AN: I wasn't expecting to finish this so soon, but, hell, I was talked into writing until 3am yesterday by EmptyThoughts, and what do you know. I finished it.

Dedicated again to EmptyThoughts, this is part two of my homes out of human beings verse, and takes place during A Scandal in Belgravia.

At this rate, part three, when love became elusive, shall be up by tonight. We'll see.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Enjoy!

~halestorm

"What do you want for Christmas?" John asks.

Alex hums thoughtfully. "A new bed."

"A new bed?" Sherlock breaks in. "The couch no longer suffices?"

"You fucked John on that couch," Alex deadpans, and shudders slightly at the idea. He didn't actually see anything, but he caught them making out on the couch that one time, and that's more than enough to provide the mental images.

"I did not!" Sherlock exclaims, blood rushing to his cheeks. John looks similarly alarmed.

"…John fucked you on that couch," Alex amends, and Sherlock drops his files and leaves the room, huffing in embarrassment. Alex laughs, then turns back to John. "No, seriously. I want a bed for Christmas, if you're getting me anything. The couch doesn't feel very permanent."

John studies Alex for a moment, and a soft smile breaks over his lips. "Yeah, alright. We'll look into it."

Alex meets Mycroft in December, two weeks before Christmas, as John and Sherlock bicker over whether or not Sherlock is allowed to take on a case during Christmas holidays.

"You can't take on a case!" John is saying, arms folded over his chest as he glares at Sherlock from across the room. "It's Christmas!"

Sherlock lets out a dramatic whine. "But it's a triple homicide, John!"

"I vote we let him take the case," Alex puts in, trying to finish up the last of his essay on the Cold War (he literally shudders when he finds mention of General Alexei Sarov in one of his history books). "What better Christmas gift than getting rid of him for a week?"

Sherlock falters, like he's trying to decide if Alex is really on his side or not, and John lets out an exasperated snort.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Alex almost leaps out of his skin, falling off of the couch and scattering his books across the floor at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

"Fucking hell," he hisses, and glares at the stranger.

"Mind your language, dear," Mrs. Hudson tuts, making her way into the kitchen. "I'm just going to make a cuppa for Mr. Holmes. Biscuits, anyone?"

"Mr. Holmes?" Alex demands, pushing himself to his feet in embarrassment. He folds his arms over his chest.

Sherlock groans. "Alex, this is my brother. Mycroft, Alex."

"I'm familiar with him," Mycroft says, arching a brow. "Though I wasn't expecting him to be so skittish as to fall off of the couch in my presence."

Alex's glare darkens, as does his blush. "I didn't hear you or Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. I normally hear Mrs. Hudson." He pauses, then asks, "How do you know who I am?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, seating himself in John's chair. Alex hesitates before dropping back into his seat beside John on the couch, fumbling to get his notebook and one of the history textbooks off of the floor.

"You've made a name for yourself in my line of work," Mycroft says vaguely.

Sherlock looks up from whatever he's looking at in his microscope. "What would Alex have to do with the British government?"

"Hasn't he told you?" Mycroft taunts, and Alex wants to wipe the smug smile off of his face. He's never heard of Mycroft Holmes, but if Mycroft works for MI6, Alex decides he doesn't like him.

Sherlock looks back and forth between the two of them, his eyes narrowing. Then Mrs. Hudson bursts into the room with tea and biscuits, and if Sherlock has finally figured Alex out, he doesn't say.

On the way home from his last day of school, Alex sees Sabina Pleasure in town.

She's holding hands with a taller boy, her cheeks flushed red—from the cold or excitement, Alex can't tell. But she's smiling, and she looks happy.

Really happy.

For a second, Alex doesn't remember how to breathe, but then her eyes meet his, her face startling into something else—shock or fear or horror. Alex can't tell.

He turns on his heel and runs.

Alex runs until he reaches 221B and Sabina probably thinks she's just seeing things, and he sits on the doorstep in the snow, breathing heavily, shoulders tensed.

He can't ignore how happy Sabina looked until she saw him, and he knows he's being irrational, but he thinks about how much better off she would have been if she'd never met him, and it's his fault.

He ruined her life the day he caught her eye. He thinks about John and Sherlock, and how happy they make each other, and he decides he can't do that to them, too.

Alex gathers up some of this things, stuffing them into a duffel bag with his emergency cash, and grabs some food from the kitchen. John is still at work, and Sherlock is out tracking down a murderer.

Alex hesitates, but then he grabs one of John's jumpers, and Sherlock's favorite scarf. He should probably leave a note, but he figures the jumper and scarf are a good indication that he wasn't kidnapped. Besides, they're reminders of what he's protecting by leaving behind.

It's three days of grueling cold before Alex reaches his old house in Chelsea. It's completely untouched—it's his inheritance, after all. It's not like it was going to go anywhere.

Alex gets in using the spare key hidden behind a brick in the front wall, the mortar having crumbled until the brick broke free, and hesitates before turning on the heat. He's not sure if MI6 is monitoring the house, but he's not risking freezing to death.

For the first time in almost a year, he sleeps in his own bed. (He totally doesn't cry when he finds Jack's bobby pins scattered on the bathroom counter, and he definitely doesn't take a blanket from her bed just because it still smells like her.)

He sleeps wrapped up in Jack's blanket, John's jumper, and Sherlock's scarf, but he doesn't sleep well.

The house is haunted by memories of who Alex used to be, sharp reminders of how jaded and broken he is now in comparison, and Alex dreams about Jack again for the first time in months.

He wakes in the middle of the night, freezing even though it's warm in his room, and stares at the ceiling until dawn breaks and light starts creeping in through his window. Even then, Alex doesn't move.

There's nothing worth moving for when he realizes that he's truly alone in the world now.

When Alex finally forces himself to go downstairs, Mycroft Holmes is sitting in his living room, looking like he's been there all his life.

Alex swears in surprise, but he's not really surprised. He knew someone from MI6 would find him eventually. He just didn't think it would be Mycroft, and he didn't think it would be so soon.

"You're awake," Mycroft notes.

Alex can't help himself. "I see Sherlock wasn't the only Holmes brother to be blessed with powers of deduction."

Mycroft's lips curl into a sneer, and he points his cane towards the couch. "Sit. We should speak."

Alex sighs, resigning himself to his fate, but first reaches for the AC to spike the heat again—it's almost eighty degrees in the house, but Alex is still shaking from the cold.

"What do you want?" Alex asks, curling up on the corner of the couch, across the room from Mycroft.

"It's not what I want," Mycroft says, rolling his eyes, "but my brother, and his partner. They were very distressed when they realized you'd left."

Alex doesn't say anything. Mycroft continues.

"I've been very lenient since you moved in with my brother, Alex. But I haven't forgotten who you are. I could very easily return you to the Pleasures, or remind Mrs. Jones that teenaged spies make valuable asset. I choose to let you stay with Sherlock because you make him happy, and regardless of what he thinks, I do care for him."

"That's nice," Alex says. "I'm not sure he returns the sentiment. I mean, I'd never even heard of you until last week."

Mycroft's face twitches. "It's irrelevant whether or not my brother shares my affection. Mr. Rider, what I'm trying to say is this: you may either return to 221B and stay with John and Sherlock, or you may resume your work for MI6. You will not be allowed to continue living here alone."

Alex sighs, looking down at his lap. "I just don't want to make things harder for them than they have to be."

When Mycroft speaks again, there's a certain softness in his voice that Alex isn't expecting. "My dear boy, leaving them is what's making things harder than necessary."

Alex ends up in the hospital, suffering from a mild case of hypothermia, before he sees John and Sherlock.

The nurse tries to take his scarf and jumper, but he insists on keeping them, and she doesn't even try to take the blanket he brought in.

He's watching Doctor Who reruns on the telly when John and Sherlock bustle in, noses red from the cold, eyes bloodshot.

"Alex!" John exclaims, his voice torn between excitement and scolding.

Alex keeps a straight face. "That's what everyone keeps calling me, but I don't remember anything. Are you my dad?"

John's face twists up in panic for a brief second, but Sherlock snorts and Alex's lips twitch into a smile.

John is livid. "Damn it, Alex!" he snaps, and drops heavily into the seat beside the hospital bed, his jaw clenched, lips pursed.

The smile dies on Alex's lips, and he looks away, tugging on the sleeve of his jumper. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

John doesn't say anything.

"Is that my scarf?" Sherlock asks, and Alex reaches up, fingers wrapping around the end of the blue scarf he'd swiped from the coat rack.

"You forgot to grab it before you left the house," Alex says, shrugging feebly. "I guess I decided I needed it more than you did."

"Is that why you took my jumper?" John asks, his voice carefully emotionless.

Alex shrugs. "Yes. No. I don't know." He glances up at John, knowing that the older man was wanting a real answer. "I took it because I knew I'd miss you, and I thought it would help to have something of yours."

John's face crumples. "God, Alex. We were so worried about you. I thought you'd—"

He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. Guilt swells up deep in Alex's gut. John grits his teeth before continuing. "I thought you were in danger."

"Only of freezing to death," Alex mutters, and John narrows his eyes but lets the joke slide.

"How are you?" John asks instead, looking Alex over.

"Well, the nurse says I'm not pregnant, so I guess I'm okay."

Sherlock smirks, and John glares. "Do you really think this is funny?"

Alex bites the inside of his cheek. "Not really. That's why I'm making jokes."

John heaves a frustrated sigh and hoists himself to his feet. "I'm going to make coffee."

He disappears from the room, and Sherlock's gaze follows him before snapping back to Alex.

"He was worried about you," Sherlock says, staring at Alex as he seats himself in one of the chairs. And he adds, wincing like it pains him to say, "We both were."

Alex lowers his gaze. "I know."

They sit in silence for a moment before Sherlock asks, "Did someone from your old gang show up? Is that why you left, thinking you could protect us?"

Alex stares at the patterned quilt on his lap, remembering the time Jack explained where each square came from ("This one was from my mom's wedding dress, see? And that one was from my first baby blanket. And that one—ah, from the table cloth we used growing up. The pattern on that table cloth was so hideous, I can't believe they put it in the quilt… For the life of me, I can't figure out why I miss the table cloth so much.").

"I don't know," he mutters. "I guess."

Sherlock groans. "John is better at the talking thing. Do you want to talk to John?"

"No." Alex shakes his head. "No, I…I just want to go home."

Alex is discharged two days later, just in time for Christmas Eve.

John picks him up in a taxi, rolling his eyes as he explains that Sherlock solved his case right before they left to pick Alex up, and Sherlock had gone down to Scotland Yard to "wow them with his deductions and put away a murderer as a bonus."

Mrs. Hudson greets them at the door, pulling Alex into a fierce hug and complaining about the fuss that was made when he ran away.

"The boys were sick with worry when they realized you'd gone," she says, combing her fingers through his hair as she brushes past him with a tray of tea. "They looked all over London for you—even asked Mycroft for help."

"I noticed," Alex murmurs. "He's the one who found me."

"Oh?" Mrs. Hudson asks, her eyes lighting up. She gives John a pointed look. "You should invite him over for lunch tomorrow, dear. In the spirit of family, and Christmas."

John chuckles awkwardly. "I'll mention it to Sherlock. I don't know how he'll feel about it, though."

"About what?"

Sherlock breezes into the flat, shucking his coat and glancing resentfully at his scarf, still wrapped loosely around Alex's neck.

"John wants to invite Mycroft over for lunch tomorrow," Mrs. Hudson says brightly.

John blanches, Alex hides his smirk behind the sleeve of the jumper he stole from John, and Sherlock's face wrinkles in disgust.

"Why the hell would he want to do that?"

"It's Christmas," Alex says. "Apparently you're supposed to be with your family during the holidays, or something like that."

Sherlock looks horrified. "Oh, are we inviting Harry over as well, then?"

"Who?" Alex asks, as John exclaims, "No!"

John pauses. "Harry is my older sister."

Alex flings his hands up into the air. "It's like everyone has a secret sibling in this flat!"

Sherlock scoffs. "By my calculations, Mrs. Hudson in the only one who doesn't."

"I don't, either," Alex reminds him. But Sherlock arches a brow.

"Don't you?"

Alex stares back. "No?"

Sherlock purses his lips. "You've been clinging to the same patchwork quilt since you were admitted to the hospital. It's stained with blood, and while possibly the blood is yours, it's much more likely to be that of a young woman's menstrual cycle, considering that the quilt has a distinctly feminine scent and pattern, and there are long red hairs clinging to it. It's possible it was your mother's, but you mentioned last month that you never knew her, and you're unlikely to cling so fiercely to an object that once belonged to someone you never actually met. Therefore, the blanket must belong to a sister."

Alex clenches his jaw, trying to fight off the sudden tears that blur in his eyes.

"She wasn't my sister," he mutters, more to himself than anything. "She may as well have been, but she—she wasn't."

He pulls the quilt tighter around his shoulders and stands, making his way to John's bedroom (which isn't really John's bedroom anymore, since John spends most nights in Sherlock's room, but John still does sleep in his bed sometimes, so it's still technically John's room). "I'm going to bed," he announces. "Wake me when Christmas is over."

John wakes him too early the next morning ("Christmas isn't over yet," Alex whines, but lets John pull him out of bed and into the living room).

After a quick breakfast in which Sherlock bounces anxiously on his toes and Alex teases Sherlock about being nervous over whether or not John will like whatever Sherlock bought him, they all sit down for presents.

John gives Sherlock a new scarf—a nice one that Sherlock immediately wraps around his neck—and promises that the rest of his gift will come later. Sherlock blushes, and Alex mock-gags.

"Now, you," Sherlock says, and thrusts his gift into John's arms.

The gift is unwrapped to reveal something John calls a "lucky cat" through his roaring laughter, and Alex doesn't understand why it's so funny or why it makes John lean over and kiss Sherlock and ask if that's supposed to mean that he's Sherlock's wife now, but Alex likes watching them together, so he doesn't mind. (After Alex goes for a shower, Sherlock proposes properly and John says yes, but they don't tell Alex until later, so he pretends not to notice the new ring on John's finger.)

Alex gives John a book John had mentioned was his favorite, some old classic that John apparently used to own but lost when he moved into 221B, and he gives Sherlock a book on different types of torture (the one by Dr. Three, and it only makes Alex a little uncomfortable) that makes Sherlock's eyes light up with delight, and makes John shake his head in disapproval.

In return, John and Sherlock give him a new bed and John's old bedroom.

"I don't need it anymore," John says, shrugging. "And besides, you said you wanted something more permanent."

All in all, their first Christmas together goes pretty smoothly, Alex's runaway disregarded.

That is, it goes smoothly until Sherlock's work friends come over. Molly Hooper, a woman who is obviously helplessly in love with Sherlock, and Lestrade, who gives Alex a surprised look.

"Still here?" he says, eyebrows shooting up.

Alex snorts. "Well, I left last week, but then I found out you were going to be here for Christmas, and I thought, well, I definitely can't miss that, then. So I came back."

Lestrade laughs, shakes his head, and offers Alex his hand. "Greg Lestrade," he says.

Alex gives him a surprised glance, but he shakes his proffered hand. "Alex Rider."

Then Sherlock makes a scene by offending Molly, who is apparently unaware of Sherlock's and John's relationship, and then Sherlock and Molly have to leave—some woman he's been chasing down for months and playing like a harp has turned up dead in the morgue, and Sherlock is called in to identify her body, leaving John and Alex to move John's things into Sherlock's room and set up Alex's bed.

"We can't even have one Christmas without him leaving for a case," John mutters, shaking his head.

Alex glances up at him. "He cares for you, you know. I can tell. He gives you this look sometimes—my uncle used to look at my housekeeper that way. Like she was the only thing in the world that would ever matter more than his own life."

John's eyebrows shot up as he processed the new information. Instead of commenting on Alex's uncle or housekeeper, he chooses to ask, "Your uncle was sleeping with his housekeeper?"

Alex laughs bitterly. "No. It was an unrequited love kind of thing. I mean, Jack was only eleven years older than me, so she was a lot younger than him. I don't think she even knew he liked her."

John stares at him, then asks softly, "What happened to them?"

Alex doesn't reply. Instead, he holds up the leg of the bed they're attempting to assemble and asks, "Where do you think this goes?"

In the end, they have to use instructions, and Sherlock comes home only for John to smell cigarette smoke on him and complain, but Alex sleeps in his new bed and things feel permanent.

And a few months later, the woman turns up surprisingly not dead, moves herself into 221B, and attempts to seduce Sherlock until John assures her that Sherlock is taken.

But then she, too, leaves, another case cracked and filed and put away, and it's just Sherlock, John, and Alex in 221B again.

That's okay, too. That's how Alex likes it.