Work Text:
i.
Sherlock talked to himself a lot.
He muttered as he stared at crime scene maps pinned to the wall. He made his observations aloud as he conducted his scientific experiments, as if he weren't also writing it down. He shouted at the ceiling, the skull, the wall, and even John, sometimes, when his train of thought came screeching to a halt at some immovable obstacle. John had gotten quite good at tuning it out, which was why he didn't realise that Sherlock was on the phone. In fact, he wasn't aware that Sherlock even had phone conversations, since he said himself that he preferred to text.
Until Sherlock thrust his phone into John's jaw and growled, "You talk to her."
"Wh-what?" John caught the phone just before Sherlock dropped it. "Hello?" Sherlock stalked off with hunched shoulders.
"Hello?" Older woman, John identified from the quality of her voice; upper class, from the quality of her accent. "Who's this?"
"Er, this is John Watson," said John. "Who am I speaking to?"
She sighed with an explosive burst of static. "I suppose this is a step above being hung up on, and at least you won't break the phone; they're not cheap, you know! I'm very sorry he's gotten you involved in this. I'll try back another time."
The phone made a blip-bloop-bleep twinkling sort of noise, indicating that the call had ended. John looked down at the screen, where it indicated the length of the call and the person on the other line. The phone reported that this had been Mummy, and that the call had lasted for nine minutes and thirteen seconds.
Huh.
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ii.
The next time Sherlock shoved his phone into John's face and flounced off, John was rather better prepared: "Hello, Mrs Holmes," he said, as he cradled the phone between his shoulder and face. He was up to his elbows in soapy water.
"What if it weren't me?"
"Then I would have felt really silly." John dried his hands on a flannel and leaned against the counter. "But who else would he not hang up on and shove in my face instead?"
Mrs Holmes gave a throaty laugh. "You are a saint to put up with all that he does."
John smiled. "Quite the opposite."
"Partner in crime, then. Yes, that does sound more accurate. Tell me, does he still keep his science experiments in the refrigerator?"
"All the time," John groaned. "Thumbs in the crisper and eyeballs in the microwave."
"Lord, I hoped he'd grow out of that," Mrs Holmes sighed. "It's bad science! What if his cultures were contaminated by food bacteria?"
"Very true," John conceded, though that hadn't been his primary concern.
"Well, I shan't keep you," Mrs Holmes said. "I'm sure you've plenty to do, not the least keeping my son out of trouble. But do ring, if ever you need anything, or even a sympathetic ear. After all, I understand."
"Thanks," John said, and she hung up. John fished his own phone out of his pocket and took her number down.
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iii.
John's phone jangled merrily on the end table, and the screen lit up with Sherlock's Mum. John put his book facedown in his lap and answered it.
"Hello!" Mrs Holmes caroled. "I hope you don't mind my ringing you directly."
"Not at all," John said, though he could hardly have replied with anything else.
"How's Sherlock?" she asked, as if she were inquiring about the weather, or about John's own parents. John had an insane moment where he wondered whether or not this conversation were betraying Sherlock in some way. Would Sherlock be upset if John shared information about him with his mother? Then he remembered that Sherlock had wanted John to take Mycroft's money to spy on him, and also that Sherlock had once locked him, out of his mind on fear-inducing hallucinogens, in a laboratory basement, just to see what would happen.
"Mad as a hatter," John replied.
"That's all right, then," said Mrs Holmes, sounding amused. "You know very well, I suspect, that you should worry when he's quiet."
"Quite right," said John. If it had been anyone else, he would have mentioned the time last week when he noticed that Sherlock had been quiet for four hours, and it turned out it was because the idiot was lying unconscious in an alley with two cracked ribs after being beaten up by a couple of hired toughs. But he thought that might worry her.
"And how's the Davenport affair coming along?" Mrs Holmes queried.
"Oh, that's all wrapped up," said John. "I just have to--wait, how did you know about that? I haven't blogged about it yet."
"I have my own methods," she said, sounding a trifle severe. "So, then, was it the gloves that cracked it?"
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iv.
"Hullo, Mrs Holmes," John said.
"Hello, John dear," she said.
Was it "John dear" now? John wasn't sure how he felt about that. He turned off the hob and leaned his hip against the counter. Their conversations were usually only a few minutes long, but it never did to be around fire and distracted by a Holmes. "What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to see how you were doing."
John wondered what she did during their phone calls. Did she cook or clean or fold laundry? Or did she sit in an antique armchair, sipping a glass of port in front of the fire, cigarette in a cigarette holder? John imagined she lived in an elegant manor outside of the city, all landscaped hedges and diamond-shaped window panes. "You're not calling to ask about Sherlock?"
"It's much the same thing."
Well, that was probably true. John wasn't sure if this fact depressed him or not.
"You just wrapped up the Italian case, didn't you?" Mrs Holmes went on.
"Yes," said John, no longer surprised that she knew that.
"That was a rough one. It must have been a wet stakeout."
"It was," John agreed. They'd had to wait two nights, actually, although the first one hadn't been wet so much as bone-piercingly cold. John hadn't been able to get warm again until he'd stood under the shower for ten minutes. At least they'd been staying in a proper hotel, with good water pressure and all the hot water he could stand, as opposed to a creaky bed and breakfast with banging pipes.
"Sherlock runs people ragged," said Mrs Holmes.
"It's all right, really."
"No, it's not," said Mrs Holmes. "But I can't control him, any more than Mycroft can. He can't even control himself. But he listens to you; you should take advantage of that."
John opened his mouth to say that no, Sherlock didn't listen to anyone--except Mrs Hudson, maybe--but even Mrs Hudson said that he listened to John. And so did Lestrade. And Molly. All these people who'd known Sherlock longer than he had. So perhaps there was something to it, after all. "That's what they say. Not that I can tell."
Mrs Holmes made a thoughtful noise, which was not dissimilar to Sherlock's "Go away, I'm thinking" grunt. "I read your blog, you know."
The back of John's neck prickled. He tried to think if he had said anything disparaging about Sherlock on his blog. Or Mycroft. Well, he was sure he had. Had he said anything disparaging about Mrs Holmes? Probably not; it wasn't as if Sherlock or Mycroft talked about her very often. "Do you?"
"It's one of the only reliable ways to keep up with my son. You broke up with your girlfriend, what was her name, Sarah, last spring."
"Yes?" That had been after the New Zealand trip. John thought it had gone well, but then not long afterward Sherlock had hauled a still jet-lagged John out of bed, and John had suffered a nasty fall off of a fire escape and a concussion. That had somehow been the last straw for Sarah, who said that she wasn't sure she could stand not knowing whether or not John would be in the news the next day.
"Sherlock bought beer."
"Did he?" John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling as he thought. That seemed like ages ago. Life with Sherlock had a way of compressing time.
"Yes." Mrs Holmes cleared her throat. "The comment reads, in its entirety, 'I went shopping earlier. There's some cans of beer in the fridge. Next to the feet.'"
John stared into space. It'd been a Japanese beer, nothing like what he usually drank, but he'd hardly been going to complain. He'd liked it, anyhow. And he hadn't complained about the feet that time either, which had at least been bagged.
"My son is not a beer drinker, as you surely know," said Mrs Holmes. "And even if he were, he'd never drink out of a can."
He and Sherlock had only known each other for a few months then, though they'd been through a lot. They'd been through Moriarty.
"He went shopping." John tried to imagine Sherlock walking into Tesco's and studying the beer selection. And how had he decided on the Japanese beer? Deduced it, no doubt, based on John's haircut and his stride and his previous drink selections.
"For you," said Mrs Holmes.
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v.
"Hello?"
"Hello." John cleared his throat. He tried lying down on the couch, decided that was too teenagerish for a grown man, and sat up again. "Hi."
"Well, this is a turn up," said Mrs Holmes, and John could not repress the shudder that ran down his spine. "What gives me the pleasure?"
"Nothing--"
Mrs Holmes's voice sharpened. "There can't be something wrong with Sherlock, Mycroft would have told me."
"--really," John said. "Just, ah, called to chat."
Mrs Holmes paused. "Really?" She sounded genuinely curious, as Sherlock had when he asked John if people were really upset when he gave back their unsatisfactory Christmas gifts. ("But they can return them, can't they? Or give them to someone else.")
"It's been a while since you last rang," John admitted.
"Ah." Mrs Holmes sounded warmly satisfied. "And you thought you'd check up on me. How sweet. How's Sherlock, then, as long as our roles are reversed?"
John crossed and uncrossed his legs. The long, boring hours at the clinic made his leg cramp. He got up and paced instead, trying to stretch out the muscles. "He's in Ireland. Or didn't you read that on the blog?"
"That tells me where he is, not how he is."
John shrugged, though he knew Mrs Holmes couldn't see him; she could probably hear it or infer it somehow. "Fine, I suppose. He hasn't sent me any texts complaining that he's bored."
"No word at all?"
"He sent me an email asking me to fetch some ears from St Barts," John offered. "And he sent me a photograph of the crime scene."
Mummy laughed. "You're lonesome! And so you called the next closest thing, his mother. Oh, that's adorable."
"I--that is not--" John shut his mouth with a click, ears burning. He stopped in the middle of the room, one hand on his hip. "That's not it."
"I think it's charming," said Mummy. "And I get a conversation out of it. That's not bad. Mycroft never calls me up to chat."
"He doesn't?" That came as a surprise; Mycroft struck John as every inch the dutiful son.
"Oh, he rings once a week." Mrs Holmes huffed out a sigh. "Sometimes more. Never misses a Mother's Day, or my birthday, or Christmas. He probably programs them into his calendar. He tells me about his work--which is dreadfully dull, by the way--and tells me about Sherlock, if there's anything to report. He asks about my week, asks if I need any money, and I tell him I've done nothing and I need nothing from him. The calls last no more than fifteen minutes. I loathe them."
John blinked. "You what?"
"Do you know how often Sherlock rings?" She barely paused for an answer, but then, John had had no idea what guess to hazard. "Never. I daresay he doesn't give me a moment's thought. No texts, no emails, no photos. He calls when he needs a favour, and that's it."
John gaped at the phone. "That--"
"And I adore him for it," Mrs Holmes went on. "Mycroft calls out of a sense of obligation, or because he's securing his inheritance, I don't know and I don't really give a toss. Sherlock calls out of sincere need. He may be rude and acerbic and awful, but I can be certain that he means what he says. Wouldn't you agree?"
Except for the times that Sherlock played normal to get what he wanted out of witnesses or hapless bystanders or unsuspecting Scotland Yard staff, perhaps. But after a moment's thought, John had to admit that Sherlock was...direct, if nothing else. And Sherlock never bothered at playing normal with John, which John supposed he might appreciate.
Something shifted on the other end of the line, and John could hear ice sliding to clink against the side of a glass. "You agree."
"Yeah," said John. "I guess I do."
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+i.
"...yes, Mummy. Yes. Mummy. Yes! ...yes."
Sherlock took one of his strange, circuitous routes from his bedroom into the sitting room, weaving around the kitchen and doing a loop round the coffee table, phone still clutched in his hand. He pitched it onto the couch at last, but didn't follow it; rather, he remained standing next to John, who was sitting in his armchair trying to read a newspaper. He'd given it up as a bad job as soon as Sherlock came into the sitting room but felt compelled to at least put up a show.
The silence set John's teeth on edge. He let the newspaper drop into his lap and looked up. "Yes?"
Sherlock opened his mouth. He closed it. He frowned. He loomed. "Mummy asked after you."
"Yes?" John was determined not to look away.
"I said you were fine." Sherlock's frown deepened. "You are fine."
Something at the end of Sherlock's sentence indicated that there was perhaps a question mark there, or there was supposed to be. "I am, thanks for asking."
"Good." Sherlock let out a breath through his nose. "I'd hate to lie to Mummy. Mummy can tell." He plopped into the armchair opposite John and sank down low into it, his long legs sticking out so that their knees were nearly touching, his foot on top of John's foot. John flexed his toes. "I think she likes you."
"That's nice," said John. He picked up his newspaper again. "I like her too. I think."
Sherlock made a low, frustrated noise, almost a growl. "She finds you useful. She...appreciates you."
John raised his eyebrows and peered at Sherlock over the top of the newspaper he was not actually reading. "Did she say that?"
"She says you have many good qualities."
John wished he'd left some room to raise his eyebrows farther.
"And that you are not an idiot."
"Is there some rea--" John began, and then swallowed the second half of that sentence when Sherlock leapt out of his chair and thrust his face just inches away from John's face. Newspaper flew everywhere as John nearly tipped over backwards, chair and all.
"She says that if I do not make my appreciation clear," and Sherlock was so close that all John could find to focus on was the dark fleck in Sherlock's eye, "then some woman will come and take you away from me. I said that was not true. That's not true is it, John?"
"Nngah," John said.
"It can't be true, because you are mine." Sherlock leaned in even farther. The breath dried up in John's lungs. Sherlock bent and bit the corner of John's jaw, and John's breath caught at the prick of teeth against his skin. It didn't hurt, but Jesus Christ.
John closed his eyes. His hands were gripping the armrests so tightly that he feared he might do himself--or the chair--some injury. He tilted his face so that he and Sherlock bumped noses, and then Sherlock turned so that their lips could meet.
The kiss was tense and awkward. Sherlock drew away first, frowning.
"Did your mother really say all of that?" John said. "Or was this just a way for you to say that you fancy me?"
Sherlock's frown deeped into an almost comical scowl. "Shut up."
"No," John said, smiling. Sherlock looked downright indignant. John grinned.
---end---