This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Merry Christmas!

CHAPTER ONE: BLAME IT ON THE BAILEYS

In retrospect, it occurs to Sherlock that, of course, he should have seen this coming.

After all, if anyone had experience with his mother and her choice of Christmas tipple, it was him.

But Molly had been so earnest in her questions regarding what to get his mother, and so eager to please during this, her first Christmas dinner with his family, that he had caved and told her exactly what to buy. It would be the perfect way to ingratiate herself, he had said- As If, given everything that she had heard about Molly over the years, Mummy wasn't prepared to adore her anyway. (She had, after all, saved Sherlock's life more than once, and she was, it seemed apparent, the first woman about whom Sherlock had been serious in quite some time).

And so, Molly had arrived at the Holmes' family cottage with the largest bottle of Baileys she could get her hands on and handed it over to Mummy post haste.

She had stammered and blushed and looked adorable and both his parents had beamed at him until he was tempted to tell them off. (Of course he hadn't; Molly was nervous enough already without his adding to her doubts).

And so it had come to pass that Sherlock Holmes, proper genius and world's only consulting detective, has ended up sitting at the Christmas table, listening to his mother and father get sloshed on Baileys and trying desperately to pretend he doesn't notice their… insinuations, regarding he and Molly.

"Better get a move on, darling," Mummy is smiling, patting his hand. (Molly is currently in the loo, and so she's feeling brave). "You're not getting any younger, and that little girl might recover her senses at any moment and bolt-

Best to get a lock on her,there's a good boy."

Sherlock frowns, about to bite out a retort, but as he does so he hears Molly's voice from the door. "Best to get a lock on who?" She asks, her voice trying for light but just a touch tinged with wariness.

Sherlock shoots his mother a look and she has the good grace to look abashed.

He opens his mouth to answer, but- "Better get a lock on a good woman," Daddy Holmes says abruptly, trying to break the tension. "That's what I said when I asked my Lexie to marry me."

At his son's alarmed look (somewhere between horrified and, well, horrified, because good God, Daddy, mentioning marriage?), Holmes Snr. hastens to add, "We were, um, we were having a chat about how I met Sherlock's mother." As he speaks, his voice becomes more confident, whatever lie he's about to tell solidifying in his brain. Sherlock doubts this is a good sign. "It's a Christmas tradition, you see," Daddy continues, something which causes his younger son to nearly choke on his pheasant because it bloody well isn't and he has no desire for it to become one-

But Molly smiles shyly, doing that thing she does with her dimples and her starry brown eyes, and sits down beside Sherlock.

Her ankle brushes his and, to his consternation, he feels a jolt of electricity singe up his leg.

Suddenly he doesn't mind so much, that his parents are talking utter shite.

"So this is something you do every year?" Molly asks and both the Holmeses nod eagerly.

"Oh yes," Mummy says. "We tell it every Christmas." She throws a fond look at Daddy. "It's such a lovely story, you know," she continues, leaning into Molly confidentially. "And I must admit, I come out of it very well."

Molly laughs, throwing a look at Sherlock, and despite himself, he smiles. "Do you mind me hearing it?" She asks and again, despite himself, Sherlock shakes his head.

"Of course not, Molly," he says and when she beams at him this time, he feels the tips of his ears turn pink.

He catches the knowing looks his parents shoot one another and manfully resists the urge to stick out his tongue.

"Well that's settled then!" Mummy says, slapping the table and taking another fortifying sip of her Baileys. She gestures grandly to the kitchen. "Picture the scene," she says, "Christmas Eve in the MI6 building, 1961! The skirts are short, the hair is long, and a lone, embattled Junior Agent is sitting at the phones, the only person left in the building…"

Oh bloody Hell, Sherlock thinks as Molly claps delightedly. Here we bloody go…