The presents under the tree called to Sherlock as they would to any child his age. They'd appeared overnight as they always had, and he and Mycroft were always up early to try to figure out what was in it. Sherlock had figured out when he was five that Santa Claus wasn't real, because the handwriting was the same as his father's. Now they just sat, working out what was in the boxes. It was a game to the Holmes brothers.
"Don't touch those," their mother snapped. "You can have them later."
Sherlock frowned. Sometimes just picking his present up was enough to tell what was in it. But Mycroft smiled.
"Don't worry," he said. "It just makes the game more challenging." Sherlock returned his smile.
"Yeah." The phone rang, and his mother answered it.
"Yes, I've got the pudding! No, I followed the directions this time. What does it matter what you wear? It's all the same to us. Of course Mom and Dad are coming, even with her Alzheimer's. Love you! Bye!"
"That would have been Aunt Gina," Mycroft said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Obviously!"
"Now, now, you two, up to your rooms. Get dressed and then help me set the table."
Sherlock wore his Christmas finest, a child's suit. He liked wearing it—it was comfortable and he often wished he could wear it more. He went into the living room to find Mycroft wearing his grey suit and even a tie. Ah, the ever-dapper Holmeses. Even though they were only eight and fifteen.
They set the table perfectly, as always, and before long the guests arrived. To Sherlock's horror, Aunt Gina was dressed in a female version of Santa's outfit which didn't extend below her mid-thigh and whose neckline left very little to the imagination.
"I brought presents!"
"You certainly did," muttered Mycroft, staring as she stooped over to give him a hug.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock didn't like the effect that puberty was having on his brother. Aunt Gina placed the presents under the tree and went into the kitchen to help with dinner. The new presents had been added to the guessing game, and the two brothers sat, trying to work out which present was what, and even for whom, as Aunt Gina had neglected to label them.
Then Grandpa Wilfred had arrived, Grandma Brigitte not far behind him as he stopped to help her up the steps. They, too, brought gifts for the children. Over dinner, the brothers sat at the end of the table, while their parents sat at the head. The adults discussed politics and plays, but the only children in the room turned to one another for conversation. The conversation turned into a little bit of a squabble, each of the boys trying to out-deduce one another.
"Boys," came their mother's stern reproach. "Stop arguing!"
"What are you arguing about?" asked Grandpa Wilfred.
"Oh, they have this thing they do where they look at you and figure things out."
"Like what?"
Mycroft decided to speak. "Like Dad and Aunt Gina."
"Mycroft, you said you wouldn't say anything!" Sherlock was embarrassed. A silence followed.
"What about us?" their father asked, cautiously. He was unnerved by his children's powers of deduction.
"You're sleeping together," said Mycroft coolly.
"What?" Their mother's voice was flat. Too flat. Sherlock had only heard this tone of voice when she was pent up with rage.
"The way they're looking at each other makes it perfectly obvious."
"And you and Mother stopped holding hands last Boxing Day. And his hand is close to Aunt Gina's." Sherlock couldn't help himself, not when there was escalating deduction happening.
"Remember when Aunt Gina's car broke down last year and Dad went to go fix it? There was a bottle of Grandpa's whiskey in the trunk. I don't think it made it back to Aunt Gina's."
"And father feels ashamed but not enough to stop," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on his brother. "He's been sitting farther away from mother, but has been making scared glances at her as if he is wondering if she's sussed it yet."
"Four times a month, every month since last Christmas."
"In the hotel by the corner!"
"On his way back from work!"
"Probably with a false name!"
"In a room on the bottom floor!"
Sherlock couldn't figure out how his brother had reached that conclusion, and so, sat in silence. Only after a few moments had passed did he realize that the rest of the table was staring at them, Aunt Gina moving awkwardly, Dad looking betrayed, their mother on the verge of tears, and her parents too flabbergasted to do anything other than pick at their food.
Grandma Brigitte was the first to speak. "Shall we open presents?"
Mycroft went first, opening the present from their parents. It was a suit and bowler hat, and a voucher for an umbrella. There was a note attached.
"For our John Steed," it read. Mycroft put the hat on instantly, smiling from ear to ear.
Sherlock got a violin and some lessons from his parents. Not really what he wanted—he was much more interested in the do-it-yourself fingerprint kits he'd seen in the stores. But it worked.
Next came the presents from the grandparents. Mycroft got a book, 1984, which he proceeded to read with fervor. Sherlock was not so fortunate.
"To Charlene," read the note in his grandmother's writing. Sherlock turned hot with anger. How can his grandmother, even with Alzheimer's, not remember that he was a boy? Reluctantly he opened the package and found a pink knitted hat with a little purple kitten. He did not take it out of the box.
"What is it?"
"A hat," he replied glumly.
"Show us," his dad said.
Sherlock refused. But then Mycroft took it upon himself to show the family, and Sherlock was sure he'd die of shame, particularly when the whole family roared with laughter. He retreated to his room for the rest of the night, ignoring any attempts by his family to get him to participate. Which was fortunate, really, as the adults consumed copious amounts of alcohol (though none more than Grandpa Wilfred) and Mycroft was absorbed in his new book.