John thought, as he and Sherlock sat in the back of a car, with blackened windows, and equally dark seats, that both he and Sherlock would regret agreeing to spend Christmas day, with Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft and his mother. For very different reasons, it had to be said, but he knew they'd regret it all the same.

"Did you really have to bring Port?" John laughed, trying to lighten both their moods. "Does anyone even drink it?"
"It keeps her happy," Sherlock said, trying to force himself to laugh. "And it stops Mycroft kicking me."
John felt his eyebrows raise, as the car turned sharply round a corner. "Kicking you?"
"Oh I gave him as much back," Sherlock admitted, pulling his scarf halfway up his face.
John sighed and looked through the car window. "We nearly there?"
"Depends..." Sherlock replied, raising his voice. "Did Mycroft tell you to come this way?"
The driver didn't reply. And Sherlock expected as much. "Of course he did."

"Just try and remember not to look at her if she starts shouting, because she will start shouting, usually in the first few minutes of us arriving," Sherlock warned John. "She will eventually throw something at Mycroft, normally a plate or a glass of some description. I usually get hit on the back of the head with something."
"I'll try not to wind her up then."
Sherlock just smiled. "It doesn't take much."

The initial meeting of Sherlock's mother had been rather pleasent. Well, compared to what Sherlock had told John to expect that morning, it had been.

For the last ten minutes, Sherlock and John had been sat at the kitchen table, listening to Sherlock's mother, Violet, complain about Sherlock's hair, whilst staring at each other with raised eyebrows.
"It's too long for a man your age, Sherlock," she complained.
John smirked quietly. Sherlock's hair did sometimes get in the way, he had to admit, but he quite liked it. But he merely shrugged when Violet had looked at him, expecting him to say something on the matter. As soon as Violet had turned her back, John looked at Sherlock and shook his head. "Don't be so childish."
Sherlock, childishly, even he had to admit, had picked up a wine glass, and was threatening to throw it at Mycroft, who was stood in the doorway of the kitchen, smirking himself, silently agreeing with everything his mother was saying. He walked over to Sherlock and grabbed the glass from his younger brother. "Even you wouldn't be so stupid."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and instead opted for hitting him round the waist, with the umbrella, which, until seconds ago, had been hung on the back of his chair. "No. I wouldn't."

"You really don't get on, do you?" John asked Sherlock, from over the top of the large glass of wine he had been given. He and Sherlock were sat in the large living room of the house, which was decorated in various shades of cream and pink. "But I wont pretend I can't see where your...Attitude comes from."
Sherlock frowned at him. He had lay, on his back, with his legs up the wall. Despite the frowning that had from both his parents. "Attitude?" He asked. They were alone in the room.
John sat forward slightly, seeing Sherlock tilt his head backwards, to look at him.
"Well what would you call that?" John asked. "Because I'd call it childish."
Sherlock frowned and went back to staring at the ceiling.

"No he isn't!" Sherlock choked. "Shut up!" Which only earned him disapproving looks from Mycroft. "I don't do relationships." He threw something across the dining table at Mycroft, and told him; "Shut up. I don't interfere with your private life."
John could sense that this was how Christmas dinner with Sherlock's family usually went. But he was also surprised that the two brothers were still speaking to each other. Where one clearly respected his mother, the other clearly didn't. And if he did, he clearly didn't show it.

"Are you planning on eating anything?" And it wasn't the first time that afternoon that Violet had asked this of Sherlock.
Sherlock shrugged moodily. He realised that he seemed to be turning into a moody teenager, but he didn't really care. He didn't particularly want to be there. "I'm going upstairs."
Violet shot him a glance across the dinner table. "Fine." She said, slamming her wine glass down.
Sherlock stood up and left the dining room, muttering to himself, leaving John sat there, feeling awkward, whilst being stared at by both Mycroft and . "I...I'm just going to..." he stood up, and followed Sherlock. It didn't seem to bother him that he'd followed the moody man into a bedroom.