The Martyrs of Mischief

Chapter 11

I don't know what I'm doing. Yay. - Natalie

"Mum- No... Yes! For God's sake... Sorry... Yes, I'll be okay. No, John hasn't bailed- Redbeard's fine- That's what I was just- Will you let me finish?!"

It was quite amusing really, watching Sherlock have a very one sided conversation with his Mum as he paced the train station platform, phone pressed against his ear and growing more irritated by the second. They'd been on the phone with one another since Sherlock first sat down in the taxi.

A gentle drizzle of rain flooded the underside of the corrugated iron sheet that acted as shelter, and John sank lower into the metal bench, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying to get comfier.

Sherlock's Mum and Dad had left for Corfu earlier that morning, and were apparently sitting in the airport fretting over the safety of their son. As each second ticked by, John's amusement grew as he watched Sherlock's hand gestures become more and more exaggerated.

The email confirming John's attendance had been sent off eventually, and John's mum had invited Sherlock's mum and dad around for dinner to discuss the arrangements. Neither Sherlock nor John had been present for that; they'd both headed to the park instead, not wanting to dip into the world of Come Dine With Me. According to both sides however, it had gone well, and the train was booked the next day. A few weeks later, John had had his cast taken off, too.

John's mum doted on Sherlock, and was constantly inviting him in for a cup of tea. Which was fine, because when he wanted to be, Sherlock could actually be quite nice. He was a complete suck up to Ms Watson, anyway. He also got on surprisingly well with Harry, much to John's annoyance.

Currently however, Sherlock's hand remained glued to his head, as it had been so for almost five minutes He hastily ran cold fingers through it as he fought to get his voice in the torrent of questions from his mum. John remained smirking, tapping his feet on the slabs as his eyes trailed Sherlock.

"I got you a chocolate mocha... Thing." The sound of Harry's heavy black boots hitting the floor signalled her return, and John looked up as he was handed the polystyrene cup.

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a sip. Harry settled herself down next to him.

"Should I wait for him to finish do you think?" She asked, nodding towards Sherlock who was now kicking a mould ridden wall.

"Probably best," John shrugged. "I don't think he handles mornings well, and his mum's been bombarding him. Their flight leaves soon though, so he'll be fine then."

They watched him thoughtfully for a few moments, before John felt Harry's elbow gently nudge his ribcage.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" John raised his eyebrows. "Don't look at me like that. London's a bloody dangerous place. I might be your sister, and I might occasionally piss you off-"

John snorted.

"That's an understatement."

Harry pinched him.

"Anyway," she continued, "I might piss you off a lot," she amended her statement. "But it doesn't mean that I can't worry about you. If this Microphone guy gives you any shit, I'll break his neck." She finished, cracking her knuckles and looking smug.

John winced. "That's a bit harsh, Harry. And it's Mycroft, not Microphone."

Harry shrugged. "Do I care? Jim said if you want to come back he'd drive us there to get you."

The drizzle was now falling horizontally, and the scattering of businessmen and women on the platform became one with the back wall to avoid it. John took another long swig of his drink, which tasted like over-priced, flavourless coffee.