Chapter Text
Inverness, Scotland, 31st December
By 7 pm, Mrs. Holmes had already cooked enough food to feed an army, and the smell of turkey and baked potatoes coming from the oven immediately filled the Holmes household. She’d decided to prepare biscuits as well, made with chocolate chips, hazelnuts, vanilla and a little touch of ginger. It was a jealously guarded family tradition passed down through the generations, a secret recipe that, if it had conquered the demanding palate of a young Sherlock at his own time, it would surely capture little Rosie’s heart as well. They looked and smelled so delicious that they were enough to make anyone in the neighbourhood come, welcome or not.
Hopefully, none of them would show up.
Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes volunteered to set up the dining room, setting the table with a lilac tablecloth and porcelain dishes decorated with lilac and white patterns, which Mrs. Holmes reserved for special occasions. He could already hear Sherlock and Mycroft's exasperated mutterings at the mere sight of such useless items.
Mycroft, on the other hand, was sitting on the sofa. He seemed quite in distress, trying to resolve a complex legal case in his mind, while Mr. Holmes was casually looking - rather amused - at little Rosie, who was playing with Sherlock. The little girl was sitting on Sherlock’s shoulders, her tiny hands hooked on his ears, as if she had taken them for handles. Sherlock was making funny and ridiculous noises resembling the engines of an airplane.
“Wook, gwampa, me have winnngs!” she screamed all excited as she opened her arms wide, starting swinging them in the air, as if they were her wings.
John had just finished setting the last Christmas decorations on the walls and around the Christmas tree, making sure that Rosie wouldn’t trip over them. With a smile, he turned to one side to look at Sherlock, who was still spinning around with Rosie. He kept spinning around and making silly noises for a while until he heard John’s footsteps coming from behind. He stopped right in time, avoiding one of Rosie's hands accidentally smacking her father in the face.
John couldn't hold a chuckle. “Take it easy, you two!” he said, both smiling at Sherlock and reaching over to ruffle Rosie's hair, making her giggle.
“Dinner is ready, everyone!” announced Mrs. Holmes happily, as she carried the steaming turkey to the table. Mr. Holmes came in after her, carefully bringing the other dishes.
John lifted Rosie into his arms. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s go wash our hands.” he said, holding her against his chest. Rosie replied with a squeal, clearly disappointed.
“You’ll keep playing with dada after dinner.” he said, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s right cheek.
“BICCUITS! BICCUITS!” cried the little girl, beating her little hands onto John’s right shoulder while facing the other side of the room, where the Christmas tree was placed.
“Not now, darling. It’s time to fill our little tummies with food.”
As everyone gathered around the table, Mrs. Holmes took her place at the head of the table, Mr. Holmes at the other end; Sherlock and Mycroft on one side, John and Rosie on the other. During the meal, Rosie seemed quite unhappy about everything: instead of eating the food in her plate, she decided to turn it into an unintentional work of art, staining the tablecloth with pieces of food which were ungracefully flying out of her mouth or, even worse, staining it with bubbling splashes of coke.
There was nothing special on the telly, just the QVC channel, broadcasting a series of commercials that alternated now and then. John was occasionally captivated, but nobody else seemed to care about them. He spent most of the time trying to teach table manners to Rosie, but his attempts ended up being unsuccessful. Resigned to the fact that his little girl was untamable, he turned his attention back to the TV. It was now time for the Christmas themed butter knife: it was a snowflake shaped cutter, and the presenter was demonstrating how to cut incredibly small and useless portions of butter.
"Why are we watching this?" asked John, pointing at the television.
Mrs. Holmes raised her head from her plate and looked confusedly at the television. "Oh, well, our remote control broke a few days ago." she said in a tone that sounded like she was recounting some tragedy. "QVC is the only channel we've been able to watch since then, and just the other day they were advertising this special new remote control! It's universal, with Bluetooth, WiFi, and it even gives you access to all the channels in the world."
John nodded in mock sympathy and glanced sideways at Sherlock, who was sitting opposite him. He seemed completely uninterested, rolling his eyes whenever his mother opened her mouth to speak. He was not surprised to see Mycroft doing the same.
“So you bought it?” asked John, raising the glass of red wine to his lips.
“Well, of course!” croaked Mr. Holmes happily. “It seemed like a bargain, so we bought it straight away. You’d be surprised how many people find these things useful.”
“Well, I think a lot of people buy from QVC out of boredom, rather than necessity.”
Mrs. Holmes’ eyebrows furrowed. She was more than ready to argue when, suddenly, the doorbell rang. “It’s the courier!” she exclaimed, quickly standing up from the table to head to the front door. She opened the door with a beaming smile. Before her there was a young man in a fluorescent orange jacket and a matching hat, which was pulled down on his head. He was visibly struggling against the freezing evening snow as he clutched a rather anonymous brown box in both hands.
“Delivery for Siger Holmes.” said the courier, starting to rub his legs together.
“Yes, yes, I'm his wife!” she replied enthusiastically, taking the box from him. It was larger than she'd expected. “Bless you, dear. I don’t know how we would have spent the rest of the holidays without this!”
The courier nodded with a half smile and gave her a quick wave before returning to his van.
Mrs. Holmes closed the door with her right foot and headed off into the living room.
“Here it is! It’s finally here, dear!” she announced in a voice that betrayed her excitement, her eyes were shining so brightly that it reminded of Rosie opening her Christmas presents. Mrs. Holmes put the box down on the sofa to make room on the table for the second course. Everyone had finished their portion of stuffed tortellini in broth, quite satisfied and ready to continue with the rest of the meal.
Everyone except Rosie, naturally.
The little girl was busy dipping her little fingers into the cold broth to pick up each individual tortellino, opening them up and carefully examining the filling inside. She wrinkled her nose as she opened each tortellino, then used her fork to remove the ricotta and bacon from inside, letting them fall on the plate's edge. Then, she would only eat the pasta that was left.
Sherlock, who had meanwhile taken to wiping down with a tissue every single plate Mycroft was passing him, was watching her sideways, his expression alternating between bewilderment and amusement. He placed the last plate he’d finished cleaning on the tray, all ready for the dishwasher, and focused on her, fascinated. “Ros, would you mind explaining to me what unfathomable mystery you are trying to solve by opening all those poor tortellini?”
Rosie looked up at him, while an opened tortellino was dripping between her two fingers. “Me no like this!”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Ah, I see. So you have started an investigation?”
Rosie kept staring at him, confused.
“What are your results so far?” he asked further.
Rosie frowned and went back to staring at it. “Too white! Too pink! Me no want!!” she declared angrily, casually dropping the filling into the now cloudy broth.
John came back from the bathroom and finished drying his hands on the back of his trousers, temporarily staining them. He sat down next to her, kissing her hair. “Come on, Rosie, stop torturing these poor tortellini.”
Rosie shook her head and dipped her fingers back into the broth.
Sherlock leaned back and smiled at John. “All I can say is that Inspector Lestrade could learn a lot from her.”
John chuckled and leaned forward, picking up Rosie’s plate and bringing it in front of him. “That’s enough, shall we?”
Rosie gasped and, rather unnerved that she couldn’t finish her job, raised her little hands towards the plate. “Mine! Mineeee!!!”
“You can’t play with food, Rosie.” said John sternly, picking up a spoon and starting to eat them.
“Your dad is right, little one.” Mycroft interjected, giving her a harsh smile. “When you’ve become a highly respectful little girl, you will have all the tortellini you want.”
Rosie stared at him in confusion, not entirely sure she understood. Uncle Myc always confused her when he spoke. She turned to look at her father, who had finished eating her portion, and thought about screaming. But, instead, she noticed the forgotten package on the sofa.