An apology - I'm so so sorry for the bad update times. Coursework has been dragging me down and due to upcoming exams this will probably be more of an occurance so be warned.
Thank you so much for sticking with this
Find me on other social networks
Twitter - AliceRDempsey
Tumblr – themisfitsanddreamers
Youtube – themisfitsanDreamers
Thank you to the first time Beta - acrazylittlethingcalledlash
One day. That's all that John Watson asked for. One day without their mobiles ringing, no unwelcome visitors at the door and nothing to do with the wedding to interfere with their day together.
And so far, none of that had happened.
(Earlier that morning)
John glanced over his newspaper, frowning at the incessant ringing that was coming from Sherlock's iPhone on the sideboard. It was almost 10 in the morning and John had spent an almost idyllic morning sleeping in and reading the paper without any necessarily life-threatening incidents – he was beginning to forgive Sherlock for the Petri dish explosion. His winning expression and the fact that Sherlock honestly didn't realize the two would combust into a dreadful goo did make his anger lessen slightly when he saw the charred fridge. Only slightly though – but now. Whoever on the end of his fiancé's phone was begging for attention.
"John, when a phone rings people tend to pick it up and start a tedious conversation," Sherlock quipped as he walked into the front room, ruffling his hair with a towel. His usually ivory skin was a flaming salmon pink after the heat of the shower.
John rolled his eyes, and turned the page of the newspaper loudly. "I was hoping they'd think we were out or something," John retaliated, watching as Sherlock picked up his phone, his face registering slight shock at the unknown caller.
"It's a mobile phone John, it would be a rare occasion if I didn't have it on me," Sherlock muttered, and despite John's protests he unlocked it and held it to his ear, muttering a low "Hello" into the handheld.
John watched his partner curiously. Sherlock was chewing the side of his thumb as he listened to the caller, his forehead creased slightly. The consulting detective pivoted, turning away from John and lowering his voice slightly, although the doctor could still hear him clearly.
"Yes… I know it's been a long time... I've been meaning t-" Sherlock was cut off again as the voice interrupted.
It's not Mycroft… We saw him yesterday, John pondered as Sherlock huffed into the phone.
"Didn't you get the invitation...? So why did you bother ringing if we'll see each other soon...? No I'm not being especially difficult…"
Not a work call. Somebody close to Sherlock.
"Today? But we had plans… Yes… Yes you're right. No, we didn't have plans. John? –" Sherlock raised his voice at this slightly. "– He's fine… He's trying to deduce who I'm talking too, but failing dreadfully." John frowned, before holding up his paper and taking his eyes off his fiancé's back.
"Fine, FINE!... At Fortnum and Mason's? Mummy, we don't want you to buy our wedding cake."
John's stomach flipped slightly at this. So the legendary Violet Holmes had finally contacted them. Despite sending out the invitations nearly two months ago, the elusive Holmes parents hadn't contacted them after the initial RSVP – which had been sent accompanying a luxury Harrods hamper that could had fed them for at least three weeks – and now here she was, talking to her surly youngest son down the phone.
"No, I'm not being ungrateful. Mother please… What about my father? No don't put him on… Oh God." Sherlock took his phone from his ear and pressed it against his shirt, glancing back at John.
"I'll be right back," he said through gritted teeth, and with that he stalked out of the front room, muttering furiously into his phone. John smirked at his partner's frankly childish behaviour and stood up to make a cup of tea ready for the returning detective, whose anger would reach boiling point by the time he came back.
It wasn't an understatement to say Sherlock had a poisonous relationship with his family; one which came from mutual conflictions and massive intellect, John supposed as he stirred the milky tea.
If Violet and Siger are as clever as their sons, it's no wonder they constantly seem to argue with each other.
As he mulled this over, Sherlock appeared behind him, encircling his waist with his strong arms and resting his chin on John's shoulder.
"Is that for me?" Sherlock muttered, reaching out and plucking the tea from John's hands. He tipped back his head and seemingly not feeling the scorching liquid, drank it quickly.
"Bad phone call?" John asked, leaning back into Sherlock's embrace. The detective sighed in response, before brushing a small kiss against John's neck.
"More… infuriating. It was like I was stuck listening to Anderson on repeat. Very tedious. Mother does half go on." Sherlock closed his eyes. Speaking to his mother had drained him of any energy. John laughed lightly, turning his head to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's shapely cheekbone.
"And...? What's the verdict?" John asked, frowning as Sherlock scowled in annoyance.
"We're meeting her today at Fortnum and Mason's for cake testing. Apparently Mycroft will be gracing us with his presence as well, which will be a ball for me." Sherlock tried to smile, but only managed a slight quirk of his lips.
It would've been perfect timing. A cake shop, along with Mycroft and his waist would've proved excellent entertainment for Sherlock, but throwing into the equation his parents and the fact the brothers had made an unlikely alliance until the wedding just gave him a headache.
John swallowed, his eyes glazed with panic. He knew he'd have to meet the infamous Holmes couple soon enough, but was hoping it could possibly be at the wedding when he had delicious champagne travelling through his veins, and a boost of confidence.
He looked down at his body, taking in the black and white argyle jumper, comfortable jeans and slippers, and remembered he hadn't shaved that morning. It was not promising when he had to meet the probably debonair and sleek Mrs Holmes and her equally dapper husband.
He remembered a particularly poignant evening a few months back, when he had persuaded Sherlock to reveal little snippets about his future in-laws.
"Mummy? She was born in Paris and worked, before she met my father as Christian Dior's muse in the 50s. According to her, she was a 'ravishing beauty' in her youth… But I suspect some bias with her stories. I take after her in some aspects, my frame, my hair and my bone structure, although I've got my father's eyes.
My father was a successful milliner in London, and that's how he met my mother. I remember sitting in his workshop as a child and playing with the velvet and satin that he had discarded. He resembles Mycroft most of all, apart from being slimmer than my dear brother.
After he met Mummy, he expanded his empire to collaborate with the fashion houses in Paris and Milan, and finally located in Cheshire where they bought our family home. Mycroft and I grew up there.
Sherlock had once shown him a photograph of his childhood home, a Georgian country house with acres of land around. It was imposing and majestic, much like the man himself.
How could John Watson possibly begin to impress the Holmes family with his humble background?
"Right… What time then?" John desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes before he considered setting off to meet his future mother-in-law. Sherlock glanced at his watch quizzically.
"Well… We should've technically set off ten minutes ago, but I'm always fashionably late." Sherlock raised his eyebrow as John untangled himself from the consulting detective's arms and ran up the stairs, ripping off his jumper as he went.
John squeezed Sherlock's hand as they stood outside the colossal shop awning. The mint green painting complimented the lush Victorian brick red outside, and the whole place screamed 'expense'. Despite John's smartest shirt and jeans combination, he still felt dowdy compared to Sherlock's obvious elegance.
"Do we have to go in? Can't she just… take Mycroft's opinion?" John smiled weakly, only half-joking when he asked. Sherlock squeezed his fiancé's hand tenderly, but kept his eyes fixed on the stylish-decorated windows which displayed large tins of coffee and tea.
"Unfortunately my mother doesn't work well with the 'outside'. We'll probably be taking her car down the Cavendish afterwards," he sighed as John turned to him, frowning slightly.
"But… the Cavendish is two minutes away!" He tugged his hand out of Sherlock's, and walked to the end of the street before pointing down the narrow one-way. "It's… Just down there. Sherlock, you can see it from here!"
The consulting detective ruffled his hair in annoyance. "Yes I know, but that's my mother. She'd happily skin an elephant if it got her petrol for her precious Bentley. Can we just..." he gestured at the doorway, waiting as John joined him. Sherlock grasped his hand tightly before exhaling loudly.
"Welcome to my family," he muttered darkly as they passed through the doorman-guarded entrance.
"Good to see you again, Mr Holmes," they chimed in unison. Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging them, but the tiny spots of pink flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment.
"How do they know you here?" John whispered, half-expecting Sherlock to announce his mother was a part-owner.
"Mummy constantly shops for our food in here. You use Tesco's and Co-op. Mummy uses Fortnum & Masons for tea and the Harrods food hall for everything else," Sherlock spat back, his tone showing anger not towards the doctor, but towards the pomp of his childhood life.
John blinked at this statement but held his tongue, taking in the beautiful interior of the shop. Sherlock swept him through endless sections, all of the assistants beaming as though Sherlock was made of sunshine. As they walked up a final set of staircases, John caught sight of exquisitely decorated wedding cakes, with a few couples carrying silver plates with small samples on them.
He assumed they'd stop there, but Sherlock pulled him through an unlocked door, to a suite of rooms which seemed too large to hold their current residents.
"Hello dear brother." Mycroft beamed at Sherlock from where he was sitting, plate balanced atop his knee. John glanced around, trying to spot the legendary matriarch, but to no avail.
"Already started your fill then Mycroft? Yes… Chocolate always has been your weakness." Sherlock broke off a tiny sliver from the beautifully iced rose on Mycroft's plate and popped it into his mouth. Although he had promised not to fight with his brother leading up the nuptials, he felt vulnerable now, and there are always exceptions to the rules.
Beside him John sighed heavily and glanced around the fancy showroom. It was teaming with delectable portions and linen tablecloths. John was almost too scared to sit on the cream leather settees that Lestrade was lounging in, tucking into his own slice of cake.
"John," he mumbled through a mouth of food and beamed at the smaller man.
"Greg," he smiled weakly back as Sherlock kept his basilisk glare fixed on Mycroft. He's enjoying this way too much, John thought as he glanced at Sherlock.
"Have you seen Mummy?" Sherlock questioned his brother, who was glaring back angrily at his younger sibling.
"Sherlock. For the sake of my peace and sanity can you please not try and comment on everything I do today? And no… She hasn't rung; I expect she'll join us soon".
Sherlock exhaled quietly, nodding at this news. It wasn't irregular for his mother to be behind schedule. In fact, he remembered as a young boy being left in school until well into the afternoon by his errand-running mother. Shaking this memory off, he turned back to Mycroft, his retort fresh on the tip of his tongue.
"For you piece? Your piece of cake do you mean, Mycroft?" He chuckled. "Don't be absurd…You've never eaten just ONE piece of cake before." Mycroft exhaled and slammed his cake on the table before stalking off, muttering something about napkins as he passed Lestrade. "Ring me when Mummy gets here would you?" he snapped at Lestrade, who nodded quickly.
Sherlock watched him go, grinning ear-to-ear as Mycroft flounced around the corner.
"This is ideal, John," Sherlock remarked quietly as they sat themselves down on the settee.
"Do you get some sort of kick out of seeing Mycroft squirm or something?" John was aware that Sherlock was feeling nervous about seeing his mother, but pushing Mycroft only got on Lestrade's nerves, as the poignant look signified. Sherlock sighed as he plucked the rest of Mycroft's cake onto a clean plate. He, unlike his brother, never gained weight from eating vast amounts of confectionary.
"Yes, Detective Inspector? You look like you're trying to engage me in a conversation just by eyebrow movement. Either you have something you want to talk to me about or you're experiencing a minor fit... Probably sugar-induced, although I wouldn't put having a minor stress-related breakdown past you. You do live with my charming older brother." Sherlock grinned at the detective.
Lestrade only merely sighed and leant forward, placing his cake next to him. "Listen… You've got to stop riling Mycroft. He's just as worried as you are to meet your mother, and winding him up will only result in a horrible afternoon. Plus... I'm taking time off work to meet my future mother-in-law. I want to make the right impression," Lestrade pleaded, his dark eyes imploring as he stared at Sherlock.
"Why should I?" Sherlock was stubborn. That was usual. He had masked his worry with sarcasm. But having Sherlock even question the reason why he should stop was unusual. John didn't think he was relenting. That was the man he had fallen in love with.
"Well you're not being fair –"
"Never am"
"– You're upsetting him quite a lot –"
"Mycroft doesn't get upset. Unless they've run out of his favourite chocolate"
"…Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Please try and just –"
"What? Why should I act any differently around Mycroft. We play off each other. I comment on his weight. He retaliates in an equally childish way and we just go through business as usual." Sherlock pulled his scarf on with one deft movement. He leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together.
"What you've got to understand about us, Greg, is that we've never changed. According to Mummy, when I was brought home from the hospital after I was born, Mycroft tipped me out of my crib for attention. As I began walking, Mycroft would always knock me over with his tricycle. I retaliated when I could of course; Mycroft's weight problem started when he was 16. I've never let him forget that. But I promise you that even when we get elderly and Mycroft won't be able to leave his bed after being crowned the Donut King due to weighing a tonne, I'll still continue to taunt him." His eyes burned as he stared at Lestrade intently. "I will die with a cruel remark on my lips. And nobody, especially you, can stop me".
Lestrade's eyes blazed as he took in Sherlock's blunt words. John had to hide a smile and he moved forward to grasp Sherlock's hands.
"Enough now boys, the Queen's returning," John chided, smiling at Mycroft. His smile faded however when he noticed the large bit of white frosting near Mycroft's mouth, a sign of over-indulgence. He was grasping a new plate now and had removed his expensive dinner jacket, a slight bulge underneath the expensive linen of his shirt, signalling a full-stomach. "Has she arrived yet?" he asked, spraying cake out of his mouth as he spoke.
Sherlock glanced up, his eyes clocking the frosting and with that, Sherlock was off. Laughter poured from his mouth like a burst river from its banks, filling the room with the baritone chortles. John glanced at Sherlock, smiling softly. It was rare to see the detective laugh so freely, so wildly. He wanted to stop it, for Mycroft's sake. But at the same time he didn't want to.
He couldn't do that.
Not to him.
"M-Mycroft" Sherlock spluttered, holding his sides and pointing at his brother's face. "Was it a meringue? Or a Victoria Sponge?" Sherlock was giggling now, wiping his eyes to clear the tears of laughter. It may have not been the funniest circumstances. In fact, to someone outside of the loop, seeing a grown up man like Sherlock Holmes laughing hysterically at a piece of frosting almost made one consider the possibilities of him having an idiot's mind, but to John it was just like the Holmes brother wanted it to be. Not the revenge that Sherlock wanted, but a start nonetheless.
"Honestly, boys." A smooth voice behind them stopped Sherlock's giggling sharply. John turned on the settee and eyed the owner of the voice. An incredibly tall woman studied them with dark critical eyes, her bow-lips pursed up in annoyance. John felt his mouth gape open. He had never seen such a striking beauty before. Despite her age, Violet Holmes seemed as youthful as her sons, her rich curled dark brown hair not hinting any signs of grey, and not a wrinkle betraying her smooth face.
Sherlock was right. She had the same sloping cheekbones, straight nose and almond-shaped eyes; but the colour was off, darker than the consulting detective's. She was dressed in immaculately cut trousers, a sand-coloured cashmere jumper and a dark grey blazer adorned with a large diamond brooch.
"You never change do you?" she simpered, her rich French accent coming through as she stared at the four men before her, mainly focusing on Mycroft and Sherlock. "You were just the same even when you were boys. I've never seen so many tantrums," she remarked, bringing out a handkerchief from her leather bag. She snapped it shut efficiently and leant forward to wipe Mycroft's face. "I cannot believe I'm still doing this to you, Mycroft – surely you've gained some table manners since I last met you? And Sherlock dear, you can put down that fork now, darling".
"M-Mummy," Sherlock gasped, blindly groping for John's hand, his fork hitting the plate with a loud clang.
Violet stopped dabbing at Mycroft's face to smile rigidly at her two boys, her mouth barely extending to show her motherly love. "Ah, my darling boys. Such… precious little angels. Mycroft sweetie, you need to lose weight. Sherlock… You need to gain some. Always the opposite," she tutted, before casting her eye over the doctor beside Sherlock.
"And you must be John Watson." Her smile stretched slightly as she reached forward to clasp the doctor's hand, tugging gently on his arm. "No formalities now sweetie, we're family." With surprising strength she pulled John upright and into the cool embrace of her arms. John hesitantly hugged her back, inhaling her smell of Chanel No. 5 and leather. As she pulled away, she pressed a small present into his hand. It was square and solid, wrapped beautifully in a dark purple wrapping with a trailing silver bow.
"Just a trinket. Greg has something similar." She pulled an equally neatly-wrapped present out of her bag and swooped down to wrap the still-seated detective into a small embrace.
"Open them later, darlings. Now, my boys," she drew the last sound out as she pulled the two men together in a tight hug, pressing Sherlock and Mycroft together in a uncomfortable hug.
She pulled back rapidly and held her sons at arm's length. "Honestly, you get more handsome everyday, Mycroft. No wonder Greg has a hard time keeping his hands off you. And darling if you want to cover up that love bite, I suggest MAC makeup –" she rootled in her bag and produced a large white compact powder, to which Mycroft flushed; the almost invisible mark on his neck standing out now. " – And Sherlock… Well…You smell like a laboratory rat darling. Didn't you shower beforehand?" She wrinkled her nose up delicately. "I didn't expect the height of cleanliness from you darling, but really. Basic hygiene? And you must get that blasted mop of your hair cut back; it makes you look unruly. I'll book you in at Georgy's sweetie, they like you there." As she continued talking, she walked away from him, lightly patting her youngest son on the shoulder as she passed.
John took in Sherlock's expression; the bitten lip, the flash of suppressed anger in his eyes, the unnatural pale hue of his skin. He had never seen his fiancé so angry, yet so composed.
"Now… Where is that father of yours? I left him at the front desk twenty minutes ago and – Oh, there you are, my love." A short laugh came from the door and John turned around to see a smaller man, wearing a fedora and a swish pinstripe suit. His face was handsome in an understated way, and his smile was a carbon-copy of Mycroft's. But when he glanced at each man in the room, John spotted his ice-blue irises, like chips of a glacier burning into his eyes.
Sherlock's eyes.
Reviews most welcome and loved! - Flamers not so much.
*Disclaimer*
I don't own any of the characters - Everything goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
TBC.
