A/N: Yes, yes, I meant to upload this by Christmas but I was ill and had no wifi and things. I'm sorry it's so late, but here. Prompt 58, dinner.
Disclaimer: I own zilch.
Not the worst…
If there was one thing Sherlock truly hated, it was Christmas Dinner. Family over, Mycroft making snide remarks, Mother trying to get the two of them to calm down…
But maybe this year it wouldn't be so bad. John was coming over with and well, the little doctor had seemed somewhat excited to have dinner. Lord only knows why.
So, as the taxi arrived at the large-ish country house and John and Sherlock got out, the detective tried his best to smile, just a little. Walking to the door was a chore and Sherlock could hear the death bells ringing as he knocked. Then, his mother had thrown open the door and had embraced him in a tight hug.
"Sherlock!" Stiffly, Sherlock hugged her back.
"Mother. Is Mycroft here yet?"
"Yes, yes, he's inside. And you must be John Watson, his companion. Please, come in." She waved them inside and Sherlock sighed. Today was going to be a long, long day.
After four cups of tea, three retellings of his and John's escapades, two mince pies and one shouting match with Mycroft. Sherlock was feeling a little better. His mother seemed to be feeling even more Christmassy than usual and John had fit in right away. Sherlock knew there was a good reason he kept this man around. As he accepted his fifth cup of tea, listening amiably to his father ramble on about something boring and insignificant, Sherlock stretched. Dear god, he felt almost domestic, sat here. But John seemed to be enjoying himself so he didn't mind.
At 4pm, his mother served the turkey, with a big beaming grin as they all sat around the table. There was more than enough food to go round and Sherlock was feeling somewhat hungry…
Two helpings of turkey and the trimmings later, Sherlock was feeling rather sleepy, much like a well fed-cat. They'd returned to the living room now, all sat around the flickering fire whilst Mycroft went on about some issue with the Russian Secret Police. John also seemed to be ignoring the eldest Holmes brother, nursing a glass of eggnog and watching the fire crackle. Sherlock hoped that he'd had a good time but from the amount of times he had smiled and the relaxed posture he sat with now, he was content. Sherlock smiled. Good. A content John was always a good John in his mind as he settled, cat like into his chair. So, after all, it hadn't been an awful Christmas dinner like he had been expecting. It fact, the festivities had been rather nice. Maybe next year, he would put a little more stock into Christmas dinner. John would like that…
John looked up from his eggnog at the sound of soft breaths beside him. He looked over at Sherlock and smiled. Standing, he covered the sleeping detective in a blanket and murmured,
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Sleep well, my friend."