The contents of Mrs Hudson's will came to light barely a week after the funeral. In it, she had left all three flats of 221 Baker Street to Sherlock Holmes, wholly and outright.

I'm sorry to not divide the property among you boys equally, she had written. But you can't cut a building down the middle and split it in half, can you? when my mother left the property to Anne and me we had a dreadful fight over whether it would be sold or whether I would buy Anne's share, and I don't want you boys to fight over a house. It does keep me up at night wondering where and how Sherlock will live if anything ever happens to me, so this puts my mind at ease.

But all the same, I do still worry what will happen to Harry when I'm gone. She might not always be able to live in the house she has now. You will look after her, won't you, Sherlock? Three flats is more than enough room for you both, I think.

John, I hope you're not offended, dear. I know that since all that dreadful business when Sherlock came back, things have been a little tight for you and Molly. I've wanted to help you a bit with that but I know what it is when a man feels like he can't support his family on his own. My husband was just the same way. I hope I can leave you something though, and that you won't be offended. And it's a relief to know you'll take care of my computer things if I go suddenly.

Mrs. Hudson's "computer things" was a discreet little handwritten list of user names and passwords to various accounts that she wanted John to deactivate, since he "understood about computers."

"For God's sake," Sherlock snapped. "She could have left that business to me. You can't even type."

John smiled tiredly. "I think," he said, looking over the list of instructions that also included wiping her hard drive of its contents, "that she didn't ask you to do it because she didn't want you nosing around in her Ebay account."

"Oh, please. I've been monitoring her Ebay purchases for the past two years."

Aside from the small burden of erasing her online life, Mrs. Hudson had also left John and Molly the combined cash worth of her estate, minus some relatively small legacies to Anne, Tim, Eugenia and another set of nieces and nephews, the three children of her long-deceased brother, Bert. The Watson's portion was, the solicitor said, worth nearly six figures. There was also a smaller trust fund for Charlie, to be accessed at her discretion when she turned eighteen.

"But she left no provision for poor old Smudge," John remarked, once they'd come home from the solicitors and were gathered around in 221B. The dusky-coloured cat in question was curled up on Sherlock's sofa, purring loudly. On hearing her name, she snapped to attention for a second, then sank back down and shut her eyes again.

"Unfortunately, I can't take her," Anne said. She was sitting in John's old armchair, leaving John himself to hover in the kitchen archway with a mug of coffee in his hands. "I don't particularly like cats, and even if I did, my husband's allergic."

John glanced at Greg, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. He turned instead to Molly. She too was sitting on the sofa, running her fingers through Smudge's thick, soft fur. There was really no point in actually asking her. He had a feeling that if he suggested Smudge be sent to an animal shelter, he'd be sleeping on the sofa for the next year. "I suppose we can take her," he said reluctantly. "I mean, what's one more, right?"

But while he was fond of his own cats, John had no strong opinions about Smudge. He and Molly had, they candidly admitted, made a mistake when they'd chosen her as the companion cat for an elderly lady. She was aloof and independent, and tolerated other people rather than craving human attention. He glanced down at her, watching as she swatted her tail in annoyance that even Molly was petting her.

"You think I'm incapable of looking after a cat?" Sherlock suddenly asked from the refuge of his armchair.

John blinked at him in surprise. "I didn't think you liked cats," he responded. "You don't like ours."

"Yes, you'll note that I didn't ask whether you thought I liked cats."

"Well..." John glanced at Molly again. "No, I guess keeping a cat isn't exactly hard, but I've got to admit, I'm having trouble picturing you cleaning out her litter box."

Greg snorted into his cup of coffee. John did not even notice; he was looking over at Sherlock, frowning slightly as he tried to puzzle out this new development in affairs.

"But seriously," he said. "You actually want to keep her yourself?"

~o0o~

"I'm not sure about this," Molly said to her husband in bed that night, with her own cats nestled so peacefully around her that John, who had just come up at ten past midnight, could barely get into bed beside her.

"About what?"

"Sherlock keeping Smudge. I mean, he doesn't even like cats."

"Yeah, I've got a feeling he likes her more than he'll admit," John said.

"What is it with men and cats?" Molly asked. "Pretending they don't like them, when they do."

"It's a man thing. I can't really explain it." John nudged Casper aside slightly. "Look, I think it's a good idea for everyone. We don't have to take in another cat who might fight with the other two, Smudge doesn't need to leave Baker Street, and Sherlock's got a reason to get up in the morning."

Molly was staring at him. "You really think...?"

John smiled. "He seriously wanted to know which childproof locks I preferred on his cupboard doors," he pointed out. "He's a perfectionist about things like that. He and Smudge will get on just fine."

Anne Morecombe had chosen her older sister's last resting place. The death week had been no time or place for either Sherlock or John to protest over the location; and now, with a glossy headstone and mound of dirt marking the spot, there seemed no point in protesting it now, either. It was a full eighteen days after Mrs. Hudson had so abruptly left the world that John reluctantly suggested they should go out and visit the spot. Sherlock had agreed, without enthusiasm; all had gone according to procedure until they'd actually arrived at the cemetery and seen, from afar, the neat little tombstone and heap of dirt and dead flowers laid out before it. Sherlock had come to a dead halt.

"My grave was very close to here," he remarked dully.

"Uh, yes." John pointed. "Just over there."

The headstone that had once borne Sherlock Holmes's name had been removed long ago, but John remembered just then that James Moriarty was still buried six feet under it. The revulsion hit him like a wave. If he had his way, Moriarty would be dug up and thrown into the sea, or hung up in a gibbet for birds to pick at his bones. A suitable ending for all traitors. He said nothing, though, leading the way over to Mrs Hudson's grave. They both looked at it for several minutes in silence; neither had brought anything to place on it, and the flowers from the funeral had crumbled into powder.

For two years, John had begged Sherlock, first aloud, then silently, to stop being dead. Perhaps, he reflected bitterly to himself, something deep in his brain had already clicked, even on that horrible day at Barts, and he was begging for something he knew Sherlock could give him. He had no such demands of Martha Hudson.

Sherlock took a sudden breath. "So I've been doing some research," he said in practical tones.

John blinked. "On what?"

"Cats. Compared to dogs and horses, they are absurdly easy to look after."

John tilted his head slightly in curiosity. Why would Sherlock be researching dogs and horses? Then he remembered hearing Sherlock mention, long ago, that Mycroft had once had a horse, a splendid bay Arab mare named Dirayat. He'd sold her when he became too busy to ride regularly; Sherlock had begged to keep her instead, but he'd been twelve at the time and firmly overruled. He'd had a dog, though, as a child.

He hadn't been researching dogs and horses. He was remembering caring for the closest things to pets he'd ever had before Smudge.

"So Smudge hasn't electrocuted herself chewing on the TV cord, then?" John asked lightly.

"What sort of an idiot cat would do that?"

"Casper."

Sherlock snorted, then fell silent, contemplating the headstone in front of him. "John..."

"Mmm?"

"What the hell am I going to do now?"

John opened his mouth to reply; some masculine translation of but there are so many of us left who love you. At the last second, though, he realised that Sherlock wasn't talking about what he was going to do emotionally.

It had taken less than a week of living at Baker Street for the first time for John to discover that Sherlock had no idea, none at all, about most common domestic skills. The few abilities he had in and around the home were highly specific and oddly diverse: he could make tea 'properly', carve a goose, and open and serve bottled champagne without creating a mess. But as for the rest of it, John was left wondering what on earth he'd done when he'd lived at the Montague Street flat before - hired a maid?

He distinctly remembered the rainy February morning, back in those very early days of learning to share a living space together, when Sherlock had opened his bedroom door without knocking and found him making the bed. Sherlock had stood in the doorway and blatantly stared at the process, until John had tucked in the last corner and turned around. Well, who did you think would make my bed?

Then he'd realised that Mrs. Hudson made Sherlock's bed. Every morning.

He couldn't iron. Couldn't operate a washing machine or a dryer. Made such slapdash efforts at the dishes that both John and Mrs Hudson, exasperated at having to wash everything twice-over, eventually told him to stop even trying. He'd never dusted or polished or hoovered or lit a fire in the fireplace. Mrs Hudson had taken care of all his domestic needs, just as Mycroft still engineered his personal finances.

He had no idea how to live on his own.

"You'll be fine," John finally said automatically. He patted Sherlock's shoulder briefly, then withdrew his hand in brief confusion that he'd decided to do that. "More than fine. You're a genius. You'll pick things up."

~o0o~

They parted at the cemetery gate, each heading for home. Sherlock climbed the stairs without glancing at the front door of the vacant flat 221A, and unlocked the door of his own flat. On opening it, he found Smudge curled up in his armchair, looking calmly at him.

"Okay," he said aloud, removing his coat and hanging it from its place on the door. "In the interest of fairness, I'm going to make this perfectly clear. I don't like you. But I will continue to feed you. Will that be sufficient?"

Smudge yawned and splayed her paws; Sherlock muttered something unpleasant about the value of all things feline and went to the refrigerator. He had never before had a problem handling all sorts of organs and amputated digits in the name of science, but he shuddered at having to handle raw chicken. He managed, however, to not amputate his own fingers, and once Smudge was ungratefully wolfing down her evening meal, he sank down into his armchair.

The silence from the flat downstairs was deafening.

He sat in the shadowy living room for a few minutes, trying to grasp the idea that once the official legalities had been dealt with, he was, for the very first time in his life, sitting in his own house. For it had once been a house, he felt, in years well before Mrs Hudson had ever been thought of...

With supreme effort, he threw considerations of his late landlady aside for the first time that day. But the vacant mental real-estate brought on another thought that had been playing with him.

~o0o~

A small part of him hoped Mycroft wouldn't answer the phone, even though he knew the only time he wouldn't pick up the phone to him would be if he was in serious trouble. When the line dropped in, Sherlock had a brief, violent impulse to hang up.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, in tones that passed for pleasant. "How can I help?"

Sherlock silently noted it: how can I help? It had, by and large, replaced what do you want? Though, he thought bitterly, once he was finished having a Danger Year Mycroft would no doubt be back to his data-entry way of having a conversation.

"I need that phone number again," he said.

"'Please' wouldn't go astray," Mycroft said, after a pause so brief that few others but Sherlock could have noted it. "And what phone number might that be?"

Sherlock hissed a breath in through his teeth. "Stop being annoying," he demanded. "You know what."

"You want to contact our father?" he blurted out. "Now?"

"No time like the present," Sherlock said. "I could have a heart attack in my sleep tonight."

"Sherlock - "

"No, I'm not interested in him, Mycroft. Christabel."

More silence.

"Our father has made his position quite clear," Sherlock explained, clearing his throat. "I'm a world-famous detective, and you're practically running the country. He could easily find us if he wanted to make contact, and he's decided not to. But there's no evidence to suggest his daughter even knows that we exist."

"You'll kindly keep my name out of this, thank you," Mycroft said stiffly. "And it may surprise you to learn that I don't have the number on hand right this minute."

It didn't surprise Sherlock, but he refrained from mentioning it. There was no way that Mycroft was going to leave contact information for an estranged branch of the family somewhere he would have easy access to it, or accidentally memorise it. He'd learned to brutally amputate all limbs of temptation from his life.

"I'll text it to you when I find it," he offered. "Will that do?"

"Will that be tonight?" Sherlock swore under his breath. That hadn't sounded eager. That had sounded desperate.

"I doubt it."

All the same, Mycroft had either underestimated how long it would take to bring up contact information on Christabel Mohler, or he'd been galvanised into action. Forty minutes later Sherlock heard his phone bleep, but it was another ten minutes before he could bring himself to check Mycroft's text message.

~o0o~

Shortly past nine o'clock, he punched the numbers into his phone and put it to his ear. Shortly after ten in Berlin, but Sherlock didn't know what standard calling times were and wouldn't have heeded them if he had known. He listened to the line purr for a few seconds before there was a click and a woman efficiently stated: "Mohler."

Sherlock flinched. Harry Price had been right about one thing. Christabel's American accent was appalling, even mellowed as it was by faint tinges of English, French and German... and by this time he realised he'd been sitting silently on the line for nearly ten seconds.

"Hello?" she said, a little more forcefully. "Wer ist da?"

"You're Christabel Mohler?" tumbled out of his mouth.

"Yes," she said suspiciously, dashing half-formed hopes that he had the wrong number. "Who's this?"

"Uh." Sherlock opened his mouth again, but this time it was a few seconds before his voice followed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry," she said. "You're who?"

"I'm your brother."

AN- thank you for reading. The next fic in my series is And All the Devils Are Here, available from my profile. xx