A/N: Hello dearies! This is part one of this bit. I never realized how rich in content the whole Christmas situation was until I tried to write it. How did Sherlock ensure that Mycroft would be there? How did Mary end up there, especially if John wasn't speaking to her? Good stuff.

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"Oh, spare me!" Sherlock yelled in agony, covering his ears in an attempt to ward of the Spirit of Goodwill.

"You could have just asked," the cabbie said irritably, switching the radio from an awful remix of 'Last Christmas', a horrific song on its own, to an orchestral station, that was playing a decent rendition of 'O Holy Night'.

"Thank you," John said in relief, whereas Sherlock just glared out the window, placated by the change, but by no means happy.

The snowy cityscape flowed by outside the windows, made blurry by the fog on the cab's heated windows. John supposed that 'Silver Bells' was what people envisioned when it's 'Christmastime in the city', but really, it was just stressful and everyone was in an even bigger rush than usual.

"I can't believe we agreed to this," John said to Sherlock in an undertone without looking at him.

"My mother was not to be argued with," Sherlock said enigmatically.

"Come now, Sherlock, we haven't had a family dinner for years. Mycroft will be there," his mother urged, her voice over the phone sounding determined.

"Do you really want to have Mycroft and I in the same place for an extended period of time?" One more refusal, then his acceptance would be believable.

"You two can get along if you try," she insisted sharply. "And you can bring along friends. It'll be fun."

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "Absolutely not. I hate Christmas."

"Sherlock," she went on, sounding more stern, "you father and I have been worried sick about you. Just come and see us for one day."

"…Alright," Sherlock said, and sighed.

"Good. I'll see you soon!" she said triumphantly, and then Sherlock heard the line disconnect.

He sat back, staring darkly out the window.

"So, you finally gave in?" John asked, walking into the sitting room carrying two cups of steaming tea. Sherlock gratefully took the cup in John's left hand (Sherlock's cup was always in John's left).

"Got any plans for Christmas?" Sherlock asked, businesslike.

"Not as of yet," John answered, and took a sip, looking at the crackling flames in the fireplace.

"Fancy accompanying me?"

John looked at Sherlock, blinking in surprise.

"Really?" he asked, a bit stupidly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, a bit irritated at his friend's slowness. "I'm - allowed - to bring friends."

"Ah. Well," John said uncertainly. "I don't want to be caught in whatever crossfire there might be."

"Mother will ensure everyone is on their best behavior," the consulting detective urged.

John studied his friend. Sherlock didn't usually ask much of him, at least as far as personal requests went.

"You really want me to go," John said, more as a statement than a question.

"I won't deign to answer that," Sherlock replied loftily, and finally sipped his tea delicately.

"Well… sure," John finally said, agreeing. He was somewhat honored that Sherlock finally trusted him with this part of himself that had been hidden so long, whether intentionally or not.

"Excellent," Sherlock responded, exactly the way he said it when there was a favorable development on a case. John raised his eyebrow but said nothing.

"You might consider bringing Mary," the detective suggested quietly after a pause. "It will look odd if she's not with you."

John didn't respond for a long time, until after they had finished their cups.

"I don't want your family to be caught in whatever crossfire there might be. Besides, it wouldn't be that odd. Pregnant women usually don't like to travel."

Sherlock looked at his friend, assessing. John didn't seem angry or bitter. Good sign.

"I'm sure you two will be on your best behavior," Sherlock said, and it seemed almost as if he was sympathetic.

"I'll think about it," John replied, and then rose and left, as if he were going to do exactly that.

Sherlock rose as well, and walked to the window, watching the traffic and pedestrians march past.

He had a plan. A horrible, dangerous, risky plan. But it was better than nothing.

Sherlock played his violin, a slow, suspenseful tune that gave off a general feeling of impending doom.

Soon after he stopped, and put on his coat, scarf, and gloves. Now he had something he needed to do.

He disappeared down the stairwell, on a mission.

"Mothers are that way," John said with grim humor, and shifted.

"And future mothers?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I'm hoping," John said quietly.

John walked up to his room, a bit amazed that he had agreed to Christmas dinner with the Holmes family.

He opened the drawer of his old creaky nightstand, and pulled out the USB stick. Thankfully it was chrome, because if it were plastic it would have oil corrosion from all the times he just sat there, turning it over and over in his fingers.

He wanted to try.

He wanted to at least attempt reconciliation. While he fully realized that their marriage would never be restored to its previous state, (which was arguably a sign of progress,) he thought there was a chance they could keep going.

But he was afraid - afraid that this tentative forgiveness that had begun to form would be extinguished when he saw her again. And what if she wanted nothing to do with him now? Yet he sensed that she was waiting too - waiting on him. Though she was too headstrong to admit it, he had picked up a thing or two from Sherlock.

Mary could leave forever if she wanted to. She had the skills to do so legally or illegally. Yet she hadn't - she hadn't given up either. Both were waiting for something to happen, for the final blow or the miraculous healing. For better or for worse.

He knew that it wouldn't work coming from him - and additionally, he was honestly still too prideful to ask her. He didn't want to sound weak. It made him feel a bit guilty, but living with Sherlock Holmes made him guard what dignity he still possessed that much more closely.

John pulled out his phone and hit one of the numbers on speed dial.

"Mycroft? ...No, nothing's wrong. But I have a favor to ask. ...Oh, nothing too life-changing. Could you give me your mother's number please?"

"Haven't got everything sorted out with the wife yet, then?" Billy asked sympathetically in his heavy cockney accent.

John ignored him, addressing Sherlock on the other side of him instead.

"I cannot believe we are bringing him."

"Don't be rude," Sherlock admonished, though he didn't look like he really cared.

"You're not his friend. You're his errand boy," John said, finally acknowledging Billy's presence.

"Speak for yourself," Billy replied, a bit offended.

"I need you," Sherlock said suddenly as he strode into the alley, startling Billy out of sleep.

"Can it wait till mornin'?" Billy groaned, snuggling into his coat.

"Nope. Up," Sherlock said heartlessly, nudging the boy with his foot.

"Please no," Billy begged.

"Now," Sherlock said sharply.

Billy groaned and stirred into a sitting position, his long stringy hair sticking out worse than usual.

"What, Mr. 'olmes?" Billy asked grudgingly, as if forced into doing a good deed.

"I need you for a very special and dangerous job," Sherlock said, not deigning to lower himself to Billy's level, only standing imperiously.

Billy perked up. "What is it? Robbery? Esponiage? Taking the rap for killin' you?"

Sherlock frowned. "You're a strange one."

"What's the job?" Billy asked.

"I need you to come with me to my parent's house for Christmas dinner," Sherlock said solemnly.

"Are they murderers?" Billy asked.

"No," Sherlock answered, not missing a beat.

"Are they international jewel thieves?"

"Nope."

"Are they undercover spies?"

"No."

"Are they -"

"Focus, Billy," Sherlock admonished.

"Right."

"I need you to come with me and help me. It's a very secret job. You can't tell anyone." Sherlock explained.

"What's in it for me?" Billy asked shrewdly.

Sherlock pulled out a wad of notes from his pocket.

"Well sounds fair to me," Billy said contentedly.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together, most likely due to the cold.

"What do I need t' do?" Billy asked, ever-practical.

"Well, you'll need to get a haircut and a shave first," Sherlock said.

"As a disguise?" Billy asked.

"Yes. You have to pretend to be… normal." Sherlock informed him.

"I'll try," the boy replied mournfully.

"Your stop," the cabbie announced, pulling up to the kerb of the car rental place.

"I'm regretting this now," said John.

"Too bad," Sherlock replied smoothly as he led them inside.