# St. Bartholomew's Hospital – Main Entrance – 10:30 AM
## Eight and a Half Years Later
London was doing that very London thing where the air tasted like damp tweed and second-hand diesel, and the sky couldn't decide if it wanted to drizzle or merely sulk. Dr. John Watson stood outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital, his cane tapping an irregular rhythm against the pavement—not from nerves, exactly, but from the peculiar restlessness of a man who'd spent too many mornings lately staring at his ceiling and wondering what came next.
He inhaled deeply, catching that peculiar London blend of exhaust fumes, antiseptic leaking from the hospital doors, and frying bacon from some greasy café down the street—a heady perfume for a man who had lived too long among Afghan dust and gunpowder and the metallic tang of field hospitals. London was grimy, noisy, cold, perpetually damp, and utterly, blessedly, magnificently alive.
The limp was behaving itself today, practically invisible if you weren't watching for it. Stress, of course, could make it flare up at will—his own body's little joke at his expense. Which was irritating, because John hated when his own leg treated him like a fraud. Still, the cane was... well, the cane was complicated. Prop, weapon, reminder, psychological security blanket, and occasionally—when he actually needed it most—a stick to lean on.
"John? John Watson?"
The voice carried that bright, surprised note of someone who's already halfway into a hug before they've thought to check if the other person wants one.
John turned, and his face did something it hadn't done in months—broke into a genuine smile.
"Mike Stamford," he said, and felt some of the morning's restlessness ease away.
"Good God!" Mike beamed, lumbering forward with the sort of grin that could power half of central London. He'd put on weight—life behind a desk rather than on the wards—but the man's enthusiasm was utterly unchanged, like a golden retriever who'd been waiting eight years for you to come home. "John bloody Watson! Look at you!"
They shook hands, and John found the grounding comfort of a friend's grip strangely more effective than any of his therapist's carefully chosen words about "reconnecting with civilian life."
"Mike," John said, warmth creeping into his voice despite himself. "What are you doing here? Last I heard, you'd sold your soul to Harley Street. Charging neurotic housewives a hundred quid for the privilege of telling them their headache wasn't a brain tumor."
Mike rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, yes. All the glamour of medicine without any of the actual medicine. I got thoroughly sick of it—sick of them, actually. Endless parade of rich people with sniffles and imaginary ailments. Botox consultations and people who faint if they sneeze too vigorously."
"Rough life," John said dryly.
"Oh, you have no idea. Do you know what it's like telling someone their mysterious abdominal pain is wind? For two hundred pounds? While they're wearing shoes that cost more than my car?" Mike shook his head. "No one bleeding to death, no one collapsing in corridors, no proper emergencies. Just endless anxiety about perfectly normal bodily functions."
"And you missed the chaos," John observed.
"Exactly! The beautiful, terrible chaos of actual medicine. So I came crawling back to Bart's. Six months now. Far less money, obviously, but infinitely more entertaining. Think of it as redistributing misery more equitably."
John gave a short laugh—the first real laugh he'd had in weeks. "Good to know someone's thriving on human suffering."
"It's a calling," Mike said solemnly, then brightened again. "Come on, let's get inside before this drizzle decides to commit properly."
They pushed through the revolving doors into the familiar symphony of hospital life. The corridors hadn't changed a bit—same echoing footsteps, same peculiar mix of frantic nurses, lost relatives clutching flowers, and medical students loitering about with the haunted expressions of people who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours and were desperately trying to look like they knew what they were doing.
Mike was already chattering again, his voice echoing slightly off the institutional walls. "So what brings you to my humble medical empire? Please tell me it's not anything dire. You're not dying, are you? Because I'd hate to have to tell people the first old friend I bumped into today promptly expired in front of me. That's the sort of thing that follows you around."
"No," John said flatly. "Not dying. Not today, anyway."
Mike let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Thank God. I've got quite enough paperwork as it is."
"Just bureaucracy," John continued, adjusting his grip on the cane. "Medical license renewal, pension forms, that sort of thrilling stuff. The army pension's not exactly generous, so I'm looking into civilian work."
Mike tilted his head, genuinely interested now. "Any particular specialty calling to you?"
"General practice, most likely. Maybe locum work until I get my bearings. Ease back into it gradually."
"Sensible. And housing? Please tell me you're not living in some dreadful bedsit."
John's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Looking for something. Shared, preferably. London rents are—well. They're London rents."
Mike's eyebrows lifted with concern. "What about your sister? Harriet, isn't it? She's still in London, surely?"
"Yes," John said in that tone that suggested the conversation was about to hit a wall.
"Still a dentist?"
"Still a dentist."
"Doing well, I hope?"
"Very well."
"And you can't...?"
"She's married. Husband, ten-year-old daughter—Hermione. Lovely family." John's voice was carefully neutral. "Last thing they need is an awkward, limping, PTSD-ridden house guest who shouts at three in the morning and makes everyone walk on eggshells."
Mike stopped walking for a moment, his jovial expression softening. "She'd understand, John. Family usually does."
"Yes," John said firmly, "which is exactly why I won't put her through it. Some burdens you don't share, even with people who'd willingly carry them."
They'd reached the hospital café—a depressing little space that seemed designed to crush the human spirit through aggressive beige décor and the smell of coffee that had given up hope sometime in the early 1990s.
"Coffee?" Mike asked, already steering him toward a table that had seen better decades.
"Why not? It's either that or mainline espresso from the machine outside, and that stuff could strip paint."
Minutes later, they sat with steaming cups that contained something allegedly coffee-related. Mike stirred his with unnecessary violence while John sipped his and made a face that suggested he'd accidentally tasted industrial solvent.
"Right then," Mike said cheerfully, apparently immune to the café's assault on his taste buds. "So you need a flatmate. Tricky business, that. London's absolutely brutal these days. People would rent out their broom cupboards if they could fit a bed in them."
"Pretty sure they already do," John muttered, watching a medical student at the next table stare mournfully at a sandwich that looked older than he was.
Mike leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes beginning to twinkle with mischief. "But here's the interesting thing. You're not the first person today who's told me they'd make an absolutely dreadful flatmate."
John raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
"Yes! Two in one day—what are the odds? You, with your perfectly reasonable concerns about nocturnal shouting and general war-related baggage. And this other fellow I know who's... well, let's just say he's a bit more exotic in his antisocial tendencies."
"Go on," John said, though his tone suggested he was already regretting the encouragement.
"Brilliant," Mike said with obvious relish, settling in for what was clearly going to be a proper story. "Absolutely, terrifyingly, devastatingly brilliant. The sort of brilliant that makes you feel like your brain's made of pudding just by standing near him. But also—and I cannot stress this enough—a complete nightmare as a human being."
"Sounds... promising," John said dryly.
"Oh, don't dismiss him so quickly! He's fascinating. Solves crimes for the police—well, for anyone really, but the police pay him occasionally. Experiments in his kitchen with things that probably violate several international treaties. Appalling social skills, likely illegal in at least three countries, and has probably insulted everyone he's ever met within the first five minutes of conversation."
"Right," John said slowly. "So essentially a walking disaster area with a chemistry set."
Mike chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Or the perfect flatmate! Think about it—you want someone who won't mind your little quirks? This fellow's got quirks coming out of his ears. You'd cancel each other out. Like... like negative numbers in mathematics!"
"Brilliant analogy, Mike. Two lunatics sharing rent and utilities. What could possibly go wrong?"
"That's the spirit!" Mike beamed, then paused dramatically. "Although there is... one tiny additional complication."
"Of course there is." John set down his coffee cup with the resignation of a man who'd walked into too many ambushes. "Go on then."
"A child."
John blinked slowly. "I'm sorry, a what?"
"A child. Ten years old. Exceptionally clever—and when I say exceptionally, I mean in the sort of way that makes university professors weep. Being educated in, shall we say, rather non-conventional methods."
John stared at him. "You're seriously suggesting I move in with a criminally insane genius and a precocious ten-year-old?"
Mike sipped his coffee with the serene satisfaction of a man delivering excellent news. "Yes! Doesn't it sound absolutely fascinating?"
"Mike." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is exactly why nobody ever lets you organize dinner parties."
"Hey, my dinner parties are legendary!"
"Yes, legendary disasters. Remember the one where you invited your ex-wife, her new husband, and that couple who were going through the messy divorce?"
"That was educational! Character-building!"
"Someone called the police, Mike."
"Only because of the small fire—"
"There was no fire!"
"Well, metaphorically speaking—"
John held up a hand. "Stop. Just... stop." He leaned back in his chair, studying his friend's face. "You're actually serious about this, aren't you? This isn't one of your elaborate jokes?"
"Completely serious. Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die exactly, because we're doctors and that seems unprofessional, but you get the idea."
"And you think this mysterious genius would actually want me as a flatmate?"
"Want might be a strong word," Mike admitted cheerfully. "But he needs someone, and you need somewhere. It's like... like a perfectly dysfunctional ecosystem!"
John was quiet for a moment, watching the steam rise from his coffee. "What's his name?"
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock?" John's eyebrows rose. "Someone actually named their child Sherlock?"
"I know, right? With a name like that, you're basically destined for either brilliance or complete social failure. In his case, both!"
John found himself almost smiling despite the absurdity of the entire conversation. "And the child?"
"Ah yes, young Master Potter. Ten years old, vocabulary of a university professor, curiosity of a cat with a death wish. Being home-schooled, if you can call what Sherlock does 'schooling.' More like... accelerated chaos education."
"Jesus." John rubbed his forehead. "And you think this is a good idea because...?"
"Because," Mike said, leaning forward earnestly, "you're both brilliant, you're both difficult in completely different ways, and you both need someone who won't be scared off by a little... unconventional behavior."
"A little unconventional behavior," John repeated flatly.
"Plus, think about it practically—shared rent in London, built-in childcare backup, and constant entertainment. When was the last time you were properly entertained, John?"
John considered this. When was the last time he'd been genuinely engaged with anything? When had he last felt... useful?
"This Sherlock," he said slowly. "What sort of crimes does he solve?"
"Oh, the impossible ones mostly. The ones that make hardened detectives weep into their tea. Murders that look like accidents, accidents that are actually murders, people who vanish from locked rooms, that sort of thing."
"And he's good at it?"
"Good?" Mike laughed. "John, the man is to crime-solving what Mozart was to music. Except Mozart was probably better at small talk."
John was quiet again, staring into his coffee as if it might contain answers to questions he wasn't sure how to ask.
"Where do they live?" he finally asked.
"Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. Actually, it's quite nice. Mrs. Hudson—she's the landlady—makes excellent tea and has a remarkable tolerance for unusual tenants. Plus the location's perfect. Central, good transport links, walking distance to everywhere important."
"Mrs. Hudson knows about the... experiments?"
"Oh yes. I think she rather enjoys the excitement. Been there for years, apparently. Sort of surrogate grandmother figure, from what I understand."
John found himself genuinely considering it, which was either a sign of how desperate his housing situation had become or how much he'd missed having something resembling a purpose.
"What aren't you telling me, Mike?"
Mike's cheerful expression flickered slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Come on. You've painted this picture of a brilliant detective who needs a flatmate, but there's something else. People like that don't usually have trouble finding somewhere to live unless..."
"Unless?"
"Unless no one can stand living with them for more than a few weeks."
Mike sighed. "All right, yes, there have been... previous flatmates. Several."
"How many?"
"I've lost count after twelve."
"Twelve?" John's voice rose slightly. "Mike, what exactly does this man do to drive people away?"
"Well," Mike said carefully, "there was the incident with the head in the refrigerator..."
"The what?"
"Just a head! Well, several heads actually. For research purposes! Perfectly legitimate scientific inquiry!"
"Mike—"
"And possibly some experiments involving small explosions—"
"Explosions?"
"Very small ones! Barely worth mentioning! And the violin playing at three in the morning isn't really that bad once you get used to it—"
"He plays violin at three in the morning?"
"Only when he's thinking! It's actually quite soothing, in a sort of... manic, obsessive way."
John stared at him. "You're seriously trying to convince me to move in with someone who keeps severed heads in the refrigerator, conducts explosive experiments, and plays violin at ungodly hours?"
"When you put it like that, it does sound rather..." Mike paused, searching for the right word.
"Insane?"
"Colorful! I was going to say colorful."
John was quiet for a long moment, then surprised himself by laughing—a genuine, full laugh that made several nearby medical students look up from their misery.
"You know what the really frightening thing is, Mike?"
"What's that?"
"It actually does sound interesting."
Mike's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really?"
"God help me, yes. After months of staring at the walls of my bedsit and wondering what to do with the rest of my life, the idea of living with a mad scientist detective and his precocious ward sounds almost... refreshing."
"Refreshing! Yes, that's exactly the word I was looking for!"
"That wasn't a yes, Mike."
"But it wasn't a no either," Mike said hopefully.
John considered this. It wasn't a no. Which was, he had to admit, progress of a sort.
"How would I meet them? This Holmes family circus?"
"Well," Mike said, practically vibrating with excitement, "I could introduce you. Set up a meeting. Very casual, no pressure. Just a quick coffee, see if you all get along."
"And if we don't?"
"Then you go back to looking for a nice, boring flatmate who keeps normal things in the refrigerator and sleeps at reasonable hours."
John looked around the depressing café, at the medical students studying their textbooks with desperate intensity, at the familiar hospital corridors that had once been his whole world. Then he thought about his empty bedsit, his dwindling savings, and the way his days had started to blur together into a meaningless succession of morning papers and afternoon naps.
"All right," he said finally.
"All right?"
"I'll meet them. But Mike—" John pointed his spoon at his friend with mock seriousness. "If this ends with me as a headline in the Evening Standard, I'm blaming you personally."
Mike grinned. "Deal. But I have a feeling this might be exactly what you need."
"What we all need, you mean."
"Yes," Mike said thoughtfully. "What you all need."
---
# St. Bartholomew's Hospital – Morgue – 10:45 AM
The morgue at Bart's was everything a morgue ought to be and several things it probably shouldn't—green tiles the color of institutional despair, corridors that perpetually smelled of industrial-strength disinfectant attempting to mask the lingering essence of boiled cabbage from the canteen three floors up, and fluorescent lights so aggressively unflattering they could make a supermodel look like she'd been embalmed by an apprentice undertaker having a particularly off day.
Dr. Molly Hooper moved through it all as if she'd been born among the filing cabinets and formaldehyde, which, given her cheerful acceptance of spending her days with the recently departed, she might as well have been. White coat impeccably neat despite the early hour, auburn hair pinned back with the precision of someone who'd long ago accepted that romance was unlikely to bloom among the autopsy tables, and wearing an expression bright enough to suggest that being surrounded by death every day wasn't remotely depressing if you had the right shade of lipstick and a truly excellent filing system.
"Right then," she said with her usual mixture of professional competence and barely concealed bewilderment at her life choices, "one body, fresh as you like. Six hours dead, minimal decomposition, good structural integrity." She gestured with practiced efficiency at the sheet-covered form on the slab. "Perfect for whatever—" Her eyes flicked uncertainly toward the ten-year-old currently examining a wall chart of human bone structures with disturbing intensity. "—educational purposes you're planning today."
Sherlock Holmes didn't so much stand beside the examination table as inhabit the space around it, his presence filling the room like smoke from a particularly intellectual fire. Hands clasped behind his back, dark curls defying both gravity and any attempt at conventional grooming, coat collar turned up even in the basement because apparently atmospheric drama was essential even underground, he radiated the kind of focused intensity that suggested he could burn holes in the ceiling tiles through sheer force of concentrated thought.
Next to him, Harry Potter—ten years old but already tall enough to suggest he'd be imposing when fully grown, with emerald eyes so sharp and calculating they seemed to cut through pretense like surgical instruments—stood with his hands folded behind his back in unconscious mimicry of his guardian, surveying the morgue's equipment with the methodical attention of someone conducting a detailed inventory of interesting possibilities.
"Excellent," Sherlock declared with the brisk satisfaction of a conductor pleased with his orchestra's tuning. "Male, early sixties, significantly overweight, extensive history of cardiovascular neglect and what I can only assume were spectacularly poor lifestyle choices. Death by massive cardiac arrest, precipitated by decades of determined self-destruction. Absolutely perfect."
"George Whitman," Molly supplied helpfully, tugging the sheet down with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd performed this particular reveal far too many times. "Hospital janitor. Fifteen years of service here at Bart's, excellent attendance record, dropped dead in the third-floor stairwell this morning. No suspicion of foul play, nothing mysterious about it whatsoever."
Sherlock gave the corpse a dismissive glance, already visibly bored by its lack of intrigue. "Naturally. Massive coronary infarction. The man's cardiovascular system reads like the detailed minutes of a fried chicken enthusiasts' convention. Utterly predictable."
Harry tilted his head with the considering air of someone much older, studying the body with clinical detachment. "And yet you're still going to beat him with a riding crop."
"Education," Sherlock replied with the sort of reverent solemnity usually reserved for religious ceremonies, already reaching for the leather riding crop he'd brought with all the gravity of a priest approaching the altar.
Molly shifted her weight uncomfortably, clearly wrestling with professional obligations and basic human decency. "Are you absolutely certain this is... appropriate? I mean, Harry's only ten, and there are probably regulations about—"
"Harry," Sherlock interrupted with the cutting precision of a scalpel, "is receiving an education. Willful ignorance is infinitely more dangerous than uncomfortable reality. Would you prefer he remain naive about the mechanics of violence until he encounters them in circumstances where ignorance could prove fatal?"
Harry turned those unnervingly mature emerald eyes on Molly, his expression calm, serious, and carrying the weight of someone who'd already seen far more of the world's darker corners than most adults. "It's perfectly fine, Miss Hooper. Uncle Sherlock explained that understanding post-mortem trauma patterns means I'll be able to recognize when someone's lying about how a person died. It's better to know uncomfortable truths than to be dangerously wrong about pleasant assumptions."
There it was—Harry's particular brand of devastatingly polite British sass. Gentle in delivery, unfailingly courteous in tone, but edged like a perfectly sharpened blade and wielded with surgical precision.
Molly managed a somewhat strained smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Right. Yes. Of course. Murder detection lessons before lunch. Very... progressive educational philosophy."
She began retreating toward the relative safety of the door, clearly eager to put some distance between herself and whatever was about to unfold. "I'll just... leave you to it then, shall I? Try not to make too much of a mess. We do have health and safety standards to maintain, even if they seem somewhat negotiable where you're concerned."
The door swung closed with a soft pneumatic hiss. Sherlock twirled the riding crop experimentally, testing its weight and flexibility with the focused attention of a master craftsman selecting the perfect tool. Harry handed him a pair of latex gloves with the smooth efficiency of a surgical assistant who'd performed this routine countless times before.
"Objective?" Harry inquired with the brisk professionalism of someone requesting a mission briefing.
"To demonstrate conclusively the fundamental difference between ante-mortem and post-mortem bruising patterns," Sherlock explained, adjusting his stance with the precise positioning of an expert fencer preparing for a particularly important bout. "Inspector Lestrade has a case—domestic violence turned fatal. The husband claims his wife's injuries were sustained in a fall after her death, accident following natural causes. If we can prove definitively that her bruising patterns are consistent with post-mortem trauma, his alibi holds and he's merely a grieving widower with appalling timing. If the evidence suggests otherwise, he's both a liar and a murderer."
"And you're establishing this scientific principle by hitting corpses with sticks," Harry observed with absolutely perfect deadpan delivery that would have made a professional comedian weep with envy.
Sherlock paused, considering this assessment with the seriousness it deserved, then apparently decided it didn't merit a response. He brought the crop down with a sharp, controlled strike against the deceased Mr. Whitman's torso. The sound echoed through the morgue with a crisp thwack that seemed unnaturally loud in the sterile silence.
Harry leaned forward with the focused intensity of a scholar examining a particularly fascinating manuscript, utterly absorbed in the scientific demonstration. "So the complete absence of circulation means no inflammatory response, no swelling, no characteristic discoloration—just surface tissue damage without the biological markers that would indicate the victim was alive when the trauma occurred."
Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been approval, or possibly the closest thing to a genuine smile his face could manage without cracking. "Precisely. The body cannot lie about the sequence of events, even when everyone involved has an excellent reason to misrepresent the truth."
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the methodical snap of leather against flesh and the soft scratch of Harry's pencil as he made notes in his characteristically neat block letters, documenting angles, force application, and resulting tissue patterns with the thoroughness of a proper scientific observer.
"You're enjoying this," Sherlock remarked without looking up from his systematic assault on the corpse, though his tone suggested mild curiosity rather than disapproval.
Harry shrugged with elaborate casualness. "It's science. Also, you get this particularly ridiculous expression when you're concentrating intensely. Like you're attempting to intimidate your own cheekbones into achieving perfect symmetry through sheer force of will."
Sherlock's hand froze mid-strike, the crop suspended in the air as he processed this observation. "Cheekbones are not... subject to intimidation tactics."
"No," Harry agreed with the patient tone of someone explaining obvious facts to a particularly slow student, "but they're certainly intimidating everyone else. I'm fairly sure they could cut glass if properly angled."
"That's anatomically impossible."
"So is most of what you do, but you manage it anyway through sheer bloody-mindedness and an alarming caffeine intake."
The morgue door opened again with its distinctive creak, and Molly reappeared carrying a tray of steaming cups like a nervous waitress approaching a table of particularly difficult customers. She took one look at Sherlock standing over the body with the riding crop raised and froze in obvious dismay.
"Oh, for God's sake," she sighed with the weary resignation of someone whose morning had already exceeded her tolerance for absurdity. "You are actually beating the poor man. I thought perhaps you were being metaphorical."
"Post-mortem bruising demonstration," Sherlock explained with the clipped efficiency of someone who'd grown tired of explaining obvious necessities to people with insufficient imagination.
"Educational methodology," Harry added helpfully, accepting the cup of hot chocolate Molly offered with a grateful smile that transformed his entire face.
Molly looked down at Harry with an expression of maternal fondness mixed with profound concern for his psychological development. "You two are absolutely going to end up on some sort of government watch list. Multiple watch lists, actually."
Sherlock accepted the coffee she offered without acknowledgment, took a sip, and delivered his assessment with characteristic tact. "Black coffee, two sugars, adequate temperature. Acceptable." His pale eyes flicked over her face with the rapid precision of a scanning device. "New lipstick. Darker shade, more saturated pigmentation. The artificial lighting enhances the red undertones, creates an illusion of increased lip fullness. Unfortunate choice."
Molly flushed slightly, her hand rising unconsciously toward her mouth. "I just thought... I wanted to try something different. A bit of color to brighten up the morgue."
"It's counterproductive," Sherlock continued with the brutal honesty of someone completely immune to social convention. "The color temperature clashes with your skin undertones under fluorescent lighting. Creates an unflattering contrast that emphasizes fatigue markers around your eyes. Though I suppose aesthetic preferences remain largely subjective and therefore scientifically irrelevant."
Harry nearly choked on his hot chocolate, coughing delicately before fixing Sherlock with a look of pure exasperation. "Translation, Miss Hooper: you look lovely, and the lipstick is perfectly nice. He just possesses the social skills of a particularly tactless laboratory instrument and apparently learned his compliment techniques from a medical textbook written by robots."
Molly's eyes flicked between them, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite herself. "Perhaps you should let Harry handle all your interactions with actual human beings. He seems to have mastered the concept of basic courtesy."
"Impossible," Sherlock declared, already pacing the length of the examination table with restless energy. "Harry's vocabulary, while admittedly extensive for his age, remains insufficient for the precision required in complex social navigation."
"Oi!" Harry protested with mock indignation, though his green eyes were sparkling with mischief. "I've got loads of vocabulary, thank you very much. I simply choose not to waste it pointing out people's cosmetic choices like some sort of passive-aggressive fashion critic with a personality disorder."
Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly, spun around, and fixed Harry with a stare that could have frozen nitrogen. "Sass."
Harry's grin was absolutely luminous, transforming his face with pure, delighted rebellion. "Observation. Deductive reasoning. Pattern recognition. All excellent skills you taught me, actually. Apparently they run in the family."
"I am not sassy."
"You're the sassiest person I've ever met, and I live with you."
"Sass implies deliberate provocation for entertainment purposes. I simply state facts with appropriate clarity."
"While making faces like you've tasted something unpleasant and using a tone that could strip wallpaper."
"My facial expressions are—"
"Magnificent and terrifying in equal measure," Harry finished smoothly. "I know. You've told me. Repeatedly. Usually while making exactly that face."
Molly had given up any pretense of professionalism and was openly giggling into her coffee cup, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Sherlock opened his mouth for what was undoubtedly going to be a devastatingly articulate rebuttal, then seemed to realize he was being played by a ten-year-old with the tactical instincts of a chess grandmaster. His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"You," he said with the slow, deliberate precision of someone recognizing a worthy adversary, "are entirely too clever for your own good."
"Learned from the best," Harry replied with perfect innocence that fooled absolutely nobody in the room.
"The game, as always," Molly murmured, still smiling, "is afoot."
Both Holmes males turned to stare at her with identical expressions of surprise.
"What?" she said defensively. "I read. Sometimes I even pay attention to your dramatic pronouncements. Occupational hazard of spending time around consulting detectives with theatrical tendencies."
Sherlock looked genuinely pleased for the first time all morning. "Finally. Someone who appreciates proper dramatic timing."
"Don't encourage him," Harry warned, though he was grinning. "His ego's quite large enough already. Any larger and it won't fit through doorways."
"My ego is appropriately calibrated to my actual capabilities," Sherlock replied with wounded dignity.
"Your ego has its own postal code."
"That's... that's actually rather good," Molly admitted, trying not to laugh.
Sherlock looked between them with the air of a man besieged by unreasonable critics. "I am surrounded by philistines with no appreciation for intellectual excellence."
"You're surrounded by people who love you despite your complete inability to accept compliments, give them properly, or acknowledge that other human beings might occasionally have valid points," Harry corrected with devastating accuracy and absolute affection.
The morgue fell silent for a moment, the weight of simple truth settling around them like dust motes in the harsh fluorescent light.
"Right," Sherlock said finally, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden emotional honesty. "Back to the corpse beating. We have science to conduct and murder to solve."
"Science and violence," Harry agreed cheerfully, pulling out his notebook again. "My two favorite educational subjects."
Molly shook her head, still smiling. "I'm calling social services."
"No, you're not," both Holmes males said in perfect unison.
"No," she admitted with a sigh, "I'm not. God help me, but you're probably giving him a better education than most universities could manage."
"Obviously," Sherlock said, raising the riding crop again. "Now, observe carefully the difference in tissue response when force is applied to—"
The lesson continued, accompanied by the sound of leather on flesh, the scratch of pencil on paper, and the occasional snort of barely suppressed laughter from a pathologist who'd long since given up trying to maintain any sense of professional dignity around the Holmes family circus.
---
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