Simple Mathematics: Tesselation
Written for this prompt.
When they entered the flat, Sherlock backpedaled ferociously.
"No," he said, and escorted John back out to the street.
They had been at the pub for three hours, and John said, "I'm going home eventually. I'll bring you a blanket, if you like."
Sherlock ignored him.
In another hour, John was properly sloshed, and he said, "Well is she pretty? She can stay in my room."
Sherlock looked at him, horrified. "She's awful, John. I don't want you to meet her."
"Right, but you didn't answer my question."
"She's hideous. And gay."
John swallowed a belch. "Lying. You're lying. I'm going home now, Sherlock. I'm drunk. I am." He rose and rifled through a wad of bills.
"You've already paid," Sherlock said.
An exquisitely beautiful woman was seated in Sherlock's chair. John leaned to peer around Sherlock and he hit his head on the door jamb. She looked like Lauren Bacall. Like a girl Sherlock, in a way. Not really. She had fixed herself a cocktail in what appeared to be one of Sherlock's chemical beakers.
"Oh Sherlock," she said, rising gracefully. She held her arms out to him.
"Get out," Sherlock told her.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But I do need your help, darling."
She was quite fetching. John decided to marry her.
"You're the only one who can help me, Sherlock." She began to cry.
"Get out, Baignard," Sherlock said, and stepped forward. She sank back into the chair, one delicate knuckle pressed to a row of straight, even teeth. She glanced at John, and Sherlock drew back a step, blocking him from view. "What do you want?"
Baignard retrieved a kerchief from her purse and blotted her damp cheeks. "You know that Mummy is so very ill - "
"I refuse," Sherlock said. Baignard burst into a fresh bout of tears.
"How can you be so heartless," she sobbed. Indeed, Sherlock could be very cruel. John moved forward to comfort her. Sherlock caught him and frog marched him back into the hall.
"Go to bed. You are very drunk."
John twisted free and jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock caught his wrist before he could do it again. "You," John said, and thought for a moment. "You are being a prick." He spotted Baignard in the doorway, still sniffling. Her make-up had smeared, but not messily. It was dramatic and quite becoming. John smiled at her. Sherlock turned around and, backwards, pressed him towards the steps. John caught his ankle on the first one and fell.
"I've come at such an awkward time," Baignard sniffed. "Do excuse me, Dr. Watson. Perhaps I should return - "
"No!" Sherlock said. "Go away. "
Baignard smiled. It was little bit scary. "Five o'clock this Saturday, darling. And do bring Dr. Watson. Mummy so wants to meet him." She tilted her head at John. "You will come, won't you?"
"Wha?" John said. He hadn't yet managed to stand up.
"Fine," Sherlock snarled.
Baignard smiled again, baring her teeth. "And to think, Mycroft said you would be difficult."
She left. Sherlock slammed the door behind her and locked it. He checked on John, who was sprawled across four steps, leaning on one elbow.
"I think she's lovely," John said. "Do you think she'd-"
"No."
Sherlock stalked into the kitchen. John pulled himself up by the banister and followed.
"Hey, what just happened? Do I get to meet your Mum?"
Sherlock ignored him.
"Your poor, sick mum," John slurred.
"She's not sick," Sherlock snapped.
"Hmm..." John's diaphragm began to seize in the way that preceded hiccups. He held his breath against it. It didn't work. "Why'd you get me so drunk?" he demanded.
"In your current condition you will only vaguely recall that encounter." Sherlock explained. He was checking his bacterial cultures with the microscope. John hiccuped again and it shook his whole body.
"Why don't you want me to remember? Meeting your sister. She's nice. She's very pretty." John was going to remember, because they were going to get married. At the shore, probably. There would be seagulls there. And little sea creatures.
Sherlock swabbed another sample onto a slide. "Like most of my family, Baignard is purely evil. I don't want her sinking her hooks into you, as she is likely to do just to irritate me." He glanced at John briefly. "You are pitifully susceptible to women."
"Not true. Women are susceptible to me."
"Of course," Sherlock said, dryly. He bent again over the microscope. John pondered. And hiccuped. He approached Sherlock and wrapped him in a bear hug.
"You were protecting me. You're so nice." He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder blade.
"Get off!" Sherlock said.
That was Monday.
On Tuesday morning at 5:45, John received a phone call from Sherlock's other sister, Fairhurst.
"Who?" John said. There was a distressing pause.
"He hasn't said anything about me?"
John laid in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I forgot."
John went downstairs and kicked Sherlock, who was asleep next to the couch. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him without moving any other part of his body.
"You sister just called me to make sure I'm coming to dinner. Not Baignard, the other one."
"Which?" Sherlock said.
"The - which? How many have you got?"
Sherlock sat up and blinked blearily. "It's 5:53. Fairhurst, then." He laid back down.
"Oh no," John said, jostling Sherlock's hips with his foot. "If I'm awake right now, so will you be. And I've got a splitting headache, thanks, and I've got to be at work. Get up and make me breakfast."
Sherlock opened his eyes again and narrowed them at John.
"And while you're at it, you'd better tell me all about Fairhurst, because I've told her you already have."
Sherlock stood up. He went into his bedroom and shut the door.
John was abducted on Thursday.
"I just wanted to be certain," Mycroft said. "It's Mummy's birthday, after all. I doubt Baignard mentioned."
"Should I bring something, then?" John asked.
"Oh no, your presence will suffice. I'll send a car at four. Do make sure Sherlock is ready."
"I'm not his nanny."
"Yes, well, we both know how he can be."
The car pulled up at 221. Sherlock was peeking out from the curtain.
"Are you sure?" John said as he stepped from the car. "I make a delicious rum cake."
Mycroft considered. "That would be lovely," he said.
Friday: John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and closed the browser window. "We are not going to France," he said.
John whipped the eggs, milk, and rum into a froth, then it aside and carefully measured the dry ingredients into a bowl.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm baking a cake for your Mum."
Sherlock was silent for a moment. "That's not baking powder," he said, and left.
The car came at four, as promised. Sherlock was in the shower at this time, and had been for the last forty five minutes. John picked the lock on the door and wrestled Sherlock out of the restroom, where he had been reading Encyclopedia L, Lemming. He stood sentinel while Sherlock chose fresh clothes, but since all of his clothes looked good, it didn't matter what he wore.
The Holmes' house was rather modest in comparison to what John had expected, which had been more along the lines of Oxford College. It was a large Victorian structure on the edge of town, and when they stepped inside, the foyer was full of caskets.
"Oh good," a young woman said, and clasped John's hand very tightly. "I'm so excited to finally meet you. I'm Fairhurst."
Fairhurst had honey-blonde hair that rose in wisps about her head. No eyebrows to speak of, large blue eyes, and skin that was nearly transparent. John could see the blue veins disappear into the short sleeves of her dress, and the effect was subtly erotic.
"Why are these here?" Sherlock demanded, about the caskets.
"They're Daddy's favorites," Fairhurst said.
"Obviously. I meant why are they here, in this room?"
A pained expression crossed Fairhurst's face. "Sherlock, surely," she began. "Daddy sold the business months ago." She turned to John. "He never keeps up. Come. Oh, I see you've brought cake."
In the parlour, John was introduced to Brightmore, Sherlock's younger brother. He was modern-looking, short dark hair and a T-shirt advertising a band John didn't recognize.
"You're going to need a drink," Brightmore said, and left to fetch him one, returning quickly.
A heavily pregnant woman folded Sherlock into a headlock and scrubbed his head with her knuckles. Sherlock frantically twisted free and retreated behind John, latching onto his jumper.
"You're going to need a Valium," said Brightmore, and left again.
The pregnant woman was Halding, another one of Sherlock's sisters, younger. She had bobbed blonde hair and was sipping a glass of white wine. "I'll bet he's said nothing about us," she said.
"I've already lied to Fairhurst about it, so please don't say anything."
Halding touched her finger to her nose. She reached around John and jabbed Sherlock sharply in the side. He squirmed away.
"Where's Sheraton?" he asked, a bit loudly.
Brightmore returned with a small pill. "Here you are," he said to Sherlock, who jumped.
"I don't want it!"
John quickly finished his drink.
The rest of the evening went like this:
Baignard arrived and gave John a sultry smile, which he returned. Sherlock spun John to face the wall.
John met Hannah, Sherlock's other brother Dixon's wife. She pointed out their two children, James and Emily.
"What about the little dark haired one?" John asked.
"Oh no, she's Mycroft's."
John choked.
Sherlock held out a tight fist and gave to his mother a filigree pendant in the shape of a fish. She put it on immediately.
Fairhurst introduced John to her father, Robert. "This is Sherlock's friend, Daddy."
"I used to beat him up all the time," said Halding.
"I taught him how to dress," said Baignard. That was obvious, actually.
"Sheraton, Mycroft, Dixon, Baignard, me, Halding, Fairhurst, Brightmore," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering about the room.
John had been wondering, but hadn't asked.
"For awhile we thought Sherlock would take over the business," said Dekerdanet. "He showed great interest for awhile. He used to help me do their hair and make up."
"He only wanted to see a dead body, Mum," said Baignard.
"Yes, Sherlock and his experiments."
"See, he's gone all autistic already."
"Baignard, that's not nice," said Fairhurst.
John led Sherlock outside for a moment. He stood with his eyes clenched shut, and John squeezed him tightly, which was scientifically proven to reduce anxiety.
"Alright?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
"I'm glad he's got a friend," Brightmore said. He had gotten a little bit drunk. "Not that - I mean, you know. I like Sherlock. He doesn't like me. But you can't take it personally. Not that you would. He doesn't like anyone. Except Sheraton. And you, obviously."
Mycroft thought Baignard should attempt a facsimile of decorum for once in her life. Baignard thought Mycroft's physical comportment was aesthetically offensive.
"Don't let it fool you, those two are like this," Halding said. She held up crossed fingers.
"After that incident, we had to keep the dead ones elsewhere. Oh, Sherlock was upset."
Halding asked, "Are you and my brother shagging?"
John said, "No."
Halding sipped her drink and looked mildly disappointed.
Of Sheraton, Baignard said, "She's very good with animals," looking at Sherlock.
"I've already chosen mine," said Robert. "I'll sell the rest once Dekerdanet decides. She fancies the walnut, I believe."
"Daddy, don't be morbid," Fairhurst said.
Mycroft's daughter stood on his foot, clinging to his leg as he walked about the room.
"Poor thing's practically an orphan," Baignard said, but it didn't seem that way.
"And that's not even including the time with the pudding - "
"Must you always bring that up?" Sherlock snapped.
Baignard played the piano, and did so brilliantly. There were requests for Sherlock to accompany, but he refused.
Sheraton entered the room and gave to Sherlock a small velvet box. He opened it, and his nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath. He turned his shoulder to the room.
"What is it?" Halding demanded, craning her neck. Sherlock snapped the box closed and put it in his breast pocket.
"What is it?" Halding asked Sheraton, who said, "It's a present for Sherlock."
"A colt, out of Silver Blaze," said Sheraton. She was very thin, with a greying short-cropped bob and a long-nosed, androgynous face. When you spoke to her, she listened.
"It's going well," said Dixon to Mycroft. "We'll have it finished in three months."
"Excellent," Mycroft said.
"He can't hold his liquor yet, he's just a boy. Help him upstairs, Dixon," said Dekerdanet.
"You're Sherlock's flatmate," Sheraton said.
John nodded.
Sheraton smiled softly and said, "Good."
*
At 5:15 on Sunday morning, John received a call from Fairhurst.
"I had such a wonderful time," she said. "I was so delighted to see you and Sherlock together."
John scrubbed one hand over his face and said, "Yes, it's wonderful."
Sherlock was in the kitchen with his saliva samples. "There's coffee," he offered, without looking up. It was yesterday's. John sniffed it, poured a mug, and put it in the microwave.
"Is she going to keep doing that?" he asked.
"Probably."
John studied Sherlock's face, cut sharply in the microscope's LED ring light. Somehow Sherlock looked best in LED.
Sherlock stilled in the way that meant he knew he was being observed. His eyes darted in John's direction. "I can't tell what you're thinking," he said.
"I'm thinking about ickle Sherlock running Frankenstein experiments on someone's poor dead mum."
"Hm."
The microwave beeped and John retrieved his coffee. He sipped it and winced. "This is great, I mean, I've got the whole day ahead of me!" It was dark out, still.
Sherlock added a drop of some esoteric solution to one of his samples. "If you need something to do, you can check the rotor on the centrifuge and balance these." He slid a rack of centrifuge tubes towards John. John took up the pipette.
"Should I be wearing gloves for this?"
"It's probably not necessary."
Half an hour later John stretched his arms above his head. "I'm hungry," he announced.
"The S and Q is open."
"Come with me."
Sherlock set a tube aside and jotted down some chemical formula. "This study is very sensitive. I cannot - "
"When you're done with your spit, then."
Sherlock looked at him. Then he said, "Ten minutes," and ignored John until that time was up.
"Are you going to tell me about the pudding incident, then?"
Sherlock did an about-face and started back towards the flat. John snagged his arm. "I'm kidding, I'm sorry," he said.
"If you think that having met my family gives you license to heckle me, then - "
"I'm sorry, I am. Come on."
Sherlock relented, and they continued wordlessly through the city that was only beginning to wake.
"They're really not that bad, your family. I quite like them," John said.
"Excellent. Next time you can go alone, and give them my regards."
"Um," John said. "I'll pass, thanks. I've a feeling the only reason they didn't take me to bits is because they were too busy taking the piss out of you."
"Hm," Sherlock intoned in something akin to a growl.
"I wouldn't say 'mostly evil,' but partially. Somewhat." It was obviously the wrong line of conversation, but John couldn't help himself. "Cromley knocked me for six! Is she really Mycroft's?"
"He wouldn't have brought along a child that didn't belong to him, obviously."
"No. That's - I know that. He just didn't strike me as the fatherly sort."
"Forgive me, John," Sherlock said, rather tersely, "but your limited insight could hardly penetrate the nature of such a man as Mycroft."
"Maybe not. Mycroft, no. Now you, on the other hand..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You're a man of simple pleasures." John nudged Sherlock's shoulder with his own. "Tea and mysteries, your two great loves."
Sherlock hesitated as though to speak, his lips parted, barely. Then he seemed to change his mind. "I enjoy the crossword, now and again," he said, after a pause.
"Oh yes, and the crossword. And the odd necromancy."
"I only tried to do that once, John!"
John laughed, softly. "I love the thought of you as a child. It seems so improbable."
He decided to let the topic drop, because Sherlock's distress was becoming evident. They lapsed into silence for awhile.
Spring was late in coming, and there was a bite to the air which passed for freshness in the city. The sun hadn't quite risen, and all of London was cast dimly in greys and shadows. It was the hour in which Sherlock's skin seemed its palest, his eyes their most muted blue. He was ethereal, almost, except for the part where he was so utterly and fallibly human. Sherlock anxiously thrust his hands into his pockets and glanced at John in that fleeting, sideways manner of his.
"You are being most remarkably unforthcoming this morning," he said.
John laughed. "I'm just happy, is all. I really am."
This time Sherlock looked at him fully, curiously at first. He crooked the small smile that John fancied was reserved for him, and then apparently he got caught up in some tangent thought because he stepped into traffic and was hit by a cab. This was fairly common, yet he still managed to look bewildered and slightly offended that such a thing had happened.
"Ow," he said, as John hoisted him up and dusted off his shoulders and sleeves.
"Alright. You're alright," John said, waving off the cabbie. "Just walk it off, mate."
They hobbled down the street together.
Coefficient
When they entered the flat, Sherlock backpedaled ferociously.
"No," he said, and escorted John back out to the street.
They had been at the pub for three hours, and John said, "I'm going home eventually. I'll bring you a blanket, if you like."
Sherlock ignored him.
In another hour, John was properly sloshed, and he said, "Well is she pretty? She can stay in my room."
Sherlock looked at him, horrified. "She's awful, John. I don't want you to meet her."
"Right, but you didn't answer my question."
"She's hideous. And gay."
John swallowed a belch. "Lying. You're lying. I'm going home now, Sherlock. I'm drunk. I am." He rose and rifled through a wad of bills.
"You've already paid," Sherlock said.
An exquisitely beautiful woman was seated in Sherlock's chair. John leaned to peer around Sherlock and he hit his head on the door jamb. She looked like Lauren Bacall. Like a girl Sherlock, in a way. Not really. She had fixed herself a cocktail in what appeared to be one of Sherlock's chemical beakers.
"Oh Sherlock," she said, rising gracefully. She held her arms out to him.
"Get out," Sherlock told her.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But I do need your help, darling."
She was quite fetching. John decided to marry her.
"You're the only one who can help me, Sherlock." She began to cry.
"Get out, Baignard," Sherlock said, and stepped forward. She sank back into the chair, one delicate knuckle pressed to a row of straight, even teeth. She glanced at John, and Sherlock drew back a step, blocking him from view. "What do you want?"
Baignard retrieved a kerchief from her purse and blotted her damp cheeks. "You know that Mummy is so very ill - "
"I refuse," Sherlock said. Baignard burst into a fresh bout of tears.
"How can you be so heartless," she sobbed. Indeed, Sherlock could be very cruel. John moved forward to comfort her. Sherlock caught him and frog marched him back into the hall.
"Go to bed. You are very drunk."
John twisted free and jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock caught his wrist before he could do it again. "You," John said, and thought for a moment. "You are being a prick." He spotted Baignard in the doorway, still sniffling. Her make-up had smeared, but not messily. It was dramatic and quite becoming. John smiled at her. Sherlock turned around and, backwards, pressed him towards the steps. John caught his ankle on the first one and fell.
"I've come at such an awkward time," Baignard sniffed. "Do excuse me, Dr. Watson. Perhaps I should return - "
"No!" Sherlock said. "Go away. "
Baignard smiled. It was little bit scary. "Five o'clock this Saturday, darling. And do bring Dr. Watson. Mummy so wants to meet him." She tilted her head at John. "You will come, won't you?"
"Wha?" John said. He hadn't yet managed to stand up.
"Fine," Sherlock snarled.
Baignard smiled again, baring her teeth. "And to think, Mycroft said you would be difficult."
She left. Sherlock slammed the door behind her and locked it. He checked on John, who was sprawled across four steps, leaning on one elbow.
"I think she's lovely," John said. "Do you think she'd-"
"No."
Sherlock stalked into the kitchen. John pulled himself up by the banister and followed.
"Hey, what just happened? Do I get to meet your Mum?"
Sherlock ignored him.
"Your poor, sick mum," John slurred.
"She's not sick," Sherlock snapped.
"Hmm..." John's diaphragm began to seize in the way that preceded hiccups. He held his breath against it. It didn't work. "Why'd you get me so drunk?" he demanded.
"In your current condition you will only vaguely recall that encounter." Sherlock explained. He was checking his bacterial cultures with the microscope. John hiccuped again and it shook his whole body.
"Why don't you want me to remember? Meeting your sister. She's nice. She's very pretty." John was going to remember, because they were going to get married. At the shore, probably. There would be seagulls there. And little sea creatures.
Sherlock swabbed another sample onto a slide. "Like most of my family, Baignard is purely evil. I don't want her sinking her hooks into you, as she is likely to do just to irritate me." He glanced at John briefly. "You are pitifully susceptible to women."
"Not true. Women are susceptible to me."
"Of course," Sherlock said, dryly. He bent again over the microscope. John pondered. And hiccuped. He approached Sherlock and wrapped him in a bear hug.
"You were protecting me. You're so nice." He rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder blade.
"Get off!" Sherlock said.
That was Monday.
On Tuesday morning at 5:45, John received a phone call from Sherlock's other sister, Fairhurst.
"Who?" John said. There was a distressing pause.
"He hasn't said anything about me?"
John laid in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I forgot."
John went downstairs and kicked Sherlock, who was asleep next to the couch. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him without moving any other part of his body.
"You sister just called me to make sure I'm coming to dinner. Not Baignard, the other one."
"Which?" Sherlock said.
"The - which? How many have you got?"
Sherlock sat up and blinked blearily. "It's 5:53. Fairhurst, then." He laid back down.
"Oh no," John said, jostling Sherlock's hips with his foot. "If I'm awake right now, so will you be. And I've got a splitting headache, thanks, and I've got to be at work. Get up and make me breakfast."
Sherlock opened his eyes again and narrowed them at John.
"And while you're at it, you'd better tell me all about Fairhurst, because I've told her you already have."
Sherlock stood up. He went into his bedroom and shut the door.
John was abducted on Thursday.
"I just wanted to be certain," Mycroft said. "It's Mummy's birthday, after all. I doubt Baignard mentioned."
"Should I bring something, then?" John asked.
"Oh no, your presence will suffice. I'll send a car at four. Do make sure Sherlock is ready."
"I'm not his nanny."
"Yes, well, we both know how he can be."
The car pulled up at 221. Sherlock was peeking out from the curtain.
"Are you sure?" John said as he stepped from the car. "I make a delicious rum cake."
Mycroft considered. "That would be lovely," he said.
Friday: John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and closed the browser window. "We are not going to France," he said.
John whipped the eggs, milk, and rum into a froth, then it aside and carefully measured the dry ingredients into a bowl.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm baking a cake for your Mum."
Sherlock was silent for a moment. "That's not baking powder," he said, and left.
The car came at four, as promised. Sherlock was in the shower at this time, and had been for the last forty five minutes. John picked the lock on the door and wrestled Sherlock out of the restroom, where he had been reading Encyclopedia L, Lemming. He stood sentinel while Sherlock chose fresh clothes, but since all of his clothes looked good, it didn't matter what he wore.
The Holmes' house was rather modest in comparison to what John had expected, which had been more along the lines of Oxford College. It was a large Victorian structure on the edge of town, and when they stepped inside, the foyer was full of caskets.
"Oh good," a young woman said, and clasped John's hand very tightly. "I'm so excited to finally meet you. I'm Fairhurst."
Fairhurst had honey-blonde hair that rose in wisps about her head. No eyebrows to speak of, large blue eyes, and skin that was nearly transparent. John could see the blue veins disappear into the short sleeves of her dress, and the effect was subtly erotic.
"Why are these here?" Sherlock demanded, about the caskets.
"They're Daddy's favorites," Fairhurst said.
"Obviously. I meant why are they here, in this room?"
A pained expression crossed Fairhurst's face. "Sherlock, surely," she began. "Daddy sold the business months ago." She turned to John. "He never keeps up. Come. Oh, I see you've brought cake."
In the parlour, John was introduced to Brightmore, Sherlock's younger brother. He was modern-looking, short dark hair and a T-shirt advertising a band John didn't recognize.
"You're going to need a drink," Brightmore said, and left to fetch him one, returning quickly.
A heavily pregnant woman folded Sherlock into a headlock and scrubbed his head with her knuckles. Sherlock frantically twisted free and retreated behind John, latching onto his jumper.
"You're going to need a Valium," said Brightmore, and left again.
The pregnant woman was Halding, another one of Sherlock's sisters, younger. She had bobbed blonde hair and was sipping a glass of white wine. "I'll bet he's said nothing about us," she said.
"I've already lied to Fairhurst about it, so please don't say anything."
Halding touched her finger to her nose. She reached around John and jabbed Sherlock sharply in the side. He squirmed away.
"Where's Sheraton?" he asked, a bit loudly.
Brightmore returned with a small pill. "Here you are," he said to Sherlock, who jumped.
"I don't want it!"
John quickly finished his drink.
The rest of the evening went like this:
Baignard arrived and gave John a sultry smile, which he returned. Sherlock spun John to face the wall.
John met Hannah, Sherlock's other brother Dixon's wife. She pointed out their two children, James and Emily.
"What about the little dark haired one?" John asked.
"Oh no, she's Mycroft's."
John choked.
Sherlock held out a tight fist and gave to his mother a filigree pendant in the shape of a fish. She put it on immediately.
Fairhurst introduced John to her father, Robert. "This is Sherlock's friend, Daddy."
"I used to beat him up all the time," said Halding.
"I taught him how to dress," said Baignard. That was obvious, actually.
"Sheraton, Mycroft, Dixon, Baignard, me, Halding, Fairhurst, Brightmore," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering about the room.
John had been wondering, but hadn't asked.
"For awhile we thought Sherlock would take over the business," said Dekerdanet. "He showed great interest for awhile. He used to help me do their hair and make up."
"He only wanted to see a dead body, Mum," said Baignard.
"Yes, Sherlock and his experiments."
"See, he's gone all autistic already."
"Baignard, that's not nice," said Fairhurst.
John led Sherlock outside for a moment. He stood with his eyes clenched shut, and John squeezed him tightly, which was scientifically proven to reduce anxiety.
"Alright?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
"I'm glad he's got a friend," Brightmore said. He had gotten a little bit drunk. "Not that - I mean, you know. I like Sherlock. He doesn't like me. But you can't take it personally. Not that you would. He doesn't like anyone. Except Sheraton. And you, obviously."
Mycroft thought Baignard should attempt a facsimile of decorum for once in her life. Baignard thought Mycroft's physical comportment was aesthetically offensive.
"Don't let it fool you, those two are like this," Halding said. She held up crossed fingers.
"After that incident, we had to keep the dead ones elsewhere. Oh, Sherlock was upset."
Halding asked, "Are you and my brother shagging?"
John said, "No."
Halding sipped her drink and looked mildly disappointed.
Of Sheraton, Baignard said, "She's very good with animals," looking at Sherlock.
"I've already chosen mine," said Robert. "I'll sell the rest once Dekerdanet decides. She fancies the walnut, I believe."
"Daddy, don't be morbid," Fairhurst said.
Mycroft's daughter stood on his foot, clinging to his leg as he walked about the room.
"Poor thing's practically an orphan," Baignard said, but it didn't seem that way.
"And that's not even including the time with the pudding - "
"Must you always bring that up?" Sherlock snapped.
Baignard played the piano, and did so brilliantly. There were requests for Sherlock to accompany, but he refused.
Sheraton entered the room and gave to Sherlock a small velvet box. He opened it, and his nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath. He turned his shoulder to the room.
"What is it?" Halding demanded, craning her neck. Sherlock snapped the box closed and put it in his breast pocket.
"What is it?" Halding asked Sheraton, who said, "It's a present for Sherlock."
"A colt, out of Silver Blaze," said Sheraton. She was very thin, with a greying short-cropped bob and a long-nosed, androgynous face. When you spoke to her, she listened.
"It's going well," said Dixon to Mycroft. "We'll have it finished in three months."
"Excellent," Mycroft said.
"He can't hold his liquor yet, he's just a boy. Help him upstairs, Dixon," said Dekerdanet.
"You're Sherlock's flatmate," Sheraton said.
John nodded.
Sheraton smiled softly and said, "Good."
*
At 5:15 on Sunday morning, John received a call from Fairhurst.
"I had such a wonderful time," she said. "I was so delighted to see you and Sherlock together."
John scrubbed one hand over his face and said, "Yes, it's wonderful."
Sherlock was in the kitchen with his saliva samples. "There's coffee," he offered, without looking up. It was yesterday's. John sniffed it, poured a mug, and put it in the microwave.
"Is she going to keep doing that?" he asked.
"Probably."
John studied Sherlock's face, cut sharply in the microscope's LED ring light. Somehow Sherlock looked best in LED.
Sherlock stilled in the way that meant he knew he was being observed. His eyes darted in John's direction. "I can't tell what you're thinking," he said.
"I'm thinking about ickle Sherlock running Frankenstein experiments on someone's poor dead mum."
"Hm."
The microwave beeped and John retrieved his coffee. He sipped it and winced. "This is great, I mean, I've got the whole day ahead of me!" It was dark out, still.
Sherlock added a drop of some esoteric solution to one of his samples. "If you need something to do, you can check the rotor on the centrifuge and balance these." He slid a rack of centrifuge tubes towards John. John took up the pipette.
"Should I be wearing gloves for this?"
"It's probably not necessary."
Half an hour later John stretched his arms above his head. "I'm hungry," he announced.
"The S and Q is open."
"Come with me."
Sherlock set a tube aside and jotted down some chemical formula. "This study is very sensitive. I cannot - "
"When you're done with your spit, then."
Sherlock looked at him. Then he said, "Ten minutes," and ignored John until that time was up.
"Are you going to tell me about the pudding incident, then?"
Sherlock did an about-face and started back towards the flat. John snagged his arm. "I'm kidding, I'm sorry," he said.
"If you think that having met my family gives you license to heckle me, then - "
"I'm sorry, I am. Come on."
Sherlock relented, and they continued wordlessly through the city that was only beginning to wake.
"They're really not that bad, your family. I quite like them," John said.
"Excellent. Next time you can go alone, and give them my regards."
"Um," John said. "I'll pass, thanks. I've a feeling the only reason they didn't take me to bits is because they were too busy taking the piss out of you."
"Hm," Sherlock intoned in something akin to a growl.
"I wouldn't say 'mostly evil,' but partially. Somewhat." It was obviously the wrong line of conversation, but John couldn't help himself. "Cromley knocked me for six! Is she really Mycroft's?"
"He wouldn't have brought along a child that didn't belong to him, obviously."
"No. That's - I know that. He just didn't strike me as the fatherly sort."
"Forgive me, John," Sherlock said, rather tersely, "but your limited insight could hardly penetrate the nature of such a man as Mycroft."
"Maybe not. Mycroft, no. Now you, on the other hand..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You're a man of simple pleasures." John nudged Sherlock's shoulder with his own. "Tea and mysteries, your two great loves."
Sherlock hesitated as though to speak, his lips parted, barely. Then he seemed to change his mind. "I enjoy the crossword, now and again," he said, after a pause.
"Oh yes, and the crossword. And the odd necromancy."
"I only tried to do that once, John!"
John laughed, softly. "I love the thought of you as a child. It seems so improbable."
He decided to let the topic drop, because Sherlock's distress was becoming evident. They lapsed into silence for awhile.
Spring was late in coming, and there was a bite to the air which passed for freshness in the city. The sun hadn't quite risen, and all of London was cast dimly in greys and shadows. It was the hour in which Sherlock's skin seemed its palest, his eyes their most muted blue. He was ethereal, almost, except for the part where he was so utterly and fallibly human. Sherlock anxiously thrust his hands into his pockets and glanced at John in that fleeting, sideways manner of his.
"You are being most remarkably unforthcoming this morning," he said.
John laughed. "I'm just happy, is all. I really am."
This time Sherlock looked at him fully, curiously at first. He crooked the small smile that John fancied was reserved for him, and then apparently he got caught up in some tangent thought because he stepped into traffic and was hit by a cab. This was fairly common, yet he still managed to look bewildered and slightly offended that such a thing had happened.
"Ow," he said, as John hoisted him up and dusted off his shoulders and sleeves.
"Alright. You're alright," John said, waving off the cabbie. "Just walk it off, mate."
They hobbled down the street together.
Coefficient