It was something of a given that the Holmes brothers tended to intrude on one another's privacy without either warning or apology. After a difficult adolescence and young adulthood, it had very nearly become habit (which, in retrospect, probably explained a good deal of the resentful and angry behavior), although that habit had somewhat faded after Sherlock's false death and resurrection.

Until today, at least.

The door of Mycroft's home banged open, and Sherlock stormed in, bringing a gust of the rain and muggy air from outdoors with him as if it were generated by the billowing drape of his coat. With no explanation aside from several furiously muttered obscenities, he slammed the door behind him and then practically threw himself onto his brother's couch, curling up in an awkward, angry ball.

(Warning: man I wrote this in like an hour and also there's a Real Person in it but not in a creepy way.)

( A soldier's life is terrible hard, says Alice )

Sherlock Holmes did not, as a general rule, remember birthdays or favorite colors or even a handful of the major holidays. His concept of time was skewed and his understanding of interpersonal relationships relied almost entirely on biological markers and verbal cues. He hated parties. He hated people insisting on traditions. He hated the assumption people made that holidays meant you automatically violated your own privacy and spilled your innermost thoughts.

And yet.

And yet here he was at Angelo's, watching the thin icicles on the window-frame shimmer in the headlights of passing cars.

This is mad, John had said, that first morning after, and he couldn't disagree. It made him a little angry, almost, a little upset that his own comfortable view of the world had been so skewed by a single outside influence.

But it still felt better than the drugs or the cigarettes or even most of the case work.

So he waited.