John Watson thumped up the stairs to 221B. He’d had a busy day at the clinic, which was fair enough, there’d been the usual mix of patients, and just as he was thinking he might manage to leave on time, one of his colleagues had been faced with a patient who needed urgent attention, which meant the receptionists had to redistribute the other patients among the remaining doctors. So now he was looking forward to collapsing in a chair with a large mug of tea and a packet of biscuits. Except when he’d left that morning the place had been in chaos and if Sherlock hadn’t done anything to clear his mess, he’d probably not have a clear chair to sit in, or be able to find the biscuits.

It was therefore a major surprise when he opened the door, to find the living room, not exactly tidy, but with space to sit down and leave a mug without the risk of it falling over. Even more of a surprise was to see a stranger sitting in one of the armchairs.

The final surprise when Sherlock’s voice called from the kitchen, saying, “Ah, John, do you want some tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle. And Victor’s brought cookies.”

“Er, yes, please,” John called back. He went to sit down and nodded at the stranger, who he took to be Victor.

Sherlock came in, carrying three mugs, which he placed on the low table. “This is Victor Trevor, you should remember I’ve told you about him.”

Victor picked up the bag of cookies and offered him one. “Hello, John. It’s good to meet you.”

“Hi, Victor. Er, yes. Good to meet you.” So this was Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s friend from uni days. From Sherlock’s description, John would have expected a tall, slim man, similar in fact to Sherlock himself. But Victor seemed much broader, not fat, but he’d definitely bulked up. He also looked very fit. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? Sherlock gave me the impression you were abroad somewhere.”

“I was until recently. But circumstances have brought me back home.”

Sherlock snorted. “Circumstances! That’s not what I’d call it.”

“What would you call it then?”

“Mycroft!”

“It was hardly his fault.”

“He should have seen it was happening and done something about it.”

“He did, as soon as he could. And it could have been a lot worse.” Victor stopped and looked pointedly at John.

“I can leave if you like,” John said.
“If I said I worked for Mycroft, would that mean anything to you?”

“That sort of work?”

“That sort of work.” Victor nodded.

“I know very little, except that occasionally, very occasionally, Mycroft manages to get Sherlock to do ‘a little job’ for him, which I’m supposed to know nothing about and yet somehow I always end up being involved with.”

“That sounds about right, in both Holmes brothers’ cases. Did Sherlock tell you that he and I fell out at one point, many years ago?”

“Yes, but I got the impression the rift had been healed.”

“It has, very slowly. When I left uni, Mycroft asked me to go and work for him. Sherlock was furious, we had an almighty row, I went abroad and we more or less lost touch.”

“Mycroft gave me snippets,” Sherlock said grudgingly.

“And then, well, in the last few years, things started to improve.”

When neither Victor nor Sherlock seemed to know what else to say, John answered, “Which is why you are currently sitting in 221B, drinking tea and eating cookies.”

“Exactly!” Victor gave John a grateful look. “And why Sherlock and I will shortly be going out for something to eat. You’d be very welcome to join us.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be just the two of you, give you a chance to catch up?”

Sherlock snorted again and Victor laughed, before saying, “No, it’s fine. As to our relationship, the phrase ‘it’s complicated,’ sums us up very well. Or if you’d rather we can order a takeaway.”

“Takeaway will suit me.”

“See, I told you he’d be happy about it!” Sherlock said.