Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 15)

The car wades up the woodland track, rocking and sinking over heaps and dips of mushy leaves and cloudy, silty puddles. As it rounds the corner and enters the driveway, the headlamps illuminate a steady flow of water running from the overflowing gutters, down the slight slope of the garden and into the forest.

The house is dark besides the upper floor where the inviting glow of a few bedside lamps just manage to peek through the curtains. When Y/N leans over to read the clock on the dashboard, it tells her it's just past 11 pm.

Leaving his headlights on, Teddy insists on stepping back out into the rain to hold Y/N's door for her, helping her out with surprising softness of hand.

Escorting her all the way onto the doormat below his umbrella, he bids them a few more "Thank yers" and, after a parting bark from Wicket, drives off into the night.

Sheltering under the honeysuckle's laden leaves, Sherlock digs into his pocket for the house key, his other hand supporting several jars of honey. Before he can insert it into the lock, it clicks from inside, the door swinging open to reveal Mr Holmes wearing a dressing gown and slippers. A Pair of reading glasses dangles from a chain around his neck, and Y/N catches Sherlock wilt.

"You didn't have to wait up for us, Dad."

Charles' forehead is tall rather than wide, and currently drawn together with a stern frown, his receding hair making it look even more tall and frownier than ever. "Didn't have to. Wanted to." His eyes, usually blue as a Cornish sky and twinkling with boyish mischief, are grey and weary with concern as they scan his son (and his companion) up and down in the overprotective way fathers do. 

Deeming them unscathed, however, he steps aside to bid them passage, his entire visage brightening as he jests---again, in the way only fathers do:

"So, been swimming, have you?"

Sherlock helps Y/N peel off her sodden jacket. "No, we decided to partake in a leisurely hike around old Ted's place."

Taking their outerwear---presumably, to hang over a bucket by the last embers of the fire, Mr Holmes rolls his eyes. "Pigs escaped again?"

A boot jack sits squatly by the door and Sherlock uses it to pry his wellies from his feet, their entire lower half encased in a rather substantial portion of the British countryside. When he gets them free, even his socks are darkened with wet. He shakes his head. "Sheep, this time."

Their clothes moistening the floor, Mr Holmes goes with them upstairs, bringing their small company to a halt by the airing cupboard where he draws out several fluffy bath towels.

Tenderly, he wraps one around his son's shoulders, and Y/N expects him to pass her the other---

---but he swaddles her up too, tucking the cotton snuggly under her chin like a fur shawl.

It smells of laundry detergent and the little bundle of lavender Mrs Holmes hangs in the cupboards 'to keep them fresh as a posy'.

"You're lucky your mother's already asleep," Charles mutters, his voice lowered. "She was worried enough about you as it is, being out at this hour, but I said: 'Wendy, he's a grown boy' and she said 'But what if he gets lost?' and I said 'Lost, woman? He knows his way home like it's written on his damn heart. Spin him around a hundred times and plonk him in Timbuktu, he'll still show up on this doorstep eventually, even if it takes him a hundred years."

He'd lead them down the hall with carefully placed footsteps and stops at the master bathroom,  pulling the light.

With a tired click, the old bulb hums to life, the fan taking up a slow rhythm around the high ceiling.