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It was shaping up to be a pleasantly slow Saturday afternoon at Baker Street. After a late-starting morning, they'd sorted through a handful of emails and texts together, then Sherlock had settled in with the violin and started playing a medley of The Who. (Living with John had brought his musical knowledge forward by about a hundred years, albeit in a sort of patchy way.) About halfway through "Teenage Wasteland", though, he stopped abruptly.

"God, I've just remembered. We're out of eggs and it's Sunday tomorrow. I'm going to run downstairs--do you need anything?"

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"--my mother," Sherlock finished, rather weakly.

"Victoria Holmes." A thin smile curved her mouth. "Answer the doctor's question, dear."

John choked with surprise, but more or less regained his footing.

This explains so much, he thought, grimly, but said "Mrs. Holmes, its a real pleasure," aloud. He offers her a hand and prays for the tell-tale beep of finished coffee.

She shook his hand, firmly, regarding him with a level but somewhat chilly gaze.

"Doctor. Or was it Captain--?"

"I did," Sherlock finally managed. His jaw was so tight it nearly creaked when he spoke. "Get. Bread. Sorry--Mum, why are you here?"

"I thought we were overdue for a visit. Don't leave the door open, Sherlock, and if you've got bread make sure you put it away."

"Both, but please just call me John," he said, smiling. That line usually works, he thought, desperately. Why is she not charmed?

"I'll take that," he says, lifting the grocery from Sherlock's arms. "Sounds like the coffee might be ready!" and with that he made a speedy exit.

From his place in the kitchen, he could hear brief snatches of the conversation between mother and son. It didn't sound at all promising.

"...all kinds of rumors, Sherlock--"

"For God's sake, Mum, I thought we went over this months ago--"

"--not to mention a friend of mine whose daughter works at the Daily Mail was saying something about a lawsuit..."

"I'm actually really very busy today."

This was Definitely Not Good. For a moment, John contemplated going out the window, over the bins and to freedom. If there was one thing the army had taught him it was never leave a man behind, and he owed Sherlock more than that.

"Coffee!" he said, with much more cheer than he felt and set three mugs on the table. "Milk or sugar, Mrs. Holmes? Or-" he said, glancing back the groceries, "maybe just milk, I'm afraid..."

"If you don't have any sugar I'll take it black." She looked at John as if she were sizing him up for something; it was distinctly different from the kind of visual sweep he was used to from Sherlock. "Is your friend going to be part of this discussion?"

Sherlock glanced towards him.

"Your decision," he said in a low voice. His hands were tight fists at his sides, his entire thin body almost vibrating with tension.

John frowned. He felt he had every right to be involved in a discussion that happened in his own flat and frankly, it was pretty clear to John where Sherlock had acquired his lack of manners.

Two could play this game.

"What discussion is that, exactly?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Mrs Holmes calmly reached into her handbag and pulled out a thin gold cigarette case.

"We're not in close communication," she replied, glancing up at John. "Which means I hear things secondhand about... what my son gets up to. And the sort of people he associates with. Frankly, it's upsetting not to know certain details."

Was this how Mrs. Holmes reacted when her grown son didn't take her to meet his flatmate? That seemed healthy. John thought of Mycroft's obsessive spying tendencies and suppressed a shudder.

Those details are probably none of your business.

"Well, that's Sherlock, isn't it?" He said, trying to lighten the mood. "Off in his own head."

She eyed him coolly, already poised to light a cigarette. "As per usual."

Sherlock's fists clenched and unclenched in an unconscious pattern at his sides. S O S. S O S. S O S. Out loud he managed, "We've got patches."

"One cigarette never harmed anyone," she replied. "Don't be dramatic."

John put his foot down. "Please, Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock hasn't smoked in eight months, he's doing really well." John moved across the room to be closer to Sherlock, who looked ready to run into the kitchen and take the window exit John had been contemplating earlier.

Mrs Holmes seemed distinctly surprised at John's assertiveness, but she did put the cigarette and lighter down next to her coffee cup on the table.

"Are you his drugs counsellor, then?" she asked. "Or--what's the word. His sponsor?"

Sherlock swayed a little, clearly wanting to move back into John's personal space bubble.

Had Sherlock not looked so upset by the whole situation, John would have laid into him right then and there. Really?

"No, Mrs. Holmes, I'm his flatmate. We've been living together for a few years now."

She gave him another one of those thin, insincere smiles. "Doctor. I'm not completely uninformed; I know you've been living together. However, in what capacity... well, a mother has a natural right to take an interest."

"Oh my God," Sherlock muttered.

If the next words out of her mouth were When are you going to make an honest man out of my Sherlock? then John wasn't sure anyone would survive his ensuing meltdown.

"That doesn't sound like a question," he finally settled on, fighting to keep his voice level.

"One hears rumors," she responded. "People have rather sordid imaginations. I'm merely trying to ascertain the truth for my own peace of mind." She sipped her coffee before adding, "Particularly since we haven't been getting the regular news update at Christmas."

Sherlock looked like he was ready to scream.

Oh, this was a farce. John moved close enough so that Sherlock could feel the warmth of his body, but not quite touching.

"Sherlock visited my family this Christmas," he said, in lieu of an actual answer. "We had a lovely time. They approve of him."

"Do they?" She arched an eyebrow at him. "And why would he need approving?"

"Because--university wasn't a phase, all right?"

The words nearly exploded out of him, blurring together and a little strangled. He'd gone red, rather suddenly, though whether that was from humiliation or anger was anyone's guess.

John's arm reflexively wrapped around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in close.

"We're long-term, Mrs. Holmes," he said, in a tone of voice that dared her to make something of it.

She put down her coffee cup, just watching them for a moment.

"That's all?" she asked, very steadily.

John looked to Sherlock and back to the man's mother. Neither of them revealed anything helpful.

"Yes...?" he replied, uncertain. "We're uh, involved. And such. Wasn't that the concern?"

"You're still clean."

"Yes." Sherlock was trembling slightly, more like a shiver than anything else.

"And you still work with the police and Crown Prosecutors."

"Yes, of course, but I don't see--"

"So the only thing you've been hiding from your family is this--this--" she gestured at John.

"Yes-- no. No, we weren't hiding any--" John gave Sherlock a hard look. "Well, I wasn't hiding anything. Just being discreet."

"I wasn't--" Sherlock looked a little insulted. "Yes. Discreet. Which I seem to recall learning about from you," he added, pointedly, more at his mother than to her.

"So he's not your dealer?"

"What--no!"

"I'm a doctor!" John cried out, exasperated. "For heaven's sake- I promise I am doing nothing untoward with Sherlock and that we are perfectly happy and no one is selling or consuming drugs!"

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