"Please, come with me" Johnlock style 💜💜💜
My dear friend @mssmithlove1 is sick today, so I took some extra special care with this one. Get well soon, frand!!💜💜
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“Hold still.”
“But people are going in!”
“And you can too if you hold still!” Molly tugged at the completed knot of his tie, tightening it into his throat. “Oops,” she deadpanned, loosening it with a smile as he coughed. “There.” She centered the striped navy tie between his slate grey lapels, plucking a piece of lint from his white dress shirt. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed of you at all.”
“Cheers,” he grumbled, fishing his buzzing mobile out of his dark jeans, a casual counterpoint he hoped would make him look less desperate.
It was a text from Sherlock, three words that made his blood run cold even without understanding them
‘I’m so sorry!’
“What is it?” Molly asked, concerned at what he was sure was a rapidly paling complexion. “Has something happened?” She didn’t wait for an answer, stepping forward and bending her head to read the message on his screen. “An exclamation point? From Sherlock?” Her head gave a slow shake. “That can’t be good.”
“John Watson?”
John’s brown loafers squeaked in a spin on the tile, plastic wrap crinkling as he clutched the half dozen roses to his chest like a gentlewoman’s pearls.
The man standing there was unfamiliar, short and stocky, his hands wringing in front of him as a nervous smile puffed his portly features. “I’m Mr. Brogan. I’m part of the executive committee for the arts here at Imperial.”
John blinked, unsure why he was supposed to care, but proper manners compelled him to extend a hand. “John. But you knew that,” he muttered, bobbing the man’s hand in the air. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Mr. Brogan replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt”—he waved a hand at Molly—“but Mrs. Holmes wanted to be sure you didn’t lose your seat.”
John’s mouth fell open, uncertain where to even start with that mindfuck of a sentence. “Mrs. …Holmes?”
Mr. Brogan nodded brightly, oblivious to John’s internal monologue of terrified screaming. “They’re up front. Please”—he turned toward the door, waving an arm in beckoning—“come with me.”
John stared, eyes shifting between his jovial smile and the door up ahead, heart drumming a death march in his ears.
Molly’s hands clamped down around his free one, giving a comforting squeeze as he turned. “I’ll catch up with you after,” she assured, and then pulled away, heading toward the door and abandoning him in his hour of need.
He swallowed, looking back to Mr. Brogan’s expectant expression. “Okay,” he squeaked, battling to keep his breathing even as Mr. Brogan guided him into the auditorium.
His hand twitched at his side, and he shoved it in his pocket, the opposite fingers tightening around the small bouquet, ridged remnants of thorns digging into his sweaty palms. He scanned the front few rows as they approached, but the lights on the stage turned everyone into silhouettes, making it impossible to prepare himself until Mr. Brogan stopped in front of a woman in the exact center of the front row.
She looked…normal, a simple floral dress flowing down from a black jacket, her hands folded over a red clutch in her lap. Her hair was on the whiter end of grey, pulled back with a large silver clip to leave her fringe wisping over her forehead, her soft features seeming every bit the opposite of Sherlock’s sharp lines and shadows, but then she lifted her chin, the piercing blue gaze that settled on him all too familiar.
“There you are! Thank you, Clark,” she said as she rose, the man accepting his dismissal with a nod. “So sorry to spring this on you, dear, but I simply couldn’t go another minute without meeting you. Sherlock’s been so secretive.”
John chuckled, shaking his head. “No problem at all, Mrs. Holmes. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too.” He took a subtle deep breath and extended a hand. “I’m John. John Watson.”
“Oh, none of that,” Mrs. Holmes fussed, swatting his arm aside and pulling him into a hug, John’s arms barely recovering from shock enough to lift around her back before she was fluttering away again. “And call me Violet, please. Mrs. Holmes was my mother-in-law.” She flashed a conspiratorial grimace, and then stepped back, gesturing to the man who had risen behind her. “This is my husband, Siger.”
The man was tall and slim, more similar to Sherlock’s frame than his mother’s, but had warm brown eyes and a face wrinkled from years of laughter. He was wearing dark trousers and a loose burgundy cardigan, his simple checked shirt fastened with a grey bowtie at the collar, more the picture of a history professor than the austere authoritarian John had imagined.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, inclining his chin, the man reaching forward to envelop his hand in a warm grip. “It’s good to meet you.”
“You as well, John, you as well,” he replied, rattling John’s hand with more strength than one would give him credit for. “Sherlock’s told us so much about you. You know, I was captain of my university rugby team too.”
“Really?” John asked, relieved to have such easy common ground, but Mrs. Holmes cut in before Siger’s opening mouth could continue.
“Now, now, dear, there’ll be plenty of time to bore him with your glory days later.”
Mr. Holmes smiled, dipping John a nod and retaking his seat as Violet looped her arm through John’s free one, guiding him to the last in their party.
“And you’ve met Mike, of course.”
“Mycroft, mother; you wrote it on the birth certificate and everything.”
“Actually, that was your father,” she explained, tipping her head at the man. “I was high as a kite!”
“Mother,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and tugging at his already impeccable suit jacket. “Jonathan,” he greeted with a nod, and John sighed, rolling his eyes before he could stop himself.
“It really is just John,” he muttered, though it hadn’t done any good the first two times he’d been forced to endure Mycroft’s company. “On my birth certificate and everything.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “I know,” he said, a note of menace to it, and John frowned, tipping his head and scanning between the man’s eyes.
“How would you-”
“Don’t let Mike scare you, dear,” Violet interjected, patting him on the arm. “He’s always running his little background checks. Should’ve seen his face when he found out I’d been arrested for protesting.” She rolled her eyes, gaze landing on the flowers at John’s side. “Oh, what an unusual rose!” she chirped, opening a hand in question, and John obliged, passing her the bouquet. “I used to have a bush like this, I think. I grow them, you see. Roses.” She flicked up a smile, gently brushing her fingers over the striped scarlet and cream petals. “Don’t suppose you remember the name.”
“Abracadabra,” John supplied, taking the blooms back, the name and general oddity of their appearance the only reason he hadn’t felt ridiculous getting flowers at all.
She snapped her fingers. “That’s what it was! And such a thoughtful gesture! Don’t you think, dear?”
“Yes, quite,” Mr. Holmes answered, smiling up at them, and John found himself embarrassed for the first time in their company, grateful as the lights in the auditorium flashed, urging them to their seats.
“Ooo, it’s starting!” She bounced against his arm, shuffling them back to their chairs. “He’s been doing these shows since he could walk and I still get so excited.”
John chuckled, settling into the vacant spot beside her. “My sister did piano for a while,” he remarked, watching the stage as the last of the audience filed into place. “It was…less exciting.”
Violet laughed, snapping open her clutch and pulling out two caramels wrapped in crinkling dark plastic. “People tend to shush me if I open these in the middle,” she said, handing him one with a wink, and John smiled, hastily shoving the wrapper in his pocket and popping the candy into his mouth as Violet distributed her wares through the group.
Mycroft declined.
“So,” she said, the caramel a small bump in her cheek as she spoke, “have you ever seen any ballet before?”
“I-I’ve seen Sherlock practice a few times,” he admitted, wondering if he should, but he didn’t suppose Sherlock’s mother would guess at his more…intimate motivations for hanging about the studio after class, “but never a proper show.”
“Oh, well, even this isn’t a proper show,” she scoffed, waving a hand at the stage. “Sherlock is wonderful, of course—not that I need to tell you that—but you never get the full experience with these showcases.”
John nodded, sure that was true. “My sister went to see The Nutcracker last Christmas with her fiancée, Clara,” he said without thinking, though he supposed he would know by now if any of the Holmeses were harboring homophobic tendencies. “She didn’t like it, but Clara said it was amazing.”
“It is, it is,” Violet emphatically agreed, nodding so vigorously, she blurred. “The Nutcracker and Swan Lake are must-sees. I also quite liked Sleeping Beauty, but that might be the Disney princess in me.”
John shrugged. “I think there’s a little Disney princess in all of us.”
“Too right,” she replied, and then chuckled, curling a hand over his forearm with a small gasp as the lights dimmed. “Here we go!” she squealed, wriggling in her seat, and John smiled, settling back in his chair and lifting his arm to the armrest when it became clear Violet wasn’t intending to let go.
They chatted through the duller portions of the program—Violet supplying surprisingly riveting gossip about some of the dancers’ parents she knew from her various societies—and sat silent through others, a tissue appearing from her red purse when Sherlock’s group concluded, Violet dabbing her eyes and muttering something about being silly John assured her wasn’t true.
When the applause was over—obligatory and otherwise—they all filed out into the lobby, small groups gathering here and there as dancers slowly appeared from backstage to join their families. Molly found him a few minutes later, waving from a distance to get his attention before giving him a double thumbs-up and making her exit, her save-me services no longer required. They were halfway through breaking down what could possibly be going on in one of the abstract paintings on display when a very ruffled Sherlock appeared, struggling with his half-on jacket as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
“Mother!” he hissed, coming to rest at John’s shoulder. “You told me you’d wait until after!”
“I said no such thing,” Violet replied, lifting her chin in a stubborn gesture John was very familiar with, “and, besides, we had a wonderful time. I don’t know what you were so worried about. We’re not that embarrassing.”
Sherlock drew in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like his head might explode otherwise, and then blinked, brow creasing as he frowned at the flowers in John’s hand. “Are those for me?” he asked with all his usual grace, pointing down at them, and John laughed, shaking his head and lifting the roses to his chest.
“Might be,” he smirked, “but Mycroft’s been quite the charmer tonight as well. Don’t suppose you’d be up for splitting them?”
Mycroft huffed, Violet giggling while Mr. Holmes smiled in a well-accustomed way, Sherlock looking between them like he’d just seen a ghost throw up.
“What- What is happening?”
“We’re going to dinner,” Violet answered, stepping forward and looping her arm through John’s once more, Sherlock’s eyes fixing on the contact and threatening to leap from his head. “You don’t mind riding with your father, do you, dear? John said he’d take me in his car. It’s been an age since I rode in a convertible!” She giggled, Sherlock doing a perfect impression of a marble statue except for his owlish blinking.
“I- I guess no-”
“Excellent!” Violet exclaimed, tightening her grip and marching John toward the doors. “We’ll meet you there. I assume we’ll get there first,” she added to John, and he bowed a solemn nod.
“Of course,” he swore, turning over his shoulder to grin at Sherlock’s slack-jawed expression. He bounced the flower stems into the palm of his hand, testing the trajectory with a few short swings, and then launched the bouquet over his shoulder, the roses arcing in the air before landing petal-up in Sherlock’s waiting hands.
Sherlock seemed a little more like himself, looking up from the bouquet with a quizzical expression, a corner of his mouth lifting when John winked.
“You know, son,” John heard Mr. Holmes say before they faded from earshot, “I think that means you’re next.”
