Oh. My. God. I have gotten, like, 177 followers and honestly, I never thought that my stuff would catch the interest of so many people. I mean, I know that realistically it's not that bit of a deal, but it is to me and I really do love and care about each and every one of you. So tell me how you're doing. Please. I really wanna know. And if you're dealing with shit or feeling alone, I wanna help. I really do. No one should be suffering alone.
Anyway, I wanna thank, as always, FrankandJoe3 for always staying awesome and being my own personal fabulous little otter, HilsonAddict, jtkorth, sherwolf, WhoLockedWood and every other person who is following me. Again, I love you all.
Chapter Eleven: The Party Pt. 1
John and Sherlock got into the black car that had appeared outside their flat and John surreptitiously glanced at Sherlock's empty lap, a gift wrapped little box in his own hands.
"Did you really not get him anything?" John asked disapprovingly, looking at the other man as the car moved through London.
"Of course I did," Sherlock said almost indignantly, pulling a ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket.
"A pen," John said disbelievingly.
"No, no, not just any pen, John," Sherlock said, smirking at his doctor while holding both ends of the pen. "This is my pen. This pen has been used in many a successful case. This pen is royalty, John."
"How generous of you," John said sarcastically, looking out the window as he rolled his eyes.
"Well, I am an Internet phenomenon, and I should think it would be an honour to be allowed an object that has be utilised by such a phenomenon," Sherlock said, his voice dripping sarcasm and irony, a playful smile on his face.
"You're a git, you know that?" John said, also smiling, as both of them chuckled and Sherlock put the pen back into his coat.
"So what did you end up getting him?" Sherlock asked after a moment.
"Don't you already know?" John asked in surprise as the car moved through London, the setting sun casting rays of golden light across the city, the clouds igniting with a fiery explosion of gold, orange, and pink.
"Didn't pay that much attention to you," Sherlock said, looking straight ahead. "Though judging by the size of the package and the apparent weight, a CD, two because you don't want him to think you're being cheap. Opera because that's what you think he likes."
"Rutland Boughton's The Immortal Hour. Will he like it?" John asked uncertainly.
"Of course he'll like it, John. Mycroft loves the opera," Sherlock said, still looking out the windshield as they left the city.
"Mycroft doesn't live in the city?" John asked in confusion as industry turned to country.
"His work, which takes up most of his life, revolves around the city," Sherlock responded. "He needs to be able to get away from it all and relax every once in a while."
"Every once in a while?" John repeated, brow furrowed.
"Like I said, his job takes up most of his life," Sherlock explained. "He has a flat in the city so that he can be nearby should something happen, but he enjoys coming here when he can."
"So how many people are gonna be there?" John asked after a while.
"A lot," Sherlock said simply.
"All family?"
The detective scoffed. "Now that would be torturous."
He said no more on the subject and John looked out the window at the rolling scenery, marvelling at how peaceful and hopeful everything looked when blanketed by the sun's dying glow.
After a while more, the car turned up a long, winding driveway lined with cars and pulled up in front of the house of Mycroft Holmes.
"Oh, my god," John said, absolutely stunned, as he gazed in wonder at the gigantic cream-coloured mansion with turrets and cupolas, massive windows, and lights in nearly every window, turning the house into a beacon of life and hope.
"John, are you okay?" Sherlock asked, calm with a touch of concern.
"This is incredible," John breathed, his eyes wide, jaw hanging open.
"It's a mansion," Sherlock said simply.
"And it's incredible," John repeated, still gazing at wonder at the massive and magnificent house.
"Oh, you're not used to houses like this," Sherlock said understandingly, nodding at the doctor.
"No, what I'm used to is a two-bedroom flat in the city, not an enormous mansion in the country."
"Would you like to see the inside of it?"
John finally tore his eyes away from the mansion and looked in wonder at the detective smirking at him, a glint in his blue-green eyes. Sherlock got out of the car and held his hand out to John, gently pulling the doctor out of the car.
They went up the walkway lined with large spherical lights, several people milling around outside, all dressed very posh. A couple of people were smoking, but John pulled Sherlock past them before the detective could become tempted by the smoke. They entered the house and John was shocked into stillness by the immensely grand foyer with a sweeping staircase, expensive paintings, and a large and elaborate chandelier hanging high above his head.
"How… How does he do this?" John asked in amazed disbelief, his eyes again exhibiting protuberance, his jaw experiencing a magnetic pull towards the floor.
"Personifying the British government has its perks," Sherlock explained, amused by the doctor's reaction.
"May I take your coat, sir?" a young male butler asked, looking from Sherlock to John.
"No, thank you, Thompson," Sherlock said pleasantly.
"I'm good," John said, still a bit in shock.
Thompson nodded, left them, and they walked into the colossal ballroom to the left, the room one half open space, one half filled with circular tables with elaborate floral centrepieces on each table.
John just sighed and shook his head at the impressiveness of it all before looking at the box in his hands and wondering where he should put it.
"Come on," Sherlock said, taking the doctor's elbow and walking him through the room and the huge group of people around the room.
"See that man over there?" Sherlock said, nodding to a rather old man in a blue suit and white shirt. "He's the prime minister of Sweden. The man standing next to him is our prime minister. His wife had an affair, but he's trying to keep it out of the press. He also had his dog euthanized earlier today, but he's trying to get over it even though he loved the dog a bit more than his wife and had it for thirteen years. He's saying that he didn't bring his wife because she's sick, but really he just doesn't want to be around her.
"That man over there is the prime minister of Ireland and he's only here to try to gain more power and more allies in the British government. The young lady next to him is his assistant. He's physically abusing her—only a bit—but she won't tell anyone because one: she needs the job and two: she feels she deserves the abuse."
"What about your family?" John asked curiously.
"See that girl over there?" Sherlock nodded to a girl of about sixteen sitting alone at a table. The girl had long, straight black hair, black make-up and nail polish, and a red circular gem handing around her neck by a thin black cord. She was wearing a simple black dress and black fishnet gloves and had a look of utter desolation on her pale and flawless face, her attention directed to her iPod, her elbow on the table, her head in her hand.
"That's my cousin, Evelyn. She's having problems with her parents, but they forced her to come here because they want to give an appearance of normalcy. And they thought that she would injure herself if left alone, which she would. Not that they care, they just don't want to deal with another self-inflicted injury. She's been suffering from anorexia and chronic loneliness since she was, oh, eight. She's gay, but her parents don't approve, that's another reason they brought her here, they want to find her a boyfriend. She's not allowed to be herself apart from some of her clothing and her music. Her parents control what she watches, what she buys, where she goes to school—she goes to a very conservative private school—what she eats, etcetera. She's been cutting herself for about two years, tried to commit suicide twice and her parents forced her into an 'anti-gay' program to try to 'heal' her."
"My god, poor girl," John said empathetically.
"I hate her parents," Sherlock remarked as they continued walking.
"Because they're homophobic?"
"Because they're idiots," Sherlock said rather bitterly, not looking at John.
"Isn't everyone an idiot compared to you?"
"You're not."
John was shocked into stillness for a moment before Sherlock pulled him into a little room off the ballroom that was filled with gifts.
Sherlock took the gift from John's hands and tossed it haphazardly onto the pile.
"Be careful," John said worriedly.
"Oh, don't worry, it'll be fine. Come on," Sherlock said apathetically, leaving the room again.
"Refreshment, sir?" a butler holding a tray of champagne flutes asked John.
"Umm, no thanks. Why didn't he ask you?" John asked Sherlock once the butler had gone.
"These are Mycroft's servants, they know I don't eat or drink," the detective replied, looking around with trepidation at all the people.
"Sherlock," a voice said behind them with false cheer.
They turned and saw a tall, wall-built man in his forties with short brown hair and brown eyes that betrayed the malice that he felt for the detective.
"Elijah," Sherlock said, not bothering to even partially conceal his distaste for the other man. "John, this is Elijah Prator. Elijah, Dr John Watson. Elijah is a friend of Mycroft's."
"So you're the one friend that Sherlock has," Elijah said, shaking John's hand.
"And you must know how hard that is, being friends with a Holmes man," John replied, trying to ignore the animosity crackling between the other two men.
"Oh, yes, I know how difficult their family can be. Especially Sherlock here," Elijah said, not moving his eyes from the detective's.
"How's the erectile dysfunction going?" Sherlock asked casually, his eyes boring into the other man's.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Elijah said, his small smile threatening to turn into a snarl.
"Oh, of course you don't. Especially since the erectile dysfunction is just a clever lie you told your wife to conceal the fact that what really happened is you got herpes from her boss, whom she also fancies, by the way."
"You know, I'd forgotten how much I always wanted to punch you," Elijah said, his smile completely replaced by a look of abject dislike.
"I suggest you try it and see what happens," Sherlock challenged, his head held high, eyes level with the other man's.
"Okay, okay, that's enough," John said, trying to get in between the two men and distract them. "You've both made your point. You're both plenty tough."
"You think you could win in a fight?" Elijah demanded, ignoring John.
"I know that you're an idiot and I'm the better fighter," Sherlock responded venomously.
"Elijah, Sherlock," Mycroft said as Elijah began to move threateningly toward the detective. "Not here. Please."
"My apologies, Mycroft," Elijah said after a moment, looking amiably at the other man. "It seems I'm out of practice when it comes to interacting with your brother."
"It's no trouble," Mycroft said, smiling, a champagne flute in his hand. "Most people wish to harm him every time he opens his mouth."
"Indeed. I'll just be over there, shall I?" Elijah said, nodding in a general direction.
"We'll talk later," Mycroft assured.
Elijah nodded and walked past Sherlock, slamming their shoulders together. The tension that remained in the air was a palpable, almost suffocating static that made the air hot and thin.
"So," John said after a moment, his voice breaking the tension and releasing cool oxygen back into the air. "Um, happy birthday, Mycroft."
The elder Holmes smiled at John and nodded.
"Why thank you, John," he said, holding his free hand out to his little brother palm-up. "So glad you could make it."
He looked expectantly at Sherlock, who merely raised his eyebrows and shrugged a bit. Mycroft tilted his head and gave his brother a look of doubtful certainty. Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and put a pack of cigarettes nicked from Elijah into Mycroft's hand.
"Like I said," Mycroft continued, putting the pack in his suit pocket before taking a sip of champagne. "So glad you could come."
"Oh, in honour of the anniversary of your birth, dear brother," Sherlock said, reaching into his coat pocket and presenting the pen like a sword. "I give you a pen that has been an integral part of many solved cases. This pen has been in the hands of an Internet phenomenon and I can only hope that it serves you well."
Mycroft took the pen with a genuine smile and a chuckle.
"Mummy's looking for you, by the way," he informed his little brother, still smiling.
"Mm, fireplace?" Sherlock asked.
"Last I saw her."
Sherlock nodded and led John to the other side of the room, adjacent to the foyer, stopping a few times to greet relatives or acquaintances and introduce John.
"There's a fireplace in this room?" John asked as they parted with a cousin of Sherlock's.
"No, but Mycroft saw her a while ago, so she would be in this room by now," Sherlock explained as they came upon a circle of plush armchairs.
"Sherlock," an old woman sitting in the chair across from them greeted affectionately.
John thought that this woman was Mrs Holmes until the woman in the chair in front of them stood up and turned to face them.
John instantly identified her by the slightly curly pitch-black hair cascading a bit past her shoulders and the piercingly sharp blue eyes that spoke of a woman still in her prime. Her pale skin was wrinkled, but not much, and if John had to guess her age, he would say early sixties even though he knew that she must be older. John squirmed a bit under the intensity of her gaze and wondered if she possessed the same gift as her sons. Her cold gaze certainly made him feel as if she knew all his secrets.
But then she smiled, the ice melting and her eyes becoming warm, and John could breathe again.
"Sherlock," she said lovingly, her demeanour warm and confident as she embraced her taller son. "It's so good to see you again. It's been too long."
"It's good to see you too, Mum," Sherlock said, his voice slightly vulnerable.
They released each other and Mrs Holmes turned to John, her eyes clinical and assessing.
"And you must be Dr John Watson," she said, her voice inscrutable as she held out a hand.
"I am indeed," John said as he gripped her surprisingly strong hand. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes."
"The pleasure is all mine, Dr Watson. And please, call me Ivory."
"Then I must insist that you call me John," John said, surprised at how at ease he was around a member of the Holmes family.
"Well, John, would you like to meet some of the others?" Ivory asked calmly.
"Please," John said curiously.
Ivory turned to the rest of the circle of six other elders, all looking as old as or slightly older than her, and began with the woman to her immediate right.
"John, this is Eleanor Crowler, my sister and very best friend. This is Albert Gormer, a second cousin of Sherlock's. This is Roberta Gormer, Albert's wife. Francesca Capaldi, a step-sister-in-law of mine, Norman Capaldi, Francesca's brother, and Bethanora O'Riley, another cousin."
"It's, um, nice to meet you all," John said rather awkwardly as all of the elders nodded their greeting.
"It's nice to see that Sherlock's finally found someone to be with," Roberta said approvingly, her voice about thirty years younger than her eighty-year-old form.
"Oh, we're not—" John started automatically before thinking a moment. "Actually, yes, I suppose we are boyfriends."
"I knew it," Roberta said victoriously, holding her hand out to Francesca. "I knew it would be a man."
"That's the last time I ever made a bet with you," Francesca said bitterly as she handed over quite a bit of money.
"Oh, that's what you said twenty years ago," Roberta said happily, counting up her winnings.
"I'm gonna go show John around," Sherlock said, putting a hand on the small of John's back.
"Ask Mycroft how many drinks he's had," Roberta called as they started to walk away. "I'm betting at least ten by the end of the night."
"Well, I like your family a lot more than mine," John said as they moved to the adjacent wall across from the foyer.
"That's only because they're different," Sherlock said dismissively as they leaned against the wall, looking out over the crowd.
"And because they're more interesting, exotic, and nicer than my family," John added, looking at the detective.
"Only one of those three can't be explained by it being a different family," Sherlock said, looking back at his doctor.
"And there's a lot more of them," John said.
"Partially—actually, mostly—in an attempt to gain power," Sherlock explained, looking back at everyone.
"Are you really that close to all of them? You know what I mean," John added at the detective's expression of amused disbelief.
"Like I said, attempt to gain power," Sherlock answered. "Though they are partly here because they care for Mycroft. The power drive is different for different people. You said you were my boyfriend."
"I did, didn't I?" John said, not looking at the other man.
"Why?"
"Don't you know?" John asked, turning his gaze to Sherlock's.
"Don't you want to tell me?"
"Well, it's…it's because I love you," John said, still feeling a bit weird at saying 'I love you' to Sherlock Holmes.
"What?" he asked of the detective's smirk. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No. It's a good thing. Very good."
"Why?"
"Because I love you too," Sherlock said, his voice and eyes filled with affection.
The two men gazed lovingly at each other and John felt more at home than he ever had in his entire life.
Sorry that there's no mush. But, hey, there's fluff. And I'd just like to point out that this is my own interpretation of the Holmes family and how they would act, etc. This is also what I personally view Mycroft's house as being like and how I picture a birthday party of his going. I have no basis for this other than my own mind. That being said, reviews all go to the Bring To Life Project which involves me taking reviews and digitally creating them into a sentient being of kindness and affection. ("It's alive! It's aliiiiiiivvvvvveeeee!). I love all of you and, again, if any of you wishes to talk/rant/whatever, I am always here for you. *Huggles*