Sherlock: It Practically Gallops
Title: It Practically Gallops
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: John, Mycroft, Sherlock, OC
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: Sherlock is not the youngest Holmes brother.
A/N: This is from a kink meme prompt from like a hundred years ago, asking for a third Holmes brother played by Colin Morgan. Because, you know, this and this. The title is from (I think) Arsenic and Old Lace, though the joke may be older than that.
It Practically Gallops
by Mad Maudlin
John had gotten used to coming home to certain oddities living with Sherlock--heads in the fridge and the like. Usually, however, he had least had a chance to get in the front door and hang up his jacket before having to cope with them.
So when he heard Sherlock's name being shouted down the length of Baker Street, there was no hesitation before he broke into a run. The source of the commotion soon became clear--a lanky young man, barely out of his teens by the look of him, was pacing up and down in front of the door to 221, shouting and occasionally waving a fist at the window. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "I know you can hear me, you bastard, let me in! Sherlock...Sherlooooooooock...I know you're there, Sherlock...I'm going to die of exposure, Sherlock...!"
This did not actually seem likely; the kid was wearing one of those long black trench coats that usually signified potentially violent loner in television dramas, which flapped dramatically about him as he paced up and down in front of the door. That, plus the petulant whining, caused John to mentally revise his age estimate: eighteen, perhaps nineteen, an immature twenty at the oldest.
"Sherlock, I'm coming in whether you like it or not, d'you hear me?" the kid shouted. He suddenly crouched down in front of the door, flipping the expanse of his coat out behind him with a move that looked well-practiced. "I'm picking the locks now, Sherlock! Do you want me to pick the locks?"
John pulled up as he passed Speedy's, where the day shift manager was watching these proceedings warily, with one hand on her mobile and another on a cricket bat. He waved her back inside, and crossed the last few paces to where the kid was actually going at the front lock with what appeared to be a cunningly bent paperclip. It would've been funny if John hadn't seen what Sherlock could do with precisely the same materials. "And just what do you think you're doing?" John asked as he drew near.
The kid straightened up fast enough to sprain something; even without the thick-soled black boots he wore, he would've been several inches taller than John, and as it was he towered like a particularly slender beanpole. His eyes narrowed by the gelled spikes of his fringe. "You're the flatmate," he said, almost making an accusation of it.
"That's right," John said. "Dr. John Watson. And you are...?"
Instead of answering, the kid folded his arms across his chest. "Let me in, then," he said imperiously, in a tone that bore and uncanny resemblance to...actually, hang on a minute...
The upstairs window opened, and from somewhere within Sherlock snapped, "John, I forbid you to open that door."
"Ha!" The kid thrust a triumphant finger in the air. "I knew it! Now you have to let me in."
"No!" The window snapped shut with a rattle of glass.
"Sherlock!" the kid wailed, stamping one foot. "I'm bloody freezing out here!"
"Sherlock," John said, in far more measured tones, "I have to get in somehow, and if you think I'm going to--I don't know--shimmy up a drainpipe--" He froze as the kid's eyes lit up, and added hastily, "Which is not something I'd advise for anyone."
The kid glared at him, and set back to work with the paperclip.
John was genuinely torn for a moment, but concern for Mrs. Hudson's property--and his own not-insignificant desire to relax after a long day at the surgery--eventually trumped any concerns about Sherlock's behavior, which was well-nigh impossible to interpret on a good day. "Oh, get out of the way," he sighed, and pulled out his own keys.
Almost as soon as the door was open, the kid shoved his way inside, nearly knocking John over and taking the steps two at a time. From upstairs, John could hear Sherlock swearing, and the squeal of the springs in the couch. By the time he'd made it up himself, the kid was sprawled in such a way as to take up the maximum amount of brown leather real estate, and Sherlock was perched at his desk with a death grip on his violin and bow. They glared at each other, the kid haughty, Sherlock vaguely homicidal. It reminded John an awful lot of--wait--
"You could at least take off that horrible coat," Sherlock declared.
The kids shrugged it off his narrow shoulders, revealing a barely-there black t-shirt--no wonder he'd been complaining about the cold. He made no move to actually hang the coat up, and Sherlock sighed explosively, then set about applying rosin to his bow with brisk strokes that were probably not at all good for the horsehair.
Neither of them seemed inclined to explain anything to John, so he cleared his throat. "Right," he declared. "I'll just make some tea."
"Three sugars," the kid said.
"You are going to blow up like Mycroft," Sherlock said direly.
The kid rolled his eyes. "Nah, I'll just balance it out with cocaine and amphetamines like you." He made a move to reach for a book that one of them had left lying on the arm of the couch--Sherlock, most likely, because John generally didn't break the spines like that--but in a lightning-like move Sherlock whipped the bow around and rapped the kid soundly across the knuckles, just above his black-lacquered nails. He jerked his hand back with a wounded look, and Sherlock smiled a tiny, evil smile.
Tea. Lots of tea. And possibly one of Sherlock's nicotine patches, because John had never smoked but situations like this one made him want to start.
From the kitchen, he could hear the whole conversation--Sherlock made no effort to lower his voice and the kid apparently didn't care. "Why exactly have you run away from Oxford this time?" he asked.
"I'm thinking of dropping out," the kid said airily.
Sherlock huffed. "Do remember who you're talking to, my dear. If you wanted to shock someone, you should've gone running to Mycroft."
"If I wanted to talk to Mummy, you mean," the kid said sulkily.
"That would also be a valid option, and one that did not require me to deal with your adolescent tantrums."
(John manfully restrained a snort at this.)
There was a tremendous sigh, and it sounded as if the kid flopped over sideways on the couch. "It's nicer in there than I thought," he said, apropos of nothing. "Mycroft made it sound like a health hazard."
"Mycroft did visit shortly after a major bombing," Sherlock said, testy and oddly defensive.
"Have you really got a head in the fridge?"
"No."
"Can I see it?"
"No."
"Is it oozing?"
"Don't be disgusting."
John gathered the mugs up--his and Sherlock's in one hand--and by this point he was reasonably sure he'd gotten a handle on the situation. Or at least enough of a handle not to embarrass himself. "Are you planning to introduce your brother here, Sherlock?" he asked, setting the third mug down amid the detritus on the coffee table.
Sherlock sighed as if the word brother truly pained him. "Sherringford," he growled, and made a vague couch-ward gesture. "But I'm reasonably sure he was adopted."
"You've been saying that since I was three," declared Sherringford--Christ, the names in that family--where he was now sprawled lengthwise on the couch, still atop his crumpled coat. "When you weren't declaring you'd been adopted. Or kidnapped."
"It was a comforting fantasy at the time," Sherlock replied. He raised his violin and tested a few notes before adjusting the pegs minutely.
John had had the quiet moment necessary to get over his existential horror that oh god, there are three of them, and now that he considered it he could triangulate a bit of a family resemblance among the Holmeses. Sherringford had the same general build as Sherlock, and the same absurdly high cheekbones, but his eyes and hands favored Mycroft more. Though John's brain shut down in self-defense when he tried to imagine either of them with black nail lacquer, much less the eyeliner Sherringford was sporting, or the slender silver chain that was somehow hooked onto his belt.
The thought of Mycroft, however, made John check his watch. "How long do you think we've got until the SAS storm in to rescue him?" he asked Sherlock.
"Don't be an idiot," Sherringford said acidly.
Sherlock just shrugged. "At most, three hours."
Sherringford sighed the put-upon sigh of teenagers everywhere. "Mycroft isn't going to send in the SAS. Worst he's ever done is the police."
"To you, perhaps," Sherlock said, and John vowed to get that story out of him some time, later, in private. "At any rate, in three hours I shall be utterly infuriated with you to the point of physical violence, whether or not Mycroft intervenes, so that gives us a nice window of opportunity to discuss why you are once again threatening to drop out of university."
Sherringford actually pouted, and then looked at John. "Does he have to be here?"
John was wondering this himself, because he recognized that his only real interest here was little more than voyeurism; he ought to just take his tea and his laptop up to his room for a bit. But Sherlock blithely said, "Of course. Anything that can be said to me can be said in front of John. If he decides he likes you, he might even insult you on his blog."
Sherringford snickered while John tried to work out if that was a compliment or not. "At least I know the Earth goes 'round the sun," he said in a sing-song voice.
For once, that didn't seem to provoke Sherlock's wrath. "Yes, but what's the freezing point of the vitreous humor?"
"Ew," Sherringford pronounced flatly.
Sherlock seemed to think he'd made some sort of point with that; he gave another sharp rake of the bow across the strings, producing a discordant squawk, and smiled faintly. "So. You obviously haven't changed your clothes in the past twenty-four hours and have been spent most of that time riding on public transit, and your assortment of hoodlum friends have managed to connive you out of your pocket money, if they were any help at all. You've been clever enough not to use your credit or debit cards, as Mycroft no doubt keeps tabs on those accounts, but in addition to utterly failing to anticipate the weather or the cost of living in London you also forgot to bring along the cards linked to the accounts he doesn't know about, which means you are either here to beg for financial assistance in getting back to Oxford or a place to stay for the night, neither of which I am inclined to provide you."
Sherringford had sat up during the speech, and pulled his knees to his chest, hooking is boots on the edge of the table. He looked utterly mortified. "I'd settle for a sandwich," he muttered, and slurped his tea.
"I think we've got one of those," John said, preparing to stand up.
"Not yet," Sherlock said, stinging the words with a quick arpeggio. "Not until he explains just what has so stripped him of his reasoning ability. It isn't a girl, is it?"
"No," Sherringford said, and his ears went an alarming shade of scarlet.
"Boy?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"No," Sherringford said more fiercely. "God, why d'you always think it's about sex? You don't even...!" He made a vaguely obscene gesture and slopped a bit of tea onto his coat.
Sherlock lowered the violin again. "Because you are not an idiot, Sherringford," he said, possibly the first time John had ever heard him afford that compliment to anyone. "Sex is, to my knowledge, the only thing that has ever been able to so thoroughly carbonate your neurons as to make you behave like one of the brainless masses."
"Sorry about that," Sherringford snapped, and folded his arms tight across his chest. "Sorry I'm such a fucking disappointment."
For some reason, that word made Sherlock's shoulders go rigid. "That is not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
"Don't you dare presume to put words in my mouth."
They descended once again into icy silence, and John wasn't sure which was worse: to sit here and endure the hidden barbs threaded through the whole conversation, or to awkwardly make an escape. Sherlock attempted a few more notes on the violin, put it down, raised it again and then set it aside; he sipped his tea, made a face, and suddenly went into the kitchen.
Sherringford glared at his back and curled up even smaller on the couch. He managed to produce a phone from one of the pockets of his coat--an iPhone, John noted, and a fairly new one at that--and toyed with it a bit before tossing it carelessly aside. He made eye contact, and John tried a weak, awkward smile; Sherringford rolled his eyes.
They both stared when Sherlock came back into the sitting room with what appeared to be a badly-assembled cheese sandwich on a plate. He dropped this on the couch next to his brother and returned to his seat at the desk. "There. Eat."
"There's not any piss in it, is there?" Sherringford asked, prodding it warily. "He said you keep piss in the 'fridge, on the blog."
Sherlock glared at John. "Despite what Dr. Watson may believe about my housekeeping skills, I generally do not set out to accidentally poison my friends and relations."
"Only when we deserve it, then, yes?" John put in--he couldn't help himself.
"You," Sherlock said through grit teeth, "are not helping."
Sherringford put away the sandwich in approximately a bite and a half, then went back to his sulking pout. After a few minutes, he mumbled something against his knees.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked.
"I said I'm bored," Sherringford repeated, braying the word out in the exact same way that Sherlock was liable to after more than ten days without work. "Bored of Oxford. Bored of lectures and classes and exams that don't even bloody mean anything..."
"Then drop out," Sherlock said, as if this was the easiest thing in the world. "You will hardly be the first in the family to do so." Sherringford didn't react in any way that John could perceive, but suddenly Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "Ah. But that's precisely the problem, isn't it?"
"Stop it," Sherringford said.
"Stop what?"
"Stop deducing at me," he snapped. "Can't you pretend to have a soul for just a couple of minutes?"
"Soul. That's a new one." Sherlock sighed. "What would you have me do, then? Pat you on the back and tell you that it will all be all right? Sing you to sleep?"
He wasn't even being particularly nasty about it--positively gentle, really, going by John's experience--but Sherringford suddenly leaped to his feet, knocking books and dishes and papers off the table with a crash. "Fuck you," he declared. "I don't know why I bothered coming here, I don't know why I thought--" He snatched up his coat and fumbled with it, trying to find the sleeves out of the crumpled mess it had become.
Sherlock had jumped up as well. "If you'd calm down and explain yourself in a coherent manner--" He reached for his brother's arm, but Sherringford twisted away so violently he nearly fell over. He threw the coat down and, with another sneer at Sherlock, took off down the steps. John winced at the sound of the slamming door--at least Mrs. Hudson wasn't in.
Sherlock just stood in the middle of the sitting for a moment, breathing heavily; he reached up and tugged on his own hair for a moment, staring at the coat on the floor, and then the stairs, as if they were part of a particularly vexing case. Then he turned around and kicked his desk. "Impulsive, reckless, willful child!"
"Takes one to know one," John said, and knelt down to start picking up the debris from the table.
"Oh, don't you start," Sherlock said. He started pacing, heedless of the books, papers, broken china or hands that he might tread on in the process. "He's always been like this. You'd think we'd be immune to the psychology of birth order, given how widely spaced we are, but the little brat's been acting up for attention ever since he started verbalizing."
"How old is he, anyway?" John asked. "Doesn't look old enough to shave."
Sherlock snorted at that. "He's twenty-one going on twelve. Mummy's always spoiled him terribly, and Mycroft hardly helps, standing over his shoulder and swooping in the moment it looks like the poor baby's going to bruise."
John held back any comments he might've made about birth-order psychology, specifically middle child syndrome. Instead he asked, "What do you think upset him so much?"
"How should I know?" Sherlock asked, and tugged his own hair again, as if he could force emotional intelligence into his brain through phrenology. "My working hypothesis is that he's finally learned all the university can teach him, but is too proud to leave without his degree. Or too frightened of Mummy's reaction, considering how well she took it when I struck out on my own."
"What's he reading?" John asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.
Sherlock made a vague gesture. "Computer science. Possibly maths. He started out with engineering but that only lasted until Mycroft caught him building a nuclear reactor in the attic."
John froze in place and blinked. "Where the hell did he get the fuel for a nuclear reactor?"
"Certain types of antique pottery glazes contain detectable amounts of uranium," Sherlock said, like it was be common knowledge. "Look, this is all irrelevant. He obvious didn't come here to just to irritate me, as was my initial hypothesis, but if he's so bound up about his bloody courses he should just quit and be done with it. He wouldn't be the first person to make a fortune in computer science without a degree. Just look at...you know, that man. The one with the jumpers."
"Bill Gates?" John hazarded.
"Maybe. Irrelevant." Sherlock continued pacing.
John transferred the broken dishes to the bin and wondered how long they could conceal their demise from Mrs. Hudson. Not long, probably. He then looked back at the crumpled black coat. "You going to go looking for him?" he asked.
Sherlock grunted. "Please. In this weather? He's down in Speedy's, trying to look like a paying customer when he's really planning to shoplift a Red Bull. I can go fetch him any time I like."
"Do you think he wants you to?" John asked.
Sherlock flopped down his chair with all the melodrama of a twenty-one-year-old computer scientist. "He knows me. If he wanted emotional bonding or something, he should've gone home to Mummy."
"You know, I find the thought of those Christmas dinners more and more terrifying all the time," John told him. Then he shook out the long black coat and draped it over his arm. He had to juggle it a bit to get into his own jacket.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, blinking at him.
"Returning this," John said. "And hopefully talking some sense into your brother before he does something completely idiotic and Holmes-like."
"Hmmm." Sherlock slumped into the chair again. "Maybe it's for the best. You do have ample experience with irrationally self-destructive siblings."
"Not good, Sherlock," John said wearily.
"Oh." He blinked. "Sorry."
Just as John was about to turn the corner of the landing, something soft landed on his shoulder. He discovered it was Sherlock's scarf. He glanced up, but Sherlock had already disappeared back into the flat. Idiot, John thought wearily, but he folded the scarf up with the coat and continued to the sandwich shop.
Sherlock's deduction turned out to be only partly correct: Sherringford was indeed in Speedy's, but perched at the counter, charming the night-shift manager with a familiar fake smile while he tapped away at his iPhone. He appeared to have conned a coffee out of her already, and was probably trying for another sandwich.
The smile faltered when John took the stool next to him. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Thought you could use these," John responded mildly, passing him the coat and scarf. Sherringford looked very hard at the scarf, probably deducing exactly who, where, and (hopefully) why, before he deigned to put it on. It was, John noted, the only thing on him not black or silver. He shrugged the coat on it and went back to his phone. "What are you working on?" John asked.
"Hacking Sherlock's web site," Sherringford replied mildly.
John was surprised he could do that from an iPhone, but then again, he was aware that his computer skills began and ended with updating his blog. "You're not going to crash it, are you?" he asked warily.
Sherringford snorted. "He'll wish I had."
"Oh." John felt vaguely like he ought to be stopping that, but as there wasn't realistically anything he could do he settled for hoping that it wouldn't result in too dramatic of a breakdown on Sherlock's part.
After a few moments, Sherringford said, conversationally, "I kind of wish you were fucking Sherlock."
"And why is that?" John asked, after doing the necessary mental three-point turn.
He shrugged. "I like your blog. You're not as annoying as any of Mycroft's wives have been, and he's had three."
"Thanks," John said. "I think. Three?"
"Yeah." Sherringford set down the phone to sip his coffee. "I had to be an usher in all the weddings, too, but Sherlock always got out of it by insulting the bridal party or going to Turkey or something. Now I think he mostly just fucks his PA. Mycroft, I mean, not--"
"Yeah," John said, before this could devolve into some kind of tortured exegesis on the sex lives of various Holmeses. "So, er, Sherringford--"
"You can just call me Ford," he said, sneaking John a quick glance. "Or some of my mates call me Jeff, too."
John blinked. "Why Jeff?"
The sideways glance went on longer this time. "Because it's not 'Sherringford'?"
His estimation of the kid immediately went up a notch. "All right. Ford. I'm pretty crap at deduction, so I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark here as to why you're really bothering Sherlock. Are you pregnant?"
Sherringford--Ford--laughed at that. "No. Christ. Aren't you meant to be a doctor?"
"Are you on drugs?" John continued. "I have a pamphlet for that, if you are. It's quite informative."
"Nah." Ford toyed with his coffee, tilting the cup as far to one side as he could without spilling the dregs onto the counter. "Sherlock's done that one already."
John considered his next words carefully. "Embarked on a life of crime? Because it's not very bright to start that out by visiting a detective."
Ford made a rude noise at that. "That'd be a laugh, wouldn't it? Make my fortune stealing from overpaid bankers and defrauding the stock market. Mycroft wouldn't know where to start fixing it."
"He might not," John pointed out. "He might just leave you to hang."
"Shows what you know," Ford mumbled. His cup slipped and dribbled cold coffee onto the counter.
"Did he fix it for Sherlock, with the drugs?" John asked, because he'd always half-suspected. Ford just shrugged, which wasn't really an answer. "Does he always fix things for you?"
"Do they teach you the Socratic method in medical school?" Ford shot back.
John raised a hand in surrender. "I'm just asking."
"Well, don't." He crushed the coffee cup in his fist.
John gave him a moment, and then said. "So correct me if I'm wrong here. You Holmeses are good at that. You ran away from uni because you've got a problem, and you don't want Mycroft to fix it for you, and you don't want Sherlock explaining it to you before you even open your mouth. But you don't have any mates you trust, either, so you're listening to somebody you barely even know ask you silly questions and drinking crap coffee. I'm sorry," he told the girl at the counter, who had overheard, "but it's true." He looked back at Ford. "How'd I do?"
Ford's shoulders slumped so far that he looked like he might lose the coat again. He drummed his fingers on the counter top for a while, and exhaled noisily. "I need a thing," he declared.
"What sort of a thing?" John asked.
"If I knew what sort, I wouldn't be here," he snapped back. He reached up to tug on his hair with one hand, twisting the gel-laden mess into a frozen cowlick. "They've all got things. I need a thing. Else I'll just be another fuck-up who couldn't finish uni properly."
"A thing as in being a consulting detective or the secret ruler of the free world?" John asked, just to clarify. Ford gave him a withering look, which was adequate answer. "Right. Suppose it's a bit hard to follow up on a double act like that."
"Mummy thinks they're perfect," Ford said bitterly. "Well, she thinks Mycroft is perfect. She thinks Sherlock just need love and understanding. I don't know what I could do shock anyone short of international terrorism or a sex change, after they've lived through him."
John nodded. "You don't want to just shock people, though," he said. "It's not exactly a growth industry, unless you're on the telly."
Ford made a face that eloquently expressed what he thought of that idea.
"Exactly." John sort of wished for his own cup of coffee to toy with, but he wasn't going to risk the damage to his intestines that Speedy's coffee was liable to do. "And look. Sherlock and Mycroft may not remember a time before they had their grand life's work, but most people take a while to get around to it. Some people never do."
"I'm not most people, though," Ford said.
John might never have the chance to say this to either of the others, but he could tell Ford in all earnestness, "Oh, get over yourself." He was rewarded with a look of confused indignation. "Seriously. You want to piss people off? Be useless for a bit. Take a gap year. Volunteer. Date someone inadvisable. Be bloody boring. I don't know about Mycroft, but Sherlock would take it as a personal insult. It'll be hysterical."
Ford actually seemed to consider this. "Mycroft would kill me, though," he said reluctantly. "I'd be such a disappointment."
Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever said anything about Father Holmes in John's hearing, to the point where, if he hadn't known better, he'd have assumed they were the product of parthenogenesis or a sperm bank. (Actually, the latter might not be so hard to credit.) The point was, given the age gaps involved, Mycroft was probably more father than brother in Ford's mind, and John knew a thing or two about disappointing father figures. Probably more than Sherlock did.
"Mycroft will live," was all he said, and he patted Ford on the shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Ford shrugged him off, and kept toying with his crumpled coffee cup.
A moment later, John's phone went off with a text. He was tempted to ignore it, but Ford's went a moment later. John was willing to bet they were the same message. Mycroft en route. No confirmed SAS but caution is advisable. SH.
"Here we go," Ford said resignedly.
"Yep," John said. He left a five-pound note on the counter, more than enough to pay for Ford's coffee. "Follow me."
Ford blinked. "You're going to try to hide from Mycroft Holmes?"
"Sherlock's been giving me lessons," John said, and stood up. "Come on. If you're going to run away, you might as well do it properly."
Ford, after a moment of hesitation, followed him through Speedy's back room and out into the alley.
They evaded Mycroft and his minions for a full thirty minutes, which John thought must be some kind of record for people who weren't Sherlock. They ran and sneaked and took inadvisable short cuts, and Ford was panting like a dying man almost immediately, but what he lacked in endurance he made up with those insanely long limbs. He also, somehow, managed to shoplift a Red Bull somewhere along their route, which made John feel vaguely guilty, though since he hadn't seen where it came from he couldn't exactly go back and apologize.
Eventually, of course, they were boxed into an alley by a familiar black car. Ford gave an incoherent moan--or perhaps he was just too out of breath to talk--and threw his empty Red Bull can, bounding it off the roof. The driver glared at them as he got up to open the door.
Mycroft's PA was in the car. "We really have got to stop meeting like this," John said dryly, and she smiled at her Blackberry.
Ford killed any sense of victory John might've felt for that one by added, "You had sex with my brother on his desk today." The PA scowled, though she didn't glance up at Ford, either. John wondered if that was just the sort of thing that came naturally to Holmes men or if Sherlock had at some point given Ford lessons.
Mycroft and Sherlock were waiting back at Baker Street, and if the tension had been thick earlier, now John could practically swim in it. "Ah," Mycroft said, face stony. "There we are. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't come quietly."
"Eat lard," Ford suggested, flouncing onto the couch again.
Mycroft gave John an underwhelmed look. "Really, Dr. Watson, I expected you to be a better influence on the boy."
"He's not a boy," John felt compelled to point out, and there was a moment when all three of them were looking at him: Mycroft surprised, Ford wary, Sherlock with a funny twist of his mouth that John couldn't read. "And anyway, it would hard to be a worse one than he's already had."
"I teach him necessary life skills," Sherlock protested, as if John had accused him directly.
"You taught me how to make mustard gas from cleaning products," Ford muttered.
Mycroft blinked. "Is that what happened to the budgerigar?"
Sherlock scowled. "Well, it wasn't premeditated!"
"Obviously."
John cleared his throat loudly. "All right, you lot, try not to murder each other, I'll just be--"
"You're not going anywhere," Mycroft said.
At the same time, Sherlock said, "For god's sake, John, sit down."
And Ford said, "No, it's fine," with a look that was a little too pleading.
The overall effect was a bit like a blow to the head, and it wasn't helped by the intricate network of filthy looks the brothers exchanged among themselves the moment after. "Tea," John said awkwardly, and fled into the kitchen, where the only pale eyes that tracked his movements were in a jam jar and thus harmless.
There was silence in the sitting room for a moment, and then--
"I should have known."
"Should have known what?"
"The boy's practically imprinted on your dear Dr. Watson."
”My Dr. Watson?”
"I have not!"
"At any rate, you've overreacting."
"And I'm not a boy!"
"How you could possibly think it wise to permit him to go wandering all over London--"
"I permitted him to do nothing. His mistakes are entirely his own."
"Yeah, starting with coming here."
"Do you have any idea of the risks--"
"If I'd wanted you hovering over my shoulder--"
"Someday you will understand that chess with human pieces--"
John found a metal spoon and an empty saucepan and took them into the sitting room. He applied one to the other with extreme prejudice, until all three Holmeses were staring at him with potentially homicidal intent. "Right," he said. "Yellow cards all around. Do I need to invoke Robert's Rules of Order or something?"
"Mycroft cheats," Sherlock muttered, just a hair petulantly. John raised the spoon again, and with a roll of his eyes Sherlock subsided.
John carefully considered how to proceed. “Okay. Thirty seconds each to speak your piece. Mycroft goes first,” and he fixed a glare on the other two, “and if you interrupt him I’ll give him a minute.”
Mycroft’s mouth twisted down at a funny angle. “How generous of you, Dr. Watson.”
He made a show of tugging his sleeve back from his watch face. “Clock’s ticking, Mycroft.”
“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Sherringford, I’m disappointed in your perpetual lack of ambition. Mummy and I have afforded you nothing but the best opportunities your entire life, and so far your crowning achievement has been a computer virus that nearly crashed three European stock exchanges--yes, I know it was an accident,” he added, as Sherringford squirmed. “That is, frankly, part of what worries me. Your taste in friends thus far proving abominable, you are far too susceptible to the influences of unsavory characters. If you don’t know your own mind, you permit it to be dictated to you by others, and that is unacceptable.”
Sherlock made a very loud snorting noise, but John opted not to classify that as interruption. “Time,” he called. “Ford, your turn.”
“Why isn’t it my turn?” Sherlock demanded.
“Because it’s not your business,” Ford snapped.
Sherlock lifted his chin. “It’s my flat.”
“And my rules,” John declared, “and this is not a democracy.”
“Then I’m staging a coup,” Sherlock declared, and shook his sleeve back from his watch with a flourish. “Because if Mycroft doesn’t recognize the inherent contradictions of attempting to dictate the boy’s behavior so it won’t be dictated for him, he can add senility to disordered eating and megalomania. Sherringford’s mind is his own and life’s mistakes are his to make, and if Mycroft doesn’t want to push him into any of the more unusual ones he might reconsider the attempt to produce another exact clone of Father for the family portrait gallery. Given that Mummy survived my young adulthood, she can certainly surely survive his with equal equanimity, and a dose of real life with realistic consequences can have nothing but a positive effect on Sherringford’s character and ability to behave in an age-appropriate manner. Not that I can precisely fault him for his failures to date, but his potential ought to be obvious despite his being raised in captivity. The kindest thing we can possibly give him is the freedom to fall. Time.”
The words had been addressed in John’s direction, and nearly too rapid to distinguish, like an auctioneer’s banter, but Mycroft looked as if he’d been dosed with pickle brine and Ford’s face was a mix of shock and a sort of desperate adoration. Sherlock glanced in his direction briefly, then resumed a regal position with his fingers steepled below his chin; if his cheeks had gone very slightly pink, John did not dare say a word to it.
“Right,” he said instead, looking at Sherringford. “You need a minute to prepare some remarks?”
“I. Er.” He looked down at his hands. He was also looking a bit pink in the face all of a sudden. “Maybe?”
“I believe there was some discussion about a cup of tea,” Mycroft said with a Significant Look. John didn’t really want to leave the three of them unattended, but it seemed less awkward than standing about with his saucepan attempting to look threatening. The water in the kettle had gone lukewarm, so he had to boil it all over again, and hissed when the hot tea slopped over his knuckles as he juggled two mugs into each hand.
He delivered the tea in silence and then took a seat, between Sherlock and Mycroft, simply because it was the only available seat; though he would’ve preferred to get between Sherlock and Sherringford, since if violence was going to break out they were the most likely instigators. Or maybe not, given that last little speech. None of the brothers were making eye contact with one another: Mycroft was staring serenely out the windows, Sherlock had shut his eyes, and Ford was toying nervously with his iPhone. He set it aside as soon as John sat down, though, like he’d been waiting for a signal. “So,” he said. “Erm.”
“Tick tock," Mycroft said, and blinked benignly at the triple death glare he received in response.
”So,” Ford said rather more firmly. “Thank you, for the underlying sentiments, even if it is a little disturbing that you both think I’m such a fuck-up at real life. It’s not, not like I’m just doing this on a lark, you know. I’ve got, er, options.” He cleared his throat, and John wondered if he was talking about gap years and volunteering abroad, or if he really did have something more concrete on his mind--something too sensitive to talk about with a near stranger, something that neither Sherlock or Mycroft had let him get around to yet. “And I want--I’m going to do this, whether you like it or not." He lifted his chin. "And if I need your help, I'll ask for it. Promise. So...you don't have to, I dunno, protect me."
After he'd been silent for a moment, Mycroft said softly (and with a quick glance at John), "I believe that protecting you is part of our prerogative as elder brothers."
"He said protect, Mycroft, not seal in amber," Sherlock said with only a little bit of rancor.
Mycroft scowled again, and said, "I'm not entirely certain which of you two will be the death of me first."
"Sounds like a challenge," Sherlock said, with a small wink in Ford's direction. Ford's face flushed a little, and he smirked back.
Mycroft sighed and stood, adjusting his jacket minutely. "Fine," he declared. "I give you my blessing to write off the last three years of your education as a bad job, if that's what you're determined to do. I look forward to discovering what exactly you mean to do next. And whether you like it or not, I will be watching."
"That's what you think," Ford muttered.
Mycroft flounced out with half-hearted acknowledgment of Sherlock and John, and it immediately felt like there was slightly more air in the room. Ford raked a hand through his hair again, upsetting his gel job further. Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Well. That was precious, wasn't it? Now, when are you leaving?"
"Sherlock!" John blurted, but Ford didn't seem concerned. Perhaps they'd all hit their limit for emotional conversations for the day. "If you did want to stay a bit longer..."
"Nah," Ford said. "I'll get a hotel. Doesn't matter if Mycroft finds me now, does it?"
Sherlock whipped out his phone and started typing. "There's a hostel in Camden where the management owe me a rather large favor--"
"I can find one on my own," Ford said testily.
"Well, then," Sherlock said, and appeared to be at a loss for what to do next. He stood up and toyed with his rolled-up sleeves awkwardly before putting his hands behind his back.
Ford shifted from one foot to another awkwardly and reached for his phone again, to avoid Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock may have cleared his throat slightly. Ford started adjusting his jewelry.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," John said, and went into the kitchen to rinse out Mycroft's half-empty mug.
-\-\-\-
In the dark of a hotel room, Ford pulled out his phone and sent an email:
Hey Jim, it's Jeff. I wanted to ask if you were still interested in that thing? I might be free pretty soon and it sounded like a laugh. Let me know what you're up to?
A few minutes later, his phone vibrated with a reply.
Hey Jeff, so great to hear from you! As a matter of fact, you're the perfect solution to a little problem I was just thinking about. Meet me back in Oxford on Friday?
I'm in London actually, Ford typed back. Didn't you have a thing down here with some hospital? We could grab lunch tomorrow...
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: John, Mycroft, Sherlock, OC
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: Sherlock is not the youngest Holmes brother.
A/N: This is from a kink meme prompt from like a hundred years ago, asking for a third Holmes brother played by Colin Morgan. Because, you know, this and this. The title is from (I think) Arsenic and Old Lace, though the joke may be older than that.
It Practically Gallops
by Mad Maudlin
John had gotten used to coming home to certain oddities living with Sherlock--heads in the fridge and the like. Usually, however, he had least had a chance to get in the front door and hang up his jacket before having to cope with them.
So when he heard Sherlock's name being shouted down the length of Baker Street, there was no hesitation before he broke into a run. The source of the commotion soon became clear--a lanky young man, barely out of his teens by the look of him, was pacing up and down in front of the door to 221, shouting and occasionally waving a fist at the window. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "I know you can hear me, you bastard, let me in! Sherlock...Sherlooooooooock...I know you're there, Sherlock...I'm going to die of exposure, Sherlock...!"
This did not actually seem likely; the kid was wearing one of those long black trench coats that usually signified potentially violent loner in television dramas, which flapped dramatically about him as he paced up and down in front of the door. That, plus the petulant whining, caused John to mentally revise his age estimate: eighteen, perhaps nineteen, an immature twenty at the oldest.
"Sherlock, I'm coming in whether you like it or not, d'you hear me?" the kid shouted. He suddenly crouched down in front of the door, flipping the expanse of his coat out behind him with a move that looked well-practiced. "I'm picking the locks now, Sherlock! Do you want me to pick the locks?"
John pulled up as he passed Speedy's, where the day shift manager was watching these proceedings warily, with one hand on her mobile and another on a cricket bat. He waved her back inside, and crossed the last few paces to where the kid was actually going at the front lock with what appeared to be a cunningly bent paperclip. It would've been funny if John hadn't seen what Sherlock could do with precisely the same materials. "And just what do you think you're doing?" John asked as he drew near.
The kid straightened up fast enough to sprain something; even without the thick-soled black boots he wore, he would've been several inches taller than John, and as it was he towered like a particularly slender beanpole. His eyes narrowed by the gelled spikes of his fringe. "You're the flatmate," he said, almost making an accusation of it.
"That's right," John said. "Dr. John Watson. And you are...?"
Instead of answering, the kid folded his arms across his chest. "Let me in, then," he said imperiously, in a tone that bore and uncanny resemblance to...actually, hang on a minute...
The upstairs window opened, and from somewhere within Sherlock snapped, "John, I forbid you to open that door."
"Ha!" The kid thrust a triumphant finger in the air. "I knew it! Now you have to let me in."
"No!" The window snapped shut with a rattle of glass.
"Sherlock!" the kid wailed, stamping one foot. "I'm bloody freezing out here!"
"Sherlock," John said, in far more measured tones, "I have to get in somehow, and if you think I'm going to--I don't know--shimmy up a drainpipe--" He froze as the kid's eyes lit up, and added hastily, "Which is not something I'd advise for anyone."
The kid glared at him, and set back to work with the paperclip.
John was genuinely torn for a moment, but concern for Mrs. Hudson's property--and his own not-insignificant desire to relax after a long day at the surgery--eventually trumped any concerns about Sherlock's behavior, which was well-nigh impossible to interpret on a good day. "Oh, get out of the way," he sighed, and pulled out his own keys.
Almost as soon as the door was open, the kid shoved his way inside, nearly knocking John over and taking the steps two at a time. From upstairs, John could hear Sherlock swearing, and the squeal of the springs in the couch. By the time he'd made it up himself, the kid was sprawled in such a way as to take up the maximum amount of brown leather real estate, and Sherlock was perched at his desk with a death grip on his violin and bow. They glared at each other, the kid haughty, Sherlock vaguely homicidal. It reminded John an awful lot of--wait--
"You could at least take off that horrible coat," Sherlock declared.
The kids shrugged it off his narrow shoulders, revealing a barely-there black t-shirt--no wonder he'd been complaining about the cold. He made no move to actually hang the coat up, and Sherlock sighed explosively, then set about applying rosin to his bow with brisk strokes that were probably not at all good for the horsehair.
Neither of them seemed inclined to explain anything to John, so he cleared his throat. "Right," he declared. "I'll just make some tea."
"Three sugars," the kid said.
"You are going to blow up like Mycroft," Sherlock said direly.
The kid rolled his eyes. "Nah, I'll just balance it out with cocaine and amphetamines like you." He made a move to reach for a book that one of them had left lying on the arm of the couch--Sherlock, most likely, because John generally didn't break the spines like that--but in a lightning-like move Sherlock whipped the bow around and rapped the kid soundly across the knuckles, just above his black-lacquered nails. He jerked his hand back with a wounded look, and Sherlock smiled a tiny, evil smile.
Tea. Lots of tea. And possibly one of Sherlock's nicotine patches, because John had never smoked but situations like this one made him want to start.
From the kitchen, he could hear the whole conversation--Sherlock made no effort to lower his voice and the kid apparently didn't care. "Why exactly have you run away from Oxford this time?" he asked.
"I'm thinking of dropping out," the kid said airily.
Sherlock huffed. "Do remember who you're talking to, my dear. If you wanted to shock someone, you should've gone running to Mycroft."
"If I wanted to talk to Mummy, you mean," the kid said sulkily.
"That would also be a valid option, and one that did not require me to deal with your adolescent tantrums."
(John manfully restrained a snort at this.)
There was a tremendous sigh, and it sounded as if the kid flopped over sideways on the couch. "It's nicer in there than I thought," he said, apropos of nothing. "Mycroft made it sound like a health hazard."
"Mycroft did visit shortly after a major bombing," Sherlock said, testy and oddly defensive.
"Have you really got a head in the fridge?"
"No."
"Can I see it?"
"No."
"Is it oozing?"
"Don't be disgusting."
John gathered the mugs up--his and Sherlock's in one hand--and by this point he was reasonably sure he'd gotten a handle on the situation. Or at least enough of a handle not to embarrass himself. "Are you planning to introduce your brother here, Sherlock?" he asked, setting the third mug down amid the detritus on the coffee table.
Sherlock sighed as if the word brother truly pained him. "Sherringford," he growled, and made a vague couch-ward gesture. "But I'm reasonably sure he was adopted."
"You've been saying that since I was three," declared Sherringford--Christ, the names in that family--where he was now sprawled lengthwise on the couch, still atop his crumpled coat. "When you weren't declaring you'd been adopted. Or kidnapped."
"It was a comforting fantasy at the time," Sherlock replied. He raised his violin and tested a few notes before adjusting the pegs minutely.
John had had the quiet moment necessary to get over his existential horror that oh god, there are three of them, and now that he considered it he could triangulate a bit of a family resemblance among the Holmeses. Sherringford had the same general build as Sherlock, and the same absurdly high cheekbones, but his eyes and hands favored Mycroft more. Though John's brain shut down in self-defense when he tried to imagine either of them with black nail lacquer, much less the eyeliner Sherringford was sporting, or the slender silver chain that was somehow hooked onto his belt.
The thought of Mycroft, however, made John check his watch. "How long do you think we've got until the SAS storm in to rescue him?" he asked Sherlock.
"Don't be an idiot," Sherringford said acidly.
Sherlock just shrugged. "At most, three hours."
Sherringford sighed the put-upon sigh of teenagers everywhere. "Mycroft isn't going to send in the SAS. Worst he's ever done is the police."
"To you, perhaps," Sherlock said, and John vowed to get that story out of him some time, later, in private. "At any rate, in three hours I shall be utterly infuriated with you to the point of physical violence, whether or not Mycroft intervenes, so that gives us a nice window of opportunity to discuss why you are once again threatening to drop out of university."
Sherringford actually pouted, and then looked at John. "Does he have to be here?"
John was wondering this himself, because he recognized that his only real interest here was little more than voyeurism; he ought to just take his tea and his laptop up to his room for a bit. But Sherlock blithely said, "Of course. Anything that can be said to me can be said in front of John. If he decides he likes you, he might even insult you on his blog."
Sherringford snickered while John tried to work out if that was a compliment or not. "At least I know the Earth goes 'round the sun," he said in a sing-song voice.
For once, that didn't seem to provoke Sherlock's wrath. "Yes, but what's the freezing point of the vitreous humor?"
"Ew," Sherringford pronounced flatly.
Sherlock seemed to think he'd made some sort of point with that; he gave another sharp rake of the bow across the strings, producing a discordant squawk, and smiled faintly. "So. You obviously haven't changed your clothes in the past twenty-four hours and have been spent most of that time riding on public transit, and your assortment of hoodlum friends have managed to connive you out of your pocket money, if they were any help at all. You've been clever enough not to use your credit or debit cards, as Mycroft no doubt keeps tabs on those accounts, but in addition to utterly failing to anticipate the weather or the cost of living in London you also forgot to bring along the cards linked to the accounts he doesn't know about, which means you are either here to beg for financial assistance in getting back to Oxford or a place to stay for the night, neither of which I am inclined to provide you."
Sherringford had sat up during the speech, and pulled his knees to his chest, hooking is boots on the edge of the table. He looked utterly mortified. "I'd settle for a sandwich," he muttered, and slurped his tea.
"I think we've got one of those," John said, preparing to stand up.
"Not yet," Sherlock said, stinging the words with a quick arpeggio. "Not until he explains just what has so stripped him of his reasoning ability. It isn't a girl, is it?"
"No," Sherringford said, and his ears went an alarming shade of scarlet.
"Boy?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"No," Sherringford said more fiercely. "God, why d'you always think it's about sex? You don't even...!" He made a vaguely obscene gesture and slopped a bit of tea onto his coat.
Sherlock lowered the violin again. "Because you are not an idiot, Sherringford," he said, possibly the first time John had ever heard him afford that compliment to anyone. "Sex is, to my knowledge, the only thing that has ever been able to so thoroughly carbonate your neurons as to make you behave like one of the brainless masses."
"Sorry about that," Sherringford snapped, and folded his arms tight across his chest. "Sorry I'm such a fucking disappointment."
For some reason, that word made Sherlock's shoulders go rigid. "That is not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
"Don't you dare presume to put words in my mouth."
They descended once again into icy silence, and John wasn't sure which was worse: to sit here and endure the hidden barbs threaded through the whole conversation, or to awkwardly make an escape. Sherlock attempted a few more notes on the violin, put it down, raised it again and then set it aside; he sipped his tea, made a face, and suddenly went into the kitchen.
Sherringford glared at his back and curled up even smaller on the couch. He managed to produce a phone from one of the pockets of his coat--an iPhone, John noted, and a fairly new one at that--and toyed with it a bit before tossing it carelessly aside. He made eye contact, and John tried a weak, awkward smile; Sherringford rolled his eyes.
They both stared when Sherlock came back into the sitting room with what appeared to be a badly-assembled cheese sandwich on a plate. He dropped this on the couch next to his brother and returned to his seat at the desk. "There. Eat."
"There's not any piss in it, is there?" Sherringford asked, prodding it warily. "He said you keep piss in the 'fridge, on the blog."
Sherlock glared at John. "Despite what Dr. Watson may believe about my housekeeping skills, I generally do not set out to accidentally poison my friends and relations."
"Only when we deserve it, then, yes?" John put in--he couldn't help himself.
"You," Sherlock said through grit teeth, "are not helping."
Sherringford put away the sandwich in approximately a bite and a half, then went back to his sulking pout. After a few minutes, he mumbled something against his knees.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked.
"I said I'm bored," Sherringford repeated, braying the word out in the exact same way that Sherlock was liable to after more than ten days without work. "Bored of Oxford. Bored of lectures and classes and exams that don't even bloody mean anything..."
"Then drop out," Sherlock said, as if this was the easiest thing in the world. "You will hardly be the first in the family to do so." Sherringford didn't react in any way that John could perceive, but suddenly Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "Ah. But that's precisely the problem, isn't it?"
"Stop it," Sherringford said.
"Stop what?"
"Stop deducing at me," he snapped. "Can't you pretend to have a soul for just a couple of minutes?"
"Soul. That's a new one." Sherlock sighed. "What would you have me do, then? Pat you on the back and tell you that it will all be all right? Sing you to sleep?"
He wasn't even being particularly nasty about it--positively gentle, really, going by John's experience--but Sherringford suddenly leaped to his feet, knocking books and dishes and papers off the table with a crash. "Fuck you," he declared. "I don't know why I bothered coming here, I don't know why I thought--" He snatched up his coat and fumbled with it, trying to find the sleeves out of the crumpled mess it had become.
Sherlock had jumped up as well. "If you'd calm down and explain yourself in a coherent manner--" He reached for his brother's arm, but Sherringford twisted away so violently he nearly fell over. He threw the coat down and, with another sneer at Sherlock, took off down the steps. John winced at the sound of the slamming door--at least Mrs. Hudson wasn't in.
Sherlock just stood in the middle of the sitting for a moment, breathing heavily; he reached up and tugged on his own hair for a moment, staring at the coat on the floor, and then the stairs, as if they were part of a particularly vexing case. Then he turned around and kicked his desk. "Impulsive, reckless, willful child!"
"Takes one to know one," John said, and knelt down to start picking up the debris from the table.
"Oh, don't you start," Sherlock said. He started pacing, heedless of the books, papers, broken china or hands that he might tread on in the process. "He's always been like this. You'd think we'd be immune to the psychology of birth order, given how widely spaced we are, but the little brat's been acting up for attention ever since he started verbalizing."
"How old is he, anyway?" John asked. "Doesn't look old enough to shave."
Sherlock snorted at that. "He's twenty-one going on twelve. Mummy's always spoiled him terribly, and Mycroft hardly helps, standing over his shoulder and swooping in the moment it looks like the poor baby's going to bruise."
John held back any comments he might've made about birth-order psychology, specifically middle child syndrome. Instead he asked, "What do you think upset him so much?"
"How should I know?" Sherlock asked, and tugged his own hair again, as if he could force emotional intelligence into his brain through phrenology. "My working hypothesis is that he's finally learned all the university can teach him, but is too proud to leave without his degree. Or too frightened of Mummy's reaction, considering how well she took it when I struck out on my own."
"What's he reading?" John asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.
Sherlock made a vague gesture. "Computer science. Possibly maths. He started out with engineering but that only lasted until Mycroft caught him building a nuclear reactor in the attic."
John froze in place and blinked. "Where the hell did he get the fuel for a nuclear reactor?"
"Certain types of antique pottery glazes contain detectable amounts of uranium," Sherlock said, like it was be common knowledge. "Look, this is all irrelevant. He obvious didn't come here to just to irritate me, as was my initial hypothesis, but if he's so bound up about his bloody courses he should just quit and be done with it. He wouldn't be the first person to make a fortune in computer science without a degree. Just look at...you know, that man. The one with the jumpers."
"Bill Gates?" John hazarded.
"Maybe. Irrelevant." Sherlock continued pacing.
John transferred the broken dishes to the bin and wondered how long they could conceal their demise from Mrs. Hudson. Not long, probably. He then looked back at the crumpled black coat. "You going to go looking for him?" he asked.
Sherlock grunted. "Please. In this weather? He's down in Speedy's, trying to look like a paying customer when he's really planning to shoplift a Red Bull. I can go fetch him any time I like."
"Do you think he wants you to?" John asked.
Sherlock flopped down his chair with all the melodrama of a twenty-one-year-old computer scientist. "He knows me. If he wanted emotional bonding or something, he should've gone home to Mummy."
"You know, I find the thought of those Christmas dinners more and more terrifying all the time," John told him. Then he shook out the long black coat and draped it over his arm. He had to juggle it a bit to get into his own jacket.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, blinking at him.
"Returning this," John said. "And hopefully talking some sense into your brother before he does something completely idiotic and Holmes-like."
"Hmmm." Sherlock slumped into the chair again. "Maybe it's for the best. You do have ample experience with irrationally self-destructive siblings."
"Not good, Sherlock," John said wearily.
"Oh." He blinked. "Sorry."
Just as John was about to turn the corner of the landing, something soft landed on his shoulder. He discovered it was Sherlock's scarf. He glanced up, but Sherlock had already disappeared back into the flat. Idiot, John thought wearily, but he folded the scarf up with the coat and continued to the sandwich shop.
Sherlock's deduction turned out to be only partly correct: Sherringford was indeed in Speedy's, but perched at the counter, charming the night-shift manager with a familiar fake smile while he tapped away at his iPhone. He appeared to have conned a coffee out of her already, and was probably trying for another sandwich.
The smile faltered when John took the stool next to him. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Thought you could use these," John responded mildly, passing him the coat and scarf. Sherringford looked very hard at the scarf, probably deducing exactly who, where, and (hopefully) why, before he deigned to put it on. It was, John noted, the only thing on him not black or silver. He shrugged the coat on it and went back to his phone. "What are you working on?" John asked.
"Hacking Sherlock's web site," Sherringford replied mildly.
John was surprised he could do that from an iPhone, but then again, he was aware that his computer skills began and ended with updating his blog. "You're not going to crash it, are you?" he asked warily.
Sherringford snorted. "He'll wish I had."
"Oh." John felt vaguely like he ought to be stopping that, but as there wasn't realistically anything he could do he settled for hoping that it wouldn't result in too dramatic of a breakdown on Sherlock's part.
After a few moments, Sherringford said, conversationally, "I kind of wish you were fucking Sherlock."
"And why is that?" John asked, after doing the necessary mental three-point turn.
He shrugged. "I like your blog. You're not as annoying as any of Mycroft's wives have been, and he's had three."
"Thanks," John said. "I think. Three?"
"Yeah." Sherringford set down the phone to sip his coffee. "I had to be an usher in all the weddings, too, but Sherlock always got out of it by insulting the bridal party or going to Turkey or something. Now I think he mostly just fucks his PA. Mycroft, I mean, not--"
"Yeah," John said, before this could devolve into some kind of tortured exegesis on the sex lives of various Holmeses. "So, er, Sherringford--"
"You can just call me Ford," he said, sneaking John a quick glance. "Or some of my mates call me Jeff, too."
John blinked. "Why Jeff?"
The sideways glance went on longer this time. "Because it's not 'Sherringford'?"
His estimation of the kid immediately went up a notch. "All right. Ford. I'm pretty crap at deduction, so I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark here as to why you're really bothering Sherlock. Are you pregnant?"
Sherringford--Ford--laughed at that. "No. Christ. Aren't you meant to be a doctor?"
"Are you on drugs?" John continued. "I have a pamphlet for that, if you are. It's quite informative."
"Nah." Ford toyed with his coffee, tilting the cup as far to one side as he could without spilling the dregs onto the counter. "Sherlock's done that one already."
John considered his next words carefully. "Embarked on a life of crime? Because it's not very bright to start that out by visiting a detective."
Ford made a rude noise at that. "That'd be a laugh, wouldn't it? Make my fortune stealing from overpaid bankers and defrauding the stock market. Mycroft wouldn't know where to start fixing it."
"He might not," John pointed out. "He might just leave you to hang."
"Shows what you know," Ford mumbled. His cup slipped and dribbled cold coffee onto the counter.
"Did he fix it for Sherlock, with the drugs?" John asked, because he'd always half-suspected. Ford just shrugged, which wasn't really an answer. "Does he always fix things for you?"
"Do they teach you the Socratic method in medical school?" Ford shot back.
John raised a hand in surrender. "I'm just asking."
"Well, don't." He crushed the coffee cup in his fist.
John gave him a moment, and then said. "So correct me if I'm wrong here. You Holmeses are good at that. You ran away from uni because you've got a problem, and you don't want Mycroft to fix it for you, and you don't want Sherlock explaining it to you before you even open your mouth. But you don't have any mates you trust, either, so you're listening to somebody you barely even know ask you silly questions and drinking crap coffee. I'm sorry," he told the girl at the counter, who had overheard, "but it's true." He looked back at Ford. "How'd I do?"
Ford's shoulders slumped so far that he looked like he might lose the coat again. He drummed his fingers on the counter top for a while, and exhaled noisily. "I need a thing," he declared.
"What sort of a thing?" John asked.
"If I knew what sort, I wouldn't be here," he snapped back. He reached up to tug on his hair with one hand, twisting the gel-laden mess into a frozen cowlick. "They've all got things. I need a thing. Else I'll just be another fuck-up who couldn't finish uni properly."
"A thing as in being a consulting detective or the secret ruler of the free world?" John asked, just to clarify. Ford gave him a withering look, which was adequate answer. "Right. Suppose it's a bit hard to follow up on a double act like that."
"Mummy thinks they're perfect," Ford said bitterly. "Well, she thinks Mycroft is perfect. She thinks Sherlock just need love and understanding. I don't know what I could do shock anyone short of international terrorism or a sex change, after they've lived through him."
John nodded. "You don't want to just shock people, though," he said. "It's not exactly a growth industry, unless you're on the telly."
Ford made a face that eloquently expressed what he thought of that idea.
"Exactly." John sort of wished for his own cup of coffee to toy with, but he wasn't going to risk the damage to his intestines that Speedy's coffee was liable to do. "And look. Sherlock and Mycroft may not remember a time before they had their grand life's work, but most people take a while to get around to it. Some people never do."
"I'm not most people, though," Ford said.
John might never have the chance to say this to either of the others, but he could tell Ford in all earnestness, "Oh, get over yourself." He was rewarded with a look of confused indignation. "Seriously. You want to piss people off? Be useless for a bit. Take a gap year. Volunteer. Date someone inadvisable. Be bloody boring. I don't know about Mycroft, but Sherlock would take it as a personal insult. It'll be hysterical."
Ford actually seemed to consider this. "Mycroft would kill me, though," he said reluctantly. "I'd be such a disappointment."
Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever said anything about Father Holmes in John's hearing, to the point where, if he hadn't known better, he'd have assumed they were the product of parthenogenesis or a sperm bank. (Actually, the latter might not be so hard to credit.) The point was, given the age gaps involved, Mycroft was probably more father than brother in Ford's mind, and John knew a thing or two about disappointing father figures. Probably more than Sherlock did.
"Mycroft will live," was all he said, and he patted Ford on the shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Ford shrugged him off, and kept toying with his crumpled coffee cup.
A moment later, John's phone went off with a text. He was tempted to ignore it, but Ford's went a moment later. John was willing to bet they were the same message. Mycroft en route. No confirmed SAS but caution is advisable. SH.
"Here we go," Ford said resignedly.
"Yep," John said. He left a five-pound note on the counter, more than enough to pay for Ford's coffee. "Follow me."
Ford blinked. "You're going to try to hide from Mycroft Holmes?"
"Sherlock's been giving me lessons," John said, and stood up. "Come on. If you're going to run away, you might as well do it properly."
Ford, after a moment of hesitation, followed him through Speedy's back room and out into the alley.
They evaded Mycroft and his minions for a full thirty minutes, which John thought must be some kind of record for people who weren't Sherlock. They ran and sneaked and took inadvisable short cuts, and Ford was panting like a dying man almost immediately, but what he lacked in endurance he made up with those insanely long limbs. He also, somehow, managed to shoplift a Red Bull somewhere along their route, which made John feel vaguely guilty, though since he hadn't seen where it came from he couldn't exactly go back and apologize.
Eventually, of course, they were boxed into an alley by a familiar black car. Ford gave an incoherent moan--or perhaps he was just too out of breath to talk--and threw his empty Red Bull can, bounding it off the roof. The driver glared at them as he got up to open the door.
Mycroft's PA was in the car. "We really have got to stop meeting like this," John said dryly, and she smiled at her Blackberry.
Ford killed any sense of victory John might've felt for that one by added, "You had sex with my brother on his desk today." The PA scowled, though she didn't glance up at Ford, either. John wondered if that was just the sort of thing that came naturally to Holmes men or if Sherlock had at some point given Ford lessons.
Mycroft and Sherlock were waiting back at Baker Street, and if the tension had been thick earlier, now John could practically swim in it. "Ah," Mycroft said, face stony. "There we are. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't come quietly."
"Eat lard," Ford suggested, flouncing onto the couch again.
Mycroft gave John an underwhelmed look. "Really, Dr. Watson, I expected you to be a better influence on the boy."
"He's not a boy," John felt compelled to point out, and there was a moment when all three of them were looking at him: Mycroft surprised, Ford wary, Sherlock with a funny twist of his mouth that John couldn't read. "And anyway, it would hard to be a worse one than he's already had."
"I teach him necessary life skills," Sherlock protested, as if John had accused him directly.
"You taught me how to make mustard gas from cleaning products," Ford muttered.
Mycroft blinked. "Is that what happened to the budgerigar?"
Sherlock scowled. "Well, it wasn't premeditated!"
"Obviously."
John cleared his throat loudly. "All right, you lot, try not to murder each other, I'll just be--"
"You're not going anywhere," Mycroft said.
At the same time, Sherlock said, "For god's sake, John, sit down."
And Ford said, "No, it's fine," with a look that was a little too pleading.
The overall effect was a bit like a blow to the head, and it wasn't helped by the intricate network of filthy looks the brothers exchanged among themselves the moment after. "Tea," John said awkwardly, and fled into the kitchen, where the only pale eyes that tracked his movements were in a jam jar and thus harmless.
There was silence in the sitting room for a moment, and then--
"I should have known."
"Should have known what?"
"The boy's practically imprinted on your dear Dr. Watson."
”My Dr. Watson?”
"I have not!"
"At any rate, you've overreacting."
"And I'm not a boy!"
"How you could possibly think it wise to permit him to go wandering all over London--"
"I permitted him to do nothing. His mistakes are entirely his own."
"Yeah, starting with coming here."
"Do you have any idea of the risks--"
"If I'd wanted you hovering over my shoulder--"
"Someday you will understand that chess with human pieces--"
John found a metal spoon and an empty saucepan and took them into the sitting room. He applied one to the other with extreme prejudice, until all three Holmeses were staring at him with potentially homicidal intent. "Right," he said. "Yellow cards all around. Do I need to invoke Robert's Rules of Order or something?"
"Mycroft cheats," Sherlock muttered, just a hair petulantly. John raised the spoon again, and with a roll of his eyes Sherlock subsided.
John carefully considered how to proceed. “Okay. Thirty seconds each to speak your piece. Mycroft goes first,” and he fixed a glare on the other two, “and if you interrupt him I’ll give him a minute.”
Mycroft’s mouth twisted down at a funny angle. “How generous of you, Dr. Watson.”
He made a show of tugging his sleeve back from his watch face. “Clock’s ticking, Mycroft.”
“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Sherringford, I’m disappointed in your perpetual lack of ambition. Mummy and I have afforded you nothing but the best opportunities your entire life, and so far your crowning achievement has been a computer virus that nearly crashed three European stock exchanges--yes, I know it was an accident,” he added, as Sherringford squirmed. “That is, frankly, part of what worries me. Your taste in friends thus far proving abominable, you are far too susceptible to the influences of unsavory characters. If you don’t know your own mind, you permit it to be dictated to you by others, and that is unacceptable.”
Sherlock made a very loud snorting noise, but John opted not to classify that as interruption. “Time,” he called. “Ford, your turn.”
“Why isn’t it my turn?” Sherlock demanded.
“Because it’s not your business,” Ford snapped.
Sherlock lifted his chin. “It’s my flat.”
“And my rules,” John declared, “and this is not a democracy.”
“Then I’m staging a coup,” Sherlock declared, and shook his sleeve back from his watch with a flourish. “Because if Mycroft doesn’t recognize the inherent contradictions of attempting to dictate the boy’s behavior so it won’t be dictated for him, he can add senility to disordered eating and megalomania. Sherringford’s mind is his own and life’s mistakes are his to make, and if Mycroft doesn’t want to push him into any of the more unusual ones he might reconsider the attempt to produce another exact clone of Father for the family portrait gallery. Given that Mummy survived my young adulthood, she can certainly surely survive his with equal equanimity, and a dose of real life with realistic consequences can have nothing but a positive effect on Sherringford’s character and ability to behave in an age-appropriate manner. Not that I can precisely fault him for his failures to date, but his potential ought to be obvious despite his being raised in captivity. The kindest thing we can possibly give him is the freedom to fall. Time.”
The words had been addressed in John’s direction, and nearly too rapid to distinguish, like an auctioneer’s banter, but Mycroft looked as if he’d been dosed with pickle brine and Ford’s face was a mix of shock and a sort of desperate adoration. Sherlock glanced in his direction briefly, then resumed a regal position with his fingers steepled below his chin; if his cheeks had gone very slightly pink, John did not dare say a word to it.
“Right,” he said instead, looking at Sherringford. “You need a minute to prepare some remarks?”
“I. Er.” He looked down at his hands. He was also looking a bit pink in the face all of a sudden. “Maybe?”
“I believe there was some discussion about a cup of tea,” Mycroft said with a Significant Look. John didn’t really want to leave the three of them unattended, but it seemed less awkward than standing about with his saucepan attempting to look threatening. The water in the kettle had gone lukewarm, so he had to boil it all over again, and hissed when the hot tea slopped over his knuckles as he juggled two mugs into each hand.
He delivered the tea in silence and then took a seat, between Sherlock and Mycroft, simply because it was the only available seat; though he would’ve preferred to get between Sherlock and Sherringford, since if violence was going to break out they were the most likely instigators. Or maybe not, given that last little speech. None of the brothers were making eye contact with one another: Mycroft was staring serenely out the windows, Sherlock had shut his eyes, and Ford was toying nervously with his iPhone. He set it aside as soon as John sat down, though, like he’d been waiting for a signal. “So,” he said. “Erm.”
“Tick tock," Mycroft said, and blinked benignly at the triple death glare he received in response.
”So,” Ford said rather more firmly. “Thank you, for the underlying sentiments, even if it is a little disturbing that you both think I’m such a fuck-up at real life. It’s not, not like I’m just doing this on a lark, you know. I’ve got, er, options.” He cleared his throat, and John wondered if he was talking about gap years and volunteering abroad, or if he really did have something more concrete on his mind--something too sensitive to talk about with a near stranger, something that neither Sherlock or Mycroft had let him get around to yet. “And I want--I’m going to do this, whether you like it or not." He lifted his chin. "And if I need your help, I'll ask for it. Promise. So...you don't have to, I dunno, protect me."
After he'd been silent for a moment, Mycroft said softly (and with a quick glance at John), "I believe that protecting you is part of our prerogative as elder brothers."
"He said protect, Mycroft, not seal in amber," Sherlock said with only a little bit of rancor.
Mycroft scowled again, and said, "I'm not entirely certain which of you two will be the death of me first."
"Sounds like a challenge," Sherlock said, with a small wink in Ford's direction. Ford's face flushed a little, and he smirked back.
Mycroft sighed and stood, adjusting his jacket minutely. "Fine," he declared. "I give you my blessing to write off the last three years of your education as a bad job, if that's what you're determined to do. I look forward to discovering what exactly you mean to do next. And whether you like it or not, I will be watching."
"That's what you think," Ford muttered.
Mycroft flounced out with half-hearted acknowledgment of Sherlock and John, and it immediately felt like there was slightly more air in the room. Ford raked a hand through his hair again, upsetting his gel job further. Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Well. That was precious, wasn't it? Now, when are you leaving?"
"Sherlock!" John blurted, but Ford didn't seem concerned. Perhaps they'd all hit their limit for emotional conversations for the day. "If you did want to stay a bit longer..."
"Nah," Ford said. "I'll get a hotel. Doesn't matter if Mycroft finds me now, does it?"
Sherlock whipped out his phone and started typing. "There's a hostel in Camden where the management owe me a rather large favor--"
"I can find one on my own," Ford said testily.
"Well, then," Sherlock said, and appeared to be at a loss for what to do next. He stood up and toyed with his rolled-up sleeves awkwardly before putting his hands behind his back.
Ford shifted from one foot to another awkwardly and reached for his phone again, to avoid Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock may have cleared his throat slightly. Ford started adjusting his jewelry.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," John said, and went into the kitchen to rinse out Mycroft's half-empty mug.
-\-\-\-
In the dark of a hotel room, Ford pulled out his phone and sent an email:
Hey Jim, it's Jeff. I wanted to ask if you were still interested in that thing? I might be free pretty soon and it sounded like a laugh. Let me know what you're up to?
A few minutes later, his phone vibrated with a reply.
Hey Jeff, so great to hear from you! As a matter of fact, you're the perfect solution to a little problem I was just thinking about. Meet me back in Oxford on Friday?
I'm in London actually, Ford typed back. Didn't you have a thing down here with some hospital? We could grab lunch tomorrow...