Working on the Edges

Chapter Eleven

Sherlock's family was much nicer than John would have supposed based on his initial encounter with Sherlock's brother. It was true that Mycroft was still weird and creepy in his three-piece suit and his umbrella, of all things. But he sat silently on his cell phone and John ignored him because Sherlock's parents were also ignoring him.

Sherlock's father seemed quiet, but kind. Sherlock's mother talked a mile a minute.

And the most charming thing about her was that she was talking about Sherlock the whole time. She clearly doted on him. John wasn't sure he would have supposed that, but it made him happy. Sherlock was beloved, and that was a good thing.

He got to hear all about Sherlock in primary school, investigating crimes.

"He wanted to be a detective," his mother confided to John.

John wanted to say that he thought he was, and then held his tongue because maybe that was a secret.

"Such a fascination with death. Not that I disapprove of solving crimes, of course, but we were always standing out in the cold slogging around alleys and such looking for evidence. It was Sherlock's father who suggested dance, because Sherlock's was so good at music. Sherlock used to write waltzes for himself, you know, it was so darling. So we thought some formal training might do him good. But of course being somewhere comfortable was never something Sherlock was going to endorse. So here I find myself right back in the cold that I was trying to avoid with the whole thing." She laughed merrily.

John thought how Sherlock would have hated all these stories being told, and yet they were fantastic.

Then she said, "How did the two of you meet?"

"Practicing," said John honestly.

"Oh, that's right. Hockey, did he say?"

"Yes. I can't do any of these jumps and spinny things."

"Yes, but he couldn't skate with a stick in his hand," said Sherlock's father, leaning past his wife to say it, "so don't let it bother you."

"Oh, I'm so happy for the two of you," said Sherlock's mother, clasping her hands together dramatically. "He can be so lonely. Although he'd never say it. I hoped he'd meet someone and settle down."

Not only had she clearly not bought the "friend" angle, she had already jumped ahead to some kind of lifelong commitment, thought John. He didn't know if it was more alarming that Sherlock's mother was expecting this of the relationship, or that he really didn't mind. John thought that, in all honesty, if Sherlock had skated up to him and said, "Let's get married," he would have said, "Yes," without hesitation.

Eventually, it was time for Sherlock's flight to do their warm-ups. Sherlock was indeed wearing feathers. Black feathers. John watched him and adored him, couldn't wait to talk to him again, to smile at him and kiss him into an answering smile, make him not this untouchable black swan but his Sherlock, the way he knew him, willing to let him draw shaving cream feathers onto him.

But Sherlock had a horrible warm-up. He fell on the very first jump he tried, spun out of it the next time he tried it. Tried it again and fell again. Skated away from the site of the jump and just went in circles around the rink, his head down, his feathers fluttering around him.

John tried to determine if he was doing it on purpose to lull the skaters around him or if he'd really rattled himself that much.

"Can I borrow your binoculars?" he asked Sherlock's father politely.

"Certainly." He handed them over. "You can also listen, if you want."

"Listen?"

"He gets a livestream of the event," Mycroft said, sounding bored, "so that he can hear what the commentators have to say."