Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

HYPOTHESIS — SHERLOCK HOLMES

In the beautiful beginnings of our roommatehood, mornings in 221b Baker Street consisted of John and me sitting opposite each other, sitting in our chairs by the fire and typing on our computers. I often researched something or someone related to a case, and John wrote his blog. It was peaceful and fulfilling, the two of us in harmony. 

And then I died, came back again, and everything wasn’t alright.

Until it was, but that’s a completely separate story. I will not tinge my writings with the romanticism my dear friend holds close. This paper is for scientific reasoning, and not for fun. 

More recently, our company has expanded to accompany two more characters: John’s wife Mary, and my godchild, Rosie. Rosie is now six, and spends her free time running around, drawing brightly coloured sketches that her parents immortalise on the fridge. Her presence requires me to base my science experiments elsewhere, namely in a lab. But while I still keep the Bunsen burner by the hob, I've moved the sulphuric acid out of Rosie’s reach and put it in reserve for when I’m feeling scientific. 

One day, I woke up with a familiar motivation to fulfil an experiment. However, the one I had in mind couldn’t be completed with acids or flames. Still in my pyjamas, I walked up the stairs to 221c Baker Street and surveyed the room. I wouldn’t describe it as its own flat, but more a room, with desolate walls, the plaster peeling off around the edges. The fireplace was grimy and equally void of all happiness, and the curtains covering the window looked wispy and somewhat haunted. However, where others (Mrs Hudson) saw what could’ve possibly been inhabited by a ghost, I saw potential.  

Mainly because I don’t believe in ghosts, but motivation. 

By the end of the fortnight, 221c Baker Street resembled a room that wasn’t haunted, and that someone might want to live in: the lights worked and were not overpowering (I had calculated the exact light level for ultimate comfort), and paintings I had been gifted after solving a case were hung on the walls. A double bed of which I had matched the quilts to the light blue walls, was placed against the wall opposite the fireplace. I had refurbished said fireplace too, and next to it was an armchair similar to John's and my own.

I’d done up 221c without telling John or Mrs Husdon and I was quite proud of myself - my experiment was a step closer to being put into action. Coincidentally, it was around this time that John decided to inform me over breakfast that Lestrade and his wife’s divorce had finally gone through, and he was lost for a place to stay. 

When he told me, I returned this news with a blank expression.

“I didn’t know you cared about Greg’s marriage this much,” John said sarcastically before he took a sip of his tea ( decaf , with one sugar).

“I don’t,” I said, but this put an idea into my head. “We could set him up with someplace to stay,” I muttered to myself. At this, John’s eyebrows decided they didn’t like his eyes very much and raised dramatically. “What?” I queried at the stupefied look on his face. I was used to this expression by now, but I just wasn’t expecting it in this context.

“Five people are already living here!” John exclaimed, exasperated. I couldn’t help but smile at his naivety.

“I am aware. I converted 221c,” I explained casually, and without a verbal reply, John stood up, leaving his tea by the table, and headed towards the stairs. “You should be proud, this is a kind thing to do!” I called after him, reminding John of the New Year’s Resolution that he had forced me to create since Rosie learned about them at school.

“I wondered what you were doing up there,” Mary, who had just walked from the kitchen, mused. 

As soon as John took one look at the room, he rang up Lestrade. I took this as a good sign; I had done something well. Three days later, Lestrade moved in and he seemed very pleased. 

This seemed to be short-lived.

Chapter Text

ENTRY NO.1 — MYCROFT HOLMES

Candidate information:

Age: Old(er) than me, younger than Mrs Hudson.

Occupation: He says, ‘It’s classified, you know that, Sherlock.’

Temperament at beginning of experiment: ‘Sherlock, I’m too exhausted to put up with you as of now.’ He then took the mug of tea from my hand and stormed off to the room I’d offered him.  Temperament is not positive.

…

The past few weeks had been far too busy for my liking. 

Recently, I had been working just as regularly as ever, but when I returned home, there were men on my roof and in my bathroom. There was also water almost everywhere. These men were builders who drank my tea and kept their foul-smelling lunches in my refrigerator. As for the water, there had been a storm a few weeks previously, and a few of the tiles on my roof had slid off and cracked on the ground, creating a large, quite frightening sound as they broke. It had scared me more than I’d been willing to admit. On top of that, I realised soon after that the hole left was allowing water into my attic. 

In another cruel twist of fate, my boiler also happened to burst in that same week, flooding half of the upstairs of my home. My home, a Grade 2 listed building, did not take any liking to this, but nobody on the town council dared argue with me. Unfortunately, now none of them take any liking to me .

By Saturday, the head of these builders approached me and suggested that I find somewhere else to stay. I was more than happy to oblige, but I didn’t know many people who would have space, since I put up with many people in general. So in desperation, I ended up asking Sherlock. 

“Luckily for us, Mrs Hudson has just renovated some unused space in the back of Snacks ‘N’ Sarnies,” Sherlock explained. The sigh of relief I exhaled had been brewing for the last fortnight. I then hoped my phone’s speaker hadn’t shared its full magnitude.

“Sherlock, I cannot thank you enough, I —” I began, deciding it best to share my generic gratitude expression, but my brother cut me off before I could start.

“Don’t even start, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “Come around right away.” 

I didn’t stop for a moment to think that maybe his offer was too good to be true. I was foolish and blinded by lack of sleep. 

It had turned out that Sherlock had been planning some sort of social experiment. I was more than sceptical when he explained it to me, John, Mary, Rosamund, Mrs Hudson and Gregory Lestrade. We’d all crammed into the living room of 221b Baker Street like it was Christmas (I ended up discovering that around Christmas, John had hosted an event in Baker Street. I hadn’t been invited). Sherlock addressed from in front of the fireplace, but just as he was about to begin, there was a sharp knock on the door. 

Sherlock darted towards the door before Mrs Hudson could (quite a feat), and opened it to reveal a man shorter than himself, wearing a grey suit. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and he was smartly clean-shaven. My heart leapt in my chest and a sense of dread I had only experienced once before settled in my stomach. 

“Moriarty,” I whispered, in chorus with John and Lestrade, while the remainder of our party was lulled into a confused silence. 

Even my brother looked shocked, but he must have arranged this. “Everyone, this is my old friend — ”

“Friend?” I hissed, and Sherlock shot me a glare of daggers. 

“James Moriarty,” he finished, and Moriarty offered an innocent-looking wave. I suppose, at heart, the supervillain was somewhat childish. 

There was a muttering of ‘nice to meet yous’ from Mary and Mrs Hudson, and an enthusiastic wave from young Rosie too, while Sherlock returned to the front of the room and addressed his crowd. 

“Recently, fate has pushed us together,” he began, his expression far too casual for a man who had just let his worst enemy and the most dangerous criminal of the twenty-first century, of possibly all time, into his home. “And I wish to take advantage of this. I would like to conduct a social experiment researching how eight people of three generations act in a domestic environment.” 

His explanation was met by a formidable silence. Different degrees of shock were matched on most of the listeners' faces, John’s and my own being the most extreme, Moriarty and Mary’s looking nonchalant, while Rosie and Mrs Hudson looked quite pleased at the prospect. 

“This is an awful idea!” I exclaimed, and Sherlock turned to me. 

“Also, brother, I forgot to mention, I’m giving Moriarty the basement, and so you’re sharing with Lestrade,” he said quickly, a mischievous smile playing on his devilish expression. "Unless you'd rather Moriarty did so."

I shook my head. I wouldn't subject another man to something as darstadly as that.

I glanced over at the aforementioned Lestrade, perched on the arm of the sofa, with dark brown eyes and kind features, calloused hands resting on his knees, casual jeans and a dark overcoat over a grey shirt and a broad, muscular frame. I took all of this into account, and I suddenly wasn’t complaining. 

“So, Geoff and Myc-”

“It’s Greg.”

“Irrelevant. He and Myc are in 221c, the Watsons have their original rooms, I’m in 221b, and Mrs Hudson is in her flat, while Moriarty is in the basement,” Sherlock explained as if all was fine and dandy, but there was a suspected terrorist and a six-year-old, both living under one roof. Not to mention, me and my younger brother under the same roof once again. 

I cleared my throat and decided to voice my objections: “Sherlock,” I began, pinching the bridge of my nose. I saw Greg Lestrade regarding me with curiosity, his head tilted to the side. I chose to ignore him, as my thoughts were moving rather quickly. “What do you have to learn from this?” 

My brother didn’t even hesitate. “I intend to learn about the reactions of seven people of varying ages and intellects living under the same roof. Come on, brother, I know you’re intelligent, you could figure this out.”

I could, and that’s what scared me. While Sherlock was proficient in deducing the past, discovering how events took place using given variables and his mind, my strong suit was the possible outcomes of a most likely situation, again relying on variables. What could happen in the future, in simple terms. I wasn’t psychic, like many had stupidly speculated, but I used cold, hard facts to assume the outcomes of actions. And, with some cold, hard facts I thought were obvious, and rare common sense, I deduced that there was no way I could see this ending well. 

After a few moments of me gawking at Sherlock in stunned silence, Moriarty decided to (finally) explain himself. He stood and walked over to me, looking me straight in the eyes with his sombre, serious expression. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said sincerely. “I know we don’t have the best relationship —”

“What an exaggeration,” I scoffed, crossing my arms and squinting at the short man in front of me. 

“Listen,” he said, his eyes wide, talking to me as if he were explaining something complex to a child. “Your brother is trying to do something fun that doesn’t involve anyone’s death, any destruction, or compromising the safety of the British people. I thought you’d be pleased.” 

“ Pleased?” John replied for me, from his place next to Mary on the sofa. Mary would’ve looked more in place in a cinema: she was watching all this with satisfaction, little Rosie perched on her knee. “I didn’t think it was possible that Mycroft could experience pleasure. Sherlock, you should’ve taken this into account.”

I can’t even comprehend the emotions I was feeling at that moment, especially when Greg bloody Lestrade decided to chuckle at John’s witty remark. I would’ve rather been in my flooded flat. 

…

For the next three hours until dinner, I hid in my new room, staring at a file on my laptop, the words on the page not flowing into my head as I read them. The blue light from the screen possibly just aided in burning my retinas while I thought about other things. 

Namely, the mess I’d got myself into. 

At least the room wasn’t bad, apart from there being only one double bed, nicely made with blue quilts and blankets. The sight filled me with dread and I contemplated banging my head on the keyboard of my laptop. But then, I realised that would be a stupid thing to do, because it wouldn’t knock me out efficiently or at all, and would probably just inconvenience my laptop. 

The next thing I remember was Greg walking into the room and placing a duffel bag down by the window. I deduced that he didn’t know what to say. My problem is that I can read how people feel from their demeanour, but I don’t know how to respond. 

“I am not looking forward to sharing a bed with you this evening.” 

In retrospect, that was probably the wrong thing to say. 

But at least I was being honest. It wasn’t anything towards Greg personally; he was just another human being whom I’d have to be in close proximity to while asleep. He was also far more physically desirable than I was, and I admit, I was self-conscious. The difference between other people and myself that makes me appear so closed off as a person is that I never admit these things. 

Greg just stared at me in a stunned stupor for a moment. 

Slowly, he nodded. 

“Right,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. Oh, just add that to the list of things that were so perfect about him.

I cleared my throat, realising my mistake (who am I kidding, I had realised it as soon as it came out of my incredibly intelligent mouth - that’s what made it such a large mistake). 

We remained in a similar silence for just a few more moments before I slammed the lid of my laptop closed and stormed out of the room.

Chapter Text

ENTRY NO. 2 — JAMES ‘JIM’  MORIARTY

Candidate information

Age: ‘Sherlock, we were in the same year at university.  I’m as old as you are.’

Occupation: World-renowned supervillain and organised crime ringleader. However, the subject claims he now creates pottery.

Temperament at beginning of experiment: Subject watched as my brother stormed off, turned to the rest of the room and shrugged, before asking for a tour. Seems more positive than other candidates I could name. 

…

This all seemed very normal, I thought to myself as I sat at the kitchen table in none other than 221b Baker Street, and ate cereal. It was Rice Krispies - my favourite. 

We were four hours, thirty-four minutes into this social experiment, and so far Sherlock’s party-pooper older brother, Mycroft, had shut himself in his room. But Mrs Hudson was living life as if nothing had changed, and Sherlock seemed perky. The Watsons were being cautious; however, that was understandable. The last time I had seen John Watson, there were explosives around. Or perhaps at my trial, that might have been it. I was being accused of breaking and entering, wasn’t I? Whatever the ‘big deal’ word was for that.. The Watsons’ daughter was also roaming around the flat too, her small person making rather a lot of noise for its size. 

She decided to settle next to me within the fourth hour, forty-second minute of our experiment, and sat on the chair with her little legs crossed, peering onto the surface of the table with curiosity. Sherlock and John were in the other room, while Mary was doing some laundry downstairs with Mrs Hudson. I had lost track of Mycroft and Lestrade. Maybe they were making out somewhere - it is inevitable, the tension was palpable whenever they were in the same room. 

“Hello,” Rosie said, her voice little and high-pitched. She didn’t seem timid — she wasn’t scared of the scary, evil man currently eating cereal opposite her. Me. 

“Hello,” I replied after a mouthful of cereal. “How are you?” I asked. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure how to speak to children. I came across a few in my line of work. Though surely, how difficult could it be?

“Okay,” she said, pursing her lips. “Why are you eating cereal in the afternoon?” 

I didn’t foresee the conversation going this way, but I decided to roll with it. 

“Because your uncle Sherlock has no good food in this house,” was my answer, which I thought was fair. There was a shelf of bacteria growing in the fridge in labelled agar plates. Even by my standards, that is not good enough.

“Hm,” Rosie contemplated. “Nothing? Not even custard creams? He always has those,” she told him. 

“I dunno. You should ask him,” I replied bluntly.

“Rosie!” John called from the main room, obviously sceptical about his daughter befriending me. She has a shocking judgment of character - it was refreshing. Like the little boss she was, Rosie ignored him completely. 

“What’s your name?” she asked me instead. 

“I thought Sherlock introduced me?” I said, and then realised she’d probably forgotten. “Jim Moriarty,” I said, taking another spoonful of cereal and shovelling it into my mouth. 

“That’s a funny name,” Rosie commented.

“It isn’t,” I objected and then remembered who I was talking to. “Try saying it.” 

Rosie paused, looking up at me with those deep blue Watson eyes. “Mor-ee-fart-ee.” 

For just a second, I stared at her with an eyebrow raised. My name, that strikes fear into the hearts of many,  was being slandered by a six-year-old. Well, these things happen, I suppose. I started laughing because this was so absurd. 

“My daddy said I shouldn’t talk to you.” Rosie sounded almost sad about this fact. I thought it was fair enough. I hadn’t had a great history with John. “Why?” 

By now, I had suspicions that Rosie Watson was incredibly intelligent for a six-year-old. I suppose she had to be when living with Sherlock Holmes. She was curious about me. Perhaps she had inherited a disregard for her own safety from either one of her parents or godparents. 

“Well…” I said contemplatively. “Your pops might be being a bit harsh on me. I’m not that bad.”

Rosie raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

I nodded, smiling still, before standing and placing my empty bowl on the counter, ready for Sherlock to graciously wash up later (I knew it wouldn’t be him. John ended up doing it. I actually laughed when I saw a washing-up rota on the fridge, decorated with sequins courtesy of Rosie). 

I then walked into the living room, and Rosie followed me. I sat down by Sherlock and John’s messy table, looking through files that had probably been untouched since they’d first been placed there. Rosie walked a few paces behind me and then sat next to me again. Sherlock and John were sitting in their chairs, watching me with equally confused expressions. 

“Hello?” I said cautiously. 

“You already said hello to me,” Rosie pointed out, making John chuckle nervously. Again, I could see where he was coming from. I would be nervous too if my six-year-old decided to chat to a criminal for hire. 

“Rosie, remember what I said,” John grumbled, just as Mycroft walked back into the room, saw us all, shook his head and then evacuated into the kitchen. 

“I don’t think he —“ she pointed to Mycroft, “— likes you very much,” Rosie informed me. “He was using his shouty voice when talking to you. Did you do something wrong?”

I turned to John and Sherlock, expecting them to say something. They didn’t, surprisingly, other than John beckoning his daughter over and whispering something in her ear. John seemed to be passive-aggressively shooting me daggers with those eyes of his. I could see tension in his rigid, soldier’s frame. He’s probably plotting twelve different ways to kill me the second I step out of sight of his precious daughter. Sherlock, on the other hand, was doing that thing where he steepled his fingers and tried to look clever. 

“I…” I cleared my throat, trying to count the tally of things I had, undeniably, done wrong. But then I realised it had only been four hours in this place; no way was I confessing my wrongdoings (of which there were many) this early on. “Nobody seems to like me, really.” 

“That’s not nice,” Rosie pointed out.

“Right?”

There was a pause.

“Myc is very clever,” Roise replied.  

Mycroft? 

“Even clever people are silly. Sherlock’s very silly,” I said, glancing sidelong at who were now my housemates. Sherlock rolled his eyes while John was leaning on his hand, doing a measly job covering his grim expression.

Rosie was very sweet. She continued to stay by my side until John and Mary put her to sleep, remaining next to me even while we ordered takeaway and half our company ate in the living room. Mycroft wasn’t socialising yet, while Lestrade sat anxiously by the window. 

We ate in silence.

…

I woke up in the morning to heavy footfalls above my head. Sherlock or the Watsons must be up and about. 

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and picked up a dressing gown that I’d left on the floor the previous evening. I had recently decided a supervillain was more of a part-time gig. I was incredibly lazy in my free time, but I usually described it as something sinister, like ‘planning my next move’. I’d also go to the point where I could shift it all into my second in commands and right-hand men and left-hand women who would all take the blame when it fell apart. 

I walked up the stairs and away from the basement — a lousy excuse for a room. Though Sherlock did say he’d give me creative freedom to renovate it if I paid for it. That was the agreement that he and Mrs Hudson had come to. Luckily, being a villainous power paid me well. So far, I have bought a new lampshade.

The basement was dark and dreary, and I flinched at the light when I emerged at the top of the stairs, and then rounded the bannisters up to 221b Baker Street. 

“Morifarty!” Rosie greeted me at the door, wearing a puffy blue coat, a green jumper and pink leggings. Mary followed behind her, looking tired and somewhat stressed. 

“In a rush?” I asked, and she nodded. 

“We’re late for school,” Mary replied, flicking her blonde hair out of her face as she picked up Rosie’s bags while simultaneously putting her shoes on, somehow. 

“Do you need any help?” I said, surprising myself. But before anyone had a chance to reply, Rosie exclaimed something in youthful gibberish before thrusting a crumpled piece of paper into my hands. 

“Look!” She was so excited to see my reaction, and even with my limited experience with children, I knew that whatever was within the creases of this paper, I must, without fail, be enthusiastic and grateful, even though I woke up less than ten minutes ago. The way to a man’s heart is through his family. So, to get close to Sherlock, I must get along with Rosie.

With care, I unfolded the paper and revealed a drawing in colourful crayon on the inside of two stick… dogs, with large grins on their circular faces. One dog was composed of pink lines and was fluffy, while the other was larger and composed of brown and black lines. “Do you like the dogs?” she asked, looking almost insane as she pointed at the two sketched animals. 

“They’re… fantastic!” I exclaimed, trying my best to match her excitement. 

“Come on, Rosie,” Mary prompted, ushering the little lady out of the door. Rosie turned around to wave at me, while I stood, dumbfounded, with a drawing of two dogs in my hands. 

…

The next human interaction I had was with John, who rudely interrupted me while I was singing along to the radio. The station was Greatest Hits Radio - Good Times Sound Like This! 

Good times did not sound like the lecture John Watson decided to give me. 

“Sit down,” John told me, and I did so, turning the radio down and going to place my tea on the table. John caught my wrist in his hand and guided my mug to a coaster. He then sat next to me. 

“I don’t want you to talk to my daughter,” he said simply.

I tilted my head to the side like an inquisitive dog. “She doesn’t give me much choice.” 

John refused to take this into account. “Let’s put it lightly: I hate you. And for some reason, you’re in my home. So, to make up for that fact, I think you should comply with my request and leave my daughter alone. I think we can both agree that you’re a shockingly bad influence.” John’s clear, blue eyes regarded me with unwavering caution, and I honestly couldn’t disagree with him. 

The drawing of the dog was suddenly a weight in my pocket. How did she know that dogs were my favourite animal? 

I nodded like a child who’d just been scolded. “I understand. But honestly, I can’t help it. She just keeps talking to me.”

This must be what fatherhood is like. 

John’s eyes narrowed; he was obviously sceptical. “Don’t try.” 

Right.

Chapter Text

ENTRY NO. 3 — G. LESTRADE 

Candidate information

Age: Pretty much Mycroft’s age.

Occupation: Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.

Temperament at beginning of experiment: Subject is not portraying traditional signs of gratefulness I predicted. I have saved him the mess of London estate agents, yet he seems uncomfortable.

…

I needed to leave. 

This arrangement was shit. There was not one thing likeable about it, and we were only three days in. 

Mycroft had become nocturnal to avoid sleeping next to me. It was that bad. From what I'd gathered, he worked at night and napped in the day, sometimes falling asleep hunched over the desk where he worked by the window, once curled up on the bed. He must’ve fallen asleep while I was at work and assumed he’d wake before I returned. I woke him up when I almost sat on him, too tired after forgetting my coffee at lunch.

On the evening of the fourth day, I decided to approach him about it. I came back from work quickly, knowing that he’d be either napping or working, depending on how I caught him while he assumed I was away. I tapped timidly at the door, and there was a long sigh in reply. Only Mycroft Holmes could sigh so loudly that I could hear it through a bloody door. 

I took a timid step into the room and perched nervously on the side of the bed, facing Mycroft, who was sitting at the desk, his laptop lid closed — as it always seemed to be when I was around. He barely looked at me, his expression distant and seemingly adamant to avoid mine. “What is it?” he asked, his tone sombre and deep. Harsh. I suddenly felt as if I was in the wrong, and I hadn’t even done anything. At least not that I knew of. Or that Mycroft knew of. 

“No, nothing,” I began, trying to mentally build up, ending up stammering on my words. Hell, I didn’t even know what I was saying. I hadn’t thought this far ahead yet.

“It’s obviously not ‘nothing’.” Greg didn’t know why, but he found it funny to see that Mycroft made little quotation marks with his fingers. “You knocked. Making your presence known is a way of reassuring your addressee that you respect them and are actively trying not to frighten them. Well, I am not open to sharing what I am frightened of, so I am guessing you jumped to conclusions,” Mycroft managed to say all of this, quite impressively, with what looked like one breath. 

I don’t see myself as the most intelligent person, but it didn’t take a genius to sus out that Mycroft was scared of me. Why would he avoid me so much?

The problem was, I didn’t know why.

“Look, you need to sleep. I’m going to offer you the bed, and you’re going to take it. I’ll sleep on the sofa or something. I don’t know how we ended up in this situation, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s Sherlock’s job,” I said, and a flicker of a smile settled on Mycroft’s curved features. 

“That’s very good of you, Lestrade,” he replied, his gaze resting on his hands in his lap.

“It’s Greg,” I said. We’d known each other for three days, and he seemed like a sane person in all this chaos Sherlock had curated. But I could tell he was still cautious of me. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before.” 

I had no idea what I was going to tell him, as Mycroft returned my admission with a raised eyebrow. This was the only thing I could think of to break the ice. A game of 36 questions or four favourites might not have the same effect on Mycroft Holmes. 

“Okay, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone,” I said nervously, rubbing the back of my neck, which was warm because I was nervous and incredibly embarrassed. “Uhh… So, once, in an argument, my wife — my ex-wife — used my snoring as a reason to hate me.”

I started laughing pointlessly because this was all so stupid.

Mycroft squinted. “But you don’t snore.” 

My eyes widened in false surprise. “Really?” 

“What?” A look of surprise looked out of place on Mycroft’s features. If he was like Sherlock, and relationships puzzled him, this little titbit about my previous one would surely cross his eyes. “Is this true?” 

“Yeah. I thought I snored,” I joked, and Mycroft finally laughed. The sound was warm and rare.

“This is why I don’t get married.”

I chuckled, shuffling back ‘til I sat more central on the bed, and crossing my legs like a primary school child sat on a carpet. “You say it like some people do it as a hobby. You know, I don’t go horse riding. You know, that’s why I don’t bake often. That's why I don’t get married very often.”

“That is true,” Mycroft admitted. “But I’m sure you know what I meant.” 

I smiled, pleased that he was more at ease. He leaned back in his chair, all his movements incredibly elegant and languid, moving in a more refined way than Sherlock does. Sherlock’s movements were always so quick, while Mycroft’s seemed more practised. He made the space he moved in his.

“Right, now I suppose I must tell you something, to even it out,” Mycroft considered. I was somewhat touched that he’d thought of my confession like this when its intention was solely to make him less scared of me.

Shaking my head, I replied: “You don’t have to do that.”

Mycroft shrugged - a movement I’d never imagined he’d use. He seemed too important to shrug. “My first kiss was when I was thirty-two.” 

Honestly, my first thought was how? and then before I’d realised, the word came out of my mouth and a feathering of scarlet glowed across Mycroft’s cheekbones. But that was nothing compared to me: I could feel my face practically burning with embarrassment.

“Thank you, Greg,” he said, a shy smile gracing his features as he fidgeted. I had accidentally made Mycroft Holmes fidget. 

“No problem,” I replied quietly, matching his blush, my gaze falling to my lap. This was so weird, but sort of lovely too. Who knew Sherlock Holmes' older brother was a catch?

Somehow, this led to Mycroft and me talking for the better part of an hour. And then, an hour became two and a bottle of wine was taken from Mrs Hudson’s pantry (Mycroft was surprisingly sneaky when it came to taking it without her noticing - I just couldn’t stop snickering), and then it became the two of us giggling and laughing like schoolgirls. After one stupid joke, Mycroft let out a sharp cackle that I was surprised didn’t wake the whole house. 

“That took me by surprise,” I said, leaning against him as I poured more wine into his mug. We were almost rumbled in the kitchen by whom Mycroft deduced as Moriarty, from the sound of his feet on the floorboards. This was followed by an angry, whispered rant about the man, which I couldn't help but find funny. In our escape, mugs were the first thing we could grab. 

“This whole arrangement has taken me by surprise,” Mycroft remarked, leaning back against the headboard of the bed, holding his mug between his long, almost dainty fingers. 

“Yeah,” I agreed, pursing my lips. We’d finished the bottle, though I’d probably drunk more than Mycroft. He’d let me try some of the whiskey he’d hidden in his bag, too. It was quite something. I told him that I felt well posh drinking whiskey from a small metal bottle with Mycroft’s initials engraved in gold lettering around the top. “I can’t believe I actually like you.” 

With a laugh, Mycroft nudged my elbow with his. “No! I’m thinking more about why a man would let James Moriarty into his house?”

“Why does a man let you into his house?” 

“Because he’s related to me.” 

“Oh yeah,” I said, pretending to sound as if I’d forgotten this fact. I glanced over at Mycroft and he was still smiling. “So, what’s your story? Why’d you agree to be here?” Greg said, luckily still sober enough to formulate questions and remember the answers.

“Well, my house flooded,” Mycroft answered, “Boiler incident. Tile incident. Simultaneously. I didn’t know there would be so many people living here until I got here.” 

“Oh yeah, me too. Sherlock didn’t pre-warn any of us.”

“No, that’s far too well-mannered for him.” There was a pause as Mycroft contemplated what to say next. “And you? What brings you here?" 

What did bring me here? Where did it all start? Oh, yeah, the divorce. I couldn’t forget. I wish I could do that Holmesian thing, where they can shut out knowledge from their big old brains, like taking out the rubbish. Maybe one day I’ll be smart enough for that.

Well, despite whether it was reciprocated or not, I trusted Mycroft. But the mood was so light, I didn’t want to kill it. And then I thought, ah well, here goes nothing. 

“I got divorced. She got the house, and in return, I get to spend Saturday evenings, Sundays and Mondays with my daughter. I don’t know how that’ll work logistically in this mess,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “But it was kind of Sherlock and John to set me up somewhere, since it's saved me a hell of a lot of money. But I guess I’ve —“ 

“Lost the one thing you really wanted out of it all,” Mycroft finished, his voice small. 

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“I’m…” Mycroft looked as if he was struggling to find the words — another rare look on him. It made the world seem smaller, him being worried about me. “I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end.”

I smiled a sad smile. “Thanks, but I don’t know how soon or far away that end would be. And behind the end there’s nothing more…”

“Gregory, it’s a figure of speech.” Mycroft deadpanned. 

“Oh! Sorry. Yes, very kind, you’re great, Mycroft, really. I won’t overanalyse your…” I couldn’t find the word. “Words.”

“Marvellous.” 

I had sobered up massively by now and felt I didn’t really want to touch my mug with a portion of wine left inside. I had realised that spending time with Mycroft was an experience that was best sober, since I’d be able to remember all those little microexpressions, the rare genuine smiles and the wide words.

But these were thoughts for the future. I knew whatever happened, I’d remember this conversation, despite trying some of Mycroft’s whiskey. I’d remember it up to the point I fell asleep with my cheek on Mycoft’s shoulder, and then awoke the next morning and he was gone.

Chapter Text

ENTRY NO. 4 — DR JOHN H. WATSON

Candidate information

Age: 45, born 8th September 1966. 

Occupation: Retired army surgeon, medically discharged. Part-time general practitioner at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, part-time blogger.

Temperament at beginning of experiment: Initially was quite proud of me for being ‘proactive’ and ‘constructive’. John was later less pleased when I decided to introduce Mr Jim Moriarty to the experiment. 

…

I woke up slowly, and in one of those lazy moments where you realise you’re awake before you open your eyes. I could hear rain on the windows, and it offered a calm stillness to my rushing thoughts. On my return to London, I’ve grown to like the rain. It was a stark contrast to dust and light and the dry heat of war zones.

But that was all long ago. For a while, smaller, humane problems plagued me instead of threats and consciousness. Where to buy the shopping? Oh, the train’s five minutes late. 

Then I met Sherlock Holmes, my life changed, all that rubbish. I won’t let your huge ego be fed anymore — yes, Sherlock, I know you’ll read this report. But, I will admit, you brought some excitement to it all.

I just wish that Jim Moriarty wasn’t in my house. 

For what isn’t exciting is having a lethal amount of dynamite strapped to your chest. It’s not something you forget easily. No, it doesn't happen every day, but I can say it’s happened to me and I know exactly who to blame. And they’ve finished all my Rice Krispies. 

Today was one of my days off, hence why I was still in bed. When Rosie was little, I used it to spend quality time with her and give Mary some well-earned rest, but now she was in primary school, I had a day of free time, unless Sherlock had any other ideas — which he often did. I thought I’d lie in bed for just a little longer, perhaps fall asleep again, but I suddenly realised that I had been nearing the bottom of my Rice Krispies and if Moriarty got to them before me, the pack would be finished. 

After hastily pulling on my dressing gown, I rushed downstairs, bumping into Sherlock on my way down. He reached behind me and clutched the railing of the stairs on his left, and I did the same. A secure hand on my back balanced me so I wouldn’t fall down the stairs, which was really likely, considering I’d grabbed the railing with my least dominant hand. I felt my forehead collide with Sherlock’s chest, with not enough force to unbalance us completely, but without Sherlock’s quick reaction, we would have definitely toppled down the stairs.

“Morning, John,” Sherlock said coolly, still holding my balance with his back as I readjusted my grip on the bannister. I sprang away from him a moment later and pushed myself against the wall opposite him, as if I’d be able to put as much space between him and me and that awkward interaction. I’ve been living with Sherlock for yonks now, but I still never knew how he’d react to mundane human things, like tripping down the stairs. When he burnt himself on the oven, for example, he went into a huge sulk and refused to acknowledge the oven for the next fortnight.  Actually, it was possibly the month. But then again, we both like takeout enough to forget about cooking for a month. 

“Hello,” I greeted, plastering a smile on my face. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response and I realised I looked awkward. I shook my head.

“Anyway… We’re going to New Scotland Yard this morning with Lestrade. He wants us to look over a case,” Sherlock announced.

“Right, yes, okay. Two things — I want to eat my cereal before Moriarty gets to it. And secondly, doesn’t Lestrade usually bring duff cases here?” I asked. I could remember many times when Lestrade and sporadic other members of Scotland Yard (for I think they’re a little scared of him) were asked to wait outside while Sherlock finished with some other case, something apparently much more interesting. Sherlock Holmes’ loyalty scheme is that the more you consult him, the more ignorant he thinks you are.  But, jokes aside, he prefers you bring a case to him. Lestrade must have promised him something good if he’s making the effort to go to New Scotland Yard. “Sherlock, I’ve also got to do the shopping.” 

“That won’t take all day --”

“It probably will now that there are eight people in the house,” I muttered, not in too bad a nature, but past him and down the stairs. 

Sherlock did not hesitate to follow me. “You do realise,” he began, and I could almost feel the condescension radiate off him as we walked to the kitchen, “that Mrs Hudson buys her own food, and so you’re actually buying for seven? I eat sparsely, so you can discount me, as I’ll just eat scraps or leftovers --”

“Sherlock, you’re not a dog,” I interjected as we reached the kitchen. Lo and behold, Moriarty was sitting right there, next to where Rosie’s high chair used to be when she was small, but now has returned a mismatched chair Sherlock has had since the beginning of time. Moriarty had the bollocks to smile at us when we reached him. 

“Morning!” he said chirpily. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Get out,” I grumbled, walking behind him and peering into the kitchen cupboard, glad to see that my cereal was still there. I began making myself a bowl.

“Mary left the Cornflakes out,  so I had some of those instead,” Moriarty said between mouthfuls. 

“Well --”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock cut in, his brow furrowed in that way it does only when he’s really annoyed, or clueless. 

Both Moriarty and I stared at him blankly. 

“I know that you woke up at 8:24 a.m., which was three minutes after Rosie and Mary had left the house. I had heard you walk up the stairs and open, then close the door. You interacted with Mary and Rosie. At this point, Mrs Hudson had already been up here to borrow some biscuits, and Lestrade had also made a mug of tea. Mycroft had been and gone half an hour before even him. There are all these variables to consider, and yet you knew that it was Mary who ate the Cornflakes and was in a large enough rush to leave them out. Hah! I had underestimated you,” Sherlock said with what seemed like excitement or enthusiasm, before wandering off into the living room and picking up his violin. 

Cautiously, Moriarty and I exchanged a glance. 

“Is he always like this?” Moriarty asked.

“No,” I responded nervously. I was very confused, more so than I usually am around Sherlock. I could see there was a matter of rose-tinted glasses going on here. Maybe Sherlock is… overwhelmed by the amount of new people in the house?, I remember thinking. And maybe that was why he was assuming these conclusions that glorified Moriarty (of all people). There had to be some explanation for his behaviour, as there were so many plot holes, for lack of a better word, in Sherlock’s analysis. That was not usually like him.

I was torn out of my confusion as Moriarty began quietly chuckling to himself. “He thought I deduced that,” he remarked. He then turned around the box of cereal to reveal a yellow sticky note with the words Mary’s cornflakes, do not eat! written hastily on the side. Mary had presumably been a minute late after taking that pointless precaution.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed, and Moriarty gasped at my treachery, not before swiftly grabbing the sticky note off the side of the box, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it at me. 

“Oi!” I exclaimed, just as Sherlock reached my side.

“John?” he queried. 

I glowered at Moriarty, my face in so tight a frown I worried that if I had frowned any more angrily, I might’ve burst a blood vessel. 

“Since Moriarty has just proven his expertise,” I began, “why don’t you take him to Scotland Yard today? I’m sure he’d be glad for a change of scenery, and you’d be glad to get a new take on casework, maybe?” 

Now, it’s not as if I was trying to get rid of my job as Sherlock’s blogger. It’s just reading through files at Scotland Yard is never very interesting, and Sherlock gets in a temper if the cases Lestrade offers aren’t interesting enough. I didn’t think I’d miss much, really, other than maybe Sherlock’s company. But, I had been around people all week, bear in mind, and I wanted some of my own time. It never seemed to come around with all this parenting business. 

A neutral expression dwelt on Sherlock’s face as he contemplated. Meanwhile, I moved on from making excuses to contemplating whether or not this was a good idea. I'd been balancing out Sherlock's more inhumane qualities for many years now, and I got the idea that Scotland Yard was grateful for this. I'd heard stories of Sherlock being a pain, and Lestrade could do nothing to keep him under control. I was wondering as to how Moriarty would serve in my place. The two of them would have the annoying force of a hurricane. 

“Well, it’s not too poor an idea.” Abruptly, Sherlock turned to Moriarty. “You are exceptionally intelligent.”

Moriarty tipped his head in thanks. 

“So you’ll give it a try?” I asked, already mentally planning my day ahead, pushing any fretting from my mind. If Sherlock could run an experiment, so could I. Oh, perhaps in my newfound free time I’d go for a walk and a sandwich out, maybe? I’ll pick up a coffee and the paper, perhaps?

“Why not? We leave in a quarter of an hour,” Sherlock said firmly, and Moriarty dropped his plate in the sink.

It looked like my morning would consist of washing up for eight.