Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely miabicicletta, so all mistakes are still mine :-)

THE HOLLY KING

It's the first week in December when Sherlock brings it up.

He's standing at his favourite microscope, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and eyes glued to his samples. A frown-line splits his brow, lips thinned in irritation; He appears to be totally engrossed in his work, but then-

"Are you doing anything for Christmas this year, Molly?"

When she doesn't answer he repeats himself more loudly.

The tone is casual- too casual- for the stiff, straight-backed way he's holding himself and if Molly didn't know better she'd… Almost think him nervous.

Surprised at the question, she looks up from her laptop. "I'll be working," she points out. "As usual, Sherlock." And she turns back to her admin. No family, no children, she always works Christmas and New Years' so that everyone else can spend time with their loved ones.

Sherlock knows that. Everyone knows that.

"But you could get out of that, surely," Sherlock says, eyes still on his samples. He's started tapping his left foot slightly, a nervous, discordant beat. "This place must owe you time off-"

Not sure where this is going- but unwilling to let the man before her drag her into another Holmes Christmas Drama ™ she pushes away from her desk. Crosses her arms over her chest and shoots him the look she's been practicing for years now.

"What is it, exactly, that you want, Sherlock?" she asks, and if there's more fondness in her tone than she intended, well…

She supposes she's just not going to dwell on that.

It seems to occur to him that his casual act isn't working and with a slightly sheepish grimace he straightens up from the microscope. Looks at her.

There's something in his expression she doesn't recognise.

"I was just wondering whether you…" He takes a sharp breath. "Whether you would like to accompany me to my parents' this year." The words sound stiff and formal; He says the next very fast. "John and Rosie have been invited, and I thought– That is, I imagined you might–"

She sees where this is going. "Sherlock," she asks gently. "Do you want someone to be there? Since… Since Mary can't be?"

And she smiles sadly, feeling the usual pang of her friend's loss. The harsh twist of knowing that she's here and somebody who really should be—somebody everyone still misses—is not. Of course Sherlock would want a familiar face to help him through that. Of course he'd want a friend to hold his hand.

He blinks at her, that same unreadable expression flitting over his face, but then–

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that– I suppose that would make it easier for everyone."

And he tries to smile, but as so often happens these days it doesn't quite touch his eyes.

The memory of Sherrinford still hangs over him, however little he likes to admit it.

"Besides, my mother will adore you," he says bracingly perhaps aware of how uncomfortable he sounds. "I promise you'll enjoy yourself: Mummy will feed until you can't move, and ask you all about your work–"

"Not squeamish, eh?"

"You've met two of her offspring," he says. "What do you think?"

At the joke—and her smile—he relaxes somewhat. This time when he smiles at her, it's ever so slightly brighter, and for a moment he's the man she used to know again.

For a moment, Sherrinford never happened at all.

Before she can say more he smirks. Sweeps away from the microscope. Pulls on his coat and loops his scarf around his neck. Though she knows she should not, even after all these years Molly still can't help but appreciate the sight.

She pushes down a swift dart of sorrow as she's confronted, once again, by how much she still cares about this man and how… differently he cares about her.

If he notices her appreciation however, he gives no indication (as usual). Suddenly he's back to himself. With an utter lack of self-consciousness he ruffles his curls into wildness before striding towards the door, his samples apparently forgotten, his need for engagement undissipated–

"I'll text you the details," he tosses over his shoulder. "Don't worry about bringing a gift. Having someone new to cook for will be more than enough for Mummy."

And with that he's through the door and out into the corridor, having left her to (once again) clean up the lab after him.

Molly shakes her head to herself and sets about doing so, not sure whether to be touched or irritated or both. She's so intent on her work that she doesn't see Sherlock standing, back to the wall and watching her shyly through the very edge of the glass panels of the Path Lab door.

By the time she looks up he's gone.

{~ ~}

The time off proves surprisingly (suspiciously) easy to arrange, and Molly tries not to feel sorry for whichever one of her colleagues draws the short-straw to replace her.

When she mentions this to Stamford though, he waves her off with a smile.

"You've worked it every year for nearly a decade, Molly," he says. "Go. Enjoy some time off. Sun holiday or something, is it?"

She thinks about her invitation and despite herself, she smiles. "Something like that," she says and Mike is good enough not to push. Or maybe, with her, he's developed a sensible don't ask, don't tell policy. She's not sure.

Mike is always so much cannier than people give him credit for.

"I'll only be gone a couple of days. I'm visiting some friends," she tells him. A small laugh. "Well, I'm visiting them by visiting their parents." She clears her throat, tries to calm a slight fluttering in her chest at the thought. "I'm sure it will be fine…"

"Bring Baileys," Mike says sagely, perhaps reading her nervousness. "If there's a mother involved, make sure you bring Baileys." He shoots her a cheeky grin. "And if there's a father involved, bring whiskey. They'll love you forever, I promise."

And he sends her on her way.

An hour later and her paper-work's signed off on.

{~ ~}

Though she's not entirely sure she trusts Mike's judgement on this, she nevertheless finds herself standing on the street outside her house at 10am on Christmas Eve with a bottle of Baileys, nicely wrapped, in one hand and a bottle of Bushmills, also nicely wrapped, in the other.

She's also wearing her best coat and somewhat matching clothes, because…

Because, well, she wants to make a good impression on the Holmeses She'd rather not think about why.

(Or perhaps, more accurately, she'd rather not admit it to herself).

Mycroft's car pulls up at precisely the time he promised and, to her surprise, Sherlock pops out and takes her bags. Puts them in the boot before opening the door of the sleek blue BMW and letting her get in.

She can't help but note that he's dressed up to the nines, too, in the charcoal grey suit and light blue shirt she's particularly fond of.

She wonders if this might be for her benefit and then, as she always does, chases the foolish thought away.

"For you," he says when they're seated, and he hands her a small, somewhat haphazardly wrapped parcel. "Rosie and I did the wrapping," he adds defensively at seeing the way she looks at it. "I'm trying to improve her hand-eye coordination and-"

"It's lovely," Molly interrupts hastily. She's fairly sure she's smiling like an idiot. "I mean, I'm sure it's lovely. I, um, I'm just afraid that I didn't get you anything-"

And she hadn't. Ever since that awful Christmas party all those years ago, the subject of Sherlock Holmes and presents had been strictly off-limits.

He's looking at her like she's mad though.

"Of course you got me something, Molly," he says. "You agreed to come to this family… thingy with me."

He says the word "thingy," like he's describing a particularly virulent strain of venereal disease and despite herself her smile widens.

"Well if you're sure…" she says tentatively and he waves her off with that magisterial confidence he seems so good at projecting. Takes the gift from her before she can open it and tucks it into her coat pocket, muttering about saving it for later.

"Of course I'm sure," he tells her. "You're doing me a favour, I assure you. You needn't have bought anything for my parents either, though I knew you would." An odd beat. "You're the sort of person that does things like that, Molly."

And he glances at her sideways, his gaze strangely… focussed. He seems to take in her pretty white and red dress and cardie and in a tone which is, again, far too casual to be believable, hazards an innocent, "Would you like to take off your coat? You needn't keep it on. And if you do, you'll end up sitting on your present..."

Though Molly's tempted to point out that it's he who put the gift in a place she might sit on it in the first place, she nevertheless allows him to help her remove her coat. "Yes, I suppose that would be better," she says, earning herself a smile.

He leans over her—far more than seems necessary, frankly—before popping open her seat-belt and pulling the garment back from her shoulders and off. She needs her to raise her bum a little off the seat to get it completely off, something which brings her into even closer contact with him (in fact, her shoulder nearly collides with his nose).

As always, when they're in such close proximity she finds herself hyper-aware of him. His warmth. His… thereness. The tantalizing air of excitement he seems to radiate. This close, she can smell that scent that's just his, there at his throat. Along his shirt collar. It's shampoo and a touch of cologne and the tiniest smidge of iodine, the tang of it sharp and soothingly familiar–

Her eyes meet his and as she blushes he freezes. Instantly she wants to smack herself. She shouldn't still be doing that sort of thing, she knows. Shouldn't still be hoping, no matter what he'd said during that damned phone call. She's probably just made an idiot of herself in front of him. Sherlock, however, doesn't say anything, merely swallows, his throat working as if he wishes to speak.

His eyes drop down to her mouth for a fraction, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips. He ducks his head towards her and it's almost as if… Almost as if…

"Phone call for you, sir," the driver's voice pipes up, and suddenly he moment, whatever it was, is broken.

Molly sees Sherlock's jaw tighten as he pulls away from her, gesturing for the driver to hand him his mobile and if she didn't know better, she'd say he looked annoyed. Really annoyed.

Not for the first time in their acquaintance, she has no clue what's going on with him.

"I thought I told you not to call me enroute?" he barks into the phone and very distantly Molly hears a man laugh. Murmur something about needing an update, since the Watsons were already "in situ."

"We'll be there as fast as we can, Mycroft," Sherlock bites out. "You can handle Mummy until then. Now I'm going to hang up- Don't call me again. I turned off my phone for a reason."

Again Molly hears that distant chuckle and then Sherlock ends the call with a vicious tap to the phone's End button. He hands it back to the driver crossing his arms petulantly across his chest and leaning back in his seat.

"He's just miffed because Mummy's talking to Allie," he mutters.

"Allie?" Molly frowns, something which draws a frankly blood-curdling smile from her companion.

"Lady Alicia Smallwood," he tells her. "Mycroft's new girlfriend."

He says this latter word with such childish glee that Molly rolls her eyes.

For some reason, this sobers him. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat. Suddenly, he seems to be having trouble with eye-contact. "I suppose Mikey just wants someone of his own with him for Christmas," he says more quietly. "Mummy and Daddy are still a bit sore about what happened with Eurus, Having Lady Smallwood there might take the pressure off, a bit."

"Is that why you brought John and Rosie?" she asks and at this he again blinks at her, surprised.

She can't seem to keep up with him today.

"I brought John and Rosie because they were invited," he says. "I brought you because, well…" Suddenly he seems fascinated with the handle of the car door. She's noticed eye-contact is always the first thing to go when he's feeling uncomfortable, but she's no idea why that might be the case here.

"Because I might take the pressure off a bit too?" she asks him hopefully. When he doesn't answer she shakes her head, reaches out and takes his hand. He stiffens, but he doesn't pull away from her. "It's ok to want a friend with you, Sherlock," she says softly.

"Is that what I want?" he asks her, finally looking at her again. "Is that what we are, Molly? Friends?"

He's lowered his voice to match hers.

He's leaning into her again and this time there's no need to help her with a coat to excuse it.

The world seems to freeze.

His eyes flick down to her lips once more. He draws in a breath. The atmosphere in the car is suddenly both close and electric. Charged up. Intense. There is so much possibility in this small space. Molly opens up her mouth—to say what, she's no idea—but before she can do it he suddenly straightens. Pulls back from her.

Once again he's immensely fascinated with the view from his side of the car.

Feeling like she's been hit with whiplash, Molly frowns. Retreats to her own side of the car and ponders what on Earth is going on today- What the hell does Sherlock thinks he's playing at?

She's too much of a coward to push him, though.

And so they pass the rest of the journey in relative silence.

It's only later that she realises he's held onto her coat the whole ride.

{~ ~}

His parents' cottage is like something out of a poster for The National Trust.

It's cosy-looking and pretty, dusted with just the right amount of snow to look picturesque, but not enough to make walking up the main path to the door dangerous. A light-festooned pine tree grows in the front garden and red and yellow decorations deck the door. The windows.

It looks so scrumptious it might as well be made of gingerbread, Molly can't help but think.

When the car pulls up a white-haired woman with Sherlock's eyes opens the door and bounds out, a tall grey-haired man at her elbow. Their combined likeness to the man beside her tells Molly that these are indeed his parents.

So as John Watson had promised, Molly muses, Sherlock was not, in fact, raised by wolves.

Rosie Watson is sitting on the grey-haired man's shoulders and when she sees her Uncle 'Lock she whoops and demands to be set down. Goes running towards him as fast as her pudgy little legs and the snow will let her.

To Molly's surprise, as soon as he lays eyes on the child Sherlock's odd mood lifts. Indeed, he holds his arms open to her and she swings herself into them with the sort of force that looks like it should knock a person down. Sherlock's merely winded however, and he still picks his goddaughter up, smiling as she babbles her greetings.

When he straightens up, Rosie still in his arms, he turns to show her Molly and again she whoops.

"Auntie Molly!" she calls. "You came!" She twists in Sherlock's arms to look at the elderly couple she'd left at their doorstep. "Nana Lexie and Ganda Sigur," she tells Molly, pointing to them. By this time the older woman has reached her son and his guest and held out her hand in greeting.

"Alexandra," she tells Molly warmly. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear."

"Likewise," Sigur says, shaking Molly's hand once his wife has relinquished it. "We're so delighted that our boy has finally managed to get you up here!" He shoots her a rather raffish smile. "We were starting to think that Will had an imaginary friend."

"Will..?" Molly inquires faintly at the amused snort Rosie lets out. "That's what your mother calls you?"

"I prefer Sherlock," he says shortly.

Mummy Holmes is having none of that, though. "I named you Will," she intones darkly, "and Will you shall remain."

As mother and son begin goodnaturedly bickering, Sigur walks around to the BMW boot and- with the help of the driver- opens it. He takes out Molly's bags.

"Good call on the Baileys," he winks, then begins to lead her inside as the car pulls off. Sherlock and his mother are still arguing, little Rosie occasionally offering encouragement to one or the other as they manoeuvre up the garden path. The front door is opened by John in a Kiss The Cook apron and Molly can't help her grin.

As soon as they all set foot in the hall, however, Sherlock stops dead.

Seemingly without noticing, he moves in front of her.

He's looking- no, staring- at the wall of family photos in front of him, and at a photo of a small, dark-haired girl in pigtails and a pinafore in particular.

His hands are fisting together in rage.

Molly looks between he and his parents. "She's your sister, Will," his mother is saying. "I know she can't come home to us, but she's still my daughter and I needed to-"

"Do you have any idea what she did?"

And Sherlock speaks over his mother, his face contorted in anger. Turns to her, setting Rosie down so that she can run over to hide behind her father's legs.

It seems the child is- miraculously- unfamiliar with Uncle 'Lock's temper.

Sherlock's father moves to stand protectively beside his wife.

Not sure what's going on, Moly reaches out for Sherlock but he jerks back. Shakes his head at her. He seems determined to keep between her and the image and she's not sure why.

"I told you Molly was coming," he snaps at his mother. "I told you she'd be here, and you, you... Do you have any idea what Eurus did to her?"

And without waiting for his mother to reply he stalks over to Molly. Takes her elbow and starts leading her towards the door, even as his mother's talking. This might be the most upset that Molly has ever seen him. "We're not staying," he says shortly. "I'll get your coat and we'll-"

"Sherlock," Molly says softly, coming to a halt. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

And she places her hands on his lapels, stopping him in place. He blinks at her, as if unable to compute the reaction. When he looks at her she steps in closer and lowers her voice; He seems to find that calming.

"I can see that you're trying to keep me from something," she tells him quietly, "but to be honest, I don't know what from."

"From her." And he tosses his head belligerently towards the photo of the little girl.

He may not notice it, but he draws closer. Hunches himself over her more.

"That's a photograph, Sherlock," Molly tells him gently. "It can't hurt me, you know that." She strokes one hand down to his arm, trying to soothe him: She can feel him nearly vibrating beneath her fingertips. "Nothing I've seen so far is hurting me..."

"It could." And his throat works, emotion teeming through him so much it seems to stop his words. He twists his hands together and Molly can see it, just what this is doing to him. It makes her heart twist in her chest. "That's my sister," he tells her, lowering his voice. "That's Eurus- The one who put bombs in your house. The one who made me-"

And this time his voice does cut off, because they never, ever talk about That Phonecall.

They never have. Molly had assumed they never would do.

It was John who explained about the plot to hurt her and Eurus' blackmail. In the year since it happened, Sherlock has mentioned it so little that Molly honestly thought he might have deleted it- Hoped, maybe, he had done.-

Apparently she was wrong about that, though. For at the mention of it he pulls her to the side, leans in to whisper in her ear. He seems not to want any distance between them and Molly can't conjure why.

"She hurt you," he says, and he sounds so… helpless. "She hurt you, and I didn't stop her. I wanted to, but I couldn't. You shouldn't have to look at her now-"

"That's not the woman who hurt me, Sherlock," Molly says gently. "That's a photograph of your sister. That's who she was, long before me. Of course your Mum wants her photo in your house."

He goes to interrupt and she speaks over him. "I'm not frightened of it," she tells him. "I'm not upset, I'm not. I promise, I'm not. But if you are, we can do something about it, we can put it away or something. But we don't have to leave, and you don't have to protect me."

And to his evident surprise, Molly takes a risk.

She moves closer to him and, making sure to gauge his reaction, moves her arms to rest loosely about his waist.

It's not quite an embrace, but then it's not not an embrace either.

Sherlock must understand the message because- watching her equally carefully- he mirrors her actions. Lets his arms come to rest around her waist.

The weight of them is warm. Comforting.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and his voice is so quiet. He's watching her so closely.

She nods, trying to ignore the fact that his entire family is pretty much staring at them, a shrewd, knowing look in his father's eyes that she suspects indicates that the older man has gotten entirely the wrong end of the stick.

Sherlock doesn't say the words sorry but he looks at his mother and, though he might not apologise, she nods to him. Smiles tightly.

Holding Molly's hand Sherlock follows his parents into the kitchen.

He doesn't let her out of reach the entire dinner.