Work Text:
Meanwhile, on the other side of the airport
It had been three hours of non-stop rain. The little charter plane was out of power, out of alcohol, out of packaged peanuts, out of everything that was not Surprising Rice or—and this was worse, which was possibly even more surprising than the rice—boiled haddock.
“I mean, it’s not so bad!” says Arthur cheerfully. “The rain has to let up sometime, it always does. And it’s still a week to Christmas, we can’t be stuck here that long.”
Sherlock stared at Mycroft, the stare of a thousand deaths, the stare of a thousand unspoken promises to find ways to torture him mercilessly, if Mycroft dared speak a word.
“We’re Jewish,” said Mycroft, with that little, impossible, self-righteous never knew when to shut up grin. “And tonight is the last night of Hanukkah.”
“Oh,” said Arthur, face falling. “Oh. Okay. I… I’m just going to go back to the galley now.”
“Yes, do that,” said Mycroft, unflinching in the face of Arthur’s disappointment.
“Was that truly—?” began Sherlock.
“Yes,” snapped Mycroft.
Sherlock scoffed. “You haven’t lit candles since you were ten.”
“You barely light candles at all!”
Suddenly, the lights in the cabin went out.
“Oh, now really,” groaned Mycroft.
But then...
“ROCK OF AGES, HEAR MY SONG, I DON’T KNOW THE WOOO-OOORRRDS.”
“What on—” said Mycroft.
Sherlock, however, began to laugh.
“BUT I’LL SING IT ALL NIGHT LONG—see, Mum, I can rhyme—AND uhhh WRITE SOME NEW WOOOO-OOOORDS.”
“Arthur,” sighed the poor, beleaguered, belit woman behind Arthur. “I grant that song and long rhyme, but it does not count if you just repeat words twice.”
Belit, because now she and Arthur had walked into the cabin, each carrying two flashlights in each hand, turned on and pointing to the ceiling.
Eight flashlights. Eight candles. Eight nights of Hanukkah.
And a headlamp on Arthur as the shamash to light the way.
“THERE IS RAIN OUT ALL AROUND, AND IT’S KEPT US ON THE GROUND. ROCK OF AGES, IN AUSTRALIA, WE WILL… does anyone know what rhymes with Australia?”
“Yes, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, eyes positively dancing. “What rhymes with Australia?”
“Euthanasia,” said Mycroft wearily.
“Mammalia,” suggested the older woman.
“Episcopalian,” said Sherlock, pointedly.
“AND WE’LL GIFT AZALEAS,” finished Arthur proudly. “I knew I’d think of one.”
“And a happy Hanukkah to all,” said Sherlock, as Mycroft slid down in his seat.