If You Love Me, Get Clean

Chapter Forty Seven

April 2017

Love's a madness on the breeze
Just one look, I'm falling like the leaves
Laying tender at your feet
I think you'll be the death of me

With 221b back up to working standards, plus a few extra added furnishings, The Baker Street Boys – as Mary continues to lovingly call them – are back to their usual routine. Clients come and go, Sherlock yells about the stupidity of the human race, and John blogs about it. The constant carousel of life in the building has returned full force and there's something very life affirming about that. No matter what happens, there's always this mix match flat in the centre of it all. That will never change, John's sure.

Pausing his typing, John notices that Sherlock has left a tab open on his laptop. In normal circumstances John would have brought his own along with him, but he'd left it at the surgery yesterday and Sherlock simply waved a hand at his own when he arrived, telling him to go through his emails while he was there. He glances across to the kitchen where Sherlock is tidying up an experiment, and clicks on the notes icon that's blinking at him. It's a pair of lists, typed out in bullet form.

Daily:
– keep off cigs
– eat something even if you don't want to
– let Alice know where you are
– tell Alice you love her

This year:
– have baby
– book therapy appointment with Ella
– organise schedule of educational visits for Rosie, Mary already green lit the idea
– be more careful on cases
– mention Provence to Alice
– eternity ring
– inform John about better cycling route

John isn't sure what to think about that last one. As far as he's concerned his cycling route is doing its job, thanks very much.

"John, you're welcome to stay. Type up your blog or whatever nonsense it is you're doing, but I must be off."

John's head shoots up from the laptop, minimising the app quickly, fairly certain if Sherlock was to glance at him in that moment he'd look guilty as sin. "What? Where are you going?"

Sherlock is already pulling his coat on. "Home. Obviously."

"It's three thirty!"

"Your point being?"

"You're serious? You're just... going home?"

Sherlock scowls at his friend. "That is what I just said, is it not?"

"But–"

He throws open the door to the landing, ready to rush off and ignore John's constant influx of questions, only to find that he has a visitor.

"Good afternoon, brother mine."

"Christ!"

"No. Guess again."

"Mycroft?!"

"That's the one."

Sherlock grumbles, his eyes narrowing. "Hilarious. Lurking in darkened alcoves? Now who's a vampire?"

"Still you."

He huffs. "What are you doing here?"

"Pleasant welcome, as usual," he nudges his brother out of the way with his umbrella, strolling casually into the front room of 221b. "John." He nods in greeting.