Sometimes John forgot that Anthea even existed, much the same as she forgot the whole world outside of herself existed. He pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself and leaned down to peer not only at her, but around her. Was she alone? Likely. Mycroft would never come out in this weather.

"Actually, I'm on a bit of a sitting job right now," he grinned, and Anthea flashed him a not grin, too much grin, not grin again that was honestly all her own. How did the Holmes' surround themselves in so many utterly odd people? It had to be some sort of conspiracy.

And, knowing Mycroft, it absolutely was.

John looked up to find Sherlock bounding around like a dog down the street and he cursed. "Sorry, must go," he said, trying to skirt around the car without falling over. He wasn't going to lose Sherlock to himself, not tonight.