They passed the rest of the time they had left at the manor with Sibyl, who, like Sherlock, never seemed tired despite the lack of sleep. John felt oddly better knowing that Sherlock's tendency not to sleep was in part inherited. He just somehow preferred knowing that to thinking that Sherlock had trained himself to go without sleep as much as possible. He supposed he didn't like the idea that Sherlock had conditioned himself out of any appreciation for the finer things in life – at least what John considered the finer things in life: food, drink, a good night's sleep. After Afghanistan, these things seemed luxurious beyond compare.

Sherlock, though, had taken an innate predisposition for being distracted by work and honed it to perfection so that work had no longer been the distraction, everything else had. He was much more relaxed now, insofar as that word could be applied to Sherlock Holmes, but John saw that inclination remain, too ingrained a habit to ever be relinquished.

The only thing that had ever really broken it was playing the violin. John was glad Sherlock had thought to bring his instrument, not least because he was allowed the chance to listen to two private performances which, in his mind, rivalled anything the LSO or any other orchestra in London could give. Although he wondered what the dynamic in a symphony orchestra was like. It probably didn't have the same pauses with whispered discussions about what to play and how to play it, nor the same sort of familial overtones. He supposed conductors could probably be overbearing and demanding, but Sibyl was not these things. Just quietly insistent and Sherlock actually listened to her, at least in this. She'd always be the one who had taught him how to play, after all.

He didn't quite succeed on biting down on a smile when she stopped playing, set her instrument down, and corrected her son's posture and made slight adjustments to the way Sherlock was holding his violin. He suffered these with a roll of his eyes but complied with her unspoken admonishments and, once Sibyl was satisfied with him, they resumed playing.

While listening, John thought of the photograph he'd taken, still in his back pocket. He doubted Sherlock would have remembered it being taken, since he hadn't yet been three at the time, but it reminded him of what was going on now. What kind of patience, he wondered, did Sibyl have? Not just for Sherlock, but for Mycroft, too. And they could not have been an easy pair once together.

They had lunch with her, too, in their small sitting room, without any servants or cooks or anything, which John enjoyed. Of course, the meal had been prepared by the cooks and brought up by some of the staff, but when they ate, it was just the three of them. Sibyl arranged with Sherlock to have some things delivered to the flat, which was to say that she told him that packages were being sent and when they'd arrive and he nodded along. John had to repress a smile and just appreciate how acquiescent Sherlock was.

The packages would be Christmas presents, of course, although hopefully not anything too ostentatious. Sibyl was good at not going overboard, knowing the size of their flat and how much it already contained, and knowing they did not especially need things.

Although, sometimes John wondered about buying all new furniture to replace the sofa and chairs that were old, although comfortable. They could probably even find things in the attics, he supposed. But Sherlock always dispensed with these suggestions, saying he liked their furnishings. They'd bought a new couch several years ago, too, after Sherlock had declared very early on in their relationship that he hadn't liked the old one, and that seemed to be that.

If Sibyl had any opinions about where Sherlock lived and how he kept his flat, she did not share them. In this, John had absolutely no idea what she thought, because she could be far more unreadable than her son, occasionally rivalling her husband. He liked to think she was content that Sherlock was content, but wondered about her friends and relatives and what they would think. It probably seemed very Bohemian to them. To John, it seemed fairly normal, as much as that word could now be applied to his life, but John was middle-class. He wouldn't say there were no expectations, but they were far different.

He'd had the impression, initially, that Mycroft thought that Sherlock was just playing about and would eventually settle down and become serious and move somewhere appropriate (appropriate being large and expensive). Sherlock had settled down, but where he was, with John, and, after a year or two, Mycroft seemed to almost accept this was the way things were going to be for his younger brother.

This didn't keep him from meddling, of course, probably because Mycroft without some sort of interference wouldn't be Mycroft. John had grown used to it enough that if Mycroft ever fully stopped, John would have immediately started to worry.

John packed their bags quickly while Sherlock and Sibyl chatted about nothing in particular. This was an easy task, as they'd been there only two days and Sherlock had already carefully wrapped what he'd taken from Mycroft's old chemistry set and packed in into a box, ensuring nothing was going to move about. It would be delivered along with the packages Sibyl was sending.

He was glad she didn't insist they be driven back as well. He enjoyed taking the train, for all that Sherlock was far more likely to sprawl all over him in what amounted to a public space than he was when they went with Mycroft in one of his cars. It was actually because of that; John hated sitting stiffly for a little over an hour while Sherlock and Mycroft faced off silently – or not silently, but with a long, complicated dance filled with subtle barbs and overt attempts at guilt trips. They seemed to regard it almost as some kind of game now, but John much preferred having Sherlock to himself and having him be at ease enough to make himself comfortable all over John.

Which he was in Sibyl's presence, John noted. When John joined them again for a cup of tea, sitting on the sofa, Sherlock shifted immediately so that he was leaning against John, one arm around John's shoulders across the back of the sofa. It was less of a tangle than Sherlock might initiate at home, but John didn't mind. At least he could move enough to fix his tea.

They talked amiably until it was time to go, and John got the sense that Sherlock wasn't bored with the conversation, which he'd have classified as mundane and unnecessary with anyone else, even Tricia, even Sam, even Mrs. Hudson. John entertained the idea of telling Lestrade precisely how much of a pushover Sherlock was for his mother, but decided against it, of course, although the thought made him smile. The DI would probably just snicker, but John wondered what Donovan would make of it. She'd probably think John was lying. She had a better opinion of Sherlock now, but given where she'd started, that wasn't saying much.

They finished their tea and rose and Sibyl gave them each a peck on the cheeks, which Sherlock returned easily and John gave her a warm hug as well.

"Take care of my son, John," she said and John grinned.

"I promise," he said and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Mum," he complained in a voice that had no real bite in it.

Sibyl gave him an amused and knowing look, then another kiss on the cheek.

"Take care of my son-in-law, Sherlock," she replied and Sherlock's lips twitched as he did not completely succeed at repressing a smile.

"I will try," he sniffed. "But I can't always account for John's actions. He's not the most observant person. Transit buses, for example, can completely escape his notice."

John rolled his eyes.

"Well, do your best," Sibyl said, and John got the distinct feeling she was extending this to John as well. "And happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, Sibyl, and William. We'll ring on Christmas day," John promised.

"Do," Sibyl said and even Sherlock nodded.

They gathered their bags and Sherlock his violin and headed out of the house, Sibyl accompanying them, biding them a more restrained good-bye and safe journey as one of the staff loaded their bags into the waiting car. Sibyl stood at the entrance as the car pulled away and John looked back with a wave, which she returned simply by raising her hand, although Sherlock was not really paying attention. Leaving, for him, was just that, another action being taken, not a sentimental moment.

They were dropped at the train again and John was disappointed when they boarded to find it wasn't one of the compartment-style trains, but a regular train. They found a pair of seats in a fairly empty car, stowed their bags on the rack above them and settled down, Sherlock grumbling about the more limited legroom. In the end, he sprawled all over John again, back against the wall next to the window, long legs extended over John's, who had to sit as the seat was designed this time. It wasn't too bad, and the train ride wasn't horribly long, but John was glad when they pulled back into the station at Marylebone and disembarked. He shifted on his legs, trying to encourage the circulation to return, while Sherlock hailed them a cab.

After two brief days in the country, London seemed at once both shocking and normal. The sudden onslaught of noise was surprising for a moment, then immediately familiar, and the sensation of sliding into a cab beside Sherlock in his coat with its upturned collar, his purple scarf, his leather gloves, his suit and polished shoes, felt so utterly typical that John was surprised a moment about how accustomed to this life he'd become. If it weren't for the memories of the past two days and the photograph still in his back pocket, he would have felt like they hadn't left.

"That was nice," John commented. "We should do that more often."

Sherlock glanced away from looking out the window and gave him a brief smile.

"Next time Mycroft's work takes him outside of the country over a weekend during which we're not busy," he promised, meaning more when Sherlock had no pressing cases rather than when John was not on his once-a-month Saturday rotation.

They were dropped off at Baker Street within short order and went upstairs. Sherlock divested himself of his coat, scarf and gloves and went immediately for his chemistry set without bothering with his bags. John gave a wry smile; he'd been expecting precisely this. He left the violin for Sherlock to put away and took their bags into the bedroom, settling them on the foot of their bed.

He pulled the picture out of his pocket and risked a peek out of the bedroom door, but Sherlock was already on the phone with Lestrade, complaining about something about the Bainbridge case and John just rolled his eyes. He'd got nearly a full forty-eight hours out of Sherlock without him dashing off madly to a crime scene, and he counted that as lucky.

He pulled down one of his books from the bookshelves, one which Sherlock would never read due to him considering it another example of John's poor taste in literature, and slipped the photo in between the cover and the first, unmarked page. Then he went back to unpacking, the sounds of London in the distance, the sound of Sherlock haranguing Lestrade in the more immediate background. John smiled to himself as he tossed some clothes in the hamper and made sure he at least started a load of laundry before Sherlock had the chance to drag them out, back onto a case, again.