The murky evening falls into a black, stifling night, the wind bumping against the window pane and howling around the painted fascias. Rain continues to flick at the glassâevery now and again, Y/N can hear Mrs Holmes mutter worriedly from the kitchen:
"Goodness, my poor geraniums!"
Despite their argument, Mycroft lets Y/N and Sherlock continue painting him, perhaps because he's afraid to stand up and tip several grams of makeup onto the rug. Trapped, he sits motionlessly as they dab and draw, Y/N's giggles and Sherlock's deep chuckles bouncing off the stone walls.
"Lads, your mother and I are justâoh."
Mr Holmes appears to have finally clambered down from the attic because his face has popped around the doorway. He has to duck to do so. Taller than Sherlock but shorter than Mycroft, the Musgrave's old doors were built for the stubby stature of an 1800s manânot lanky, six-foot-plus Holmses.
Framed by the painted yellow jamb, he's holding a bundle of papers, and kitted up in wellie boots, waterproof trousers, and a rain-mac. He's still got a surprising amount of hairâfor his ageâalthough it is now completely white and tucked under a plastic hood. His cheeks, high and sharp like his son's, also remain healthily ruddy, and his blue, almond-shaped eyes twinkle with mischief like a man in his twenties. Although his gangly body more closely resembles Mycroft's, he has Sherlock's wide, toothy grin as he says:
"What's going on here, then?"
Mycroft stares up at his father from the floor, his mouth falling open. His mascara-coated lashes blink as he says something wordlesslyâsomething that might be a Morse code plea for help.
Sherlock and Y/N exchange a look. Both of their hands are raised, a sponge coated in something orange in Sherlock's, and a ruby red lipstick in Y/N's. Clearing their throats, they lower them guiltily.
"Hi, Dad."
"Hello, Mr Holmes." Y/N glances at what they've done to his eldest son, and smiles sheepishly. "Thank you for having me in your home."
"Please, call me Charles. Or Dad." He throws a wink at Sherlock, who groans, his cheeks turning almost as red as Mycroft's rouge.
"Dad, I told you, we're notâ"
Y/N just giggles. She has quickly learnt that Mr Holmes cannot go a whole conversation without tormenting at least one of his childrenâa goal she is willing to help him achieve.
"We've decorated Mycroft," she explains, gesturing to him. "Don't you think he looks pretty?"
Charles nods approvingly. "Yes, I think it's a tremendous improvementâbut he needs more eye shadow; brighten that frown up a bit."
"Yes, Sir." Sherlock gives a pleased little salute and starts rummaging in the makeup bag.
"Did you finish what you were doing in the attic?" Y/N asks.
Charles frowns. "What? Oh, yes. No, I got a little distracted, I'm afraid."
"Of course you did."
Ignoring his eldest son, he holds out the bundle of papers.
"Look what I found!"
Y/N narrows her eyes at the scrawling, spidery handwriting. Turning a time-yellowed page over, then another:
"...Is this...?"
"A blueprint for an electric car battery? Yes, ma'am."
"But this says it was written seventy years ago."
"I know. I found it stuffed at the bottom of a box. I think it was Michael's." Turning to Mycroft:
"He was your...what? Great grandfather? There were also a whole bunch of letters addressed to your grandma from David Bowie." He winks. "They're pretty saucy; I think they might have been an item."
"Wait," Y/N says, holding her hands up as though trying to pause time for a moment. "You had the blueprints for the first electric car battery just...sitting in your attic?"
"I guess so. There's all sorts up there."
"Well, what the hell is it doing up there?! You should send this toâI don't know. A museum? A scientist? Someone!" Y/N exclaims, waving the papers almost frantically, but Charles just bats her away.
"Oh, I don't want to bother them."
"Bother themâ?!"
Sherlock places a heavy hand on Y/N's shoulder. "It's easier if you just let it go."
"Butâ!"
He gives a comforting squeeze. "I know. Trust me...I know," he sighs, then looks back up at his father. "Hey, Dad, why are you wearing a rainmac? You're not going outside, are you? It's chucking it down."
"I'm afraid so." He runs a hand through his shock of white hair.
Somewhere between Mycroft's flat, straight strands and Sherlock's thick, bouncy curls, it's sort of wavy, and now protrudes messily from below his hood.
"Mrs Noosted down the road has a leaky roof, so your mother and I are just popping over to help her save a stamp collection. When you're done here, Myc, would you mind finishing dinner?"
Mrs Holmse's voice suddenly screeches from the hallway:
"Tell him I started a crumble! But the topping needs doing! Charles! Charles? Did you hear me?"
"I think they heard you in China, Wendy, darling," he hollers back. "You got that, Myc?"
"Yes, Father."
A text tone Y/N hadn't heard since 2006 starts emanating from Mr Holmes' Barbour anorak, and he begins rummaging through his many layers. Eventually, he pulls out a little fat Nokia, and squints at it.
"Don't you think it's time you got a new phone, Dad?" Sherlock sighs.
"And be a slave to short wavelength blue light? I'd rather keep my circadian rhythm, thank you." He snorts a laugh, and Mycroft adds:
"But you can't see the screen."
"That's not the phone's problem, that's my brain's problem. It needs to get better at remembering where it left my glasses."
Somehow, he must have managed to decipher the tiny letters held a meter from his face, because he suddenly seems to get a wriggle on. Stooping, he hurredly kisses the top of Mycroft, Sherlock, and Y/N's head in turn, and slips his phone back into his pocket.
"Right, loves, I must be offâMrs Noostead says the water's creeping towards her Penny Blacks. Keep up the good work."
"Good luck, Father."
"Bye Dad."
"Bye, Dad."
"Did you just---?"
"What? He said I could!"
His expression friendly, Mycroft watches his father leave with a little wave. Then, as soon as the door thumps shut, he turns to Y/N and Sherlock, scowling.
"What?" Y/N asks.
Mycroft is a remarkably composed man for someone with a stressful job, germaphobia, and very obvious OCD. His sun-starved face is often creased into a disdainful frownâbut it's rarely rucked up in genuine anger. His lip-tint-stained lip twitches like an angry dog, exposing his pointy, vampire-like canines.
Y/N shifts uncomfortably. "I don't get what the big deal is; he didn't seem to mind."
"Of course, he didn't mind: he's deranged," Sherlock points out. "The first thing he said to me when I got here this morning was 'Son, do you remember when you were a lad, I took you to see that bear on a unicycle?' and I said 'Yes. What has that got to do with anything?' and he said 'Nothing. It just popped into my head."
Y/N's brows knit over her nose. "I didn't think they were allowed to have animals in circuses anymore?"
"I never said it was at a circus."
Mycroft doesn't seem to be listening. He's muttering something as he pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket. "I don't know why I ever agreed to this," he grumbles, drawing the handkerchief to his faceâ
But he stops just before it makes contact with his orange cheek.
He hesitates, his pale eyes sliding over the delicately stitched monogram.
Then, with a sigh, he refolds it. Tucking the crisp material back into where it came:
"Y/N, how do I get this shit off?"
"Aw, come on, just because your dad saw youâ"
"It's not about that, it's about the principal of the thing," he snaps, and Y/N and Sherlock nod sarcastically.
"Ohhh, I see," they mock in unison. "It's the principal."
"Good god, now there's two of them." He closes his eyes as if counting to ten. When he opens them, he seems to have a little trouble peeling his mascara-coated lashes apart. "This stuff is insane!" He winces in disbelief. "I can't even blink! The military could use this as chemical weaponry!"
"To be fair, Y/N points out, "we did put way too much on."
"Well, now it's time to take it off. You heard Father; someone needs to be an adult in this house."
"But I didn't get to use this red stuff!" Sherlock protests miserably, but his older brother shakes his head.
"If you don't let me go, you won't get any dinner. I think Mother mentioned a crumble."
Sherlock closes his mouth obediently.
He likes crumble.
"Are you going to make custard to go with it?" Y/N asks hopefully. She also likes Wendy's crumbleâand Mycroft is surprisingly adept in the kitchen.
"I might consider it---if you set me free."
Forcing her legs to push her up off the carpet, Y/N stands with a sigh. "Fine, come on. I'm sure your mum has some makeup remover somewhere."
More full of energy than Mycroft has ever been, his long legs unfold like a wooden fan, and he springs to his feet.
When Sherlock slouches after him, he leaps backwards.
"Jesus, Sherlock, it's all over your hands! What on Earth were you doing?"
"What do you mean, what was I doing? You were there."
"I mean, you've got it everywhere! Look at Y/N; she's spotless!"
"What can I say?" Sherlock drawls as the march up the stairs. "I'm a free spirit."
"Just don't touch anything!"
"I'm not going to touch anything." But he nudge's Y/N's side and, carefully with a finger outstretched, he pokes the back of Mycroft's shirt.
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"I felt something."
"Mycroft felt something? God, someone alert BBC news!"
Y/N chokes down a smile.
...
It's so dark outside, the only clue it's raining is the constant, insistent tapping sound against the window pane. It gets darker the closer they get to Mycroft's bedroom, too.
There's a long, floor-to-ceiling window at each end of the hallwayâthe one at Sherlocks end (usually) looks out over the vibrant front garden, and miles of smooth, green farmland.
Mycroft's end of the house is sunk back into the woodland. Year by year, the trees encroach ever closer, their leaves casting those few damp bedrooms into green, sunlight-dappled shade. In the breeze, their branches tap at the glass like fingers and, on a dry days, Mr and Mrs Holmes leave it ajar so Eggsâa friendly neighbourhood catâcan visit at willâ
However, with the storm battering the house from all angles, it's latched firmly closed today.
Y/N hopes she's curled up on her owner's lap, somewhere warm and dry.
The old floorboards creak as thee pairs of feet pass over them, and the wind moans as it struggles to heave itself up over the roof.
Suddenly, Mycroft comes to a halt, and Sherlock almost bowls him over like a labrador trampling a whippet.
Forgetting his make-up-stained hands, he manages to catch his older brother by the forearms, and plonks him upright again.
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, you're such an oaf," Mycroft mumbles, straightening his ruffled feathers.
"It wasn't my fault!" Sherlock snaps. "What the hell were you doing?"
"I was looking at my socks!"
Indeed, his head is angled down to frown at his feet. His socks are not black anymore; they're sparkling as if he's just marched in a gay pride parade.
"My trousers appear to be leaking glitter."
Sherlock's lip twitches. "What an interesting way to announce you've pissed yourself."
At the back of the queue, Y/N leans around Sherlock's broad shoulders.
Under the bright light of the hallway, she realises Mycroft is a lot more powder-flecked than she has initially thought:
His shirt collar is freckled with foundation like a prolific outbreak of melanoma. There's a dollop of his mother's tan-coloured concealer dribbling down his left shoulder, and---
"Sherlock!" Y/N hisses desperately, even though it's much too late. "Stop touching things!"
"What? Why?" Mycroft spins on the spot, angling his gangly arms this way and that---he looks like a broken animatronic. "What has he done?"
Then he finds them.
Two colourful hand prints stand out against his starched, white sleeves and he groans.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
"Hey, it's not that bad,"Â Y/N soothes---then realises, curiously, that she's using the same voice she uses when baby-sitting John Watson's little girl.
An old roomate---and now an old friend---John often leaves his daughter in the welcoming walls of 221B while he works nights at the surgery. Barley two years old, Rosie often falls over and scrapes her chubby knees, or licks an icecream so vigorously it topples off it's cone and falls---with a splat---into her lap. Looking not unlike Mycroft, she'll blink at her ruined overalls for a moment. Then her lip will start wobbling, and Y/N will scoop her up and say quickly:
"It'll come out in the wash, I promise. Come on, let's get you some clothes."
"Oh, thank you," Mycroft grumbles crossly. "How charitable! You're going to trade my 'Gieves & Hawkes' attire for a---what? A 'fit from 'Hollister'? What an upgrade!"
"Hey, at least I'm trying to---Wait, did you just use slang?"
Although the house is long, it is also narrow, and she has to squeeze past Sherlock and then Mycroft to get to the front of the group. Careful to avoid her flatmate's colourful palms, she flattens herself against the wallpaperâ
But he chases her with them anyway, a grin on his lips.
She ducks with a squeak, and Mycroft sniffs disaprovingly.
"I am aware of popular culture. I live in central London, I'm not a recluse."
"Wait, you're not?" Sherlock's brows genuinely furrow. "Everyone thinks you are. Mother even bought a self-help book. What was it called? 'Help, My Son Is A Hermint'?"
"Prat."
"Well, okay, maybe it didn't have that exact title, but it was something along those lines. And, every now and again, she makes the wellfair people come around and check on you."
Mycroft stops in the doorway, his eyes wide. "So she's responsible for those home-invasions!"
"Not home invasions," Sherlock points out gleefully. "Wellfair checks."
"That bloody woman---"
Besides a double bed, some bedside tables, and a tall, fat wardrobe, Sherlock's old room looks more like that of a cosy B&B than a childhood bedroom. There aren't many trinkets left on the shelves or pictures on the walls because most of them now live at 221B. There's a gap where a desk would fit perfectlyâ--and did, once upon a timeâbut he took it with him when he moved out, along with a chest of drawers and a credenza.
The desk now sits below the livingroom window back home, weighed down by music sheets, case notes, and the old laptop he refuses to part with. The chest of drawers has found a spot in his present bedroom, and Y/N stares at the credenza every day, because it supports the television.
"Can I open this?" she gestures to his duffle bag sat on the bed. "Or have you brought something horrible in a jar again?"
"I told you, that was for an experiment!  But if you must."
Instructing Sherlock and Mycroft to stay where they are (because they're leaving a feint trail of pigment and glitter on the rug), Y/N begins rumaging.
Sherlock rarley brings his button-up shirts to his parent's. He did wear the full dress-trousers-and-jacket combo onceâbut hat was because he was secretly working a case in the next town over.
No, as Y/N rumages through his bag, she finds a pair of jeans, some good, strong wellie socks, a heavy, soft hoodie, and his grey jogging bottoms (Mycroft had recoiled at the word 'sweatpants' and banned her from saying it). She blushes as her hands pass a pair of black underwear.
Hoping he can't see her pink cheeks, she continues rootling until she finds a faded old tshirt that looks like it might just fit his brother's lanky torso. She holds the clothes out to him.
"Here. There's a shirt too."
"A dress shirt?" he asks hopefully, and Y/N shakes her head somberly.
"I'm afraid not."
He wilts.
Sherlock watches moodily as Y/N hands the bundle over to his brother. "Let it be known, I don't want to give these to you."
"If it's any consolation," Mycroft drawls back, holding them at arm's length. "I don't want to take them."
He disappears into his room with the slam of a door.
...
"It'll be a while before he's brave enough to come out of there," Sherlock chuckles.
"Really?" Y/N asks, puzzled. "Mycroft doesn't strike me as the shy type."
"Shy; no. Pompus and prudish; yes. He still thinks women showing their ankles is obscene. He's probably debating with himself whether to hide in there until we've gone so he can scurry out to his car with his tail between his legs."
"Well, I am not leaving," Y/N insists with a resolute shake of her head. "I never realised it until now, but seeing Mycroft in loungwear is on my bucket list."
One of Sherlock's thick, dark eyebrows raises up into his curls. "You are a strange woman, Y/N...but I agree, lets' wait him out."
The rain sounds worse in his room because it's rolling in over miles of uninterrupted fields---like waves over a long, sandy beach. It batters the front of the house, the wind rattling the old panes in the windows, pelting the glass like stones.
It's cosy, though; the thick stone walls warmed like an oven by weeks of hot summer afternoons. The light in the ceiling glows yellow from a filament bulb, the lampshade a sunny blue.
Y/N strays over to a long, stocky wooden bookcase. Chipped and sticky with peeled-away stickers, it's too short to be for adults. Stooping, she peers at the titles, and a smile twitches at the corner of her lip.
"So, you were a dinosaur boy, huh?"
"What?"
"All boys seem to be obsessed with dinosaurs, trucks, or trains---like how girls go through a phase of horses, cats, or wolves." She shrugs. "You were dinosaurs. I assume Mycroft was trains?"
"How did you know?"
Through a smug smirk: "Lucky guess." Stooping to slide a book from it's brethren:
"Then you were really into...fish?"
"Sharks, mainly, but close enough." Sherlock shrugs. "I wasn't always obsessed with crime solving, you know."
"No? You weren't toddling around at two years old looking for dead bodies?"
He chuckles. "No, not until I was in my late twenties, actually. Believe it or not, I am a layered, multifaceted human being with many interests."
And indeed, Y/N's finger runs over a plethora of topics; ornithology, biochemistry, agriculture and animal husbandry, quantum physics, dog trainingâ
It comes to a halt when she reaches several thick volumes featuring the word 'entomology', and a smile twitches at the corner of her mouth "So, this is why our flat is full of bugs in picture frames."
"Ah, yes, insects; an old favourite. Thank you for the Death's Head Hawk Moth, by the way, it looks excellent above the fireplace."
"You're welcome, and yes it does."
She continues her journey along the book case, laid out like a timeline of Sherlock's life.
She skips the middle shelf---because it's heavy with nothing but formal-looking books (although tattered and felt-tip-scribbled) ranging from 'Violin, Grade One' to 'Grade Seven'.
On the shelf above, she's back to familiar territory---beekeeping. Then:
"These are all about snakes...then forensic science."
"Hm?"
"That's quite a jump."
A smile tugs his lip and he gives a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Who can predict the ways ofâwhat does my mother call them? 'Holmes Family Fixations'?"
Y/N nods, grinning a little. "She's right, you are just like your dad."
"Hm."
"No, you are! Remember last summer when he got obsessed with the vacuum cleaners? I would say 'at least the house was clean', but it wasn't, because he kept taking them apart to see how they worked."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"Well, at the same time, you were obsessed with origami, weren't you? Our whole flat was full of paper cranes. That's kind of the same thing."
"Well, one is a beautiful, traditional Asian artform, and the other is a mad man playing with household appliances, so no, I fail to see the connection."
Y/N's eyes roll, setting the Galileo thermometer she's examining spinning. "It's not just him, though; you're like all the Holmes men, really. Well, Mycroft acts more like your Mother. It's weird...in London you seem a bit out of place sometimes. Then we come here and you just...fit."
"I don't know..." He gives her a bashful smile. "I think I fit in quite well in our flatâwhen it's just you and me. Don't you think?"
She returns it wholeheartedly. "Yeah. I do."
Atop the bookcase sits a plastic periodic table, each square holding its corresponding element. Although the radioactive slots remain empty, a jar of grey rocks labelled "URANIUM ORE" sits next to it, the lip taped shut with yellowing sellotape.
Y/N doesn't need to ask if it's real.
There's an expensive blue globe with 3D mountains, a rudimentary microscope covered in dust, and a clay pinch pot full of pencils. There's a gap where the wood is warped and discoloured, and she points to it.
"What happened here? An experiment gone wrong?"
"Not quite that interesting, I'm afraid. I used to have an aquarium."
"Ah."
"...I've actually had lots of animals," Sherlock says carefully, as if testing the ground he's walking on.
Y/N blinks, surprised. "Why haven't you ever told me about them?"
"Well, I guess I learnt quite early on that 'Hey, did you know I once had pet rats' isn't exactly a great way to make women like you," he admits with a nervous chuckle. "No one really liked them, except Father and me. Mycroft moved his whole bedroom down the hallway because Scrabbles chewed through his computer cable," he saysâif Y/N didn't know any betterâwith fond pride. "He also loathed my snake."
"Why? Was it an arsehole or something?"
He snorts. "No. People just...don't tend to like things that are a bit different, do they?"
Y/N's hand rises instinctively---as if to take his colour-stained palm and give it a comforting squeeze---
But she doesn't.
Whether Sherlock notices, he doesn't comment. He continues: "He lived with me at university, but everyone got really angry when he escaped."
"Wow, I wonder why?"
Not catching her sarcasm:
"I know, it was one time! And he's a ball python; what's he going to do? Slither someone to death?" he mutters in a way that makes Y/N think he is still enraged over the prejudice his pet had to endure. "I had to give him to a relative in the endâyou know Eric? You met him at Easter."
"The one who brought a tarantula to dinner? How could I forget."
Sherlock's lip twitches with pride. "Yeah. He'd ask to play with Monty every time he visited, so I know he's in good hands."
"Ha, Monty."
His brow furrows. "What's funny about that?"
"Monty. Like Monty Python? I assumed that's what you were going for."
"What's a monty python? Are you thinking of the genus Morlia python, becauseâ?"
"No, it's a comedy group. I'll show you when we get home, I think you'll like them. You liked 'Fawlty Towers' as a kid, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's got that guy in it."
"Hm. Anyway, I didn't really need to give Monty away, in the end, because I dropped out that Christmas."
"So you were only there for a term?"
Pressing his lips together, he shifts his weight from one socked foot to the other. "Yeah. I came home for the holidays and...never went back."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Well, it's not exactly something to be proud of."
"It's not something to be ashamed of either."
"It is in my family. Most of them have at least a bachelor's degree from Cambridge, and I didn't even have the grades for Durham," he mutters bitterly. "It doesn't help that I went to my local high school either. They all went to Eton like Mycroft."
Lifting her gaze from the bookcase, Y/N is surprised to find his smile has been replaced by a dejected frown.
This time, she does take his hand.
It's hanging floppily at his side, but his fingers come alive at the touch. They openen almost eagerly to let hers wriggle between their gaps, then clutch onto her, tightly.
His eyes blink down, surprised, at their clasped palms. His cheeks have flushed a shy pink.
"You know none of that matters, right?" Y/N says---not really a question. She's stating it, pressing it down firmly so he doesn't forget.
He gives a bashful smile. "Thank you."
"I mean it. It's all nonsense. My friend went to Oxford and has a masters in computer science, but now she works at Clarks in the mall. And your cousin is a PhD in mathematics but he left it all to open a bakery." smoothing her feathers, she takes a cleansing breath. "What I mean is...you've saved peoples lives; you don't need a fancy piece of paper to prove you're brilliant. None of it matters."
The corner of his lip twitches upwards at her rant, flickering with the ghost of a smile. His eyes are so sharpâcrystal clear, like glassâand his grin is so genuine, Y/N has to look away.
She hopes her hair is hiding the shade of red her face has become. And she'd planned to give his colour-smudged hand a quick squeeze, then release itâ
But his grip is strong and he's keeping it there, dwarfed by his large, gentle palm.
Trying to take her mind off the rather pleasing, masculine feel of it, she gives his arm a little shake. "Can I meet Monty one day?"
His face brightens. "Sure. I'll ask Eric to bring him at Christmas."
"I'm invited to Christmas?"
Sherlock's brows pull together as if this question confuses him.
"Y/N, you're always invited to everything."
They chat for a little about last Christmasâthe one where they found out Nana Trudy once slept with Pat Sajack by accident, The Colonel forgot to take his medication and went on a rampage, and one of Sherlock's aunts showed off her newest invention: 'The Eerotic Rubick's Cube'.
Sherlock still hasn't let go of Y/N's hand, so she drags him with her to nosy at the other end of the bookcase, and he stumbles along behind her pliantly.
"The only kid's book here is 'Lord Of The Flies'," she observes. Did you pop out of the womb able to read in full sentences too?"
"Of course not," Sherlock snorts. "I gave those books to my cousin when she had her baby. As we speak, a very old copy of 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' is teaching Harriet to read," he says, sounding pleased.
"That's sweet." Y/N smiles.
But something is making her sad.
Before she can stop herself, a sentence has wobbled off her tongue:
"But...what if you have your own children one day?"
He looks sideways at her.
She says anyway: "You gave all your books away."
"Books are meant to be read, Y/N. I don't like the idea of them sitting here getting dusty. And anyway," he adds, perhaps catching her expression. "Ifâby some miracleâa woman did want to raise children with me...I'm sure Harriet wouldn't mind letting us borrow them."
"Us?"
"Y-yes, you know," his cheeks have turned a pastel sort of pink colour, his free hand lifting to scratch the back of his neck. "'Us' being used as an inclusive pronoun."
Collection herselfâand suddenly wishing her sweaty palm wasn't trapped against hisâY/N gives his side a nudge. "I'm just teasing."
"Oh."
"And, for the record...I think you'd be a great dad."
He shakes his head with a disbelieving, brittle laugh.
"I do. You raised a snake, didn't you?"
A chuckle curves his mouth into a smile. "A snake and a child are two very different things."
"Not really. One just has more legs," she says, which makes him chuckle, the sound as low as the distant thunder. "Either way, I think you'd be perfect."
There's a long pause.
Y/N is examining a muntjac deer skull sitting on a little painted chest. She imagines how excited a young Sherlock must have been to find it amongst the grass, and smiles.
"...How?" Sherlock is asking.
"Hm?"
Tentatively: "How would I...? I mean, why do you think I'd be...good father material?"
"Lots of reasons. Mainly: you're very...nurturing. And protective."
With a dismissive wave: "No, I'm not."
"You are," she insists. "Remember when that guy broke in and tied Mrs Hudson to a chair? You went mental. And, when we walk through London at night, you always put your hand on my back when a big guy walks past. You think I don't notice, but I do." She prods him with the end of her finger. "You have a heart, Mr Holmes. And it's a very good one."
He's blushing, but she doesn't see.
She's picked up a loose photo of a young, scruffy-haired lad standing in a field.
He has long, gangly limbs and a wide smile. His pale cheekbones are spattered with dirt, as are his jeans and t-shirt. In his armsâheld like an oversized, leggy babyâis a brown and white calf with big doe eyes and four knobbly knees just as muddy as the boy carrying him.
A grin twitches at Y/N's lips. "Hey, what are you doing here? Is that a cow?!"
Sherlock chuckles at the picture sheepishly. "When Mycroft went to boarding school, Mother and Father must have thought I looked lonely because they started renting me out to all their farmer friends." He laughs. "I'm herding cattle in that one. That one refused to leave the barn so I had to carry it."
"Had to," Y/N teases with air quotes.
"What? You think I wanted to pick up a cow and carry it a quarter of a mile?!"
"After seeing how excited you get around literally every animal you meet? Yes. Yes I do think you 'just wanted to pick up a cow'."
There's another photo behind this one, but it's in a frame. A serious, dark frame with a blue, school-picture-day type of backdrop. A young Sherlock, perhaps barely six years old, is sat on the knee of a grumpy-looking boy whose scowl is softened slightly by a round, pudgy face.
"Who's this?" Y/N asks, squinting at the rather irritated-looking child. He's got to be about thirteen, although his large frame and crisp blazer make him look like he's already paying income tax. He's supporting Sherlock on his lap with a chubby hand, but he doesn't look happy about it. He looks like he wants to leave the photograph to go and disinfect his hands.
"That's Mycroft," Sherlock says simply. "I told you he looked different."
"Really? No way that's him!"
Although, now that he's mentioned it, Y/N does recognise the hawk-like hook of his nose and the frown lines already budding between his brows.
"At least back then it was only his personality that was prickly."
Y/N can feel Sherlock smiling rather than see him.
It's landing on the side of her face, warm like the sun.
She turns to him, her own brows furrowed. "What?"
"Nothing." His seafoam eyes are hiding below his curly hair. A smile peeks out. "It's just...I know you've been here before, but I'm still not used to seeing a girl in my room."
"We hang out in your room all the time. Remember when you were sick last winter? I spent three days with you. We watched all the Rocky movies."
His lip twitches at the memory, but his blush has deepened. "I meant...in this room. When I was a kid...I never had a girl up here," he admits awkwardly.
"Would you have liked to?"
"Of course," he says, his brows coming together over his nose. "I'm human, aren't I?"
His face falters as he realises what he's set up. His shoulders wilt as he waits for the inevitableâ
But Y/N doesn't elbow him in the ribs. She doesn't quip back a curt "No", or hand him a sharp joke that makes his twinkling eyes turn a dull grey.
She smiles and gives his hand a squeeze. "One of the best I've ever met."
He seems to glow a little.
Grinning, she does elbow him now; affectionately in the stomach. "It's a shame we didn't know each other when we were kids. You would have had a girl in your room much sooner."
A blush trickles from the tops of his ears into his shirt. "Really?"
"Of course." She throws him a smile. "I think we would have gotten along."
Giving him a chance to collect himself, Y/N looks at the other things littering the bookcase.
There's a slinky, a well-thumbed encyclopedia, a toothbrush timer with a faded dentist's logo printed on the topâ
She turns it over and they watch the bright pink sand trickle into the lower chamber.
"Sherlock...was Mycroft telling the truth?"
"When?"
She looks up into his eyes and finds he's blushing again.
Of course he knows what she's talking about.
He just wants to hear her say it.
"Did you really invite me to move in because you had a crush on me?"
To her astonishment, Y/N realises his palm has actually grown rather sweaty.