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October
"Get the apples, the pumpkins, plenty of turnips." Mrs Hudson commanded as she handed John the list.
"Turnips?" John made a face.
"They are tradition. For Halloween."
"I've lived here for years. You've never before made me suffer through turnips."
"Not for eating. For carving." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "The best thing to do with them, really."
"What are the pumpkins for then?"
"Carving. They're much easier to carve then turnips."
"Then why are we carving the turnips?"
"It's tradition."
"We didn't do it last year. We didn't do anything last year."
"Rosie's old enough to remember things this year. What we do this year is what she'll consider tradition. Even if it is a brand new tration for us. For her it will be what we've always done." Mrs. Hudson explained.
"Okay, so shouldn't we skip doing the difficult things? LIke carving turnips over pumpkins?"
"You can't do that, John. Carving turnips is tradition."
"LIke bobbing for apples?"
"No, apple bobbing is terribly messy. Water gets everywhere."
"So what are the apples for?"
"Pie, of course." Mrs. Hudson
"Because apple pie is tradition?" John asked
"Because apple pies are delicious." Mrs. Hudson corrected.
"Off to the store." John explained as he passed Sherlock on the landing.
"Bring back bananas."
"For carving or for pie?" John quipped.
"For the boo-nanas."
December
"Christmas is coming the goose is getting fat. But much like Mycroft, the gander's getting fatter…" Sherlock sang as he flung tinsel around the room.
"That's not a song, Sherlock" John sighed.
"It should be." Sherlock protested.
"Remember we're trying to teach Rosie by example."
Sherlock grinned. "Your point?"
"Moving right along," John sighed. "We're set for Christmas, right? Party at ours Christmas Eve. Greg's playing Santa. Mycroft's being pedantic about saying Father Christmas. Nobody is letting Harry near the mistletoe. There will be no encore performances of her mischievous mistletoe matchmaking 'Game'."
"Mycroft brought the mistletoe. And Mrs. Hudson made the odds."
"Mrs. Hudson is coming upstairs for presents and breakfast Christmas morning. Then we're going to your parents for dinner. That covers everything."
"Except the tree."
"What about the tree? We'll use the one we bought last year."
"Or we could get a real tree. The smell, the freshness."
"The dropped needles. The fire hazard. We agreed. We bought a fake tree. They are reusable. They save money, and the environment."
"Real trees are the environment, John."
"We already had this debate, Sherlock! We agreed on the fake tree. They're cleaner, easier, fire retardant."
"We could do both." Sherlock offered.
"What happened to the tree from last year, Sherlock?"
"I was doing an experiment."
"And?" John prompted.
"It burned."
April
Easter should be easy, really. A nice spring day. Some dyed eggs. Some chocolates. Church? Maybe not. It was the one day a year John's mother always insisted. She bought both her children new outfits. Took them for proper haircuts, not just a kitchen sink trim.
John doesn't remember the services itself as much as he does the polish they all received beforehand, and the chocolates after. He wonders now if it was their annual iota of religion itself or something else his mother craved.
Was it something she'd want him to offer his own child?
"Do you think mum believed in God? Jesus? The resurrection?" John asked Harry at a rare shared luncheon.
"Are you dying?" Harry looked concerned.
"What? No! Not more than usual." John assured her. "I was just remembering of all those Easter services. Would she want me to take Rosie?"
"God, I hated those. Scratchy, starched dresses. Stiff, pinching patent leather shoes. People talk about their easter bonnets? Their Easter baskets? Their Easter bunnies? All I remember is Easter blisters."
He decided to give it a go. Just the once.
Sunday morning, however, Sherlock burst in with shovels. "Hurry, hurry. No time to waste. Mycroft's just rung. It seems he's been buried alive."
Hours of digging. He is risen, just in time. Not without Easter blisters.
June
It had been brutally warm for weeks. Yet summer wasn't officially here. "Lets go on holiday." John suggested. "Somewhere cool. Or with air conditioning."
"We could could spend midsummer above the arctic circle where the sun never sets. They light bonfires."
"Why do they need bonfires if the sun never sets?" John asked, grumpily. A bonfire sounded hot.
"You could ask them. But I don't imagine they won't find it funny. Or, maybe they would. Traditionally there is a lot of drinking. There is no telling what people find funny after an abundance of alcohol."
John sighed. "I want to go somewhere cool."
"Somewhere cold?"
"Not an ice hotel, if that's what you have in mind."
"Some place in the southern hemisphere then? Where it will soon be winter?"
"Winter in summer?" John asked but found he fancied the idea.
"We could go skiing. In New Zealand, maybe." Sherlock offered. "I had a strange dream once about you having an epic adventure in New Zealand."
John wasn't sure, at first. But another week of record breaking temperatures convinced him. It would be good to get away. They could teach Rosie to ski. She was a bit of a daredevil.
She loved it. They all did. A new summer tradition?
"Or we could stay," Sherlock offered. "And celebrate Christmas on the beach."