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The house was quiet as it should have been at 6am. His parents were still asleep and there were no children larking about. That would change, however, once his parents rose in an hour and John arrived with Rosie two hours after that.
Why did he agree to this again?
Right. Because his parents were renovating their house (who renovates at Christmas?), and Sherlock was a bit hosted out after the gathering he had for his friends.
So that left grumpy ol' Mycroft with his large house to entertain everyone this year. And to put up with his parents for a few days. He was still kicking himself for agreeing to let them stay with him.
Oh well. The plans were long past changing and all he could do was live with them. It would be over in a day or so.
But for now, he could enjoy his morning coffee in the quiet of the parlour.
Or, so he thought.
A couple of sips into his coffee, the silence started to get to him, and he wanted—no, needed to eradicate it.
Mycroft stood from the large leather hobnail chair and crossed the room to the cabinet that housed his CD and vinyl collections. He browsed the musical library before choosing a holiday compilation CD. ‘Twas the season after all.
He put it in the stereo and was immediately transported back to a far simpler time and place. A time when Christmas get-togethers filled him with joy and calm. A time when he could be normal. When he could simply be, well, him.
What happened? When had he gone from being a fun-loving, carefree child who never refused a family dinner to being the cold government official who absolutely despised family events like Christmas? How had he lost touch with the boy he used to be? Why had he lost touch? Where had that part of him gone? It was usually about this time of year when he missed it.
He took another sip of his coffee and then cautiously looked around. There was nobody else in the room, nobody in the hall, and he couldn’t hear any footsteps coming from upstairs. He was alone. Maybe he’d take a moment and get back in touch with that long lost part of himself…
As Dean Martin crooned Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! , Mycroft crossed the room, and picked up one of the two fire pokers from beside the unlit fireplace.
The moment the iron was in his hand, his slippered feet became light and rhythmic; before he knew it, he was soft-shoeing.
Not only did they carry his body to the middle of the room, they carried his mind back to the Christmas his father had caught him trying to mimic Bill Robinson’s dance routine from Stormy Weather . Instead of laughing at him (though Mycroft was sure there’d been a little bit of chuckling involved), his father moved some of the furniture aside and let him in on a little secret.
Siger Holmes could tap dance. And by the end of that weekend, Mycroft could too. Now, neither men were going to win any awards for their dancing, but it was something they shared just between them. Not even Mummy or Sherlock knew.
Mycroft’s lips curled into a smile as he shuffled, and as his legs and feet loosened, so did his arms. Within moments, the fire poker became a makeshift cane, and he was quickly making use of all the space available to him, letting the music and his feet take him where they may.
Tap dancing was something Mycroft hadn’t done in a very long time – years even – but as his feet strung dance steps together, he realised there were some things time would never take away from him. Even if they were things only one other person knew about.
And that other person was leaning against the mantle already dressed for breakfast in tweed trousers, and a button down shirt, with a garishly green bowtie. The other fire poker was in his hand and an amused smile was on his face. When had he come in? Why hadn’t Mycroft heard him?
Embarrassment flooded Mycroft’s body and he stumbled, nearly dropping the poker in his own hands.
“Father…”
Siger Holmes’s amused smile quickly turned into one of pride. “Nice to see you still remember some of what I taught you.”
Mycroft fought as hard as he could against the flush rising to his face. “Never forgot.”
The smile on Father’s face grew as he strode into the middle of the room. “Good. Then I’m sure you still remember the routine we made up to the next song on this album.”
Curious, Mycroft walked over to where he’d put the CD case and looked at the track listing. Next up was Jingle Bell Rock .
The tug that pulled Mycroft’s mouth into a smile was one he couldn’t stop. Of course he remembered. And would be forever grateful Father hadn’t forced him to perform it in front of the family. Sherlock would never have let him live it down. Especially now with their petty sibling rivalry. Yes, even he secretly admitted their feud was petty, but he also secretly enjoyed it.
But this wasn’t the moment to mull over petty rivalries. This was the moment to enjoy some time with his father.
“I do remember,” Mycroft said.
Father grinned. “Shall we?”
Mycroft nodded, and met his father in the centre of the room as the song began.
The moment the music hit his ears, everything came back. Every toe and heel tap, every hop, every shuffle, brush, ball change, and turn around the makeshift cane. He hated to think about what the pokers were doing to his floor.
His father remembered everything too, perhaps better than he did, not missing a single step. But that wasn’t the most miraculous thing. No. There was a lightness about his father he hadn’t seen since he was a child.
Siger Holmes had always been a simple man and quite light-hearted, but Mycroft hadn’t seen him this happy since before the incident with Eurus. And, truth be told, Mycroft himself hadn’t felt this light since then either. Maybe Dad catching him dancing hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.
They reached the part of the routine where they faced each other as they danced, and Mycroft was met by a face of pure joy. There was no sign of renovation weariness, no sign of arthritis acting up, and, for a brief moment, Father didn’t look his age. He looked younger and like he had an entire lifetime of years ahead of him.
When Father winked at him with an open-mouthed smile, Mycroft could no longer keep his reserve. He let himself go and laughed.
For the remainder of the song, his body and spirits were light and he glided through what was left of the routine.
The song came to a close and the two men collapsed onto the sofa. Their laughter muffled the squeaking complaint the leather made under their weight. It was clear by their breathing that neither of them had danced like this in a very long time, let alone together.
“We should do this more often,” Father said.
Mycroft didn’t disagree. “Perhaps we should.”
Father straightened and made a move to stand up. “Well, we should probably head to the kitchen before Mummy comes in here after us. I think breakfast might be just about ready.”
Mycroft nodded. Then he paused, realising that, judging by his father’s words, Mummy was already downstairs. “She didn’t see us, did she?”
“I don’t think so,” Father answered. “She headed straight for the kitchen when we came downstairs.”
Mycroft breathed a silent sigh of relief. He knew well enough that the world wouldn’t end if Mummy had caught the two of them dancing, but he wasn’t ready for anyone else to know about this secret talent of his.
Father stood from the sofa, and headed toward the hallway. Mycroft followed, picking up his now cold coffee along the way.
As they reached the doorway, Father stopped and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Thank you for humouring an old man. And thank you for remembering.”
Mycroft nodded with a smile more genuine than he’d smiled in ages. “Thank you for teaching me. Merry Christmas, Dad.”
Neither man moved for a moment, both of them taking in, and accepting, the sentiment of what was said.
The moment ended when Dad sniffed sharply. “I hope the others arrive soon. I can’t wait for you to see what Mummy got you for Christmas.” And he left the parlour with a mischievous grin on his face.
Mycroft paused, briefly afraid of what his gift might be. Then he chuckled because there wasn’t much else anyone could give him that would outdo the gift he had just received. The pressures of work, the government, and everything else had gone. The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered was what had just happened in this parlour.
A dance shared by Mycroft Holmes and his father.