Author's Note: Since CBS decided to deprive us of an "Elementary" Thanksgiving-themed episode, I decided to write my own version what I think Sherlock's reaction to Thanksgiving would be. This switches POVs between Sherlock and Joan so I hope things won't get too confusing. I can only hope I got the characters right! And I realize this is a few days after Thanksgiving but I was busy with my own celebrating. Enjoy and please review!

Turkey Day

For all the time that Sherlock Holmes had lived with Joan Watson, he had never known her to wake up before him. Even with her two alarm clocks. He had also never seen her cook anything beyond the usual coffee or protein shake.

Yet these assumptions were erased the moment he padded into the kitchen at eight in the morning. Not only was she awake and fully dressed but she was pouring some sort of orange-brown mush into a crock pot. A contraption he did not know he possessed until that very moment.

"Watson," he began. "What the hell are you doing?"

Her head shot up in surprise. "Oh, good morning, Sherlock," she said. "I'm making sweet potatoes."

"You're—what?"

"Sweet potatoes. It's Thanksgiving, after all." She seemed to think that this was a suitable explanation as she put the lid on the crock pot before turning to the oven. When she opened the door, Sherlock saw that it was filled with the largest turkey that he had ever seen.

"And here I thought your observation skills were improving, Watson," he said with a frown as he moved to the coffee maker only to find that there was already a pot brewing.

"You didn't celebrate Thanksgiving at Hemdale?" Watson asked. He heard the oven door shut with a squeak.

"No," he said, turning around. "So please, enlighten me on why you have decided to become a domestic."

Watson rolled her eyes. "Thanksgiving is when people cook a turkey dinner for their family and friends."

"Ah," he said in understanding. "And I assume that since such activities can be enjoyed any day of the year that this day has some historical significance?"

"Well, yes and no. It's to remember the feast between the Native Americans and the Pilgrims after their first successful harvest. But most of what's traditionally eaten today wasn't the same back then," Watson explained. "And then it's just to give thanks for what we have and things like that."

"So it's all about food and sentimentality, then," Sherlock clarified. "I see. Well, then I shall have no part of it." With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode into the living room where he kept his police scanner and the boxes of cold case files.

"Oh, yes, you will!" Watson snapped, hurrying after him. "It's an American holiday! Just think of it as your official welcome into the U.S. A new experience for your post-rehab life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he settled into his customary chair and flipped open a folder, effectively hiding Watson from view. "I will not indulge myself in a holiday where the sole purpose is to eat until indigestion occurs. I'm sure Gregson will call at any moment with a case while you explore your culinary skills."

"I bet he won't," said Watson and he could hear the smile in her voice. "He has the day off. I invited him, Detective Bell and your friend Alistair over for dinner."

"What?!" The folder fell from his grasp.

"Yes. We can't eat a twenty pound turkey by ourselves, can we? Now, go shower and get dressed."

"Why?"

"So you can explore your culinary skills too."

By the time Sherlock returned to the kitchen, dressed and showered as she asked, Joan had most her portion of the meal under control. But since she was already in a cooking mode, she decided to make a decent breakfast for the two of them for once.

He smirked as she set plates of eggs and toast on the table as well as their customary coffee. "I hope your domestic side hides itself soon, Watson. Your detective skills are far more valuable to me in the long run."

"Don't worry, you'll have your takeout again soon enough," she said as she sat down next to him. "Besides, you get to do the dishes."

He didn't say anything after that.

Sherlock threw the last of the breakfast utensils into the dish drainer while Watson checked the sweet potatoes.

"Where did you get that crock pot?" he asked. "I've certainly never felt the need to have one."

"I borrowed it from one of our neighbors—Mrs. Turner, I think—she's going to her son's for Thanksgiving."

"Are your parents joining us as well?"

She stiffened. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you said earlier that this holiday was meant for family gatherings. To set aside differences, as it were."

"Usually, yes. I don't feel like talking to them about...certain things, just yet. Especially today."

"Your father's affair and your malpractice suit, perhaps?"

She glanced at him. "Haven't you already deduced all of that?"

"Of course. From the very moment you mentioned that today was an American holiday. That you're choosing to spend it with me speaks volumes in itself."

Then, he patted her on the shoulder before he moved off to the living room and his case files once more. Sitting down in his armchair, he glanced over at her as she basted the turkey. Keeping an eye fixed on her, he flicked open a case file. He was determined to get some serious work down before Watson forced him to engage in the Thanksgiving festivities.

He had barely passed his eyes over the first page when Watson called his name. "Yes, Mum?" he called back without looking up.

"Very funny. I still need your help. Even though everyone's bringing something, we still have a lot of food to cook."

"Why? Does this holiday of yours last for a week?"

"No, but since it's only once a year, most people cook enough food for leftovers," she replied. "Now, will you please help me?"

He flung the file down in frustration. "Watson, have I told you that my mind rebels at stagnation? I need work, problems, anything from the most abstruse cryptogram to the most intricate analysis.* Anything else is just-"

"Boring, I know," she cut in as she entered the room carrying a pot in one hand and a potato masher in the other. "But, everyone's going to be here at noon and you can consider this a form of work." And she set the pot that he soon saw was full of potato chunks in his lap and handed him the masher before she headed back into the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he stood up and followed her. Placing the pot of potatoes on the table, he set to work. Gripping the pot handle, he all but throttled the potatoes with the masher in his frustration that Watson could push his buttons just as he could hers.

The doorbell rang at noon and Joan ran to get it, a smile on her lips. Not only had she cooked her first Thanksgiving turkey successfully but Sherlock was in a considerably better mood when she had let return to his case files.

She opened the door to find (much to her surprise) all three of her guests standing on the doorstep, each of them laden with grocery bags.

"Hello!" She exclaimed. "I didn't think you'd all come at once."

"You said noon and here we are," said Gregson with a smile. "Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Watson."

"I know you're off duty, Captain so please call me Joan," she said as she opened the door wider to let them in.

"As long as you call me Toby." Gregson replied.

"Deal," she answered as she led them into the kitchen where Sherlock was in the process of setting the table.

"Sure smells good in here," Detective Bell remarked as he set a paper bag full of rolls on the counter. "Any of it your handiwork, Holmes?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I mashed potatoes."

"More like killed them," said Joan as she opened the oven for the umpteenth time to check the turkey. "Alistair, would you check the sweet potatoes, please?"

"Of course, Ms. Watson and I brought the green beans and corn casserole as you requested."

"Thank you, Alistair," Joan replied. "There should be some dishes in the cupboard to heat everything up in. Detective Bell, there should be another bowl for the rolls."

Finally—finally—everything was done. Joan stepped back to admire the sight before her. The counter was covered with food. Toby and Marcus (Detective Bell had also insisted that she refer to him by his first name, at least for the day) were lifting the turkey out of the oven. Several pops heralded Alistair's successful uncorking of the wine bottles as he worked through them in the corner. She didn't know where Sherlock had gone off to until he said from beside her. "It looks wonderful, Watson. Well done."

Joan smiled in appreciation. "Well, I had some help." Then, she handed him a plate, adding. "And since this is your first Thanksgiving, you can start us off."

The smallest of smiles crept onto his lips. "If you insist."

Five minutes later, everyone sat around the table with full plates in front of them and wine glasses in hand. Joan smiled at the sight, glad that she wouldn't have to spend Thanksgiving alone this year. At the thought, she raised her wine glass. "I'd like to propose a toast," she announced and everyone raised theirs as well. "To good friends, good food and…second chances," she added, looking at Sherlock.

"Indeed," he said, that small smile appearing on his lips.

"And may God save the Queen," Alistair called from the end of the table. Everyone laughed and clinked their glasses together. Then, they began the meal.

It was quiet for a time as everyone worked through their plates. Sherlock, Joan noticed seemed to be enjoying himself although he did eye the sweet potatoes questioningly before he took a bite.

"I haven't laced with anything, Sherlock," she laughed as she took a sip of wine.

"I wasn't concerned about that, Watson," he replied. "I was more concerned with the fact that, until today I have not any inkling that you could cook."

"Well, if this turkey is anything to go by," Gregson said. "I'd say Joan has quite the career in front of her as a Thanksgiving chef."

"Thank you, Toby," said Joan.

The meal went smoothly after that, for which Joan was grateful. She worried that Marcus might inquire about Sherlock's reasons for coming to the United States but he seemed to have remembered the day and kept himself in check. Even Sherlock didn't seem too bored as he talked mostly with Alistair about happier times in London. She even had quite time jumping in now and then to tell Alistair about the past cases she had shared with Sherlock.

"Really, Watson, must you romanticize everything?" Sherlock admonished eventually after she told of her fear when he didn't answer his phone since he had been abducted by Donna Kaplan.

"Oh, so you're still not giving me credit for saving your life?" she joked

"I had the situation completely under control," he said confidently. "I wasn't just picking locks for my own mental stimulation, you know."

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Joan rolled her eyes at him and turned back to her meal.

"Well, I found the story very fascinating and even more so that it was true," said Alistair. "Perhaps, you should consider writing down some of Sherlock's cases. Ms. Watson. He's clearly established himself with you Americans that he can get himself abducted."

Joan laughed and then said, "Yeah, it seems that way, Alistair. But unfortunately, I was never very good at writing stories unless they were about a certain disease or procedure."

"It's just as well you don't," said Sherlock. "I'd burn them all anyway."

An hour later, while the dishwasher churned away at the dishes, Sherlock led the group up to the roof. He held a piece of pumpkin pie on a small dessert plate in one hand and—upon Joan's request—his violin case in the other.

"Wow, how did you guys score this view?" Detective Bell asked as he followed Sherlock out onto the rooftop patio.

"My father owns the building," Sherlock explained and Bell whistled.

"Yes, it is quite beautiful," Alistair remarked, joining Sherlock at the edge to gaze out at the city lights. "Reminds me a bit of dear old London."

Sherlock said nothing to that. He had not thought of London all day and he was not going to start now. The city may have known his boyhood but he was more than willing to let New York know the rest of him and hopefully with Watson's help, know who he really was. Beyond the drugs. Beyond Irene.

He shook his head at the thought of her and set his violin case at his feet. Then, he took his fork and began to eat the traditional dessert of Thanksgiving.

"So did you enjoy the day?" Alistair asked, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts.

"I enjoyed it very much," he said, surprising even himself at such a sincere answer. "So long as Watson cooks the turkey again next year."

"Yes, she did a fine job," Alistair agreed. "I enjoyed it myself. The company even more so." He added with a smile.

Sherlock smiled as well and finished off the rest of his pumpkin pie (he could've sworn it was a bigger piece when he had first cut it) when Joan called his name.

"So, do you think you could play something?" She asked. "Unless you don't want to, of course. God knows I've forced you to do enough today."

"Lucky for you, Watson, I actually enjoy playing the violin," he said as he set his plate on the ground to retrieve his case.

"I didn't know you played the violin, Holmes," said Gregson.

"Indeed, I do," said Sherlock. "Now, any requests?"

"As long as it's something we recognize," said Detective Bell. "I don't want to be put to sleep."

"Well, in the spirit of the holiday, I'm certain you'll recognize this," said Sherlock as he placed his most prized possession under his chin. As the first notes of "O, Shenandoah" filled the air, he was pleased to see everyone, even Gregson smile at the familiar tune. Then he turned back to face the skyline and letting the music float around them all.

Eventually, the song came to an end and he held the last note for several moments before he let it fade away into the night. When only silence greeted him, he looked back at the others.

"That was beautiful, Sherlock," said Watson, her voice just above a whisper. "Absolutely beautiful. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Watson," he said. He packed his violin back into its case before he headed towards the stairs.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?" Watson asked.

He looked back at her. "Well, Watson, as much as I have enjoyed the festivities today and do hope they can be repeated next year, my brain is craving stimulation that does not involve food or idle chatter. So if you will excuse me." With that, he continued on down the stairs, smiling to himself. Yes, he was eager to return to his cold case files but he was even more eager for a nap after such a day meant for eating.

But, he reflected as he cut himself another slice of pumpkin pie in the kitchen, perhaps this Thankgiving holiday wasn't so bad after all.

Author's Note: *That line is my own tweaking of an actual in the Sherlock Holmes story, The Sign of Four. So again, not sure about the ending. But I hope you enjoyed it all the same. Any and all comments are welcome!