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Sherlock rang off the call with a huff and tossed his phone on the sofa.
His mother. He loved her, of course, but she was so tiresome about those little traditions, like family. And Christmas. And those big get-togethers that Sherlock loathed.
Sherlock followed his phone as he flopped down onto the sofa. He knew, he knew, that this year’s party, which promised the attendance of the more distant Holmes cousins, was merely to show off his burgeoning relationship with John. Sort of a combination Christmas – New Year’s – Coming Out party for him, and therefore, for John.
Sherlock wasn’t worried about John’s reaction. Once John had admitted to himself and to Sherlock how he did actually feel about his best friend, he had taken to coming out to their friends and acquaintances with surprising aplomb. It was as though a weight, one John didn’t realise he was carrying, one Sherlock had never been able to identify, was lifted from his shoulders.
No, it was having the deal with all of the relatives, all of the children, all of the people that was creating this latest huff. Sherlock was not, he was the first to say, a people person. He disliked large crowds of them even less.
But his mother was determined, and in this, as in most things, she got her way. Since she and Sherlock’s father had downsized, no one owned a house large enough to host everyone, so she had secured the local parish hall, complete with commercial kitchen, to hold the party, and was currently making her way by phone through all of the relatives to sign everyone up for potluck. Sherlock had protested – between him, his parents, Mycroft, and the others, they could easily engage a caterer – but his mother insisted it would be more fun and more “like family” if everyone participated.
Sherlock doubted it. He could think of at least three aunts who had never cooked a day in their lives. Besides, homemade was so easy to poison, if someone were so inclined. He was almost tempted to try it himself. Not to kill, no; just enough to inconvenience everyone, in return for inconveniencing him.
He sighed loudly, knowing what would happen if he gave into the temptation. Like so many temptations lately (smoking, staying up for fifty hours straight, living on strong coffee and the occasional biscuit), he knew that John would sigh softly and shake his head slowly if Sherlock did something John might consider Not Good.
Folding his arms under his head to prop it up, Sherlock gazed at John, who was in the kitchen kneading bread dough. John’s mother had been a baker, with her own shop, and John had worked there as a teenager, before going to uni. He had clearly enjoyed the work, and Sherlock had found that John carved out time at least once a week to make a few loaves of bread, for them and for Mrs Hudson. More than one batch had been ruined by overproving when they had been called out on a case. But now that they were more than friends, Sherlock felt he could stare openly at John’s strong hands smoothly kneading the dough on the kitchen table. John hummed while he baked; today’s choice was something by the Beatles, as he folded and slapped the dough down rhythmically.
“How’s your mum?” John called, glancing through the doorway. He rolled his eyes when Sherlock’s lips quirked. “You only look like that when she calls.”
“She’s fine. We’re going to a party on the 30th, it seems.”
“Oh?” John carefully cupped the dough into a round blob and dropped it into a bowl. He moved to the sink; Sherlock heard water running as John washed his hands. “A little late for Christmas, yeah?”
Sherlock followed John with his eyes as he came back from the sink carrying the roll of cling wrap. He peeled off a strip and used it to cover the bowl, which he set on the fridge to prove. “She knows. She said it’s because this was the soonest everyone could get together. Mycroft was away at Christmas, if you recall.”
“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”
“Everyone everyone, John. The whole family.” Sherlock swung his feet off the sofa and strode into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around John, who was trying to stuff the roll of cling wrap into the cluttered junk drawer, and inhaled deeply behind John’s left ear. He smelled delightful, like yeast and tea and gun oil and John.
“Mmm.” John abandoned the drawer and leaned back against Sherlock. “So this is her way of making a happy announcement, is it?”
“Indeed. I suppose it’s more civilised than just telling my cousin Allie. Whatever she knows is common knowledge in less than a day.”
“Allie. Don’t think I’ve met her.” John turned in Sherlock’s arms and pulled back a little so he could rest his hands on the taller man’s hips. “Will she be there?”
“Everyone will be there, John. Everyone. Even people I haven’t seen in fifteen years.” Sherlock shifted his grip so his hands rested lightly on John’s shoulders. He smiled; John had a bit of dough stuck to his shirt. “My mother wants us to bring something. Food, something to share.”
“Oh, well, we can just pick up a dessert on the way,” John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.
“It needs to be homemade, she said. She hinted strongly that something like Chelsea buns would not go amiss.”
“Oh, nothing easier. Not to worry, Sherlock.” John kissed him quickly; Sherlock felt a little thrill pool in his lower abdomen as John stepped away. “I’m running to Tesco; we’re out of a few things. What would you like for dinner?”
Sherlock didn’t care. He was strongly tempted to grab John by his belt and drag him to bed, but once again he resisted. He sighed as John smiled and puttered around the flat, picking up his keys, wallet and phone. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I’ll text you if I think of something.” He flopped into his chair, pouting for utterly no reason.
“Don’t look like that,” John said, coming over to drop a kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “I know you’re not big on crowds but it’s a few hours and then it’s done. It’s close enough that we don’t even have to stay over, we can come home.”
Sherlock smiled briefly; John, as usual, had seen through to the heart of his anxieties and allayed them easily.
“Get fettucine alfredo for tonight,” he said. John smiled.
“Of course. I’ll pick up some chicken too, and some salad things.” He patted his pockets. “Keep an eye on the bread, and punch it down when it’s done, please.”
“I will.” Sherlock was familiar with this phase; John had conscripted him more than once to look after his dough. John flashed another smile at him.
“Right-o. See you soon.” And John was gone.
~~
Sherlock was anxious and snappish all week; the party weighed heavily on him. That his own mother, one of the few people who understood his distaste for large crowds, was forcing him to do this, galled even more. When he tried a token protest, she had brushed him off immediately. She understood, but this was family; and after all, it wasn’t like she expected this of him often. He and John had had a quiet, private Christmas, just as they’d wanted. Besides, everyone who loved him would be there; they hadn’t all been together in so long; and he would have John with him, of course. And Auntie Muriel was old; this might be her last Christmas with the family, and didn’t that mean anything, Sherlock? And Sherlock had sighed and acquiesced, as his mother had surely known he would.
But that didn’t stop him from taking out his nerves on everyone else. He unleashed his tongue on a few of the new Met officers; one had immediately put in for a transfer to Computer Crimes. Even patient John had developed a few lines around his mouth, as he tried not to shout at Sherlock for being antagonistic, although his feelings were clear in his next batch of bread, which was tough from violent kneading.
However, time marched on, despite Sherlock’s feelings about the party, and the day arrived. As per his mother’s instructions, Sherlock and John arrived promptly at 5:30, John bearing the tray of mincemeat Chelsea buns artfully arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree, which he had baked that morning. Sherlock had scoffed at the obvious attempt to curry favour with his parents, but it had clearly worked, judging by his father’s reaction when he had taken the tray into the kitchen to show it off to Mummy, who was keeping a watchful eye on her turkey in the professional-grade oven. John grinned smugly when he heard Mummy exclaim over his baking.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. You are a success.”
John elbowed him. “The drinks table is over there. I think this might go more smoothly with a glass of wine. Come on.” He crooked his fingers into Sherlock’s belt loop and towed him towards the sideboard, where a number of bottles and glasses were set up. “Look, your mum brought that red you like.” He poured a generous glass and thrust it at Sherlock. “And you’re eating dinner, too; you know your mum will be upset if you don’t. And you shouldn’t drink that much on an empty stomach.”
“You’re the one who poured it,” Sherlock grumbled. He took a healthy swig, then set the glass down as the wine hit his empty stomach and burned unpleasantly. John frowned, and fetched a small plate of appetizers from a nearby table.
“Have some cheese and crackers to tide you over until dinner.” John left the plate by Sherlock’s glass. He had a mince pie he had nicked from the dessert table, and uncapped a beer from the bottles they had brought with them. He motioned them away to a table in the corner, where they sat and surveyed the crowd already gathering. He waved his bottle towards the tall, grey-haired gentleman pouring a glass of scotch. “Tell me about him. He looks a bit like Mycroft.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock swallowed his cracker and chased it with a sip of wine. Already, the burning was subsiding and now he just felt a little mellower. “My uncle Robert, Mummy’s oldest brother. Currently on his fourth wife. He used to be quite the scandal but now nobody pays attention. They’re never around very long for us to get to know them.” As the two of them watched, a young, pretty Asian woman walked up and slipped her hand into the crook of Robert’s arm. “Ah, it would appear that we are soon to hear about number five,” Sherlock commented. “This wine is dulling me, John; I should have seen that immediately.”
“Well, he’s facing away from us, you couldn’t see if he had taken off his ring,” John objected, but Sherlock waved away his objections.
“Most of the men in the family don’t wear wedding rings. My father is a notable exception,” he said, stacking more cheese on another cracker. They sat for a few minutes in silence as Sherlock finished the food. The hall filled with more and more people; children were running and shouting, Mummy Holmes was directing people with food towards the long buffet tables set up near the kitchen, and Sherlock’s father was busy stacking plates near the end of the first table. Sherlock was getting more and more unsettled; from the corner of his eye, he could see John glancing at him as he drained his beer.
“What happened to wife number one?” John asked, idly picking at the label on the bottle.
“My aunt? She left after she found out about the woman who eventually became wife number two. The last I heard, she was in Cardiff selling real estate.” He stood abruptly and picked up his glass. “I’ll get you another.” But before he could move, Mummy emerged from the kitchen and clapped her hands sharply.
“Everyone, everyone!” she called. “I believe we’re all arrived and thank you to all for the lovely food, and dinner will begin in just a moment, but first, I do have a couple of quick announcements. The first is that we must leave the hall cleaner than we found it, so before we leave, the dishes will need to be washed and put away, and the tables and chairs will also need to be returned to the closet at the back.” A few people turned to look for the closet; since John and Sherlock were standing in front of it, they caught sight of some raised eyebrows. “Second is that it has been too long since we’ve all been together! And I am going to take advantage of this occasion to introduce you all to Doctor John Watson, Sherlock’s friend and partner!” She smiled widely as the entire crowd (Sherlock knew there were more than sixty people present) turned and looked with polite interest at the two of them, trapped in the corner at the back of the hall. Sherlock kept his face neutral, but his heart was fluttering wildly against his ribcage like a bird trying to escape the jaws of a cat.
John smiled back, friendly and relaxed, and moved closer to Sherlock, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s limp grip. “Um, hi, everyone,” he said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Thanks for having me to your Christmas.”
There was silence as the assembled crowd stared at them; it was broken when Sherlock’s father raised his glass and said, “Welcome, John!” After that, the people loosened up and smiled at the two of them, a few of the younger family members giving a small wave.
Mummy cleared her throat and the attention returned to her. “Yes, thank you Daddy, and welcome, John. Now, Daddy will fix a plate for Auntie Muriel, and the rest of you can serve yourselves, and sit where you like.” She smiled again at the family gathered around and fluttered her hands at the buffet tables. “Well, before it gets cold!”
John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I’ll get food, if you get something to drink?” He handed his empty bottle to Sherlock, then joined the line for the buffet. Sherlock moved towards the drinks table, trying to ignore the curious looks from his many (many, many) cousins. When had there gotten to be so many? There surely weren’t this many when he was a child. He pressed his lips together and waited impatiently for the crowd in front of the drinks table to thin. He was absorbed in thought when the person in front of him turned quickly and almost collided with him, barely avoiding spilling wine down his shirt.
“Oh! Sherlock, I’m sorry!” said his cousin Paulina. She was roughly Mycroft’s age; Sherlock remembered her as reasonably bright, but busy now that she was married with four small children, all under the age of six. She smiled kindly at him, and Sherlock also remembered the time she took with him as a small boy, when Mycroft was busy with school. She was one of the few people who understood how he would be feeling right about now.
“Paulina,” he nodded at her. “Lovely to see you again.” His eyes raked over her. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” she retorted, and now that he was close to her, he could see the white line around her ring finger. “Stewart took the children, before you ask. It’s about time, too.” Sherlock remembered Paulina’s soon-to-be ex as a man who enjoyed the trappings of wealth, but didn’t care for the responsibilities. He spared a thought for the children, who were hopefully not spending the holidays with nannies while Stewart spent time at his office.
He returned his attention to Paulina, who had stepped aside to let Sherlock get to the drinks. “So, you and this John, hmm? I read his blog, you know. I’m quite a fan.” She smiled conspiratorially. “He seems lovely, Sherlock. Well done, you.” She eyed John’s bum suggestively as he leaned across the table, spooning sprouts onto two plates. Paulina chuckled as Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose. “Oh, relax. He’s yours, we all know that. Even if he weren’t, I’m certainly in no position to go after anyone, right now.” She motioned with her chin around the room. “I know this is difficult for you, but you have to know, there’s a room of people here who are happy to see you happy, right? There’s a lot of us, but we all wish you well.” She smiled and the corners of her eyes crinkled, just like Sherlock’s did, just like his mother’s did. “We’re a lot to take, I know, but we all love you.” She moved into the buffet line, just as John was carrying their plates back to the corner table. “Better go meet him, before someone intercepts him.” Paulina’s eyes were following their cousin Allie as she crossed the floor, looking intent as John set their plates down.
“Lovely to see you again, Paulina.” Sherlock quickly pecked her cheek. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do.” He nodded meaningfully at her naked finger, then picked up his glass and John’s beer and threaded his way through tables and relatives to get to John before Allie ambushed him. He slid into his chair and John smiled at him.
“You looked cozy over there. Who was that?” John slid Sherlock’s plate towards him and handed over some cutlery. “I got you extra gravy and no ham.”
Sherlock smiled; John knew him so well. “My cousin Paulina. One of the better cousins. She just split from her husband; she’s better off without him. She and Mycroft are the same age.”
“Hmm.” John shredded his turkey and mixed it with his potatoes. He had just taken a bite when Allie swooped down on them and sat heavily in the chair to Sherlock’s right, setting down her plate and glass of wine.
“Sherlock! And John!” Her eyes gleamed. “My word, you are sweet, aren’t you?”
Sherlock sighed. “Allie, this is Doctor John Watson; John, my cousin Allie. Robert’s daughter,” he added, and Allie rolled her eyes.
“Ugh, have you seen the latest model? But no one cares about that. Sherlock, why have you been hiding John?” Before Sherlock could answer, she was off, asking questions but not waiting for the answers, sharing gossip about the rest of the family. Sherlock pushed his plate away, his already poor appetite extinguished by her presence; beside him, John ate steadily, watching Allie bemusedly. Somehow, during her monologue, she managed to finish the better part of her meal.
“Well, I’m off for a refill!” She drained her glass and stood up. “Anyone? Lovely chat, gentlemen. You must come to the house for a proper visit.” She took her plate and dropped it at another table before going to refill her wine.
“Sherlock?” John pushed his plate towards him. “Your mum’s on her way over.” He watched Allie as she sat down nearby and took up her narrative with a new audience. “How does she do that? I was sure she would choke.”
“Oh, she’d never let something like breathing get in the way of a good story,” Sherlock muttered as his parents sat down. He stuffed a forkful of sprouts into his mouth and smiled blandly at his mother.
They ate quietly, not needing the inane chatter the rest of the family engaged in during dinner. John and Sherlock’s father spoke idly as John asked questions about the rest of the rest of the family. Finished eating, John rested his hand lightly on Sherlock’s thigh under the table as Sherlock picked at his plate.
Sherlock’s father stood up and collected their plates. “Room for dessert, boys? Sherlock, Auntie Muriel brought the tarte you like.”
Sherlock perked up a bit. He was feeling tired and slow, with the heavy food, the wine, and the overload of people pressing in around him, but he did enjoy Auntie Muriel’s Tarte Tatin. Daddy smiled and patted his shoulder as he passed.
Mummy stood as well. “I’m just going to see that all the dessert’s been set out, and to start the coffee and tea. Boys?” She raised her eyebrows but Sherlock and John shook their heads. She smiled at them and made her way towards the kitchen,
Sherlock took John’s hand under the table. “How soon before we can leave?” He was tired of the looks, tired of Allie moving from table to table, her voice carrying back to their corner, tired of smiling and of sitting upright in a hard plastic chair when he really wanted to slouch. The food was sitting in his stomach like a lump and he regretted drinking his wine so quickly.
John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “After dessert? Let’s say one more hour. We have a bit of a drive, so we can use that as an excuse.” He thanked Sherlock’s father for the dessert, and took his hand back to pick up a mince pie.
Sherlock cut his piece of tarte in half and pushed the bigger portion onto John’s plate. He ate the filling slowly, leaving the crust behind. John shook his head in exasperation and finished the crust, as well as his own dessert.
They sat quietly, content to watch people circulate with their drinks. Occasionally someone would approach their table; Sherlock couldn’t help getting tense, but he was civil to everyone who came to visit and size up John. Mummy wandered over again, proclaiming John’s Chelsea buns a triumph, and promised to return John’s pan to him soon. A few more cousins came by, as did Uncle Robert, complete with his new girlfriend. After they left, Sherlock snorted softly.
“She’s going to take him for everything,” he said sotto voce to John. “He thinks he’s clever, but she’s got a plan. This time next year, they’ll be married, and she’ll be gone within three years after that, with all his money.”
“Just in time for the next big party,” John chuckled. “We should attend, just to see if you were right.”
“Of course I’ll be right, John,” Sherlock sniffed. “All the signs are there.”
John glanced at his watch. “I think we’ve put in enough of an appearance, if you want to leave.”
Sherlock stood and straightened his cuffs. “Please. And Mycroft hasn’t made it yet; if we leave soon, we’ll probably miss him.”
They made their way towards the coat room, stopping to shake a few hands and kiss a few cheeks. Auntie Muriel in particular held them up, holding John’s hands as she spoke to him earnestly. Sherlock, cornered by his mother, couldn’t hear what was said, but by the end the back of John’s neck was flaming red and his smile was a little forced. As he stood to leave her, he jumped a bit, and Sherlock smiled. Auntie Muriel, even at ninety-four, was still an old flirt.
He kissed his mother on the cheek and hugged his father quickly, then fetched John’s coat for him. John looked slightly alarmed as he took his coat from Sherlock.
“Auntie Muriel pinched me!”
“Mmm, she does that. She’s always been rather forward,” Sherlock replied as he looped his scarf around his neck. “Come on, the cab’s waiting.”
Their cab passed Mycroft’s car, heading towards the hall, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He was in the middle seat, pressed against John’s shoulder. John had his arm tucked around Sherlock’s waist.
“Thank you for that, Sherlock. For bringing me to the family party.” Sherlock hummed an acknowledgement. His eyes were closed and he felt warm and sated. The tension he had felt while around his family was retreating now that it was just John and him again.
“I know that wasn’t the most pleasant thing for you, but your parents appreciated it. I appreciated it. And I like your family, even Allie.”
“There are so many of them, John. And they all want to talk to me. Mycroft and I…” Sherlock swallowed. “Mycroft is much better at getting along with people, even though he doesn’t care for them. But I just can’t. It’s so tiring, and they’re so …”
“I know.” John’s arm tightened around Sherlock’s waist. “I know. But they’re your family, and they love you. More than you realise, I think. I expected a little… judgement, maybe, when your mother introduced me. But everyone was really lovely. I think they just want you to be happy, Sherlock. And in the end, family is all we have.”
“We have each other,” Sherlock grumbled, then burped quietly. He covered his mouth, mortified; damn all that food. John laughed quietly and hugged him again.
“We do, but we also have them. I don’t have a big family, Sherlock; this is all new to me. I think it’s incredible that you have so many people you can rely on, if you need them. And they all get on so well! I love your parents. I love you. There are a lot of them, it’s true, but they’re so kind. I’m glad you brought me, tonight.”
Sherlock shifted so he was snuggled closer to John. “You were the only thing that made it bearable. You make everything bearable.”
The cab stopped at Baker Street; Sherlock paid while John unlocked the door. When they were upstairs, Sherlock dropped into his chair with a sigh as John put the kettle on.
They sat and sipped tea quietly, companionably. Finally John put his cup aside. “I’m for the shower, then bed,” he said, stretching. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock. “Come to bed soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
~~
They spent the next day quietly. John, watching Sherlock closely, had texted Molly to excuse their absence from her New Year’s Eve party that night, knowing that Sherlock would not be able to endure a big group gathering two days in a row. Instead, they stayed in, toasting with champagne at midnight and watching the fireworks on television.
After John had gone to bed, Sherlock fiddled with his phone, finally opening the text app.
Happy New Year, brother. SH he texted.
The reply came nearly five minutes later.
Sherlock, are you quite well? MH
I am. Happy New Year. SH
Sherlock waited for a few minutes, but when no reply was forthcoming, he went to brush his teeth before bed.
When he finished his ablutions, he returned to the living room to turn off the lights and plug in his phone. There was a reply waiting for him.
Happy New Year, brother mine. MH