Work Text:
The way Christmas should be
The polished wood glinted in the muted light of the chandelier fixed high above, the crystals throwing fractal patterns on the ceiling and cream coloured walls. Dust motes dancing within air caught in the spotlight momentarily until their orbit plunged them back into obscurity. The green of the potted plants seated firmly against the balcony rail seemed at odds with the austere rich chestnut of the staircase. And the red and green patterned carpet made him think that someone had vomited Christmas over the stairwell.
Sherlock sat, quiet as a mouse on the third stair from the top, hunched over, rigid, unmoving apart from his chest forming a rhythm with his rapid breaths, listening intently to the sounds below.
As he trained his ears to the drawing room, he heard her voice reciting that poem, the poem only ever told at Christmas time… Tears prickled the back of his eyes as he listened, as it brought back memories of his childhood.
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.”
His mother laughed, and shouted excitedly, “Oh, yes of course, I knew we still had that book…. How lovely!”
Christmas! As a child, he had seen pictures in books, adverts and bits of films on the television (not that the watching of television was encouraged of course) where families would get together, sing, and laugh, hug and kiss. In those films, there were always decorations hung on every surface, garish and bright, but beautiful nonetheless. A tree would always take centre stage, dressed in gaudy baubles and draped with sparkling foil tinsel. The trees would be surrounded with bright gifts, wrapped with as much ribbon as care. The gifts would be surprises, not always good surprises, but surprises nonetheless.
But here, here, in this draughty big old house, there had never been surprises under the tree. Certainly, no stockings. Gifts would be pre-planned, functional: - clothes, shoes, books, especially books, after all what was the point of receiving a gift that you didn’t want? He had remembered both his mother and father reciting this line on numerous occasions.
A tree? Of course, the tree was a festive decorative addition but not for them; it was decorated meticulously and situated in the drawing room, where the adults would stand around drinking expensive champagne and brandy on Christmas Eve. They would laugh at poor jokes and clap politely after they as children were forced into an ‘impromptu’ concert, that they of course had been forced to practice for weeks. They had then been ushered back off to bed, leaving the adults to Christmas cheer. He smiled slightly as he thought about himself and Mycroft huddling on the landing, peering through the rails, deducing the behaviour of the drunken guests. They had collected enough ammunition to ruin characters and careers, break marriages and ruin families, but why make others as miserable as themselves?
He became distracted from his thoughts by the crackled glaze of the paintwork, dips and chips in the surface of the handrail caused by decades of years of people walking up and down the very stairs he sat on. This house was old, worn and weathered, but unlike a fine wine, it had not worn well. Although clean, it felt dead, empty, the corners and hallways hiding children who had never played there. The creaks and moans of old wood, replacing the happy squeals of children who had never laughed there. Instead, he and Mycroft had studied, read, deduced, improved themselves, usually holed up in their rooms until they had been sent away to boarding school.
He glanced down the stairs. All had gone quiet and he wondered where everyone had disappeared to. Well, as long as they didn’t see him here, he was content, he didn’t want to be dragged into preparations, not yet. He hugged close to the rail, hugging his knees closer to his chest, trying to make himself smaller and less visible to prying eyes, just as he had when he had been a child.
As he glanced to his left, he noticed the small spider spinning her web. Of course, he knew the science. But, looking at the fragile thing now, suspended in the corner, it was a thing of beauty. He caught his breath as he watched her creating a unique piece of work that would be demolished as soon as the cleaner spotted it on Boxing Day. He felt sorry for her. Sitting quietly making her web, trying to stay out of the way, but still managing to provoke such extreme reactions in anyone who should see her. Hmmm, he knew that feeling well.
He was brought back to the present as the strains of “O Holy Night” began to play on the piano. The piece was played beautifully and without errors, even though it was a practice run. He had practiced this piece too, it would be played as a duet. He wouldn’t ever offer up praise to his brother, though. His brother was aware that he was an accomplished pianist, and wouldn’t expect Sherlock to pat him on the back. They would nod at each other at the end, satisfied with the joint performance. Proud, but not allowing it to show.
As the last strains of the music dissolved into silence, he huffed out the breath he hadn’t been aware he had been holding. Old habits die hard and all that. To make a mistake whilst playing, even in practice, would bring criticism and frustration from their parents. He sighed in relief, then smiled inwardly.
He caught the waft of cigar smoke. Turning to trace the smell, he realised that his father must have sneaked out of the side door, the rich heady aroma of cigar swirling up and infiltrating the window on the landing just above him. He sniggered, knowing his father would tell his mother the bare faced lie that he had not been smoking.
He unravelled his legs slightly, then stretched each in turn. He felt like he had been sitting for hours. He was becoming increasingly bored, waiting, excited but also apprehensive. Visitors to this place had always brought memories rather forgotten.
Suddenly his ears tuned into the sound of tires on gravel and he leapt up to standing. He stood stock still, once again holding his breath as he waited for the doorbell to chime.
“They are here!” A voice shouted, “Where is Sherlock?” Mycroft turned upwards to see him standing there as he reached to open the door. “Brother, come. Welcome your guests.”
The door was swung open before the bell had time to sound. Mycroft had obviously been waiting for them too. A blast of frigid air reached Sherlock from his vantage point at the top of the stairs. John walked in, looking up, grinning. “Hey Sherlock… Sorry we are a bit late, traffic and ice, ya know. Took it easy, wanted to be extra careful with this cargo!” He placed the wriggling 18-month-old down on the floor by Mycroft, she looked up at him, grinning a toothy grin.
“My cloc,” she stuttered.
John sniggered. “You should have heard her before she started practicing,” he laughed.
Mycroft couldn’t keep the smile of his face as the young child hugged his leg. John shook his hand, “Happy Christmas Mycroft, thank you for inviting us.”
Mycroft smiled. “Welcome to our parents’ home, John. Please come in, you are the first here. Let’s get this door closed. Mother and father are in the drawing room, when you are ready.”
Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Rosie to see him. “Sh’lock, Sh’lock!” she screamed… Where is Father chrintmas?”
Sherlock smiled at her unselfconscious attempt at the word ‘Christmas.’ He knew John had been teaching her every day, and her speech was coming along well - with some interesting words thrown in for good measure.
“Hello, Rosie.” Sherlock scooped her up, smiling at her delighted squeals. “I missed you last night, we will have double story time later! As for Father Christmas,” he said, slowly enunciating the sounds for her, “Well, you must be in bed early tonight, to see what he will bring… you have to be patient.” He laid a kiss on her head, and placed her carefully down on the floor.” At her age, she didn’t even really understand the concept, but John was adamant that Father Christmas would come to visit, and Sherlock was secretly pleased that for the first time ever, this dusty old house would host the fat man in the silly red suit.
“Mycroft, will you take her through to the drawing room?” John said as he took her coat and hat from her. “I just want a quick word with Sherlock.”
Mycroft turned, raising an eyebrow but deciding not to comment on John’s request. John smiled as Mycroft hurried his daughter through to see his parents.
“He loves her. He pretends to be this fusty middle-aged man, but he can’t fool me, he has a soft spot in there somewhere.”
Sherlock snorted. “You are deluded, John Watson. Mycroft? A soft spot? Hah….”
John chuckled. “Well, we will see when the rest of your guests arrive.”
Sherlock hugged him close. “John, I missed you last night, I really couldn’t believe the summons by mother and father, but they wanted to get all their legal stuff done before Christmas, and the Solicitor just happened to be ‘dropping by’.”
Sherlock smirked. “John.” He stuttered for a moment, his breath halting. “John ...”
John smirked. “Sherlock?”
“John ...”
This time John couldn’t hold in his laughter, he laughed merrily. “Come on, Sherlock, spit it out! Not like you to be tongue twisted!”
“OK, John, I’ve been thinking of what you asked me, and I want to say that nothing would make me prouder than to adopt Rosie…. But on one consideration. Will you marry me?” Sherlock held his breath.
John gasped. He knew that Sherlock would say yes to the adoption, and since they had realised that they were physically attracted to each other as well as the best of friends, he felt they would be together forever, but he had never considered that Sherlock would want to marry him, would even entertain such a ‘silly ritual,’
“Oh God, Sherlock, yes, yes of course. Oh, I don’t know what to say. I really didn’t see this coming.” Tears sprang to the corners of John’s eyes.
With that, two pairs of lips met, the kiss deepening, love passing from one body to the other.
“Oh, Sherlock, I love you, this will be the best Christmas ever!”
Sherlock stepped back to see John properly, “I feel that this Christmas will be the best ever Christmas for my brother too,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
The offer for Christmas at Headingly had extended family wide. John’s sister Harry and her wife Clara had been invited. Christmas had been something to look forward in the past three years since Harry had been on the wagon, since she and Clara had been together. Mrs Hudson would be joining them too.
Greg Lestrade had also been invited. Sherlock had almost fallen over laughing when Greg had come in to NSY not long after the Holmes family had made the invitation. Greg had explained to Sherlock that his ex had been awarded some tickets for a cruise over Christmas as part of a prize draw, a draw she hadn’t even remembered entering. She had never let him see the children on Christmas Day but it seemed that, as the cruise was only available for her and her new partner and the dates were not transferable, the children would simply have to come to him. “What extraordinary luck,” Sherlock had muttered. Then as Mycroft walked through the door right into the middle of this exchange on pretence of business, it was an obvious conclusion that Greg must, absolutely must bring the children to Christmas at his parents’. Smooth, Mycroft, Sherlock thought. Best few thousand you have spent in a long time. Mycroft had smiled serenely at Sherlock, the glint in his eye bringing an unexpected lump to Sherlock’s throat. And so it was: Greg was thrilled beyond anything not only to have Christmas with his children, but to be able to have them share in a real family Christmas, and a chance to get to know Mycroft better too. He was a happy man indeed.
And that’s how it had happened: Christmas at Headingly, far from the dusty, quiet, dull house of his childhood Christmases. This year the house would be literally filled with noise and Christmas cheer.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, realising that he had gone for a trip down memory lane whilst John had been removing his coat and gloves, and was now standing, waiting patiently.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John spoke quietly. “When shall we tell them?”
Sherlock’s heart was in his mouth. How long he had loved this man? “Today, now? When everyone else gets here?” Sherlock felt a bubble of excitement, how lucky he felt.
“Come on, we need to see our daughter,” John said. Oh, and we have an announcement to make!”
John took Sherlock’s hand, and as they turned they were met with a gust of freezing air as the door was flung open again. Greg pushed in his son and daughter… “Come on you two, let’s get warm…”
Then, as John was about to close the door, a horn beeped as another car drew up. “Aah, our last guests.” Sherlock and John moved forward to collect coats and hats from the children and from Greg, then Harry, Clara and Martha Hudson as they came through the door.
“Come on through, come on through.” Charlie and Sophie, aged five and seven respectively, were a little shy but Martha Hudson held out her hands.
“Hmm, I wonder where the cookie jar is,” she smiled, and the children instantly relaxed.
John and Sherlock hung back a little after greeting everyone, and Sherlock smiled as he saw Mycroft had appeared and had rested his hand on Greg’s back ushering him through to the drawing room.
As Sherlock entered the room, bags were being unpacked, and presents all brightly coloured and bedecked with ribbon and bows were piled under the large Christmas tree. Sherlock’s eyes went upward and he smiled at the gaudy foil decorations that had been hung from the ceiling and every other surface. He gulped. He felt like a boy. Like he was experiencing Christmas for the first time…
“Sherlock,” his mother said, “where have you two been hiding?”
He was about to answer when Mycroft tapped a spoon on a glass.
“A-hem…. Can I have your attention everyone…. Can we please just all take a glass of champagne from the tray…. I, think….” He stopped momentarily, looking at Sherlock, who nodded almost imperceptibly… “Well, I think Dr Watson and my brother have an announcement to make.”
All eyes rested on Sherlock, then John, who looked at each other, then giggled like children…. There were gasps all round… Mrs Hudson took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
John nodded at Sherlock and together they chimed out, “We are getting married!”
Christmas Day was one like no other the house or its occupants had ever known.
The children ran rampant through the house, exploring and squealing with delight. Sherlock and Mycroft played duets together then, instead of nodding curtly, hugged uncertainly.
Mrs Hudson sat happily, eating mince pies and drinking sherry whilst sharing stories about ‘her boys’ with Mr and Mrs Holmes. The children crashed following a sugar high whilst watching ‘The Snowman’ on the huge TV that had appeared unexpectedly on Christmas Eve morning.
John and Sherlock snuggled on the luxurious sofa, hand in hand, whispering plans for their ears only. Clara sat in Harry’s lap, smiling at her good fortune, not daring to imagine how different things could have turned out. And Mycroft – Mycroft and Greg – well, at first they sat in arm chairs either side of the roaring fire, and as the day became evening and became night, their chairs had moved closer. They flirted gently, but no one in the room was foolish enough not to feel the sexual tension in the air.
After Mrs Hudson and Mrs Holmes put the children to bed, Mycroft just happened to find himself standing under a sprig of mistletoe as Greg came back into the lounge from the kitchen. Greg looked at Mycroft, then grinned.
“Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?” He glanced up at the mistletoe before he leaned in for a not so chaste kiss.
“Right, thank God for that!” shouted Sherlock. “Congratulations, you two. Took you longer than John and I! And, talking about John and I, well we are going to bed! We have some celebrating to do - in person.”
John blushed but allowed himself to be pulled from the room, noticing as he left the smiles all round, and noticing the gentle pat that Mycroft laid on his brother’s shoulders as they passed by.
Never again would Headingly be a cold mausoleum at Christmas, or birthdays, and in fact on many occasions when the families got together. All was good.