Two

Three months pass.

Sherlock doesn't phone the number. John doesn't ask.

Life goes on as usual in a blur of murders, cases, arguing about eating and sleeping patterns, late night dinners at Angelo's and laughs between the two oblivious friends.

It's early on a Sunday morning when John passes by the desk to see Alexa's phone number on top of Sherlock's laptop. John frowns and picks up the piece of paper.

Part of him wanted to march into Sherlock's room, where the exhausted detective was sleeping, and demand he call this woman who very clearly meant something to him if he'd kept the number and been, rather obviously, staring at it.

The other part of John wished he had laser vision to destroy the piece of paper. It was incredibly selfish and possessive of him but he was used to being the only person Sherlock seemed to openly care for.

Yet the detective had been quite happily hugging and apologising to this woman in public.

It left John with a bitter taste in his mouth even though he knew it certainly wasn't like that between them but it just.. He just wished that Sherlock would occasionally show he gives a damn about John. And not just when he does it by accident during a case, doing something stupid to save John for example.

John knew that Sherlock cared for him to an extent but it wouldn't hurt for the man to show it more often, right?

As John looks down at the paper, a thought pops into his head. Alexa had addressed him by his name when she'd placed Daniel on his lap.

She knew his name. That could mean one of two things.

She was either lying about not finding Sherlock on the web or she'd somehow found out his name (perhaps from Angelo) while working that night. In the back of his mind he could hear Sherlock saying It's dangerous to jump to conclusions, John.

With a sigh, John makes his way into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and forgetting about Alexa.

For now, at least.

*

John wasn't overly surprised when he returned home on Christmas Eve, with a shopping bag that contained only milk and eggs, to see the eldest Holmes brother sitting in his chair.

It had taken John's a grand total of two years with the detective as a flatmate to figure out that there were dates that Mycroft always seemed to pop round for a ..friend chat.

24th December was one of those.

John wasn't as stupid as his flatmate has always assumed. It was clear that Christmas time, more specifically Christmas Eve, was a 'danger night' as Mycroft had often called it.

The conversation usually passed in Mycroft asking Sherlock to come to his house for the rest of the holidays. Sherlock always refused. Then often he'd not utter much past 'tea' to John until the new year. The silence wasn't completely unusual but it always did worry John.

The conversation was different this time. John could hear them talking as he entered the kitchen to put away the small shop he'd done.

"I'm aware Alexander is in London. You're not talking to her, clearly. You should spend the holiday with her, Sherlock" Mycroft's tone told John all he needed to know about the looks that would be on both their faces.

Sherlock would be glaring. Mycroft would be smirking in his I-know-better way.

"Why?" Sherlock snaps.

"She may be grateful for the company"

"She's managed for the past eight years. She can manage another" Sherlock replies, complacent.

A long silence follows and John's about to ask them if they'd like tea when Mycroft speaks again.

"Daniel would have wanted you to be there for her. For her to be there for you"

John frowns, beyond confused.

"Leave!" Sherlock roars, jumping to his feet.

John watches from the kitchen as Mycroft slowly raises to his feet, Sherlock's glare locked onto him.

When Mycroft has completely disappeared, John still doesn't speak. He just makes them both tea and sets Sherlock's cup down on the coaster beside his laptop, which Sherlock was using yet again.

He knew better than to argue or ask Sherlock anything. It was easier to just let Sherlock open up on his own or close himself away further. Eventually, he'd tell John all he needed to know, which in the detective's point of view was always very little.

Sherlock doesn't speak for hours. John sips his tea and reads the paper he hasn't gotten a chance to read this morning.

"I'm going out" Sherlock announces suddenly, standing and grabbing his coat.

John watches as Sherlock gets ready in a hurry. When he is ready, he sits in front of John with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes?" John asks, hiding how he hoped Sherlock would ask him to come along.

"Coming?" Sherlock smirks. Whether he was smirking because he could read John's true feelings or not, John didn't know.

With a small smile John nods his head and gets ready to leave the flat in the same hurried manner as Sherlock had. He doesn't say another word until their climbing into the cab and Sherlock gives the address of some place in outer London.

"Where we off to?" John questions, wondering if Sherlock had a case.

Or maybe this related to his conversation with Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn't answer.

*

Ungodly sounds were erupting from John as he stretched out so his toes were poking out of the duvet, sending a chill up his bare spine. Jesus, his head really really hurt. It was like there was a tiny person inside his head, playing drums recklessly and with no stable beat or pattern.

He wasn't stupid. He knew what this was all too well.

Hangover.

A bloody bad one as well.

He sits up slowly, swallowing in an attempt to rid himself of the dryness in his mouth. His bedroom was dark and silent. John was thankful for that. It was also cold and he pulls the cover he had wrapped around himself closer to his half-naked body.

What the hell happened? Did he really go to a pub with Sherlock?

He giggles then, remembering the way Sherlock had pulled the most hilarious face as he did a shot. If John had a mind palace, he'd definitely save that memory permanently.

Wincing at his had, John makes a note to not giggle before he forces himself up off the bed. As he makes his way down the stairs, he can't hear a single thing from the living room, kitchen or any other room. John gives a shrug, assuming that Sherlock must be sleeping still.

John swallows a few pills before he grabs some clothes from his room and heads to the shower, relaxing under the hot spray and hoping that this hangover fades soon.

It was a good thing he didn't have work anymore (shortly after The Blind Banker case, John quit and never saw the surgery or Sarah again). As usual, Sherlock proved that he didn't need to do any of the 'normal people' stuff now. The rent was always paid from Sherlock's account and John paid for food and such even though he wanted to help with the rent - Sherlock had refused the money, apparently having plenty in his account. John's guess was that it came from Mycroft. Typical, really. Sherlock hated him (well... John had doubt he really hated his brother) but he had no issues using his money.

Once he's dressed, shaved and has towel dried his hair, John exits the bathroom. The first thing he hears is the kettle, squealing for attention. So Sherlock must be up. Knowing that Sherlock wasn't one for making tea when John could do so, the doctor makes his way to the kettle and starts preparing tea for both him and Sherlock.

That's when he hears a familiar voice from the living room.

"Sherlock! For God's sake. Mycroft said you were being ridiculous but this... Getting drunk doesn't solve problems, young man!"

It couldn't be...

With a frown, John approaches the living room. He leans round, surprised to see that he was right. There, next to a sulky looking detective clad in silky pyjamas, was Sherlock's mother.

"Mummy... Shut up!" Sherlock sighs, voice feeble.

Despite the mental note, John has to giggle at that. Sherlock sounds like a five year old being scolded for taking the last cookie when he knew that it wasn't meant for him.

The sound causes both of them to look at him sharply, apparently not having noticed he was there. It wasn't that big a surprise. He did live here.

"Did you just come out of my son's bedroom?" Mrs Holmes asks, looking confused.

John's eyes widen, cheeks reddening. "Oh, my God. No, no, no! I was- the shower. I... Would you like some tea?"

The older woman frowns. "No. I'd like you to explain to me why you allowed my son to drink away his personal crisis."

It was John's turn to frown again. For many reasons. The 'personal crisis' bit definitely raised a few question mark flag. Then there was the way she was acting like Sherlock was underage and wasn't allowed to drink and do as pleases with his time, money and friends.

"I don't tell him what to do, Mrs Holmes. And if I did, he wouldn't listen to me anyway." John can't help smiling.

Sherlock snorts and turns his head to the side, laughing.

His mother turns and glares at him, shutting him up. John has to learn that glare.

"Listen to me, young man. You are going to call Alexander. Not for her, not for Daniel, not for me or Mycroft or the bloody queen. You're going to do this for yourself." All the while, her eyes never leave Sherlock's face. That was a I'm-your-mother-listen-to-me look if John had ever seen one.

"I-" Sherlock tries to interrupt but his mother puts her palm out in a 'stop' gesture to cut him off.

"No arguments, Sherlock." Then she turns on John and he can't help swallowing as he meets her eye. She was kind of scary. He saw were Mycroft got it from. "And you, you better look after him. No more going out and getting drunk"

"Understood" John nods.

She looks at them both, giving the 'mother stare', before she turns on her heel and exits the room - leaving the flat all together a moment later.

The two men glance at each other before they both burst into a fit of giggles, John falling on the sofa beside Sherlock.

"Is it bad that I'm almost tempted to go out and repeat last night just to be rebellious?" John asks with a grin.

Sherlock laughs some more. "No. God.. She was acting like we're a pair of sixteen year olds"

They both continue laughing for some time. John wasn't even too sure how long it was. Whenever they stopped laughing, John stood and made his way into the kitchen to make tea for them like he originally planned to.

John even allowed himself to smile when he hears Sherlock speaking on the phone like a shy schoolboy.

"Um. Alexa.. Hi. It's Sherlock... I mean, William."

John marks another mental note to ask Sherlock about that name.

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