Mummy invites Sherlock, John, and Rosie to the country for her birthday, which just so happens to coincide with the annual Harvest Festival, an event Sherlock loathes. With John seemingly making the wrong move at every turn and with ghosts hiding in each of their closets, what will it take for their (Halloween) masks to finally come off?
There’s a red leaf sticking to the window of 221B, the early morning mist sealing it to the glass with its dew. John watches as the sun peeks over the buildings opposite, lighting up the previously dull foliage in shades of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows as the last vestiges of green cling on. Its veins contrast with its fragile edges like a skeleton seen through translucent skin, and John shivers against the ever-present chill that seems to settle in the flat from mid-September until early May, contemplating lighting the fire despite the fact that they’re leaving in only a matter of hours.
“Why are we doing this again?” comes Sherlock’s muffled voice from the bedroom, the whine apparent in the drawn out nature of his vowels.
John sighs and places the bowl of oatmeal he had been holding on Rosie’s tray, handing her the plastic spoon as she murmurs “ta” (the closest to ‘thanks’ she gets these days) and dives into her breakfast with typical Watsonian enthusiasm.
“Because it’s October, it’s your mother’s birthday, she asked, and we said, ‘yes.”
“You said ‘yes.”
“Yes, I said ‘yes.” John pinches the bridge of his nose as Rosie bangs her spoon on the table.
“Without talking to me!”
“Sherlock. She’s your mother. The woman who birthed you.”
“She’s insufferable.”
“She’s lovely.”
“You’re biased.”
“Of course I am,” he finishes simply. “She gave the world you and what kind of world would it be otherwise?”
The silence that follows brings a quirk of the lips to John’s face yet a twinge of uncertainty to his gut. Did he take it too far?
But a huff comes a moment later followed by a muttered, “Fine,” proving that John’s instincts were correct. He smiles smugly, an expression which Rosie mirrors as she holds out a bite of oatmeal for him.
“Oh thank you,” he says, bending down and allowing her to scoop the apple-cinnamon flavored concoction into his mouth before pressing a kiss to her head. “Mycroft’s people are delivering the car at noon and I told your mother we’d be there in time for tea,” he calls again. He pads down the hall, sash of his dressing down trailing on the hardwood floor. “So you better be packing,” he says, poking his head in Sherlock’s open door.
The man himself is perched on the edge of the bed facing the far wall like some sort of angelic gargoyle, shoulders slumped.
“Sherlock – ”
“I said, ‘fine,” he mutters, refusing to turn. “We’ll go.”
John closes his eyes because that’s all they’ve seemed to end up doing in the three months since he moved back in. Tiptoe around each other. Accommodate.
“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.
“Do what?” Sherlock asks in a tone that implies he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Nothing. Nevermind.” John lingers in the doorway for a moment more, biting his lip and silencing everything he wishes he could say. Stop giving in. I’m not made of glass. You never used to give in so easily. You won’t break me. He knocks twice on the doorframe and blows out a breath. “Tea’s getting cold.”
I won’t leave.
And then he’s gone.
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