truth.

“Who asked first?” he enquires, and James smirks, lowering his head.

“There wasn’t really much asking involved,” he says, and John chuckles.

“I’ll say there wasn’t,” comes a voice from the doorway, and Quentin and Sherlock step back into the room, both considerably cleaner than before, identical black locks still dripping with water. “I’ve never much been one for social niceties, I’m afraid,” Quentin says, and James grins when he steps forward and plants a kiss on his lips. Amelia coughs and looks the other way.

“I wasn’t complaining,” James smirks mischievously at her, and Quentin grins too, immediately grasping what has been going on in his absence. He promptly plonks himself on James’ lap, who looks triumphant.

“Well now, who does that sound like?” says Greg, appearing behind Sherlock and giving him a meaningful look, and Sherlock scowls in return.

“Sociopath,” he growls, but Greg ignores him in favour of drinking tea and cooking dinner, grabbing his china cup from the side, identifying his blend by its colour, and beginning to dig about in the cupboards for the saucepans that he scoured clean of burnt sauce only ten minutes or so beforehand.

John hands out the rest of the tea, and Quentin, after taking his first sip, looks so completely blissful that James leans forward to kiss him again, wanting to taste it on him. Amelia actually sighs audibly, and John wants to strangle her for it. James seems to have a similar notion, because he lets go of Quentin, and says, “Oh yes, Amelia here has been having trouble with some kind of broadband connection, I think. I said you might be able to give her a hand?”

“I’d be glad to. Lead the way, Amelia.” Quentin sets his tea down and smiles once, immediately standing to follow Mycroft’s disgruntled-looking PA into the dining room. His whole demeanour has changed, and suddenly they are treated to a glimpse of the professional Quentin, calm and commanding, assured of himself and his abilities. It is a bit of a shock, after seeing him so nervous, then in such a mess, and then completely relaxed. He seems to skip between the attitudes depending on which he needs to use that precise moment in time. It has proved to be quite efficient for him, and is a well-practiced occurrence. Not that John is aware of that.

Then Mycroft arrives back downstairs, rubbing a towel through his still-wet hair. John is shocked to see that instead of Mycroft’s usual dark brown hue, his hair is a bright auburn colour. Sherlock takes one look at his older brother, and bursts out laughing, for which he gets the wet towel thrown at him from one direction, and a wooden spoon from the other. He dodges his brother’s towel, but Greg’s spoon hits him squarely on the back of the head, simply because he didn’t see it coming.

“That was uncalled for, Sherlock,” says Mycroft, with as much dignity as he can muster after launching a vengeful towel halfway across the kitchen. Sherlock just shrugs, pulling a face. John is more subdued in his reaction, giving Mycroft a puzzled, yet slightly amused, look.

“Didn’t you have brown hair when you went up for your shower?” he says, and Mycroft glares at him.

“I dye my hair, as you so brilliantly observe. I’ve been doing it for years. For the past five of which, I’ve been using wash-out dyes because I’m letting the colour grow out, and I don’t appreciate having ginger roots and brown ends. Hence, when I take a shower, the colour washes out completely. Also why I carry an umbrella constantly; the colour will run in the rain. I’ve run out of dye though; Greg had an ‘accident’ with the bottle, and most of it ended up on the bathroom floor,” he glares at Greg, who grins and shrugs.

“What can I say? I’m just clumsy, I guess.”

His innocent expression is fooling nobody. John looks bemused.

“But why dye it in the first place? And why give up doing it now, of all times?”

Mycroft sighs, seating himself, and burying himself in his cup of tea so he doesn’t have to meet John’s questioning eyes.

“It’s my only distinguishing feature. As a government worker, being forgettable is part of the job. People remember the name, not the face, which I’ve always been able to use to my advantage.”

“But why choose now to stop doing it?” John persists.

“I knew that retirement was impending, and I actually hate dying it, so I was preparing to give it up. Besides,” he shrugs. “Greg adores it ginger.”

Greg grins and winks at John.

“It’s true. Guilty of all charges.”

Sherlock snorts. “I think it looks ridiculous.”

“Sherlock! Don’t be an idiot!”

James is surveying Mycroft with a critical eye, and in the short silence that follows, declares: “I think it suits you.” Mycroft looks surprised, especially as it is the only thing James has actually said to him so far.

“Oh, thank you, Mr…?” he hesitates, waiting for James to fill the gap.

“Please, call me James,” he says, and Mycroft’s brow creases, but he nods.

“Thank you, James.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“For goodness sake, Mycroft. If you haven’t worked out who he is yet, I’m in serious doubt about your ability to run the country.”

Mycroft sighs and glares at his brother.

“I do recognise my own agents, Sherlock. I’m afraid it would be rather rude to refer to my brother’s intended by his number, however.”

James is suddenly on guard, standing up and backing towards the door.

“I don’t know who you people are,” he growls, threateningly, “but you’d better explain how the hell you know who I am, right now!”

Mycroft sighs, and looks at Sherlock.

“When will you learn to keep your deductions to yourself, Sherlock? Now look what you’ve done!” he turns back to James, still frowning. “I apologise for my brother’s behaviour, 007, I’m afraid he is rather obtuse when he wishes to be. I am a personal acquaintance of your immediate senior, Mr Mallory, who I believe you know as ‘M’?”

James doesn’t move, not at all pacified by the use of his code number, and is still standing in his fighting stance, quite obviously extremely suspicious of the whole situation. John notes the slight twitch of his fingers, and wonders if the man would have drawn a gun if he had one on him. It is not a comforting thought. Thankfully for all of them, Quentin chooses that moment to return, a very frustrated Amelia trailing behind him, muttering something almost incoherent about a dongle. Quentin takes in the whole scene in a matter of seconds, and in the way of all Holmes’, instantly understands what is going on.

“Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t leave you two alone for even a minute! I knew it would take you hardly any time to recognise him, but couldn’t you keep it to yourselves?” he glares at his brothers, and then turns to his partner. “I’m sorry James; my family are too smart for their own good. I think we’d save a lot of confusion by just explaining everything now, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, but turns back to his brothers, still frowning. “Yes, my partner is James Bond, also known as 007, MI6’s most successful agent. Yes, I work at MI6 too, which is how we met. Now you know why I had to vanish. Technically, my name no longer even exists, which is why even Mycroft couldn’t find me.”

There is silence for a second. Greg slowly puts his spoon down on the kitchen counter, and opens his mouth, but nothing quite comes out.

“Uh…” John just about manages, before Emma mysteriously appears from the hallway, closely followed by Hamish, and yells;

“Awesome! My new Uncles are secret agents!”

Quentin looks horrified.

“Um… you probably shouldn’t know that…” he says, wincing. James is looking thunderous, but also completely lost, like he really hasn’t got a clue how to deal with the situation.

Mycroft sighs.

“Emma, do you remember when I told you how important it is not to tell people about my job, especially when you overheard me talking on the phone last Christmas?”

She nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah! Ooooh, is this a secret too? I’m brilliant at keeping secrets! I haven’t told anybody that you call Uncle Greg a ‘dirty little fucker’ when you’re in bed together! I… oh…” Her face falls. The kitchen erupts with laughter, and Mycroft puts his head in his hands.

“Emma, I love you very, very much sweetheart, and don’t get me wrong, but I really don’t think anybody wanted to know that.”

Sherlock is looking completely disgusted, and Quentin equally so, but John and Greg are in fits of laughter, and even James is struggling to hold back his grin. Emma hangs her head and stares miserably at her sparkly pink socks.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Mycroft, Greg told me that it was very important not to tell anybody that.”

Quentin suddenly begins to giggle.

“Yeah, right after she told us that Greg calls you a ‘naughty boy’. You really want to make sure that the bedroom door is shut properly next time, I think. Eight-year-olds really shouldn’t know about that kind of thing.”

Sherlock is the only one not laughing now. He frowns, and says, “I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on, really, Quentin, especially as I suspect Mr Bond calls you ‘Q’ when you’re in private together.” Quentin blushes, embarrassed by his brother’s forthright accusation. James just grins, evilly.

“So what if I do? It works wonders,” he says. Quentin slaps him playfully, trying not to show how mortified he actually is.

“James! For goodness sake… Hamish!” he says, and suddenly James looks down to find his son staring up at him with wide, green eyes.

James looks surprised.

“Hey, how’d you learn to move so quietly?” he asks, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“You taught him, you idiot.” James looks indignant.

“I do no such thing!”

“He watches you, you know, when you’re getting ready for a mission. Picks things up. You’re clever like that, aren’t you, Hamish?”

Hamish stares at him solemnly, and begins to recite, in a slow, clear, high voice that carries a weight that falls on the rest of them and persuades them into melancholy silence.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”

There is quiet for a few seconds, as the power of the words that were delivered so beautifully sinks in. When it becomes clear that he is not going to continue, a second voice completes the phrase.

“The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

Sherlock says, in his deep, rumbling voice.

Hamish grins, proud to have shown just how smart he really is to have remembered his daddy’s favourite poem. Expecting praise, he doesn’t notice that nobody quite wants to speak now. The mood has been transformed from easily light-hearted to terribly sad incredibly quickly. The words carry meaning for all of them, and no one wants to break the spell they have cast.

Hamish, oblivious to the effect his poem has had on the adults, takes a deep breath and begins again.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The ways to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle,
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

When he finishes, James carefully puts his hand on his son’s shoulder, and says quietly “Alright.”

Hamish looks at him, worried.

“Did I do badly?” he asks, and so Quentin bends down to hug him tightly.

“No. No, that was wonderful, Hamish. Thank you,” he says, and Hamish looks relieved.

“I memorised that one when we went to see Macbeth that one time, when Papa was home from work and he took me to the theatre.”

Hamish looks surprised.

“You memorised that after only one hearing?” he asks.

Hamish gives him a look that is the trademark of a Holmes, and says, “Of course.”

Quentin laughs, and hugs his son again, smiling.

“You clever, clever thing. You make me and your Papa incredibly proud, you know that.”

Hamish wriggles away, and frowns.

“Obviously,” he declares.

John can’t help but chuckle, even though he is trying to restrain his tears. The first poem was one that Sherlock read at Mary’s funeral, and its recital has brought back raw memories. The chuckle suddenly becomes a half-sob, and he crosses the kitchen in three long strides, vanishing out into the hallway. Sherlock follows immediately after with Emma, and shuts the door behind them.

John sinks down to his knees in the hallway, resting his back up against the wall for support.

“I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have continued,” Sherlock says, genuinely ashamed of his actions. John shakes his head.

“No, it’s my fault. It shouldn’t affect me so much after all this time.”

Sherlock shuffles his feet.

“There’s nothing wrong with caring,” he says, making John smile.

“That goes against all your morals.”

Sherlock shrugs. “My morals are different. I’m not a good person. You are.”

John wants to say something, but can’t think what. Emma distracts him, pulling gently on his arm.

“Daddy, are you ok?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Come on, let’s get back,” he says. Sherlock helps him to his feet.

In the kitchen, Quentin is staring after them and frowning.

“Is John alright?” he asks Greg, who is frowning too, and shakes his head in reply.

“John’s wife died when Emma was born. The first poem… I think Sherlock read it at Mary’s funeral.”

Quentin looks even more confused.

“Mary?”

“Emma’s mother.”

Quentin puts a hand over his mouth.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! It’s one of my favourite poems, I taught it to Hamish!”

“Hey, it’s fine, you weren’t to know. It’s just… it was a rough time for all of us. I think John still blames himself for what happened.”

Quentin wants to ask, but bites his tongue, knowing that he doesn’t appreciate people dragging up his past, especially not near-strangers.

“It’s alright. You can ask,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway. John is standing there, looking more tired than Greg has seen him look since Emma was nearly three years old.

“I need to take a shower anyway. I’ll be down in a minute. Emma, will you bring me my tea up, please?” he says, and then moves away, slow footsteps on the stairs. Emma takes the tea slowly, and follows him.

Quentin, sensing that the story is going to be disturbing enough for John not to want his daughter to hear it, puts his hand of the flat of his son’s back.

“Why don’t you go and see to Beowulf, Hamish? I think he’ll be getting lonely.”

Once Hamish has headed off, Sherlock shuts the kitchen door and joins them at the table. He waits until both John and his daughter are definitely well out of earshot before beginning his tale.

“They met in January 2013, while I was… away.” He shifts uncomfortably, knowing that both Quentin and James will know about everything, Moriarty, the suicide, coming back… everything. It was public knowledge; all over the newspapers. “John was living and working as a doctor in London, and so was she. Mary Morstan was a ‘lovely’ young woman, a nurse at the time, nothing special, but she was intelligent, and as far as I know, they got on well from the start. They never really talked about that time when I came back, but they enjoyed each other’s company. They were married in October, 2016, and John asked me to be his best man.”

“He told me afterwards that it was one of the happiest days of his life.”

Greg smiles at him, and takes over the telling of the story.

“The next year, Mary was pregnant. They were both incredibly excited. Mary had no real relations, and so I was asked to be the godfather, and Harry, John’s sister, was to be the godmother. They didn’t want to know if it was a boy or a girl, but were happy to have a surprise. Still, they dragged us all into endless talk about choosing names. Never settled on one for either gender, actually, but John was certain they’d find the right one once the baby was born. They were both very excited.”

Sherlock nods. “John wasn’t staying at 221B anymore, like he used to, but he’d still come and help me with cases when I asked him, which no doubt you know about.” Quentin and James both nod. It had been impossible to miss their adventures after Sherlock’s return; the tabloids had followed the pair everywhere, and John’s blog had been more popular than ever. “I think the incident happened on a Sunday, when neither John nor Mary was working. Mary was eight months by that time, and I had a job persuading John to accompany me when I got a call from Lestrade, but he did come eventually.”

 Quentin frowns.

“Lestrade?”

“Me!” says Greg. “I think I said earlier, didn’t I, that I used to be a DI at Scotland Yard? Well, we’d had a particularly nasty murder that was going nowhere, so I called in Sherlock to give us a hand. As ever, he brought John down, made us all feel like idiots, and solved it in amongst the inevitable chaos he caused. He was explaining everything to me when…”

“I realised that the murder was a decoy,” says Sherlock, interrupting. “So I dragged John back to Baker Street, and when we found nothing there, he went home. I didn’t accompany him; I was trying to find if there were any bugs in the flat.”

Greg sighs. “Turned out to be some rogue MI6 agents, actually. You might have known them, James. One of them went by the name of Moran, Sebastian Moran.” James appears to think about it, but doesn’t recall anyone of that name. He shakes his head, and so Greg continues. “Well, they’d kidnapped Mary. Left a note saying that if Sherlock didn’t come to get her within 24 hours, they’d kill her.”

“Why?” asked Quentin.

“Because they wanted to get at Sherlock, and John and he were too well protected,” answers Mycroft, sighing. “A personal failure, I’m afraid. I didn’t spot Mary’s potential as a target until it was too late, and they’d already got to her, moved her abroad to Sweden.”

“Predictable, boring behaviour,” Sherlock complains. “The idiots were too thick to do anything really inventive. Anyway, John called me in a blind panic. What could I do? It was a trap, and a stupid one, but I had no choice but to walk into it. It didn’t take long to work out where they’d taken her.”

“Yeah, thanks to Mycroft’s government access clearance,” Greg puts in, but Sherlock ignores him.

“All four of us flew out to the place; John, Greg, Mycroft and I. It was easy to find, and getting in was too, once we’d got past security. Mary was there, alive and well, if a little scared, and we could have got her out and to safety if the stress of the kidnapping hadn’t triggered her contractions.”

Greg sighs. “It was the bloodiest case I’ve ever been on; Mary giving birth behind us, and a wall of fire ahead of us. We had to hold them off while John helped her, see, and they just kept coming. God, was I glad of Mycroft’s supplies then; we’d never have got through if it wasn’t for his seemingly endless supplies of ammo.”

Mycroft speaks up then.

“It wasn’t enough though. It was three of us against many more of them. The birth couldn’t be stopped, and so it went ahead, right then and there, with John having to act as midwife. Thankfully it was relatively short in a statistical sense, but it still took several hours, plenty long enough for the fugitives to call on backup and launch a fresh attack. Mary had just given John his daughter when they breached our rather minimal barrier.”

Greg grimaces. “We were outnumbered by far. Both Sherlock and I were shot, me right through my left palm,” he holds up his hand, showing a messy scar right in the centre, and wiggles the slightly dysfunctional fingers “…and Sherlock in the thigh. Both of us were definitely more the worse for wear, and Sherlock especially was losing a lot of blood. Mycroft grabbed me and we managed to escape, but back in the warehouse, things were only getting worse.”

“I was holding of the attackers as best I could,” says Sherlock, “But I was in no fit state to be able to help John. Mary told him to get their daughter to safety, and come back for her afterwards. He protested, but couldn’t reuse. Right before she left, she told him to call the baby Emma, after Mrs Hudson, who was our landlady at 221B at the time.”

Mycroft smiles, sadly. “Sentimental.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Anyway, John managed to get Emma and me to safety, though I passed out from lack of blood. I didn’t see what happened next, though Greg has told me.”

Mycroft nods. “John left me holding Emma and went back for Mary. Before he could get to her however…” he stops and takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t have foreseen what happened next. The kidnappers, apparently determined not to be captured, exploded the building, with themselves and Mary still inside.”

Quentin can’t help but gasp in horror, and James winces, knowing from experience how soul-destroying that can be, especially if someone you care for is involved.

Mycroft sighs.

“John was caught in the explosion. We did what we could for him, Sherlock and Greg, but there was no saving Mary. I don’t…” he squirms, which only Sherlock and Quentin recognise as a cover for a shudder that he is attempting to disguise. “They never found all of her,” he says, finally.

Quentin closes his eyes, partly horrified and partly disgusted, and feels a wave of sympathy for John.

Greg puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and takes over the storytelling.

“Mycroft was fantastic. He carried Sherlock over his shoulder and Emma in his arms for almost twenty-six kilometres until they could send out a helicopter to us, and get us to a hospital.”

Mycroft frowns.

“Hey, you carried John, too!” he says, but Greg shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t, I had my arm underneath his and helped him walk as much as possible. That’s not the same at all.”

Sherlock sighs. “Once you two are done arguing over who was more heroic, I think Quentin and James would quite like us to explain what happened next.”

Greg continues, reluctantly.

“John and Sherlock both went into intensive care, and all three of us had to have surgery. I was out within two weeks, Sherlock in four, and Mycroft came to visit us every day, bringing Baby Emma every time, who he had been given temporary custody of, being in the best position to get her what she needed. Mrs Hudson came too, and Harry, and even some of the yarders occasionally. My hand was never quite the same though, and being left-handed, I was pretty useless. Eventually, it cost me my job. They made me redundant only two months after the incident, and I was already a bit too old to be looking for another job anyway, so I gave in and retired.”

Sherlock sighs.

“None of us really had it easy. I recovered perfectly physically, and so did John, but the emotional impact the incident had on him was extensive. He suffered from manic depression for many months. We all tried to help him, but he drove us away, which made things difficult, for me especially. We stopped speaking for several months. I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to see what losing his best friend had done to him, too. It was a stupid mistake. When I next saw John, he was being cared for in a unit, having been sectioned after attempting to commit suicide.” He suddenly looks like he is going to choke on tears he is fighting to hold back, and Greg quickly takes over to save him embarrassment.

“By Emma’s first birthday, Mycroft and I had moved in together, and were still in custody of Emma. We went to visit John in the unit once he was well enough to understand what was going on, but it didn’t go well. Seeing how happy we were, and how Emma made everything so much brighter for us, made him bitter with resentment. He’s lost Mary, who he’d loved more than anyone in the world, and his own daughter had been taken away from him by a couple who were happy, despite him feeling like his whole world had been destroyed, and therefore everyone in it should be unhappy too.”

Mycroft sighs. “He told us in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see us again, and that we were, amongst other things, thieving bastards.”

Greg hangs his head. “I wanted to take Emma to see him then, but we weren’t technically allowed. It took another six months of planning to smuggle her in, and we wouldn’t have managed it in the end without Sherlock.”

“But manage we did, and John finally got to see his daughter. That was rather the turning point, I think.” Mycroft smiles, looking relieved to be getting to this part of the story.

Sherlock nods. “I went to see him afterwards, and he was much more the old John again, the one I knew. We talked, and he apologised, and we rebuilt our friendship.”

Greg grins. “Only two months later, he was cleared, and by Emma’s second birthday, he was allowed custody of her.”

“They moved into Baker Street with me, despite most people’s unfounded protests about the safety of the flat, and we resumed life. It’s never been quite the same, but I’d go so far as to say it’s better, and John’s never relapsed, so we’d really like to keep it that way.” Sherlock smiles, clearly content with life. “I’ll go and see if he’s done in the shower,” he says.

Quentin, still a little shocked by the full extent of John’s story, just nods. Greg returns to cooking, with Mycroft assisting, and the CD player is back on, somebody Quentin doesn’t recognise singing quietly in the background. James puts his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and he leans into the embrace, seeking comfort. Nobody really speaks, but the quietness is welcome, as the singer croons the soft refrain ‘couldn’t be better’.