First fanfic in a decade, constructive criticism welcome, R&R :)

Trigger Warning: References to drug use.

1

"Did you miss me?"

Despite having seen his criminal counterpart blow his brains out on St. Bart's Hospital roof, Sherlock couldn't help but think that if anyone was capable of faking that it would be Moriarty. The question however, wasn't how, but more why? Did he know of Sherlock's plan to fake his death, and allowed him to destroy his network- all as part of a more elaborate game? Sherlock shook his head to dissipate the thoughts that riled him. He had now successfully put not only John, Mrs Hudson and Le Strade in danger again, but Mary, her unborn child and Moriarty wouldn't have missed Molly this time- especially as his return appeared to be unfortunately timed with regards to the cutting off of her engagement. Was this all just one convoluted exposé?

Or even worse, was someone using Moriarty's image as a front to carry on his work after the events on St. Bart's roof. Had all the time spent hunting down the network been in vain? Sherlock couldn't get his head around all the possibilities, which meant he couldn't begin to formulate a plan to protect everyone. Why did he insist on making friends? They only make things more difficult in the long run, Mycroft was right Sherlock thought bitterly, caring is not an advantage, irrespective of how… happy? He had been when spending time on cases with John or poking fun at Le Strade at New Scotland Yard. Sometimes he'd get body parts and put them in the fridge with the sole intention of amusement at Mrs Hudson's expression when she found them. He hadn't had the most social of childhoods, his parents had tried, but Mycroft always found a way to spoil his fun -fun is a distraction, he had been told by his older brother from an early age. Sherlock wondered if this was purely down to Mycroft's ego, as fun usually involved being attached to something and getting enjoyment out of it, and nothing was ever good enough for his brother such that he would get attached to it.

There was only one way to shut his mind up, and keep these thoughts out. He considered the items he had hidden under the floorboards in his room, just one little dose would help him calm down and block out all the unwanted thoughts. His mind involuntarily skipped back to the last time had had been caught. He honestly believed he needed to do it for a case, but got in too far, and the repercussions were worse than when Mycroft had him shipped off the a residential rehab centre (the was surprisingly easy to escape from) and tried get him clean that way. He didn't know if he could handle having to revisit the disappointment in their eyes, and the sting of Molly's hand on his face. He knew you weren't supposed to let friends down, but again, he wasn't supposed to have friends. Besides, who could even pretend to like him now after he'd killed a man in cold blood? Even if it was for Mary and John, he had set himself a precedent, and not a good one.

"STOP IT!" He shouted out loud, unaware that there was anyone else in the room.

"Delightful as ever," Mycroft stood in the doorway to the small study on the top floor of the Holmes' family home, and sighed at his little brother, he hadn't appeared to have moved, slept, eaten or said anything since they got back from the airfield 5 days ago.

"We're having a new year's eve party tomorrow night brother dear, do please have a wash, and a shave, you're beginning to resemble your 'phase' if you will, and you know how much that upsets mummy and daddy." Mycroft took Sherlock's growl as an affirmation and quickly departed.

"How is he? I daren't go in there, last time he was in one of these moods he... well… he was shooting, and not with a gun!" Sherlock and Mycroft's mother flapped around her kitchen, worried for her youngest son's mental state.

"I'm sure he'll be fine mummy, I've done a search of his usual hidey-holes no chance of…" Mycroft paused as John walked into the room,

"All go for tomorrow then? I've invited Mrs Hudson, Le Strade, and Molly if that's ok?" John enquired, since Christmas had been ruined and with Sherlock in a sulk, he was quite looking forward to having some other company. Things were still a little awkward with Mary, especially after the drugging incident.

"Not a problem, I've set up the other guest rooms- although I think we might be one short." The elder Mr Holmes proclaimed walking into the kitchen.

"Well if Sherlock doesn't get his act together, his bed will be free anyway," Mrs Holmes chuckled.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, and gave his mother a withering look before disappearing back upstairs to check on his troublesome sibling. He had always detested sentiment, but the memories of watching his parents deal with Sherlock and his habits over the years were enough to know that for his own sake, it was best for his parents not to see Sherlock like this.

As he climbed the stairs he heard a door slam and much aggravated noise. He knocked on his brother's bedroom door, and pushed it slightly ajar.

"Brother-mine are you coming down for lunch?"

A shoe came flying through the gap in the door and narrowly missed hitting Mycroft's face. He rolled his eyes and opened the door a little further,

"You're upsetting mummy now Sherlock, she's doing statistical modelling on how many nibbles people might eat and John is becoming quite tiresome, I don't know how you put up with him."

Another shoe came whizzing past Mycroft's face, followed by a sock and a hanky that looked like it had seen better days.

"What are you looking for? You're making quite a mess out here,"

Mycroft was getting bored of his brother, he'd only come back from London that afternoon at his mother's request, and wasn't intending on staying so long.

"Well I wouldn't be if you hadn't opened the door!" Sherlock snapped flinging open the door. He stood about an inch from his brother's face, hands on hips with a towel just about keeping his modesty.

"Oh do put some clothes on, our guests are due soon," Mycroft scoffed at his brother and headed off to the study, laptop in tow to check in on work engagements that he was not able to attend in London.

When John rang Molly up to invite her to a New Year's Eve party at the Holmes' house, and Mycroft had arranged the time off for her, she had nearly passed out. Spending that much time in close proximity to Sherlock and Mycroft- and what if their parents were the same?! She'd end up as a puddle of embarrassment on the lounge floor within the first 15 minutes of arrival. She'd tried to explain this to John, and to her surprise, he said that Sherlock's parents were good fun and nothing like the boys in attitude. Although, if she was completely honest with herself, the real reason she didn't want to go was more along the lines of Mary- why had her name been the first thing Sherlock said when he woke up in hospital? She knew if wasn't anything like that, but since then Mary and John had been on a break after what had been termed 'breathing space'. Molly know she was fairly ordinary when it came to reading people and situations, but there was definitely something fishy about this woman- Sherlock gets shot facing his attacker, and her name is the first thing he says.

Fortunately Le Strade and Mrs Hudson has also been picked up and were babbling about some television series she didn't care to watch, while Molly stared out of her window. Overall making the car journey to the Holmes' house not too unpleasant, and meant that the chance of her getting left alone with Mary in the house was fairly slim.

They pulled into the drive of what appeared to be an old farm cottage, with one of Mycroft's cars and an average family car already on the drive. The three of them got out from the vehicle, not quite believing that this was happening, both Sherlock and Mycroft hated parties and rarely ever saw their parents for that matter.

Sherlock watched the car pull up the drive. All were now accounted for. He turned swiftly on one heel and replaced proper order to the items he had been throwing at Mycroft. He slammed the door in a satisfied manner and made his way downstairs to greet the guests.

"Feeling better dear?" Mrs Holmes asked her son, a worried smile creeping across her face. Sherlock looked past her at John, who has signalling for him to give his mother a hug. He rolled his eyes and obliged, but scowled at John for the duration. When the hug finally ceased, Sherlock looked down to see tears in his mother's eyes, much to his confusion.

"You know you haven't given me a hug since you were 10 years old?" She asked him, blotting away the not-quite-tears. Sherlock just looked at his mother and answered simply,

"That was when I decided to give up sentiment mother, there is…"

"… No advantage to be gained," chorused Mrs Holmes and John, both pulling exasperated faces at him, and then sighing in mutual frustration.

"I had rather hoped I'd be a grandparent one day." Mrs Holmes muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

"Don't worry mummy, I've got a bet on you will be." Mycroft whispered, passing by her to open the front door. A brief wave of confusion passed over Sherlock's face at his brother's comment, unsure as to whether there was scheming or comforting going on.

Le Strade was leaning to push the doorbell when Mycroft opened the front door, conveying a scene of a weary looking Sherlock scowling into another room (one could assume at John), and a bemused older lady staring up at Mycroft like he was some strange man she'd never seen before in her life, being smiled at by an older man.

"It'll come out soon enough, mother," Mycroft casually smiled down at the still confused Mrs Holmes as if he were talking about something as mundane as the laundry.

"Go on in all, I'll see you tomorrow," Without as much as a backward glance, Mycroft and Anthea exited the house and the door shut to an awkward silence.

"Well, aren't you going to introduce us Sherlock?" Le Strade asked Sherlock made a noise of protest that was quickly replaced with one of pain. He growled at his mother, much to everyone's laughter. John shook his head and stepped into the hallway, fairly certain that Sherlock would rather iron his hands than deal in pleasantries.

"Mr and Mrs Holmes, this is DI Greg Le Strade from Scotland Yard, Mrs Martha Hudson Sherlock's landlady, and Molly Hooper from St. Bart's hospital, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg this is Sherlock's mum and dad. Not difficult Sherlock." John moved out of the way to allow for handshakes and other introductory niceties, giving Sherlock a look of annoyance, which his friend ignored.

"Now, with regards to sleeping arrangements, we have three spare rooms, 1 of which is presently occupied by John and Mary, so the three of you can have the other rooms how you please," Mr Holmes asked cheerily, starting to walk up the stairs followed by Molly, John carrying Molly's bag, Le Strade and Mrs Hudson

"Unless you're not going to sleep Sherlock- in which case someone can have your room," Mrs Holmes query was received with a scowl from her younger son.

"No one is to go in my room." He said flatly, following the others up the stairs, carrying Mrs Hudson's bag.

"Tea?" Proposed Mrs Holmes, after all, nothing beats a proper brew on a cold winter's day. Nods moved around the room like a Mexican wave of heads. Mrs Holmes busied herself making tea and getting an appropriate selection of biscuits, listening to the mild chatter from the other room.

"Anything you need, dear?" Mr Holmes sauntered into the kitchen

Mrs Holmes smiled at him and handed him the tray with multiple side plates of biscuits to be places upon the carefully laid out nests of tables in the lounge.

"So Molly, what is it that you do?" Mrs Holmes asked, Molly went from terrified to petrified.

"She's my pathologist mother. The one that helped me fake my death." Sherlock answered before Molly had fully processed the question. She still couldn't believe she was in Sherlock Holmes' parent's house.

"I'm sorry dear, your, pathologist?" Mrs Holmes looked up at her son, who seemed to be none the wiser for the implications of what he'd said, instead getting annoyed at repeating himself.

"Yes mummy, the only pathologist in the whole of St. Bart's hospital, and London I'd wager, that does a reasonable job, hence the only one I'll use, hence the use of the term 'mine'." He glowered at his mother, and scanned the room. "Where's my coffee?"

"You didn't ask for one dear," His mother pointed in the direction of the kitchen, to which he huffed, scowled and left, dragging his heels.

"You must be a saint," John said with an incredulous look on his face, Mrs Holmes just laughed,

"He's mellowed after living with you, he was a lovely boy up until about 10, not sure what got into him around then…" She had a sad look about her eyes, but only for a fraction of a second.

"It's true John, you should have seen him in the morgue before he met you. Sometimes he'd pop in, pick up a leg and walk out again. Not even a word." Molly added, wondering what it was that had made the older lady so sad, and why it was taking Sherlock so long to make a cup of coffee.

"You know what would be fun? Shall we have a look through the family album?" Mr Holmes grinned a cheeky grin, and set off to get the photo album from the other room.

"No, that would not be fun." Came Sherlock's voice from the other room, he was not impressed at this supposed parental duty to embarrass him at every available opportunity. At least Mycroft wasn't here, the stories he could tell were infinitely worse. Sherlock stared at the coffee in front of him, and pondered what to do about the room full of people he needed to protect.