"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough."

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol


December the 19th

It was quiet at 221B, and 'quiet' for Sherlock was never a good thing. It meant there was nothing exciting going on, nothing exhilarating enough to keep him remotely occupied. John had kept his head down whilst Sherlock's fits of boredom expelled into hours of grief and arguments in the past. There had been no cases rating more than a five in ten days. Ten long, harrowing, antagonizing days: One clearly obvious murder, two burglaries: one at a school the other at a Cooperative, a cry for help from a child with an abusive father in Lithuania (not his division), a cat gone missing under "mind boggling"- Sherlock laughed at the notion- circumstances, and a stolen painting from the national gallery, which the detective had spotted on eBay within the hour.

Dull, obvious, pretentious, ridiculous, boring-

"Sherlock, it's snowing."

Sherlock blinked, and quirked his eyebrows nonchalantly at his flat-mate from his space on the settee. John was leaning near the window facing out to Baker Street, fingertips grazing the glass, a sense of wonder crossing his features as he gazed at the sight of white flakes drifting gracefully towards the ground below; the image raised about ten years off his age in an instant. He smiled lightly, "Sherlock, it's snowing."

"I heard you the first time." Muttered the detective, sinking further into his dressing gown with a pout.

John paused, but continued wistfully, "This means we should probably put the decoration's up." The army doctor turned slightly, acknowledging the box that was overflowing with colourful wires, a box that made a delightful noise when being moved and carried a dusty scent to it.

The box was entitled: Christmas decorative crap

Sherlock frowned at John "Since when does the partial solidifying of water particles justify dressing the flat in energy draining light bulbs in a ridiculous array of colours?"

"Alright Scrooge, calm down" John smirked and then grinned as Sherlock's gaze hardened. The former took a moment to think, eyes drifting over the box with light determination, "We'll put them up this weekend, then. It needs doing… I hate a home in December without decorations."

"As you said the last Christmas we were here," Droned the detective, "And I say, John, that it doesn't make a difference. A set of lights, tinsel, and a tree does not constitute a celebration of the birth of a holy and all righteous son of a God. It's sentiment."

"Of course it's sentiment, Sherlock. That's the point!"

Sherlock frowned, raising to his feet slovenly "Dear me you sound like my mother."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Snickered John.

"No."

"Would you rather say that to her face?"

The pair both stopped aghast and turned around to see Mycroft posed in the doorway, umbrella gripped in his left hand. The musty light of the flat billowed around his sophisticated yet slightly lacking physique facing inwards at the duo, causing a long slim shadow to cast across the floor of 221B. He held a distant yet contempt smile upon his features that barely graced his eyes, hinting at the lack of romanticism that withdrew him from any of his current relationships, including that of his brothers.

"If I recall Sherlock, you enjoyed our mother's Christmas parties." He continued snidely, walking into the room with that heavy presence that turned heads even though he wasn't doing anything at all.

The presence of the government then, John mused to himself with a smirk.

Sherlock curled up on the settee with a large huff and folded his arms, clearly unimpressed with his brother's indignant entrance to the flat without request. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

His brother slowly curled his upper lip which bought across the sense of impending but nonetheless 'not needed' drama. He extended a hand and held out a letter, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but then took it grudgingly, looked at it for a wavering moment, and then dropped it on the floor. "No."

"Sherlock." Mycroft droned.

"I'm not going, I didn't go last year and I don't want to be put through it this year."

"You were 'dead' last year" interjected Mycroft sardonically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, and it made for a nicer and quieter Christmas."

"What's this?" John asked, he reached up for the envelope and took it into his hand.

Sherlock's hand reached out and grabbed John's arms, "Don't open it."

"Why?"

"Sherlock thinks because he doesn't live like the usual Holmes' that he's exempt from our social occasions," Mycroft explained with an upturned head, "Which he is not."

John frowned at let go of the envelope.

"They don't want me there." Sherlock omitted, folding his arms, "Why should I try? Whenever I've been there I've only caused arguments; Cousin Marie has started betting on who's going to cause the scandals that I so delightfully point out!"

"That's only because every year you have to bring an affair or sensational scandal to light to please your huge ego" John tightened his lips to restrain a laugh as Mycroft lectured, "Keep to yourself and perhaps you won't be shunned as much."

"I'm not going. Too much to do here, too many cases."

"That's not what Scotland Yard is telling me." Shot-back Mycroft and Sherlock grimaced. Slowly, Mycroft rolled his shoulders back and took a different approach, "Mummy wants you there"

Both Sherlock and John looked up in the same instant.

Having finally caught Sherlock's interest, the latter tilted his head slightly, "Why does she?"

"You've barely contacted her since you returned." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She worries about you... And she wants to know about the Pathologist you spend so much time with, all the family are alight with rumours."

Heat began to simmer into Sherlock's eyes, "That's none of their- or your- business, Mycroft. I'm not a spectacle of gossip."

"Oh, but you are."

Sherlock steeped his hands under his chin and let out a small growl of annoyance, muttering to himself "Social conventions: Just a place for families to wallow in their own self-pity or riches- riches some don't deserve-" Mycroft swallowed "And then claim they're all emotionally attached because of the material exchange. The logistics are pointless, I have much better things to do then wallow in the Holmes' ignorance of how pathetic most of them are."

Mycroft's jaw clenched just for a moment, his eyes wavering from his brother's form. With a careful eye, he moved his sodden umbrella and rested it by the fireplace, before returning to his previous position.

At this point, John had retrieved the letter again and opened it.

Salutations!
Once again, the annual Holmes' Christmas party
is running from the 22
nd of December until the 27th.
At the family home, come bringing your usual dress
shirts for dinner with the traditional gear for the event.
We shall be meeting in the drawing-room at 1500 hours on
the Sunday, leave belongings with the butlers in the
courtyard who shall deposit them in your rooms.
Hope to meet all your acquaintances then.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Violet Holmes

"If you come," Started Mycroft more judiciously than before, "Then you can bring John, and Molly. Devout your attention onto them rather than the family, if you must. Your appearance will mean a lot, many need full proof that you're still alive."

Sherlock frowned, "What about Mrs Hudson?"

"She's going to her sister's," John intercepted, "Leaving on the 21st."

After a beat, Sherlock replied reluctantly "Alright, I'll go. But only if John and Molly join me."

A smug grin tugged at Mycroft's lips as Sherlock stood up, towering over him. Quickly, he muttered, "But do not expect me to behave."

Myroft rolled his head back and retrieved his umbrella again, heading towards the door with his task complete, "Don't worry, Sherlock. I never do."


December the 20th

"A book- The book!" Exclaimed Sherlock, throwing down his worn copy of The Loop Hole onto the table in front of an agitated Lestrade without much of a second glance, "Just look at it!"

Just his luck, a decent case had turned up the next day... Not that Sherlock needed a full day to solve it.

Lestrade lowered his eyebrows at him, "You can't be serious, Sherlock-."

"Oh, Lestrade, how is it a man of your superiority can be so naïve?! It's irrelevant, the details match; the killer is clearly the author of this book- Everything matches: the characteristics, the murder weapons, the torture, the affair against his wife, even down to the man's nickname." Sherlock huffed triumphantly and pulled up the collar of his belstaff, ready to leave.

"But," Drawled Lestrade hopelessly trailing after him with a sense of abundance, "This man is an acclaimed author, an honest religious man-"

"-Who managed to commit a triple homicide within the space of sixteen days." At Lestrade's vacant expression Sherlock threw his hands out in the air; the pair headed outside of the run-down crime scene onto the open street, not reacting to the sleet as it pelted down upon them. Sherlock grimaced, "It's all in front of you! How can you not piece together something simple?"

"The man is in Switzerland, Sherlock. He couldn't have possibly committed a crime of this vulgarity, especially when not on English soil and with no connections whatsoever to the victims involved. You're creating oblivious propaganda based on fiction!" Contradicted the inspector vehemently. A few feet away, Anderson sniggered, before returning to examining ink stains on the wall.

"Not if you looked at the victim's feet. I think you'll find that Sir Roosevelt was, and is, in England." Sherlock remarked, raising an eyebrow of a distinct regal manner.

Lestrade swallowed, glaring at the consulting detective icily. "The victim's feet." It wasn't even a question, it was a statement- a mockery- Sherlock rolled his eyes with nonchalance, and began to explain.


"See?" Exclaimed Sherlock, leaning over the corpse in St Bart's lab exuberating in confidence.

Beside him, Lestrade and Molly stared at the body, mouths agape. "God, you're… You're right." Lestrade reached into his pocked quickly and withdrew his mobile, "Excuse me." And then he left.

Left alone with Sherlock, Molly shuffled a little and decided it was best to busy herself then stay still and overwhelm herself with tension. She went to the side and began to clean up the equipment Sherlock had so ungracefully left out.

"A fiction imitating the life of a madman" Sherlock murmured, smirking, before turning around to Molly, "Isn't it hateful?"

She tried to keep her eyes focused on the equipment, "Uh… Yes, very."

Sherlock swept in to the room she was in, abandoning the corpse behind him and stood the opposite side of the table to where she stood. "I have a proposition for you, Molly, for Christmas?"

"Oh?" She gasped enthusiastically, before relenting, she pulled in on herself in trying to correct her innocent action, "Oh, I mean, well- What is it? I'm working and then I thought we were all at the flat in the evening-"

"Not the flat, no." Molly raised her head to him then in confusion, Sherlock continued wistfully, "I've been invited home, as in, to my childhood home. I want you and John to come with me, which you are, I've already had Stamford move your Christmas leave to the 22nd till the 27th"

"I-I was going to work over Christmas, Sherlock." Molly sighed dejectedly, "You know I was."

"Yes." His smile faltered a little, and just for the briefest moment he seemed awkward, but it passed as soon as it had arrived, and he looked at her regally, with focus, and yet his voice was slightly… Hesitant? Was that it? It was barely noticeable, Molly was probably kidding herself. "I realized… I haven't thanked you."

She swallowed, and her hands steadied, no longer moving the equipment away, "Thanked me? Why would you-"

"You helped me fake my death," Explained the detective as if he were reciting simple facts from a book, and yet there was a tenderness to his voice that Molly recognized, "You let me stay with you until I had to move away… You put yourself on the line… For me."

His brow knitted ever so slightly, as if he was puzzled by his own words. Molly had stilled completely, her hands hovering in mid-air embarrassingly rather than by her sides.

"You fixed me when I was broken."

Molly's eyes widened a little, suddenly her throat felt dry and her palms clammy. What did he mean by that? Yes, he had been… 'broken' after the fall, more mentally than physically, even though he was so injured he couldn't walk or dress and bathe- much to her horror- for a good few days. The fact that he had 'killed' himself had destroyed his spirit, and although he had saved his friends it felt like he had lost. He hadn't wanted to destroy Moriaty's network, he had wanted to go back to 221B Baker Street with his said friends and return to his normal life. The fact that he had to watch them suffer and put himself through torment undercover was a weight on his shoulders he could barely cope with. Plagued with nightmares and guilt, he had for the first time confided in his feelings about how he felt with all this, to Molly.

She had helped him, made him feel worthy of praise and comfort, helped him to regain full health and even when starting the potential areas to begin on in his mission. They shared a bed for two weeks and four days, and they had gotten closer.

Molly blinked, I fixed Sherlock Holmes.

For Sherlock however, Molly had done more than fix him, she had awoken something within him he didn't even know he had. She had held him as he confessed his grievances, had encouraged him to eat with determination and yet hadn't complained when he didn't, her soft eyes had gazed at him with pure understanding and trust as her gentle hands held his as she had told him exactly what he needed to hear, and her body had been so warm and 'fitting' against his in the mornings after they'd gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed but had always woken up entangled in each other's arms. It was a newfound closeness, and Sherlock had been so beaten up he hadn't forced her away. In fact, it helped him more than any of the medication had. However, when the moment came that Sherlock had slightly heard a hum of a new found area of affection somewhere within the limbic system for her, he had to leave. He had omitted the strange feelings within the very hour of his departure.

"You don't have to thank me," Molly began, voice short of a whisper, "Anyone would have done it."

He guffawed and upturned the corner of his mouth, "No, they wouldn't. I was right to trust you and I haven't shown you how much it all meant to me, so I'm going to change that now." He walked over and stood close, not as much to compromise her personal space, but enough to make her heart beat that bit faster, "Come with John and I, Molly, you've earned a break… My family like new people and you know what? I'll be honoured if you'll spend Christmas with me."

She remembered the last Christmas she had spent with him, and she nearly shuddered with the memory. But things were different now, they understood each other and she trusted that Sherlock wouldn't humiliate her like that again. "Okay, I'll go."

"Great! Now, if you excuse me, I have a case to wrap up. Come to the flat tomorrow at 11pm, I'll email you the things you need to bring with you. Until then, Molly."

With an all-too dramatic swish of his belstaff, he left the morgue, and Molly couldn't help but smile. She was spending Christmas with Sherlock Holmes, and he completely wanted her to be there.


December the 21st

Sherlock sat back in the car seat, pointing to the window for John, "Take this exit- This one- God, John, can't you indicate properly? I've seen Anderson drive cars better than this."

"If you have a problem with my driving you should have driven yourself! This... sodding... gear stick!" Hissed John, turning off and driving down the road Sherlock had directed him too, only stalling the car once.

John had been surprised when he had heard Sherlock's family home was on the outskirts of Lower Bourne, Farnham, Surrey; the army doctor had always figured because of the lack of time he communicated with his family that he had lived far away from London as a child, not this drive that took little over an hour. It was dark outside, and John simply focused on the road and the car's headlights, not taking into account the scene around him. What he did notice was there were no more cars, and that they were getting further out into the country, more isolated from the small village they had just driven through.

"Is your house like Downton Abbey?" John questioned absently, eyes on the road.

Sherlock frowned, "What?"

"Downton Abbey- Don't you?" His eyes snapped over to Sherlock's rigid body and mouth in a flat line, unimpressed. John shrugged, "Oh, never mind…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then turned his gaze to the scene behind him, even in this short car journey Molly had fallen asleep and her cheek was pressed up against the cold window as her mouth slightly slacked open. He deduced that working at the lab all day had exhausted her, and he regarded it as amusing.

He turned back to John, "Don't try and discover my life story while you're here. I know it's tempting, but there's nothing of importance to do with my past that should intercept with this party. I don't want you researching and then… Blogging about it."

John paused, "I won't."

Sherlock nodded curtly. He knew it was inevitable that both John and Molly would learn a lot about his childhood while they were there, and in the end he trusted them enough to not care that much about it… But if they dug further and tried to understand his past and his roots, then he worried.

There were things about him that he would rather leave behind and locked away, things that could damage their impressions of him if they knew, and he prayed that this wouldn't be the turning point for his inner demons to come back and bite him on the neck.

In the dark, John could just make out the outline of a rather old but regal looking mansion. Save the details, he knew this was the sort of home attached to an estate that the family will have owned for centuries.

He followed the road until some other car's came into view, all cleaner and sleeker than his own (or Harry's, he had borrowed it with the promise of returning it on Boxing Day).

"Park on this road." Sherlock instructed, "We can't take the main entrance because of the hour, Daddy will have locked up. We shall enter through the servant's hall and then retire, some of the guests will have already arrived and I don't want to be bombarded by them until morning."

The servants hall, definitely Downton Abbey.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "We don't have servants, John. It's just the family used too; the name sticks with the room. We have… employees now."

As he said this they pulled over a curb and parked. Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter and then moved from the car and moving to the boot. John released his seatbelt and turned to Molly, prodding at her leg. "Molly, we're here."

With a groggy moan, she opened her eyes, "Here? What?" Her eyes focused on John and she remembered, "Oh. Sorry… I don't normally sleep in vehicles."

"It's fine." He smirked, "Come on, let's go."

John left through his car door and Molly began to hear him and Sherlock bantering about the luggage in the cold air. She withdrew a small breath and took a moment to think about what she was doing. She was at Sherlock's childhood home. His parents would be here. His extended family- If he has an extended famliy- would be, too. Molly knew he came from a very rich background but didn't like it. It explained that whilst being so materialistic he was rebellious to the regal side of things; for his mind, a rich lifestyle was far too boring and pretentious. So what had his life been before London? What had made him despise his upper-class upbringing so much?

"Molly!" Called John from outside.

Quickly, the pathologist stumbled from the car into the cold air and instantly began to shiver. Both Sherlock and John were carrying the luggage, and John was holding hers too. She approached him to carry it herself, but he dismissed her claiming 'he could manage it'. Absently, she turned her head to the home itself.

And it hit her all too quickly how much she'd underestimated Sherlock's family's wealth.

Oh, my, God.

She couldn't make any details out, but the size of the building was tremendous, and it was clearly years old. She was surrounded by countryside and she could see horses stables- horses! Over a small hedge a few feet away. This wasn't just a mansion as John had described it, this was a full on stately manor house, one she'd associate with Lords or Duke's… Not Sherlock; As egotistic as he was, she associated places like these far too much with the small-minded rather than the ravenous mind of a consulting detective.

The group headed up to the building, none of them saying a word, and Sherlock appeared with a key the other's hadn't realized he had and moved to unlock the door. The room inside was dark, and he let them in before turning and locking it again.

"I haven't told anyone we were arriving today or this late, everyone will have retired already, keeping in mind that tomorrow's party will probably run till around two in the morning. We'll keep the lights off, follow me and you'll all get a tour tomorrow."

So they followed him, unable to make out much at all. John huffed after a while with all the luggage he was carrying, so Molly eventually took her bag of him and carried it herself. It was terrifying to walk through this home in the dark, with every step she took Molly thought she was going to knock over a priceless ornament or disturb a family ghost- This place was generations old, of course they'll have a family ghost- or something; it was unnerving.

They travelled up stairs for god knows how long, until they approached an dimly lit corridor with cream walls and a deep plush red carpet, with the space shining orange with small lights doused down either side. It looked rather like a hotel with the way the room's were spread out. Sherlock lifted his hand and made a 'shush' motion with his index finger, not that they had made much noise anyway and he led them down the corridor. At the end of it was another long staircase similar to the one they had just came from which headed downwards.

"John this is your room," He gestured to the one in front of him, "The one on the right is yours, Molly, and this one here" He acknowledged the door behind him, "Is mine, although I may abandon it and return to my old one because I never liked the guest rooms. If I'm gone in the morning, that's where I'll be."

Sherlock's friends both gave him small nods at that. John smiled, reaching for his door handle, "I guess I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Quite so."

"Alright, night Sherlock, good night Molly." With a curt nod, which may as well of been a salute with the strictness of the movement he left to his space. He reappeared a moment later sticking his head through the door, bedazzled, "How can you not like these rooms? They're… Shit, I'm a commoner. A bloody commoner."

A low laugh rumbled in Sherlock's throat, "Good night, John."

"Right, yeah" He chuckled awkwardly, "Good night, don't let the bed bugs bite, both of you."

Molly giggled as he left again and Sherlock frowned, not understanding the joke. They were alone.

Molly and Sherlock stood in silence in the corridor. "I didn't realize your home was so… grand." She admitted wearily.

Sherlock blinked and shrugged, "Don't worry, it isn't. Looks are very deceiving, the Holmes' estate is the opposite of 'grand'"

Molly nodded a little and trained her brown eyes on the wall paper, before abruptly turning, "I guess I should go," She managed a small smile, "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, with those eyes that deduced everything about a person in a floating second and then they softened, and he looked as relaxed as she had made him sometimes when they had stayed together. A small grin tugged at the edges of his lips. With his free hand he gently reached out and brushed Molly's cheek, completely stilling her in that one moment. "Thank you for agreeing to come… The truth is, I don't think I could face the whole family again without you by my side."

"I… I, it's fine."

"Good." He breathed, before moving away and opening his door, "Sleep well, Molly."

Before she could reply, his door had closed, and she simply replied "You too" to the stillness of the corridor, before retiring into her own room.


John was awoke in the night by banging and thudding. Grimacing, he turned to the digital clock on the bedside table, reading 4:13am. With a groan, the army doctor rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow, wanting to fall asleep again-

Bang, thud, thud, crash-

"Shit!"

John rolled over again and frowned. The noise wasn't too loud and he wished he could have slept through it, but army rituals had made him a very light sleeper and always on guard for noises or movement around him that weren't usual. Running his hand over his face, he dragged himself from the bed and opened the door to the corridor. The bangs had come from the staircase near his door, and he walked over to them.

A young woman knelt near the bottom of the stair case, she held a suitcase and it had clearly fallen down the stairs as now it lay face down with several items of clothing now strewn over the stairs themselves. The girl was muttering incoherent curse words to herself as she turned over the suitcase and started stuffing the clothes back in messily.

She looked, John guessed, anything between fifteen and eighteen, her hair was a warm blonde and it spiralled in loose curls to midway down her back, her figure was slight but she still wasn't too skinny, she looked a perfect image of young health. "Hello? Are you alright?" John called quietly, mindful that many people were still asleep in the rooms a few feet away.

She looked up suddenly and looked at him with piercing blue eyes both nervous and friendly, "Yeah, sorry, did I wake you?"

Her accent was enough to tell him she wasn't English, perhaps she was Russian, or Swedish, he wasn't sure. "It's fine, I'm a light sleeper… Do you uh, need a hand?" He gestured to the suitcase.

"Oh, would you mind? I've just got here, and I'm half asleep, and this weighs a ton. It isn't even mine…" She trailed off as John joined her, starting to put clothes back in the suitcase with her- Men's clothing, he couldn't help but notice. After a beat, she asked. "Do you know which one of these room's will be Sherlock Holmes'? These are his clothes from when he…"

John froze, "Yes. I came here with him, I'm-"

"John Watson!" She exclaimed, suddenly smiling, "Of course, I didn't know you were coming. If only someone had warned me; oh what am I saying, of course you'd be here! To be fair though Sherlock didn't know I was going to be here either, this is going to be a trifle of fun!" She giggled softly.

"You read the blog then?" John questioned lightly, still moving clothes with her.

She nodded excitedly, "Yes, I love it."

"…Are you a relative? A niece? Cousin?"

Her movements slowed a little, and then they stopped, she looked up at him and knitted her brow, "Don't you know who I am? I figured you would…" She trailed off.

John suddenly realized he didn't know her name. "No, I'm sorry. Sherlock doesn't mention the family that much, actually." The girl pulled back, she looked stung, "Why?" John asked, feeling worried at her reaction, "Should I know who you are?"

She swallowed, and suddenly stood up, "I have to go."

Before he knew it she was rushing off leaving him with the suitcase on the stairs. "Wait!" He called, as audibly as he could with sleeping house guests, "Who are you? Who are you to Sherlock?"

She turned and bit her lip, forcing back tears, "Tell him that that is me returning all the crap he left with my mum and I when he stayed with us in Lithuania whilst destroying Moriaty's network," John's jaw dropped a little, "Tell him that I've had to fight for months to actually be here at all, and tell him that I thought he'd at least of the decency to tell his closest friend that I exist."

Within the blink of an eye, she had gone.


Reviews are like Christmas presents, please leave one for me? Or just because of Sherlolly? ;-)

Much love,

Emily