It was one of the few things from his childhood that had been pleasant.

Splayed out on his stomach, stockinged feet kicking in the air. The faint buzz from the radio. Ice against fathers glass, the tick, tick, tick of Mums knitting needles.

Three pair of eyes on him, waiting, waiting for that moment when he would reveal the room, the weapon and the culprit.

The laughter. Fathers strong hand slapping his back in pride, not anger.

Mother saying "good boy" and meaning it.

Harry sticking her tongue out, calling him a prat, but smiling behind it all.

Ten pound of memories.

Milk, beans, biscuits and Cluedo.

Sherlock had held the box, turning it over and over, looking at it with a mixture of scrutiny and bafflement for five minutes.

Twenty one games.

For the first five, Sherlock had insisted that he was letting John win.

For the next ten, he declared that John was cheating.

For the last six Mrs. Hudson had watched, cheering on a mute and sulking 'Consulting Detective.'

John had expected Sherlock to box the game up and toss it in the bin. When, instead, he had pinned it to the wall John had tried, but failed to speak.

"It's so I don't forget" Sherlock glanced from the game to John and back again.

"Forget what."

"To never underestimate you John Watson."