Chapter Text
Refreshed and cleaned up the following morning, Sherlock tripped lightly down the stairs. John was still in deep sleep and even a quick buss to his forehead did not cause him to stir.
First order of business: tea and toast. Down the hall and to his left, he entered the kitchen and stopped short. Full breakfast was being served, the entire bay window seating covered up with Mycroft’s hired hands. He’d expected to have to fend for himself until John woke up, but instead there seemed to be a full complement of staff both busy at the cook stove and also serving up hot steaming omelets. The toaster pinged and two nicely brown pieces of bread sprang up.
One of the cooks looked up and smiled. “Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Just tea for me, thanks,” he said automatically. “Mrs. Lake, isn’t it?”
Her entire face lit up with pleasure, “It is, sir.” She moved closer, as if taking him into confidence. “Now Mr. Holmes senior said you’d be stubborn about eating. But you should really have something.”
The omelet that was being served up smelled of roasted peppers and sun dried tomatoes. As Mrs. Lake had been Mycroft’s personal cook in London for years Sherlock knew she wouldn’t hesitate to report his own eating habits, or lack thereof, to Mycroft. He didn’t want both Mycroft and John badgering him after every mouthful. “Perhaps a small omelet,” he relented. About half that size?”
She smiled as if she’d just won the lottery. “Of course, sir. And a bit of toast and jam as well?”
“Marmalade,” Sherlock corrected, flapping his hand. “I’m not picky about the flavor. If there is any in.”
“Of course, sir.” She pulled one of the many mugs stacked on the countertop and poured tea. “It’s just been brewed,” she said. “Milk and sugar?”
Sherlock nodded and then took the proffered mug. Opening his mouth to speak, Mrs. Lake cut him off.
“Mr. Holmes senior is in the room where all the trouble was last night,” she said. “And we’ve already taken trays up to the infirm, except you and Dr. Watson.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. It was unnerving to have someone answer his questions before he spoke them aloud. He’d try to remember that in future.
“Now about your omelet, I’ll fix it myself. And send someone to fetch you when it’s done.”
“Thank you,” he said. Sherlock felt a bit like he was being given the bum’s rush and turned to leave, exiting via the formal dining room where Nanny and Mrs. Carlisle had fallen the night before.
Other than dirty footprints and chairs is disarray there wasn’t much else to see. Nonetheless he was careful to not tread on or touch anything that might be of relevant to the investigation.
Stepping out and into lounge Sherlock stopped. Mycroft and Lestrade were in deep conversation. Yet, that wasn’t what caught Sherlock’s eye. They were a centimeter too close, turned in toward one another, Lestrade looking up at Mycroft through lowered lashes.
Surely not.
Then Lestrade saw Sherlock and his quick back up step and the slightest tinge of red on his cheekbones was the confirmation Sherlock needed.
“I said I was going to punch you,” Lestrade said, swagger in his step as he came over, and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.
“I don’t think Mycroft would like that very much,” Sherlock said, a studied innocence in his tone. He turned sly eyes toward his brother. “Would you, Brother Dear?”
Mycroft gave him a warning look which Sherlock returned. His point had been made.
Turning back to Lestrade he saw something else in his face: shame. About Mycroft? No. Contrition? Yes. Ah.
“I, uh,” Lestrade began. “I want to say how sorry I am to have ever….”
“Apology accepted,” Sherlock said quickly. “Spilt milk, and all of that, Detective Inspector.”
“Then call me Greg,” Lestrade said.
“Before I call you brother-in-law, you mean?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow creeping up with the question.
“Sher-lock,” Mycroft said. “Since you’re using inane words of wisdom – spilt milk? Really? Then focus on this one: Pot. Kettle.”
Sherlock smirked at his brother and then focused on Lestrade. “I’m glad you were here last night.”
Lestrade - stood frozen as if Sherlock had just commanded him to murder a den of baby rabbits.
Dear God, sex must be making his brain rot. And while on the topic of banal phrases: in for a penny: “I appreciate you being here to take care of John,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”
“Well,” Lestrade said, shifting from foot to foot, a cheesy grin on his face. “You’re welcome.”
Sherlock broke their gaze and looked around the almost destroyed room. Glass particles, gun powder from the flash-bangs, blood marred the white carpeted floors and furnishings.
Bullets had ripped through and in some case embedded into, the room’s walls and the furniture. The stately arched cathedral glass windows were all but shells, the lead mostly held together as the glass had shattered by the flying bullets last night.
Lab technicians added to the destruction as they dusted for fingerprints and dug bullets out of the thousand year old walls.
“I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to explain this,” Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.
Lestrade looked between him and Mycroft. “To whom?”
“Why to Mummy, of course,” Sherlock said, his tone mocking. “She’ll –“
He was cut off when the sound of an incoming helicopter made itself heard.
“Well,” Sherlock said, his voice rose to be heard over the noise. “No need for conjecture when we’ll be witnessing it first hand in approximately eight minutes.”
“Five,” Mycroft said. “She is considerably distraught.”
“Who is?” Lestrade asked. “Your Mum?” he pivoted on foot between them. “How could you possibly know that?”
“The helicopter,” Mycroft said.
Lestrade looked none the less confused.
“The angle of her descent,” Sherlock added. “A bit steeper than normal.” He swept his eyes over his brother. No one put the fear of God into Mycroft. Except their mother. “Any last words, Mycroft?”
“Four minutes,” a woman’s voice said before she entered the room.
And there she was. Sherlock’s mouth curled up in delight but she stilled him with a single raised finger. “Five minutes, darling,” she said, eyes locked on Mycroft.
Everyone in the room stilled. The air was heavy and Mummy’s eyes were flashing fire.
“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, her voice promised murder. “Care to explain yourself young man?”
Mycroft shifted his weight, drawing himself up as tall and straight as possible. Sherlock nearly laughed. As if that would save him from Mummy’s wrath. It never had before.
Her PA, Robert, arrived just then, and stopped just outside the threshold. “Ma’am,” he asked. “Might I get you something?”
“Tea,” she said, never turning her head. “I’ll assume you’ve someone in the kitchen who can brew a pot of tea given you’ve allowed my entire staff to be poisoned?” Her tone was arch.
“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft said, with just a hint of a head nod.
Sherlock had to work to keep his face impassive as he saw Lestrade’s anxiety ratchet up with every passing moment. So, he hadn’t met Mummy before. Not the best way to impress his lover’s mother.
“And I assume they’ve been fully vetted?” Mummy asked. “Hopefully better than your last hire? Katie, I believe?”
“Of course,” Mycroft said. His shoulders were so drawn back Sherlock imagined they had to be paining him.
Within two ticks, Robert was at his mother’s elbow, handing a delicate bone china tea cup over to Mummy. No common earthenware mug for her, Sherlock thought, having to force back a smirk. Best not to get too entirely comfortable. Two minutes down, three to go and then she would be shifting her attention, and no doubt a little of her vitriol, to him.
She took a slight sip and then handed the cup back to Robert and began making her way around the room, carefully avoiding the worst of the glass. “That paneling you’ve been gouging bullets out of is priceless, you understand. There will be no replacing it.”
“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft said.
But Sherlock caught his brother’s eye. She was pleased to see it go. Ah. The decorating bug again.
“The windows – must be replaced exactly as they were, however,” she said. Then she whirled dramatically and strode back, stopping in front of Lestrade.
“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing up taller, sucking in his stomach. “My apologies for the mess, ma’am. We’ll be out of here as quickly as is feasible and still maintaining the integrity of the investigation.”
“Yes, well,” she said, continuing to survey the damage. “How long will it be before we can clean up the mess? It is England you know and there will be rain sooner rather than later.”
“By the end of the day, ma’am.”
“Mycroft – ”
“They’re waiting on standby mother.”
Lestrade looked between them.
“The carpenter,” Sherlock said. “To get the windows boarded until the glass can be cut to order.”
“Ah,” Lestrade said. “Of course.”
Mummy strode over to Sherlock, stopping in front of him. She was magnificent, Sherlock thought, dressed in her favored dove grey, elegant pinstripe trousers and a cashmere sweater, her hair pulled back in a sophisticated ponytail.
She took his hands in hers, spreading them wide.
“Let me look at my baby boy,” she said. “Have you eaten?”
“Uhm – ”
“That would be a ‘no’ then,” she said. “Robert, please have someone competent in the kitchen to cook my son a full English.”
“Mummy – ” he began.
“Do not argue with me, Sherlock.”
“But,” he began again, just as Mrs. Lake appeared in the doorway.
“Begging your pardons,” she said. “But Mr. Holmes the younger’s breakfast is ready to be served.”
Mummy’s artfully tweezed eyebrow rose and her mouth so like his own smiled broadly. “Well, it would seem that even with Nanny down for a time, I’ll have someone on my side to help feed you up.”
Sherlock sighed.
“And after breakfast I’ll want to see the stab wound,” she said.
“Mummy,” he whined.
“None of that, Sunshine,” she said, and then pulled him into her arms for a quick hug. She smelled of her signature perfume, created for her in Paris, updated yearly with just a tiny adjustment, usually to the jasmine or vanilla, to ‘keep it fresh’. “Off you go, then,” she said, pulling back and smiling at him. “I’ll see you later, darling.”
Sherlock headed for the door, but paused when he heard his mother turn on her bespoke Italian heels and say to Mycroft. “In my study, Mycroft. Ten minutes.