Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely. All mistakes are, of course, mine.

Deus Ex Parent

Sherlock stares blankly down at the book in his hands, then up at the woman who gave it to him. Then back at the book, then up at Mummy Holmes, and so on, and so on, until John becomes genuinely worried that his friend has deleted what a book is some time in the last year.

After all, he thinks, in the last three weeks Sherlock has already declared the solar system, the monarchy and the current prime minister as superfluous to his mental needs- despite the coming of Brexit- so why would literature be any different?

Alas, John has been around his friend far too long to think that it would not and so, as always, he worries.

And, as if to give credence to John's theory, Sherlock looks up at his mother, clearly about to ask what on Earth she bought him this for.

Before he can however she merely grins. Presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers something in his ear. Instantly he blinks, his expression turning buffering.

His hands tighten on the book, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Daddy Holmes looks at his wife- "Didn't trust him to figure it out on his own, eh?"- and Mummy hushes her husband, giggling.

"Didn't trust him to get a move on, more like," she says. "You and I aren't getting any younger, now are we, old bean?"

And then, as if she hasn't just caused her son's mental freeze, she smiles devilishly and gestures to her husband. Tells Sherlock that she and Daddy will be off, and that she hopes he enjoys his birthday gift. In fact, she says she's sure he will. And then she makes a show of patting her husband on the backside, causing Daddy Holmes' ears to redden quite as much as his youngest son's.

Not for the first time, it occurs to John that Mummy Holmes might actually be a teensy bit evil.

With another, less diabolical smile to John and a pressed kiss to Rosie's sleeping forehead, the elder Holmeses sail out of 221B, leaving both their son and his best friend somewhat nonplussed. John turns to look at said best friend and, to his surprise, he realizes that the detective is still buffering.

His ears have also gone from pink to bright red, as has the back of his neck.

His eyes are riveted on the book in his hand, and the last time John saw him looking at an object like that, it was quite possibly the Ark of the Covenant (it's a long story).

"Em, everything alright, Sherlock?" He asks, and as if just remembering that he's there, the detective blinks at him. Slowly, slowly, the focus comes back to his expression, though the redness doesn't leave his ears or neck.

In fact, he looks rather… chagrined.

"What is that, anyway?" Johna asks, trying to break the weird atmosphere. He gestures to the book, something with an intrepid-looking woman in a Jane Austen dress and a suave-looking man in a swishy period coat, and makes to take the book from Sherlock's hand. Instinctively Sherlock yanks it away, holding it out of his reach.

John narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Sherlock tries to look innocent, something at which- alas- he does not bloody excel.

"Ok, what's going on?" John asks pointedly. "Because if this is some weird message-from-Eurus, the-fate-of-Britain-hangs-in-the-balance-thing, then I deserve to know-"

"It's nothing!" The tone in which Sherlock's says this clearly implies that a) it's not nothing, and b) he damn well knows he doesn't sound like it is. Given that he has a great deal of experience with that tone, John does what he normally does, namely cross his arms and stare his friend down. Let him stew in his own juices, seeing which one of them will crack first-

"It's about, it's about a case," Sherlock blurts out.

He sounds somewhere between horrified and triumphant, that he said that.

John cocks an eyebrow at him, his expression the universal image for pull the other one, it's got bells on.

Sherlock, however, is warming to his theme, doubtless under the impression that that Great Big Brain of his has saved the day once again.

"Yes," he says, his tone growing steadier as he speaks. He does that walking-and-making-his-housecoat-flare thing he likes so much. "Yes, it's for a case," he says, "one which Mummy rather wants me to look into… She, she wants me to figure out the author's identity…Silly thing, really, but when Mummy calls..." For a moment something… soft, and nameless, moves through Sherlock's expression and just as quickly it's gone, leaving John even less convinced his friend isn't talking bollocks than he was a minute ago.

"So this is a request from your mum?" He asks.

His tone positively drips cynicism.

Sherlock draws himself up to his rather greater height, looks down at his friend. "Indeed," he says gravely, "this may be a very important case… For her." The detective swallows. "Alas, however, it will not involve any legwork, which will rather leave you out of the run of things, John..."

How convenient, Watson thinks.

He suspects his expression conveys this sentiment quite clearly.

"Yes, well…" Sherlock clears his throat. "I had better get to work… On the, um, identity of the author." He draws the book somewhat protectively to his chest. "I shall spend the rest of the night reading, John, you may show yourself out…"

And with that he toddles off to his room, still trying to look innocent and still failing spectacularly.

John watches him go, then picks up his daughter and holds her to his chest, making his way towards his old room, already planning on spending the night. "Uncle Sherlock's up to something, Rosie," he whispers. "Will we stick around until he makes a plonker of himself?"

The baby says nothing, merely coos in her sleep, as John Watson puts her down and awaits the outcome of his friend's latest bout of stupidity.