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“The figgy pudding should be going on to boil in... precisely ten seconds” Mycroft stood in the doorway to the kitchen of the old family home, his stern gaze fixed on the harried kitchen staff and his gleaming sliver pocket watch lying open in one poised hand.
Flustered, the scullery maid dropped a jelly mould with an almighty clang and Cook began to scold her.
“Never mind the girl, Cook! The pudding must be in the water lest it be undercooked in the centre. Nothing ruins a good meal like a chewy pudding.”
“Mycroft,” Startled by his sister Enola appearing at his elbow, he let out a grunt of annoyance. “Sherrinford is about to set the table place-cards for dinner.”
“Oh, no no no, that won't do at all. I must intervene. Cook, have you everything under control here?”
She barked out an affirmative that very carefully hid her relief, her shoulders sagging as the impossibly tall form of Mycroft Holmes retreated along the corridor. She spared a tight smile for Enola, who shot her a wink before following her brother.
“Will that boy of yours be attending, little sister?”
“He's not my boy. But yes. He'll be arriving shortly.”
“Of course he's yours, my dear: hook, line and sinker- he's not such a fool as he appears.”
“Oi!”
Mycroft, deaf to her indignant protests, was already bullying his older brother away from the dining table. “Sherlock next to Hertha! Good heavens do you want to start a war about women in universities!”
Sherrinford grinned. “It's no more than he deserves. Where did these come from?” He examined a Christmas cracker. Enola took it from his hand and replaced it on the table. “You're welcome, Sherrinford, really, it only took me three attempts to get the formula just right.”
Mycroft sighed, and sank wearily into an armchair. “Nobody is disputing it, but the rest of us deserve to enjoy our dinner in peace”
“Do you think we'll all meet the doctor this year?” Enola walked around the table re-setting the places as Mycroft directed from his seat by the fire.
Sigerson shrugged and scuttled over to the bookshelf.
“You hardly imagine Sherlock will attend without him – he only came the last time because I bullied him and that was years ago now.”
“But he is coming – definitely?”
“I have made sure of it”
“You've met this doctor, Mycroft,” Sherrinford asked, idly juggling pieces of fruit from the sideboard. “What is your opinion of him?”
“Nobody wants to know my opinion, I suppose.” Enola sighed, half to herself – she knew her eldest brothers had no interest.
Sherrinford ignored her, but tutted as he dropped an orange.
Enola watched as it it rolled away to rest under the table. "I'll get that then shall I?"
“He is... entirely suitable” Mycroft announced with every ounce of pomposity he possessed.
“I'm not sure whether to be overjoyed or disappointed – I can't say I wouldn't like to see our little brother receive the kick up the backside he so often deserves.”
“Oh, I should think Dr Watson manages” Mycroft chuckled.
Their conversation around the doctor was interrupted as the butler announced Viscount Tewkesbury, and Enola bumping her head in her eagerness to scramble out from under the dining table.
~*~
Mycroft was anxiously studying his watch again by the time Sherlock arrived, with the much-discussed Dr Watson in tow.
“We had almost despaired of you” Mycroft greeted them sternly. Sherrinford satisfied himself with a sardonic “Late again, little brother” and Enola met her brother with a hug.
“Immediate family is supposed to arrive first to arrange things” Mycroft tutted.
“And here I am – before the extended family descend on us, unless I am mistaken and they are all secreted out of sight behind the furniture.”
“Everything has already been arranged by your brothers” Sherrinford drawled. Enola cleared her throat indignantly.
“A thousand apologies of course, a trifling matter of returning a missing child to her parents from the hands of a villain at Christmas, prevented me from arriving in time to arrange the paper-chains”
“Holmes” Watson chided, his voice heavy with fond amusement.
“Everybody, this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. Watson, my elder brothers, Sherrinford and Sigerson, and Mycroft of course you know.”
“Pleased to meet you, sirs” Watson heartily exclaimed, shaking hands with each brother in turn.
“And my younger sister, Enola.” Watson bowed briefly over her hand with a murmured “Delighted, Miss Holmes.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his partner's natural charm, fooling absolutely nobody - his proud smile would have been obvious were he not observed by a roomful of Holmeses.
“I already like him a lot better than the last object you brought round to meet us, Sherlock” Sherrinford announced as the ancient butler shuffled round with a tray of aperitifs. “Your taste is certainly improving”
Mycroft smiled widely and wickedly.
“For the last time that was an undercover police officer!”
Sherrinford sucked air sharply through his teeth. “Most unsuitable for you.”
Sigerson tutted in agreement with his elder brother.
“Inspector Lestrade and I were on a case nearby and Mycroft dragged us along to dinner – he thought it would be amusing.” Sherlock bent to whisper in Watson's ear.
“Lestrade played along?”
“He also thought it was amusing – rather childishly, I thought”
“Now, now, little brother,” Mycroft waggled his finger in their direction. “you gained the vital interview with the local magistrate didn't you?”
Sherrinford bowed his head in a show of faux regality, indicating that he was the magistrate in question. Sherlock ground his teeth in reply.
A clanging of the bell followed by a flurry of snowflakes and chill air announced the arrival of the further guests, including someone Watson immediately recognized as the fellow who bought and took over his old practice in Kensington. “Good Lord, Verner! I didn't know you were acquainted with the family!”
Verner gasped in mock-outrage and turned to Sherlock. “You still haven't told him we're cousins?” At Sherlock's look of frozen embarrassment, Verner threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I wasn't looking to buy something so large, but cousin Sherlock kindly stumped up the money as a gift and found the place for me. I knew something must be up, and wheedled the true reason out of him. I never guessed it would still be a secret – I thought perhaps he was saving it for your anniversary present or something!” Now that he knew the truth, Watson could see the similarities between the young Verner and his Holmes in the way their eyes crinkled in amusement, and in his deep resonant voice. He couldn't imagine how he didn't notice it before.
Verner glanced over Watson's shoulder at Sherlock, who was making frantic gestures at him to cease talking, and growing increasingly red with annoyance. Ignoring his cousin, he turned back to Watson.
“It's Vernet actually, although please, call me Richard, seeing as we're as good as family”
“Delighted. You may call me John, if you like”
“I would love nothing more.” Continuing to ignore the scowl which was coming off his cousin like heat from a furnace, Richard took Watson by the arm. “Come, I'll introduce you to the rest of the late-comers.”
There were all in all about twenty cousins, some English, some French, all of whom seemed - as far as Watson could tell - to be doctors, scientists, artists or engineers of some repute. He felt very small and insignificant in contrast, but squared his shoulders and reminded himself that he was privileged to be in a room filled with such interesting and extraordinary people. At one point he was introduced to Viscount Tewkesbury, whom he recognized- if only from the newspapers, as “Enola's young man”, whereby a small frustrated voice piped up from across the room “He's NOT my young man!” Although, seeing her take his lordship's arm and proceed to speak with him in low whispers for most of the evening, Watson wondered what her objection to the claim could be – they seemed utterly devoted to each other, and he was certainly a handsome and eligible fellow. He surmised that it must be her natural Holmesian independence balking at being consigned to a future in the shadows of somebody who, however pleasant, must be her intellectual inferior.
Finally, just before the gong was to sound for dinner, there shuffled in a wizened old lady. Watson estimated her to be at least ninety, and standing no taller than four feet in her boots. She leaned heavily on a walking stick, but otherwise walked under her own steam, shrouded in bombazine and bringing in an atmosphere humid with the scent of lavender water.
“Grand-maman!” The cry went up, and everyone in the room, except for Watson and a bemused Viscount Tewkesbury, flew to greet her with kisses and offers of a helping arm to lean upon.
“Don't crowd me!” She muttered in a heavy French accent, swatting at the assembled crowd. As one, they drew back at the first feeble wave of her plump, unblemished hand. Watson decided immediately that he liked her. Once seated she called them all forward in turn, pressing kisses to their foreheads or patting their cheeks.
When his own name was called Watson stood frozen in place, certain he was hearing things.
“Jean!” She called again, and Sherlock prodded him forward with a bony finger.
He had to kneel in front of her, she was so small. After extending a hand for him to kiss, she took both of his hands in hers and squinted up at him through a monocle, studying him carefully. “Ah! Il est beau!” She pronounced at length.
“Et il est courageux” replied a pink tinged Sherlock.
She beckoned him down to her with a finger gnarled from arthritis. “You will be good to my favourite grandson?” She whispered in his ear
“As good as he will allow me.” He replied and was rewarded with a squeeze to his cheek before she released him.
~*~
“I had no idea you were such a large family!” Watson exclaimed to Holmes after a dinner so excellent he was wishing for nothing more than a lie down in a comfortable bed with his waistcoat buttons undone.
“I have another sister, who you won't meet - gracing Holloway at her Majesty's pleasure as she is”
“Good heavens!”
“Yes, so you see we run the entire gamut – from Sherrinford -”
“The idiot brother – what?” Enola piped up.
“To the philosophical – but practically mute, Sigerson; Mycroft's genius; Enola's cheerful and friendly outlook,” He patted her on the shoulder. “Eurus's criminality. Not to mention the myriad cousins – artistic, gifted and commonplace depending on the individual.”
“And the grumpy but adorably smitten Sherlock” She finished. He harrumphed at his sister and Watson couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh at his friend's disgruntled moue.
~*~
The port was finished, the family all repaired to the drawing room and the night was turning chill. Watson was alone, smoking in the library – it smelled of must and damp, and spoke of sad ill-repair, as did much of the ancient house – but the fire was welcome, as was some quiet to process all that he'd seen. He was startled from his thoughts by the appearance of the fragile looking Viscount.
“Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize anyone was in here”
“No, it's all right. Come in” Watson waved him in and offered the box of cigars, which was politely declined. He wondered how this delicate looking boy could keep up with a rambunctious Holmes. From what he had briefly seen of Sherlock's sister, she was just as energetic and careless as her brother, and perhaps a little less restrained.
“You're not playing charades?”
Watson chuckled. “Not on your life. I've played with Holmes once before. I imagine you would have to be practically psychic to hold your own amongst a whole crowd of them”
“It is a bit like a foreign language –so far, as well as the usual categories we've had 'epic poem', 'monograph', 'aria', and 'scientific treatise' – and for the second round we have to work out what language it's in”
“I suspect Holmes – Sherlock - is miming his own monographs?”
“Oh, they had to bring in a rule against that after the third try... Also it's getting a little – heated”
“Ah,” Draining the last swallow of whiskey in his glass, Watson stood. “Perhaps it's time I took my one home – or at least back to the hotel.”
“You aren't staying overnight?”
Watson shivered visibly. “Not here. Even the mice have damp, at least that's what Holmes says”
“It seems a shame for you to go when some of them have come all the way from France.”
“I will gladly renew the acquaintance next time we're in Paris. As for you, Lord Tewkesbury, I hope we will get the chance to become better acquainted in London.”
The young viscount was grace itself as he offered his hand, as well as an invitation to drop in on him at his club at any time. Watson once again wondered how he would fare against the Holmes spirit, but reminded himself he barely knew the lad who may, after all, have hidden depths.
In the drawing room, Sherlock was practically spitting at his brothers. “...You ought to know, you overgrown lug!”
Watson cleared his throat – It appeared he was interrupting just in time.
“Watson!” Holmes rounded on him. “Would you be so kind as to tell Sherrinford and Mycroft that it is 'a partridge and a perdrix, not a pear tree!”
A brief glance at the set scowls of the brothers and the subtle shake of Enola's head was enough to convince Watson it was time to go. “I would love to, Holmes, but I'm afraid I don't know enough about it. However, my leg is playing up something beastly and so I'll have to ask you to cut this delightful evening short.” He winced at the assembled crowd apologetically.
Mycroft and Sherrinford exchanged a quick look, no doubt at his lack of seventeen distinct facial pain-twitches, or the side of his shoe or something equally trivial betraying his excuse for what it was. Grand-maman let up an immense snore from her wing-backed armchair.
Sherlock's scowl instantly melted into a face of concern. “Of course, my dear fellow! How thoughtless of me to keep you in this Jacobean chill all evening. I hope you will forgive my selfishness, and if you ask for our coats I will say our goodbyes at once.”
“Such a shame you have to leave, Dr Watson” Enola shot to her feet with an expression of gratitude to embrace him. “I do hope I will see you both together in London – now he has officially introduced you to the clan.”
He received a warm handshake goodbye from Mycroft and Sherrinford, and even Sigerson put his book down briefly to give a shy wave.
“Excellent.” Mycroft proclaimed, once they had both left. “A most satisfactory meeting, wouldn't you say, brother?”
“I hate to say it, but you're right,” Sherrinford agreed. Sigerson nodded emphatically. “he's perfect for him. Now my turn – it's a painting...”