It's just dark, and Sherlock sits on the windowsill like a bird, perched precariously just so he can watch the neighbours outside putting lights around the windows of their small, mundane brick house. He doesn't really see the point; a bonfire couldn't make them seem any less ordinary. He much prefers to watch the neighbours on the other side of the house (they've been cheating on each other for around two months now, but that's beside the point). But they have just gone to bed, at least Mrs. Cole has; Mr. Cole slipped out about an hour ago probably mumbling something about groceries and in any case won't be back until much later, so there's nothing to watch at the moment. And inside his own house is perhaps less interesting than the average couple stringing up average holiday lighting, so Sherlock elects to watch the latter instead of participate in another transparent parlor game or magic trick.

Minutes later, still watching the decoration occurring through the ever-thickening snow, he hears footsteps behind him. He knows from their timbre and weight that they belong to his brother. He doesn't turn around, and Mycroft comes to sit awkwardly next to him, obviously having been sent by some concerned aunt or cousin but not wanting to have any interaction whatsoever. Sherlock gives him credit for trying, though.

For a few moments, neither of the boys says anything. Then Mycroft speaks, in a voice that is already ridiculously old for its teenage body. "Patricia says the pudding is ready. It will be out in a few minutes."

"How wonderful." Sherlock's voice is cold as usual, and he continues to look out the window, refusing to acknowledge his older brother's presence beyond these two words.

"Sherlock, you really must join in. They expect – "

"Why?"

"Why what?" Mycroft is exasperated now. Sherlock can feel a row coming on and allows himself an inner smirk of satisfaction. This is the only kind of joy he gets from his brother's presence nowadays, because he is so absolutely boring and controlling and tiresome. Sherlock wishes he would just cease to exist, although that might make for even more dull evenings because there would be no one to irritate.

"Why should I participate?" He puts a mocking edge on this word. "They don't care, not really. They're all just concerned with their silly little lives, such boring trivial things, I don't see why I should be subjected to it."

"You're part of the family, Sherlock," Mycroft says, and Sherlock can see that he is using a great level of self-restraint to keep from exploding, "and this is Christmas. A time for family conversation."

"For goodness sake," Sherlock snaps, frustrated, "you make it sound so politically correct, canned dinner, a bow wrapped perfectly around this perfect season! It's not festive, Mycroft, when I have to sit around listening to doddering old fools like Grandfather talk about this war and that marriage and those good old beers – "

"It doesn't matter what you think!" Mycroft is at his boiling point. "If you would like to believe that, then wonderful! But you can't disgrace the family like this – "

"The family?" Sherlock scoffs. "I'm pretty sure that I am the only one concerned in this disgrace or whatever you're choosing to call it. They don't care, look at them." He gestures to the sitting room, where a dozen family members are gathered around the fireplace laughing and sipping from tall glasses of champagne. "They're perfectly fine without me over there hearing every word of their silly conversation, which I'm pretty sure I could predict right now anyway. I'm not going to let you have this stupid dictator role over me just because you're 'older and more mature', Mycroft. Just shut up and let me alone, will you!"

"Sherlock, you needn't act so high and mighty, it's dreadfully immature – "

"See! There you go again! I don't need to hear a word from you in order to know exactly what you're going to go on about. It's simple habit. The same goes for everyone over there. Don't believe me?" He takes on an irritated, impressioned voice as he begins to recite. "Auntie May got a new hat at the shop last week, she's really excited about it but miffed that Uncle Rupert hasn't noticed it. Patricia's got a fiancée, obviously, you need only look at her gloves to know that she's impatient for the wedding, but what she doesn't know is that her husband-to-be isn't actually being truthful about that night in the pub. Grandma Holmes is going insane, she won't be around to bore us much longer, and Grandpa Holmes has started smoking again. The cousins found an orphaned kitten behind the mill yesterday and they're trying to keep it, but Aunt Marge says no. As for James, he's been cheating on Agatha for a month now but oh, get this, it's with the butcher. And Harriet has been involved in some complicated scandal but she's still sure she's going to get away with it, but no, not when they find the kettle –"

"Stop it now, Sherlock! All right? No need for your showing off, especially with such offensive issues –"

"It doesn't matter! Don't you see, none of this matters! I don't care to hear anything more from any of them because they've already said the things that are important. The rest's just white noise. Now, will you please bugger off for once, and let me be a hermit if I want, it's not going to disgrace you or the family or anyone and you know that."

Mycroft begins to open his mouth again angrily, but closes it, apparently unable to think of a good retort. Just then, they are both called into a stalemate, for Patricia calls loudly from the kitchen, "Boys! The pudding's done! Come and have a taste!" Neither one of them can bring themselves to defy Patricia.

Later, around the carved wooden dining table, Sherlock glowers over his plate at Mycroft, who tilts his head upwards and pretends not to notice as he begins a shallow and uninteresting conversation with one of the cousins. Sherlock kicks his feet at him under the table in frustration, but Mycroft expertly avoids the blows, having had bruised shins quite enough times for his liking in the past. Auntie May starts to talk to him about her new hat, and he resignedly feigns interest while inwardly grumbling. The rest of the dessert course passes in silence for Sherlock refuses to accept that anything being discussed is even worth a mention.

Finally the interminable feast is over, and the dishes are cleared as Sherlock slips away upstairs to his bedroom, the one place he can count on not being disturbed. He watches out of one of his windows as the relatives gradually leave, watching for any telling shifts in behavior or dress because, though he would deny this is questioned, he does find some of it fascinating. For instance, the way Rupert straightens Marge's hat with half a smile and an almost undetectable wink, or the way the three cousins belonging to the latter all gather around for a moment to look at something in Mycroft's hand. He enjoys noticing the hints, the clues that follow everyone everywhere, all of the people he has ever seen, even the neighbours on the left side, although they have gone inside now and there is nothing of real interest to notice anyway. He likes feeling as if he has not control but omniscience, an ability to see anything and decode its deeper meaning. This is the reason that he enjoys the winter holidays, though he will never admit it to Mycroft. And anyway, he thinks, settling into his bed for another halfway-sleepless night filled with hypotheses and stories, the snow and its effects on the lighting and the way the world looks is rather enchanting. Just because he doesn't concern himself with such trivial things doesn't mean that he can't ever enjoy them.