All things Sherlock belong to Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, and BBC. I'm just writing for fun.
The lights hung by the window, bathing 221B in a warm glow. Around the table sat John, happily carving the turkey; Mycroft, a false smile playing on his lips; Greg, eyeing the pudding across the table; Molly, playing nervously with the collar on her dress; and Sherlock, sulking quietly next to John. Mrs Hudson flitted about the flat, setting the table, straightening the tablecloth, checking the food, and chatting happily to the group.
"Can I help?" Molly offered, holding out a hand to the landlady.
"Bless you," Mrs Hudson thanked, accepting Molly's help.
Molly stood abruptly, shuffling away and tripping over a large cardboard box, filled with past case files of Sherlock's, and inconveniently in the way. She held out a hand to steady herself, knocking Greg's back. His arm shot out in surprise, sweeping Mycroft's wineglass into his lap.
"I-I'm so sorry!" Molly grabbed wads of napkins from the table and thrust them in Mycroft's hands. He just patted calmly at the spill.
"No, it's fine," he assured her, nonchalantly reaching for Greg's glass. A slight pink reached Greg's cheeks, and Molly moved nervously to the kitchen to assist Mrs Hudson. Sherlock observed all of this sullenly and without comment.
After all was settled, Molly and Mrs Hudson returned with the silverware, which was promptly laid out properly on the table, the Christmas turkey carved by John, Greg's wineglass refilled, and everyone seated around the table, a calm and comfortable quiet blanketed the group.
Sherlock soon broke the peace by announcing, "I should like to congratulate you two." He focused his eyes on Mycroft.
All eyes shifted to the eldest Holmes brother.
"Explain," Mycroft smiled pleasantly, although behind his eyes it showed he knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about.
"You and Lestrade." Sherlock's gaze remained unbroken.
The table's eyes moved in unison to Greg, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, blush creeping up his collar.
"Oh, come on. It's obvious," Sherlock spat. "The blush, the shared wineglass, your knees touching underneath the table, and the light bruises on your wrists."
"Sherlock!" John whispered fiercely. "Not now!"
"I can't just switch it off," he said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.
A new, uncomfortable, awkward silence hung in the air. No-one made a move for their food, and the steam rose from their meals in furls of light white curls.
Finally, John cleared his throat loudly, and grabbed Sherlock's arm, taking him to the bedroom. Sherlock let himself be taken. John shut the door before leaning against the wall.
"Sherlock. What. Was. That," John stated.
Sherlock shrugged. "Just an observation."
Abrupt conversation could be heard faintly through the wall, and the forks clinking suggested they had resumed their meal.
John sighed. "You don't do that in public. Or to your own family. It's rude."
Sherlock looked away, before leaning in quickly and giving John a kiss. "Happy Christmas, John." He opened the door and strode proudly away.
John stared forward, slowly turning pink, breaking into a smile and making a shrill, "Eeee!" noise, jumping. He'd done it!
He rejoined the dinner, where the conversation had rekindled and smiles were flying across the table. He looked up at Sherlock, who gave a small grin and continued stabbing at the small portions on his plate.
This will be a happy Christmas, indeed, thought John.
Thanks for reading! Please comment!