# Baker Street – 6:58 PM
London was doing its best impression of a wet ashtray—grey, damp, and atmospheric in the sort of way that made poets swoon and ordinary people buy umbrellas they'd immediately lose. The city wore its drizzle like an old coat, comfortable and perpetually damp, while the evening light filtered through the clouds with all the enthusiasm of a bureaucrat on a Friday afternoon.
John Watson shifted on his bad leg, the ache flaring like a petulant metronome keeping time with his doubts. He eyed the black door of 221B Baker Street with the cautious optimism of a man considering a questionable life choice—the sort of decision that started with "it seemed like a good idea at the time" and ended with awkward conversations at dinner parties.
Prime location. Georgian architecture. The sort of property that should cost more than a minor European principality. His inner accountant, the part of him that still remembered being sensible, winced audibly.
"Right then," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on his walking stick. "Deep breaths, Watson. It's just a flat viewing. What's the worst that could—"
Behind him came the low growl of a diesel engine, like a mechanical beast clearing its throat. John turned.
A black cab stopped with the sort of theatrical timing that suggested the universe had a sense of drama. Out unfolded Sherlock Holmes, like some gangly origami experiment that had finally worked itself out into human form. He moved with a kind of disjointed grace—as though physics had given up arguing with him and just let him get on with it, the way one might capitulate to a particularly persistent cat.
Six-foot-plus of sharp angles and sharper cheekbones, wrapped in a coat that probably cost more than John's monthly pension. Dark curls defying both gravity and common sense, pale skin that suggested he'd made a lifestyle choice to avoid sunlight, and those eyes—pale, calculating, taking in everything and filing it away under 'potentially useful later.'
"Ah. John," Sherlock said, brisk and approving, as if John had just passed the first round of some unspoken examination. "Punctual. Excellent quality in a potential flatmate. Suggests reliability, discipline, probably military background—obvious, really." He turned to the cabbie, who looked as though he'd just survived a Category 5 hurricane disguised as a conversation. "Thank you. Keep the change. And do consider my advice about your wife's sister—the embezzlement will surface within the fortnight."
The cabbie stared. "How did you—"
"Elementary. The lipstick on your collar isn't your wife's shade—she prefers subtle pinks, you prefer bold reds on women, clearly an affair, but the nervous tic when I mentioned finances suggests guilt about money, not infidelity. QED." Sherlock waved dismissively. "Off you go."
The cab pulled away, leaving its driver muttering about "bloody London weirdos."
But John's attention had already shifted to the other passenger emerging from the cab's far side.
Harry Potter.
Ten years old, school bag slung over his shoulder with casual precision, emerald eyes that held far too much intelligence for someone who should be worried about homework and pocket money. Already tall for his age—nearly five feet and still growing—with dark hair that refused to cooperate despite obvious attempts at civilization, and sharp features that promised he'd be devastating to the female population in a few years' time.
More importantly, he carried himself with the kind of unconscious poise that most grown men spent years trying to fake. Not arrogance—confidence. The sort that came from having faced down actual monsters and lived to tell the tale, though he'd never dream of bragging about it.
He looked John up and down with unnerving thoroughness, those green eyes cataloguing details with an efficiency that would make his guardian proud.
"Dr. Watson," Harry said formally, extending a hand with perfect manners. "Harry Potter. You didn't get lost finding the place. Impressive."
John shook the offered hand, surprised by the firm grip. "I—well, no. GPS, actually. Technology, you know."
Harry tilted his head, a gesture so reminiscent of Sherlock it was almost comical. "And here I was thinking military training and an innate sense of direction honed by years of navigating hostile territory. GPS, though. Right." He paused, deadpan. "Guess I overestimated you."
"Excuse me?" John blinked, caught between amusement and mild offense.
"Don't take it personally," Harry said with the sort of world-weary tone usually reserved for tax inspectors and traffic wardens. "Happens all the time. Sherlock does it to me hourly."
"Not hourly," Sherlock murmured, fishing his keys out with the precise movements of a man who'd done this exact action thousands of times. "Quarter-hourly. I have standards."
"My mistake," Harry replied solemnly. "Every fifteen minutes, Dr. Watson. Like clockwork. Usually followed by a lecture about the obvious, a demonstration of superior deductive skills, and a comment about how I should have seen it myself."
"The obvious should be obvious," Sherlock said, not looking up from his keyring. "If it weren't, it wouldn't be obvious."
"Brilliant logic," Harry deadpanned. "Truly. The circular reasoning alone deserves an award."
John decided not to engage with whatever dynamic was happening here and instead turned his attention to their surroundings. "This is a prime spot," he noted, eyeing the building with professional appreciation. "Georgian architecture, excellent condition, Baker Street address. Must cost—"
"Nothing reasonable," Harry cut in, with the casualness of someone discussing the weather or the price of crisps. "But Mrs. Hudson owes Sherlock a rather significant favour. Long story involving Florida, drug cartels, and a thoroughly dead husband."
John's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly achieved escape velocity. "You… you stopped the execution?"
"Ensured it," Sherlock corrected, tone maddeningly calm, as if he were commenting on the likelihood of rain. "Different thing entirely."
John stared, his brain making several rapid calculations and reaching conclusions he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "You mean you—"
Harry sighed, emerald eyes rolling with the sort of world-weary British eloquence that suggested he'd explained this before. "Translation, Dr. Watson: Mrs. Hudson's late husband was a thoroughly awful human being. Murdered tourists for pocket money. Worked with drug lords. Sold information to people who did unspeakable things to other people. When the Americans finally bagged him, Sherlock supplied evidence that ensured justice was served. Result: execution. Proper justice. Mrs. Hudson was absolutely delighted."
"Delighted?" John echoed faintly.
"Threw a party," Harry confirmed. "Made cake. Sang songs. The works. Then gave us a significant discount on the rent by way of gratitude. Really, it's the closest thing to a happy ending you'll find in Sherlock's case files."
"The permanent kind of justice," Sherlock added, as if he were ordering a coffee or commenting on the weather. "Quite satisfying, really."
John processed this information. He did not process it well. In fact, his brain seemed to have stalled somewhere between 'ensured execution' and 'threw a party.'
"Right," he managed. "Right. That's... that explains the rent situation, I suppose."
Harry folded his arms, a gesture that made him look far older than his ten years. "Welcome to Baker Street, Dr. Watson. Home of outstanding tea, terrible nutrition lectures from Mrs. Hudson, experimental chemistry that occasionally produces alarming smells, and the periodic corpse in the refrigerator. Do try to keep up."
Sherlock glanced down at him with the sort of look that managed to be both fond and exasperated. "Less sarcasm, Harry."
"Less casual murder anecdotes, Sherlock," Harry fired back without missing a beat.
They stared at each other—a silent duel of cheekbones versus sass, experience versus precocious brilliance. John had the distinct impression he was watching a tennis match played entirely with facial expressions and pointed silence.
Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Fair point."
"I have those occasionally," Harry said with mock surprise. "Usually when I'm not being underestimated every quarter-hour."
John coughed, partly to break the tension and partly because he was beginning to feel like he'd stumbled into some sort of elaborate performance piece. "So. That explains the rent. Anything else I should know before we proceed?"
"Yes," Harry said immediately, with the sort of eagerness that suggested he'd been waiting for this question. "I'm leaving for boarding school when I'm eleven. September next year. Sherlock thought he'd get lonely rattling around here by himself, so you're essentially the replacement emotional support human. No pressure."
"Boarding school," John repeated carefully, his brain still catching up. "Right. Traditional sort of place, then? Rugby and Latin and cold showers?"
"Hogwarts," Harry said, as if that explained everything. Which, to be fair, it absolutely didn't.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"Specialist school," Sherlock offered smoothly, unlocking the door with surgical precision. "Exclusive institution. Family tradition, you might say. Rather unique curriculum. Quite magical, really."
John frowned, his doctor's training kicking in to examine this statement from multiple angles. "Magical how, exactly?"
Harry grinned, sly as a particularly well-fed cat with access to the cream jug. "Oh, you'll see, Dr. Watson. Trust me—it's much more interesting than rugby and Latin."
"Though probably involving significantly more mortal peril," Sherlock added conversationally.
"Only marginally," Harry protested. "And the food's excellent."
"The food is beside the point when you're being chased by enormous spiders."
"Sirius said that happened one time."
"One time too many for most people's comfort."
"Most people are boring."
John decided that whatever rabbit hole this conversation was heading down, he wasn't ready to follow. Instead, he focused on the immediate practicalities as they stepped through the door into 221B Baker Street.
Inside: the warm glow of lamps against dark wood paneling. A staircase winding upward with the confident curves of Georgian craftsmanship, worn smooth by generations of feet. The air smelled of old books, furniture polish, and something that might have been exotic tea or possibly laboratory chemicals—it was difficult to tell.
Somewhere above, a cheerful humming drifted down—domestic, incongruously normal, like a beacon of sanity in what was rapidly becoming a very strange day.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock explained, hanging his coat on a peg with practiced efficiency. "Excellent landlady. Disastrous taste in men—present company excluded, obviously. Makes a magnificent Victoria sponge and has opinions about everything from proper nutrition to international politics. Invaluable, really."
"And," Harry added, hanging up his school bag at exactly his height on a hook that had clearly been installed with him in mind, "she has a pathological need to mother anything that breathes within fifty feet of her front door. Warning: she will feed you. Resistance is not only futile, it's considered rude. Also, she gives strongly worded lectures."
"On what?" John asked, genuinely curious despite himself.
"Manners," Harry said, nodding gravely. "Proper eating habits. The importance of regular sleep. Why it's inadvisable to keep human remains in the refrigerator alongside the milk. The usual domestic concerns."
"And vegetables," Sherlock muttered, beginning to climb the stairs. "Endless lectures about vegetables. You'd think they were the solution to all of humanity's problems."
"To be fair," Harry said, following, "they probably wouldn't hurt your cause. When did you last eat something that wasn't biscuits and caffeine?"
"I had toast yesterday."
"Toast isn't a food group, Sherlock."
"It is if you eat enough of it."
John found himself climbing the stairs behind them, his leg protesting with each step, his mind reeling with the casual domestic banter happening around him. He was beginning to feel like he'd stepped sideways into a parallel universe—one where ten-year-olds casually discussed capital punishment and consulting detectives ran their lives on a diet of carbohydrates and stimulants.
"John," Sherlock said, pausing on the landing with the air of someone announcing side effects on prescription medication, "you should be aware—there are certain occupational hazards. Unscheduled police visits at all hours. Chemical experiments that occasionally produce alarming smells or small explosions. Temporary storage of evidence that some might consider unsanitary."
"Body parts," Harry clarified helpfully. "In the kitchen. Occasionally. Usually labeled, but not always clearly."
John's eyes narrowed. "Body parts."
"Educational specimens," Sherlock said primly. "For research purposes. Nothing illegal."
"Mostly nothing illegal," Harry corrected. "Though there was that incident with the head."
"That was perfectly legal."
"Legal, yes. Sanitary, absolutely not. Mrs. Hudson made you bleach the entire kitchen."
"It was one head."
"It was next to the jam, Sherlock."
John stared at both of them. "The jam."
"Strawberry preserves," Harry confirmed solemnly. "Homemade. Mrs. Hudson was not pleased. There were words. Very loud words. Also some creative cursing that I probably wasn't supposed to hear but definitely did."
"She threatened to withhold biscuits," Sherlock added, as if this were a war crime of the highest order.
"For a week," Harry said, nodding gravely. "It was devastating. He actually ate proper meals."
"Under duress."
"Still counts."
Before John could formulate a response to this exchange—and honestly, where would he even begin?—a voice floated down from upstairs. Warm, bossy, unstoppable, with the sort of authority that suggested years of practice dealing with impossible people.
"Sherlock Holmes! Have you brought home stray doctors again? And don't you dare try to sneak past me—I can hear your feet on the stairs. If he's staying for dinner, he's going to eat proper food, not whatever horror you've been surviving on this week. I won't have house guests fainting from malnutrition in my hallway!"
John stared upward, caught between horror and amusement, like a man watching a natural disaster that was simultaneously terrifying and oddly fascinating.
Sherlock smirked, an expression that managed to be both fond and resigned. "Mrs. Hudson. Told you."
Harry grinned, emerald eyes dancing with mischief. "The true ruler of Baker Street, Dr. Watson. You can bow now and save yourself the trouble later, or you can try to maintain dignity and have it systematically demolished over the course of dinner. Your choice, really."
"She's..." John began, then stopped. "She sounds formidable."
"She once killed a man with a stiletto," Harry said conversationally. "Well, technically she hit him with her shoe, but it was a very sharp stiletto and he was being rude about her cooking. The coroner ruled it justifiable homicide due to extreme provocation and poor table manners."
John's jaw dropped. "She what?"
"He's exaggerating," Sherlock said, but his tone suggested the exaggeration wasn't by much. "It was ruled accidental death. The stiletto was merely... a contributing factor."
"And the poor table manners?" John asked weakly.
"Oh, those were completely accurate," Harry confirmed. "Never insult Mrs. Hudson's shepherd's pie. It's practically a death sentence."
John found himself smiling despite everything. Despite the dead husbands and the casual executions. Despite the poison experiments and the refrigerator warnings and the prospect of unscheduled police visits. Despite knowing—absolutely knowing—that moving in here would be utterly catastrophic for his carefully rebuilt, sensibly organized, properly medicated life.
But for the first time since Afghanistan, since the bullet and the hospitals and the endless, grinding routine of recovery, he felt something stirring in his chest. Not quite excitement—that would be too strong a word. But interest, maybe. Curiosity. The sense that whatever happened next, it wouldn't be boring.
"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, sweeping a hand toward the stairs with theatrical flourish. "Mrs. Hudson's waiting, and she doesn't like to be kept in suspense. Also, she's probably already put the kettle on, and her tea is genuinely excellent."
John adjusted his grip on his walking stick, took a deep breath that tasted of old books and possibility, and nodded. "Lead on. But if I end up as a headline in tomorrow's paper, I'm blaming both of you."
Harry's grin widened, all emerald mischief and barely contained delight. "That's completely fair, Dr. Watson. Just make sure your insurance covers 'acts of consulting detective' and 'proximity to experimental chemistry.' Ours specifically excludes both, which has led to some awkward conversations with claims adjusters."
"Particularly after the incident with the bee," Sherlock added thoughtfully.
"Bees," Harry corrected. "Plural. And they weren't technically ours."
"Details."
John groaned, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest and carried with it the weight of a man who knew he was about to make a spectacularly poor decision and was somehow looking forward to it anyway.
Sherlock chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in autumn wind. Harry practically bounced on his toes with anticipation. Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson hummed like all was right with the world, which it probably was, from her perspective.
And John Watson, for the first time since Afghanistan, felt properly, genuinely alive again.
"Right then," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Once more unto the breach."
"That's the spirit," Harry said cheerfully. "Though hopefully with fewer casualties this time."
"This time?" John asked, but they were already climbing, and somehow he suspected that particular question was best left for another day.
After all, he was moving to Baker Street. He had a feeling he'd have plenty of time to hear all the stories.
Assuming he survived the first week.
—
# 221B Baker Street – First Floor Landing – 7:02 PM
The warm glow from the stairwell carried the distinctive scents of home-baked goods and something that might charitably be called "experimental cuisine" from Mrs. Hudson's domain below. As they reached the first floor landing, a door opened to reveal a woman who managed to embody the concept of "maternal authority" while wearing an apron decorated with cheerful daisies.
Mrs. Hudson was exactly what John had expected and nothing like what he'd prepared for. Silver-haired, pleasantly plump in the way of women who believed food was love made edible, with eyes that suggested she'd seen everything at least twice and found most of it moderately amusing. She moved with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd spent decades managing unmanageable people and considered it a calling rather than a chore.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, immediately focusing on Harry with the sort of laser-guided maternal attention that made hardened criminals confess to crimes they hadn't committed. "Look at you, absolutely soaked through! And you've grown another inch since yesterday, I swear. Come here and let me look at you properly."
Harry submitted to her inspection with the resigned patience of someone who'd learned that resistance was not only futile but potentially hazardous to one's biscuit privileges. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. We're not that late, are we?"
"Late enough for me to worry," she replied, smoothing down his hair with practiced efficiency before turning her attention to the stranger. "And you must be Dr. Watson. I'm Martha Hudson—I look after these two, though 'look after' is probably too generous a term. More like 'prevent from accidentally destroying central London through sheer carelessness.'"
"John Watson," he replied, accepting her firm handshake. "Pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine, dear. Any friend of Sherlock's is welcome here, though I should warn you that 'friend' is a rather broad category where he's concerned. It includes everyone from Scotland Yard detectives to international criminals, with surprisingly little distinction made between the two."
Harry brightened considerably, fixing Mrs. Hudson with the sort of hopeful expression that had probably been perfecting itself since he learned to walk. "Did you manage to finish the treacle tart? The one you were working on this morning?"
Mrs. Hudson's expression melted into the sort of fond indulgence usually reserved for very small children or particularly clever pets. "Of course I did, sweetheart. Fresh out of the oven an hour ago. Though you'll have proper dinner first—I won't have you spoiling your appetite with sweets, no matter how much you flutter those ridiculous eyelashes at me."
"They're not ridiculous," Harry protested with wounded dignity. "They're perfectly normal eyelashes. If anything, they're understated."
"They're weapons of mass manipulation," Sherlock observed dryly. "He's been using them to extract extra portions from you since he was eighteen months old."
Mrs. Hudson laughed, the sound warm and rich as her baking. "And it works every time, doesn't it? Though I notice you're not above a bit of eyelash fluttering yourself when you want something."
"I have never fluttered anything in my entire life," Sherlock replied with wounded dignity that fooled absolutely no one present.
"Of course not, dear. You just happen to look particularly pathetic when you're hungry and there's fresh bread cooling on the kitchen counter."
A door opened on the ground floor, and footsteps approached with the measured pace of someone who'd learned to move quietly through spaces occupied by people with sensitive hearing and volatile tempers.
"Evening, everyone," came a warm voice with just a trace of Welsh accent. A tall man appeared at the base of the stairs—probably in his early thirties, with prematurely graying hair and amber eyes that carried the particular wariness of someone who'd seen more than his fair share of life's darker corners. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to check if you needed any help with dinner preparations."
"Remus!" Harry's face lit up with genuine pleasure. "We brought Dr. Watson to see the flat. Dr. Watson, this is Remus Lupin—he lives downstairs and helps Mrs. Hudson run the café. He's also an old friend of my parents."
The introduction carried weight that John couldn't quite decipher, but Remus's expression grew soft and sad for just a moment before he stepped forward to offer his hand.
"John Watson," John said, noting the firm grip and the calluses that suggested manual work rather than purely academic pursuits. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. I hope Sherlock hasn't frightened you off with tales of severed heads and chemical explosions. He has a tendency to use shock value as a personality substitute."
"I do not—" Sherlock began indignantly.
"You absolutely do," Harry interrupted cheerfully. "Remember when you told that poor estate agent about the time you needed to test how quickly blood coagulates at different temperatures? She ran out of here so fast she left her shoes behind."
"That was relevant information! The flat's kitchen receives excellent natural light, which is essential for accurate observation of color changes in biological samples."
"It was the first thing you told her," Remus pointed out with obvious amusement. "Before she'd even had time to look around properly."
"Efficiency is a virtue."
Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock's arm with maternal tolerance. "Efficiency is what you call it when you scare away perfectly nice people because you can't be bothered with normal conversation."
"Normal conversation is tedious."
"Normal conversation is how civilized people get to know each other without requiring medical intervention," Mrs. Hudson replied tartly, then turned to John with renewed warmth. "Don't mind him, dear. He's actually quite sweet once you learn to translate from 'insufferable genius' to 'actual human being.'"
"The translation process can take months," Harry added helpfully. "Sometimes years. I'm still working on some of the more complex emotional expressions."
John found himself genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks. The easy banter, the obvious affection beneath the teasing, the sense of family that had nothing to do with blood relations and everything to do with choosing to care about difficult people—it was exactly the sort of thing he'd missed without realizing he was missing it.
"Right," Mrs. Hudson announced with the authority of someone calling a meeting to order, "I'll get dinner started while you show Dr. Watson around. And Sherlock—" She fixed him with a look that could have melted steel. "Try to make the flat seem livable rather than like a crime scene that's been used as a chemistry lab."
"It's not that bad," Sherlock protested.
"You have a human skull on the mantelpiece and what appears to be a small explosive device in the kitchen fruit bowl."
"The skull is educational, and that's not an explosive device, it's a timing mechanism for—"
"I don't want to know," Mrs. Hudson said firmly. "Just... try to seem normal for five minutes. It won't kill you."
"Actually, normalcy might prove fatal," Harry observed with scientific interest. "He's never tried it for extended periods. Could cause systemic shock."
Remus chuckled, heading back toward the ground floor. "I'll leave you to it. Dr. Watson, welcome to Baker Street. Fair warning—you'll never be bored, but you might occasionally question your sanity."
"Only occasionally?" John asked.
"Well, some days more than others," Remus admitted with a grin.
As Remus disappeared downstairs and Mrs. Hudson bustled toward the kitchen muttering about impossible men and their complete inability to maintain basic domestic standards, Sherlock bounded up the stairs with renewed energy, taking them two at a time despite his considerable height.
He paused on the first landing, waiting with obvious impatience for John to navigate the steps with his walking stick. There was no judgment in the waiting, no theatrical sighs or pointed looks—just the practical patience of someone who understood that different people moved at different speeds for different reasons.
When John reached the top, slightly out of breath but determined not to show it, Sherlock was already at the door with his key ready.
"Welcome," Sherlock said with a theatrical flourish, "to 221B Baker Street."
He opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing John through with the sort of grand gesture usually reserved for presenting crown jewels or unveiling masterpieces.
John stepped into the flat and immediately understood why previous flatmates had fled in terror.
The sitting room looked like the aftermath of a particularly violent collision between a library, a chemistry lab, and what appeared to be Scotland Yard's entire evidence storage facility. Books were stacked in precarious towers that defied both gravity and common sense. Papers covered every available surface, some held down by coffee cups that contained substances John preferred not to identify. Scientific equipment shared space with what looked like musical instruments, police files, and several items that might have been weapons or possibly just unusually shaped kitchen utensils.
A human skull grinned at him from the mantelpiece, positioned between a violin case and what appeared to be a small collection of different types of ash arranged in labeled glass vials.
"This is..." John began, looking around the chaos with the expression of someone trying to find diplomatic words for complete disaster.
"I know what you're thinking," Sherlock said quickly, already moving across the room with nervous energy. "It looks a bit chaotic, but there's actually a very sophisticated organizational system—"
"Rubbish," Harry muttered under his breath, though not quietly enough to escape notice. "Absolute rubbish. He knows where everything is because he's got a photographic memory, not because there's any actual system."
John looked at the scattered papers, the experimental equipment balanced precariously on book stacks, the general impression of organized chaos that suggested brilliant minds at work with absolutely no consideration for anyone else's comfort or sanity.
"Well," he said finally, "this will do nicely."
Sherlock's face lit up with genuine pleasure, the sort of smile that transformed his entire appearance from intimidating to almost boyishly hopeful.
"Really? You think so? Because I can straighten things up a bit—"
"Soon as we can get all this rubbish moved out," John continued conversationally.
The silence that followed was so complete that even the ambient London traffic seemed to pause in respectful attention.
Harry leaned closer to John, his voice barely above a whisper. "All of this rubbish is Sherlock's."
John's face went through several rapid color changes as realization dawned. "Oh. Oh Christ. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, no, it's fine," Sherlock said quickly, though his expression had shifted from hopeful to awkwardly embarrassed. "I mean, you're not wrong. It is a bit... much. I can definitely straighten things up. Make it more, er, habitable."
He began moving around the room with the sort of frantic energy that suggested panic disguised as productivity. Papers were gathered into haphazard stacks, books were relocated from one precarious position to another, and several pieces of equipment were moved to what were presumably more appropriate locations, though John couldn't determine what made one location more appropriate than another.
Sherlock collected what appeared to be unopened correspondence from various surfaces, crossed to the fireplace, and arranged the letters on the mantelpiece with the sort of careful precision usually reserved for museum displays. Then, with a flourish that suggested this was perfectly normal domestic behavior, he produced a multi-tool knife and stabbed it through the pile of envelopes, pinning them to the mantelpiece like a particularly violent filing system.
John stared. "You... you just stabbed your mail."
"Organization," Sherlock said defensively. "Prevents important correspondence from getting lost among the less important papers."
"What makes correspondence important enough to stab?"
"Well, bills are always urgent. Anything from Scotland Yard requires immediate attention. Letters from my brother typically contain either money or threats, sometimes both. And Mrs. Hudson's shopping lists are essential for household functionality."
Harry snorted. "You haven't opened your mail in three weeks. You just stab everything and hope for the best."
John lifted his walking stick to point at something else that had caught his attention. "Is that a skull?"
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with pride. "Belonged to a friend."
"'Friend' is stretching it," Harry muttered.
Mrs. Hudson reappeared in the doorway, having apparently finished her assessment of the kitchen's current state of domestic disaster. "Will you be needing the other bedroom?" she asked John with the sort of meaningful look that suggested layers of subtext he wasn't entirely catching.
John looked at her blankly. "The other bedroom?"
"Oh yes," Mrs. Hudson continued, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper and glancing meaningfully between John and Sherlock. "We get all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."
The implication hit John like a physical blow. He looked across at Sherlock, expecting immediate clarification that they were not, in fact, a couple who would be sharing bedroom arrangements.
Sherlock appeared completely oblivious to what was being suggested, his attention already drawn to something else entirely—possibly a chemical formula he'd written on the wall or the arrangement of his experimental equipment.
Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly and headed toward the kitchen, where the sounds of domestic organization began immediately—cupboard doors opening, the clink of dishes being arranged, and a running commentary on the shocking state of the kitchen that suggested Sherlock and Harry's housekeeping skills were even worse than their organizational abilities.
"Mrs. Hudson, I've told you before, the kitchen table provides optimal working surface for precise measurements—"
"The kitchen table is for eating, not for conducting experiments that make the milk curdle!" came the firm reply. "And don't think I haven't noticed that you've been using my good china for chemical reactions again!"
John looked around the chaos of the sitting room, took in the skull grinning at him from the mantelpiece, the stabbed correspondence, the general impression of brilliant minds operating without any consideration for normal domestic behavior, and made a decision.
He walked over to one of the two leather armchairs positioned near the fireplace, plumped up a cushion that looked like it hadn't been properly arranged in months, and dropped heavily into the seat.
The chair was extraordinarily comfortable.
John leaned back, let his walking stick rest against the arm of the chair, and felt something he hadn't experienced in months: the sense that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"Right then," he said to the room in general, "when do we start?"
---
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