The morning of December 1st, her phone lit up with a text saying Getting ready to put up the decorations and roping your dad into helping. Interested in joining us? – SH
Rosie had trained him well.
If there was one thing Sherlock and Dad had learned upon becoming parents, it was that you never, under any circumstances, skipped or skimped on Christmas (or Hanukkah or whatever your big holiday was) when you had a child. Before she came along, according to Dad, they would put a Santa hat on Billy The Skull, enjoy Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and maybe if he was in the mood Sherlock would play a few carols for friends. They didn't always have a tree and had only recently begun exchanging presents.
After Rosie was born, they had a tree every year and made an event out of buying it and decorating it, and the flat was decked with boughs of holly, stockings, poinsettias, and other seasonal items. They watched Christmas movies on telly and gave presents to each other and their friends, and not only did Sherlock play carols every year, sometimes Rosie was even able to talk him into going caroling with her and some of the neighbors (not Dad though; he was too self-conscious about his singing). Sherlock had resisted it all at first, sharing some of his brother's disdain for the tradition and sentimentality of it all, but after seeing how much Rosie would jump around and light up and hug him at any one of these things, he began to get as into it as she was.
The best part—next to Christmas morning, of course—was their Christmas Eve party.
Sherlock was already opening the boxes by the time she arrived, and a frayed elf hat was perched on top of his curly head. Both he and Dad were in their robes and the latter was sipping tea while reading the paper. Rosie had barely finished greeting them when they both asked, "So what are you going to make?"
"What?"
"For the Christmas party," Dad said with a knowing smile.
"Surely you're planning to grace our guests with your baking, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.
Rosie grinned. "I might do. What would you like?"
"Biscuits," said Sherlock at the same time that Dad said, "Fruit tarts."
They turned to look at each other and before Rosie could stop them they were saying "Biscuits!" "Fruit tarts!" "Biscuits!" "Fruit tarts!" She laughed and shook her head.
"All right, all right, I'll make both," she said loudly.
"Mrs. Hudson or Molly always bring biscuits; it only makes sense for you to make something else," Dad grumbled.
"I'll make both," she insisted. She started to ask what kind before remembering that Sherlock would say chocolate chip and Dad would say oatmeal raisin and then they'd start up again. Sometimes she thought it was a wonder they were ever able to have meals together. "And Greg likes my sugar biscuits, right?"
"Who?" Sherlock asked.
"Lestrade," they answered. Sherlock grinned and began hanging the stockings. Rosie sat down and started untangling the colored Christmas lights. She was tempted to start humming carols already. The Christmas Eve party was a small one, consisting of the three of them, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and her wife, Stella; Greg, and on very rare occasions, Mycroft. One year Anderson had joined them as well, but his obsessively following Sherlock around and badgering him about his cases had led to him never being invited back. Every year they gathered in 221B, sipped wine, listened to Sherlock play and occasionally sang along, and stuffed their faces with sweets. There had been talk of hosting it in 221A this year to make it easier on Mrs. Hudson, but the woman wouldn't hear of it. "I'm going upstairs or I'm not going," she said firmly, and Sherlock and Dad agreed to carry her with Greg's help.
"Oh yeah, he loves them," Dad said, disrupting her memories. "Can't get enough of your sugar biscuits. And Molly's peanut butter."
"Which she'll begin baking for us all again on the 23rd," Sherlock said without turning away from the mantle. They didn't bother asking how he'd figured that one out.
With the lights untangled, Rosie moved to unpacking the boxes that held the wreaths and holly. Dad set aside his tea and fetched his tool set from his closet, and Sherlock's little pout wasn't lost on Rosie. For all that he was a genius, Posh Boy was useless with even the simplest of home improvement supplies. One time he had tried to use a hammer and a nail and they'd very nearly been forced to have the whole wall redone. Rosie wasn't much better and never cared for handyman work anyway, so it was left to Dad to do the hanging and drilling and stepladder climbing and other odd jobs like these. Thankfully he was used to working with his hands and good at it.
Rosie got up and held the ladder for him while he mounted it and began stringing along the holly. "So we've got biscuits and fruit tarts. Anything else?"
Dad grunted from reaching so high—even with the ladder his height made this tricky. "Greg said he's bringing lava cakes."
"Mm, good," Sherlock said. The man never could get enough dark chocolate.
"Sounds like an impressive spread," Rosie said, her stomach rumbling at the thought of all of that delicious food. "But I think I'll bring just one more thing. Surprise everybody with something new, you know?"
"Pie," Sherlock immediately guessed. "Cake? Cupcakes?"
Rosie giggled at how serious he looked. "You still can't grasp the meaning of the word surprise, can you?"
"Sugar plums? Pudding?"
"You'll see! You just have to wait until Christmas Eve like everybody else."
"Custard!"
"Love, he is undoubtedly going to find out," Dad said with a laugh as he climbed down. "He'll probably break into your bakery to do it."
Rosie was already formulating a plan.
The weeks before Christmas passed quickly. Holiday seasons were always a busy time and she handed off order after order to harried customers who were bundled up against a winter even colder than usual. This resulted in her mostly shopping online this year, which, contrary to what Mrs. Hudson said, did not take all the fun out of it. In fact, Rosie thought there was far more fun to be had in cuddling on the couch with a laptop, a blanket, and a cup of hot cocoa than fighting through crowds and traffic while lugging around heavy packages.
When at last Christmas Eve came, she had an excuse to close early and begin baking. She liked to start as late as possible so the food could be fresh. The biscuits went quickly; she had baked them so many times as a kid (from her own recipe, no less) that she barely even had to think about them. In no time they were finished, cooled, and packed away while they were still warm.
The fruit tarts were trickier because they meant having to divide the dough and pat out the crusts before making the filling and glaze and cutting the fruit. Fruit was expensive and not easy to get this time of year, but by going to the shops early in the week Rosie had managed to snag berries, kiwi, and sliced mango. She arranged them by grouping dark colors next to light for contrast, applied whipped cream generously, and stuck them in the fridge.
All this time her phone had lit up every few seconds with Croissants? – SH. Fruit cake? – SH. Gingerbread? – SH. Chocolate covered strawberries? – SH. Cinnamon rolls? – SH. Something with marshmallows? – SH. None of which were bad ideas, but Rosie had made many of those things (especially gingerbread men and gingerbread houses; God she was sick of the stuff) for her customers. She had a better idea that she wanted to try, but before she could try it she would need to check for spies.
A quick sweep of the place revealed no homeless network or government agents crouched in corners. If there were hidden cameras, they were so tiny she couldn't see them. It was lucky that Uncle Mycroft loathed Christmas enough to refuse his brother any help with the matter or she wouldn't have stood a chance. She checked the streets outside. Nothing unusual. Finally deciding it was safe, Rosie headed to her bottom cabinets to get the pan she needed.
The foot was what made her scream.
Not for too long though, as it was a familiar foot that moved back quickly and was revealed to be attached to her sheepish-but-also-quite-proud-of-himself-looking father. "Sherlock!"
"Hello, Watson."
"Get out! What are you doing in there?"
"Surely you can deduce that for yourself," he said as he curled up and carefully scooted out from his cramped quarters.
She tried to look stern and failed. "You are unbelievable."
"So I've heard." He grabbed the stool she kept behind the counter and plopped himself down on it with his hands clasped in front of him. "Carry on. Just pretend I'm not here."
"Sherlock."
"Pleeease?" He stuck out his lower lip and batted his long lashes. "It's Christmas," he said in a slightly whiny tone.
Rosie was torn between giving in and kicking him out when she had an idea. "We'll compromise." She kept a bandana near her workstation that she sometimes used to tie her hair back while working and she grabbed it now. "You'll observe with one of your senses hindered." Sherlock, who of course was quick on the uptake, smiled in agreement and shut his eyes as she tied the bandana around them. "Let's see how good a detective you are."
That was some of the most fun Rosie ever had baking. Every time something touched the counter or she stirred, Sherlock commented on it. "One of your ingredients is light and multiple, probably crushed biscuit or something of that nature. Your strokes indicate a small mixing bowl. Hmm, I smell mint. Interesting."
Rosie had fun messing with him as well. Every now and then she would rattle a bag or run a whisk around the bottom of a mixing bowl she wasn't using to confuse him, though he rarely fell for it. He had kept guessing everything under the sun until finally the timer on the oven was getting low, her workspace was clean, and the delicious aroma was unmistakable.
"Brownies!" he finally shouted with a finger in the air.
Rosie removed his blindfold and let him stand up from the stool. "Not just any brownies. These are special Christmas edition brownies with extra fudge and crushed candy canes."
"Just as I thought," Sherlock said, and Rosie swatted him with the bandana. "You did not!" she retorted as the timer dinged. He helped her take the pan out and set it on the heating pad she'd placed on the counter. She looked at her creation for a minute and was pleased with it, but it was still too plain.
Sherlock, brilliant git he was, read her mind and handed her tubes of red and green icing and Christmas sprinkles. "Have at it," he said fondly.
"Thank you," Rosie said, and wrote Merry Christmas in alternating colors and lightly—brownies weren't supposed to be overloaded with decoration, after all—dropped a few sprinkles on top. With Sherlock's help, she covered the top of the pan with foil and bundled it up with the biscuits and fruit tarts.
"I don't know why anyone bothers cooking Christmas Eve dinner when they could easily make a meal out of your desserts," Sherlock told her while they walked out of the bakery together.
"Well, it isn't just me. Everyone pitches in," she reminded him and set her boxes down to lock the door. "That's what Christmas is about, you know: everyone giving and receiving."
Sherlock nodded and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. The two of them hailed a cab and huddled together on their way home, hardly able to wait for the night ahead and the morning after.