Further Impressions – Sherlock BBC Fanfic

Follows on from First Impressions

Written: November 3rd, 17:53

Current Mood: indescribable

Current Music: snow patrol

0o0o0

John hated to admit it, but he had a childish side. That side had led him to the purchase that Sherlock was currently holding up in front of himself as if he had been handed a particularly rank dead rat. That side had also led him to have his phone to hand and primed to take a picture of the most expressive 'you want me to wear this?' look that he had ever been privileged to see.

"It's ok, Sherlock. You don't have to wear it," John gestured to the navy blue jumper he'd given his friend, "Mum doesn't care how you dress."

"I believe I'm expected to thank you at this point," Sherlock stated, lowering the jumper and folding it closed. John grinned, pleased that his friend had at least made the attempt to follow a social convention.

"You're welcome," he chuckled, "We'll leave at ten thirty, yeah?"

"Very well," Sherlock nodded and swept off to his room, probably to find a way to experiment the jumper to death. John dropped into his armchair and flicked the morning paper open, sighing when he discovered that several items had already been cut out of it. Shaking his head, John settled down to read what was left, which was mainly the sport pages and lifestyle supplement.

0o0o0

"John!" his mum beamed as he opened the back door into the kitchen, "You're looking well, love!"

"And you, mum. You get younger every time I see you," John replied and kissed the presented cheek before turning to Sherlock. His friend was already categorising and deducing, based on the evidence presented in the form of the kitchen. John had been very surprised to see Sherlock in the jumper he'd been presented with - unmolested and undamaged - when it had come time to leave Baker Street.

"This is Sherlock, mum," John waved Sherlock over from where he'd been peering at the water heater (why he would be interested in that John had no idea) and his mother wiped her hands and then hugged his unsuspecting sociopath warmly in welcome (not that John believed that self diagnosis for a moment). The sight of his short mother hugging his tall flatmate was incongruous enough to put a fond smile on John's face, unaffected by the slightly annoyed look Sherlock threw him.

"Sherlock this is my mum, Mary," John completed his duty as host and turned to pick up the vegetable peeler his mum had been wielding when they entered. Mary Watson came complete with grey hair, a wrinkled face and a bustling air about her that John found a comfort. She was always busy at something - John had always said that if they could hook her up to a turbine the household wouldn't have to pay electric bills.

"Pleased to meet you," Sherlock hugged back gingerly, managing a wincing smile when she drew back.

"John's told us all about you - how clever you are," Mary patted his arm fondly, "I was very pleased to get your text last week, though a bit surprised. I didn't know you had my number?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said in that smooth tone that said he was lying, not that Mary Watson would know the difference, "John gave it to me after he moved in, you know: in case of emergencies. He has my brother's number too, just in case."

The last part was true at least. John wondered idly if Mycroft was to blame for the phone number distribution and made a mental note to ask at some point. Not that he minded that Sherlock had his mother's number; it wasn't as if Sherlock would abuse it.

The front door banged open and both Watson's in the kitchen winced, something that Sherlock was quick to spot. John finished the carrot he was on quickly, wiping his hands as the kitchen door opened with another bang and Harry lurched in, a couple of carrier bags in hand. Sherlock could tell from where he stood that she was already on her third or fourth drink of the morning, though she had cut back recently.

"Don't mind me then, John. I'll just lug these myself shall I?" she snapped and John rolled his eyes, reaching to take one of the bags from her hand and putting it on the counter. His sister dropped the other bag beside it and ran a hand through her short hair, blowing out an exasperated breath.

"Honestly, traffic down the high road was a nightmare. I thought Dad was going to blow a gasket at one point," she complained, then her eyes landed on Sherlock, "You must be the nutter John lives with."

"Hey!" John barked, and for a moment Sherlock's patient friend was replaced with an officer in Her Majesty's Armed Forces, "One, he's not a nutter, two, he's a friend and three, he's a guest!"

Harry rolled her eyes and snorted, but had the grace to look sheepish in response to her mothers silent look. She blew out another dramatic sigh and held out her hand.

"Hello, I'm Harry. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," she trotted the rote phrases out in a bland tone and seemed a little disconcerted when Sherlock matched her tone and look perfectly.

"Likewise," he shook her hand and John looked up at the ceiling in what Sherlock recognised as his 'give me strength' look. He shot John an apologetic look, pleased when his friend quirked the corner of his mouth at him and nodded. The front door banged again and Harry hurried to get the kitchen door open while John moved to relieve his father of the bags he held. Sherlock nipped forward and neatly took the other set of bags, putting them beside John's and shooting a small smirk at his friend that the rest of the Watson's missed.

"Hello, Dad," John shook his father's hand, "This is my friend, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my dad, Hamish Watson."

"Pleased to meet you Mr Watson," Sherlock made sure to make eye contact and apply just the right amount of pressure to reassure Mr Watson that he was the 'alpha male' in the room. This man was the source of the tension in the room - though Sherlock had yet to determine if it was because he was violent or if he was simply autocratic. John didn't exhibit the behaviours of a violent childhood, but Afghanistan would have erased some of those.

"Likewise," Hamish replied, the faint burr in his voice making him sound very much like his son. Or rather, John sounded like his father. Harry chose that moment to start unpacking the bags, bumping into Sherlock from behind as she turned with various items in her hands. Sherlock smiled, stepped aside and mentally sighed. It was going to be a looooong afternoon.

0o0o0

"So, on a scale of one to ten, what are my chances of coming home from work tomorrow and finding my bags packed?" John's voice indicated that despite the lighthearted phrasing, he was seriously worried about Sherlock's response.

"Are you behind on the rent?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, knowing full well that John wasn't at all, the man took his debts seriously, "Don't be ridiculous John. I see you share your sisters overly dramatic tendencies."

"Only when I'm subjected to her," John replied, rolling his eyes, "There's something about Harry that makes me regress to the age of twelve."

"I think you're being overly generous with that estimate," Sherlock couldn't let the opportunity to twit his partner pass and captured the finger that prodded him sharply in the side in retaliation easily, weaving their fingers together when John stopped trying to pull away and smirking at his exasperated flatmate. He'd been slowly increasing the amount of touches he bestowed on John in an effort to determine if there was a threshold to John's patient acceptance of him. He hadn't found it yet. He was beginning to think he never would.

"Not going to give me your opinions or deductions then?" John asked after a moment, his face turned as if he was looking out of the taxi window. His fingers in Sherlock's grip were tense, betraying his apprehension.

Sherlock pondered for a moment. He had noticed several important things at the Watson's family home. Harry's drinking had been enough to stop that same vice in their father, John had inherited his mothers peace-making nature. Harry was rebelling out of a sense of inadequacy - she felt that her brother overshadowed her even though they were both in the field of medicine, though she had trained as a physiotherapist. Hamish Watson had not been equipped to deal with the intelligence of his own children - which they'd inherited from their mother who had never had the opportunity to go further in life as she'd married young - though the man was no dullard. Sherlock was even more impressed with his friend after meeting his family. John had grown up in a boringly normal setting and yet had managed to become the intriguing and intricate individual that Sherlock was becoming to value more and more as their friendship progressed.

Sherlock knew that John knew all these things already. He also knew that to express any of this would be, in his own phrase, 'a bit not good'. So he chose for once to gloss over the facts. Besides, John had been very polite about his family the week before and Sherlock knew full well that the Holmes' clan were very odd compared to what his friend was used to.

"They're a very normal, standard family," Sherlock shrugged, "I liked your mum."

"She liked you," John chuckled, "Not everyone gets seconds at pudding."

Sherlock smirked smugly at his friend and settled back to watch London go by as the taxi took them home. All in all, he preferred it when they spent Sunday afternoon together. Families simply complicated matters too much.

"We'll stay in next week," Sherlock told his flatmate and smiled a little when John squeezed his fingers in approval.

END

Disclaimer - Characters and setting as depicted by BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.