New Year's Eve

Chapter Summary: Having made a promise, John goes to Lucian and Bella's New Years Party and meets some interesting people.

Warning: Slight cliffhanger and themes that have already appeared in this fic.

Also, happy New Year to you all. I hope you all have a lovely time :)

Thank you to NicolettelliW for all her help :)

31st December 2005

John backed away nervously. "Do I have to?" he whined.

"You agreed to go," Sherlock pointed out, a little too smugly in John's opinion. "You therefore require this," he said, holding out the black piece of fabric.

"But…" John pulled a face. "Please?"

"Either go and wear the appropriate clothes, or don't go and stop whining about it."

It was really tempting, John thought as he stared at Sherlock. The idea of going to this party had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially when his grandparents had mentioned that there would be other kids going his own age.

They'd made it seem so sensible and fun. That was until Sherlock had snorted and muttered something about suits, crab salads and dancing.

John was still kinda hoping that last one was a joke. Or, if he were wishing for things, it was all a joke. His grandparents had been so pleased when he'd said yes. Even Mycroft had cracked a small smile.

He really didn't want to make them sad, or start another fight. Things were going so well at the moment.

Reluctantly, he held out his hand and took the bow tie thing. Studying it, he turned it over in his hands before looking up at Sherlock, baffled. "What do I do with it?"

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully. "I deleted it," he said after a moment. "But…" he beckoned John over and knelt down, laying the fabric under John's collar and tilting his head. "I can work it out."

"Sure you don't want to come?" John asked hopefully as Sherlock lay the stands over each other muttering to himself. "You could tell me how stupid they all are."

Sherlock raised his eyes briefly. "I'd be stupid if I fell for that." He pulled a face and undid his work, starting over again. "And I'm starting to wonder about your level of intelligence for wanting to go."

John stared at the wall and Sherlock paused.

"You do…they haven't pushed you into going?" Sherlock asked, suddenly looking him up and down.

"No…they seemed really happy that I said yes."

Sherlock pulled back looking confused. "You are aware that doesn't stop that from saying no?"

John nodded but Sherlock seemed unconvinced. With an annoyed sound he pulled back and reached for his phone.

"Seriously," John pleaded. "It's fine. If I hate it I'll call you."

Sherlock ignored him, his fingers flittering over the buttons.

"I don't want to disappoint them."

Sherlock's thumb paused and he looked at John.

"It starts in forty minutes," John added. "They'll be looking forward to it."

Sherlock continued to stare.

"I'll know for next time," John continued. "Think of it as a lesson."

Sherlock slowly looked back down at his phone and then his fingers flew again, texting. He slipped the phone in his pocket then continued fixing the bow-tie

"Who did you text?" John asked.

"Unimportant," Sherlock dismissed. "But I want you to promise that should you feel…uncomfortable you will get in contact with me."

John nodded.

"The words," Sherlock prompted, sitting back on his heels as he managed to complete the bow tie.

"I promise," John huffed, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock's hands suddenly slid up, cupping his cheeks as the man studied John. Then he shook his head and stood, just as a text alert went off.

Maybe it was because Sherlock had lowered his expectation, but he was actually enjoying himself. Some of the kids were horribly spoiled, but some were fun. They had a brief game of shoving ice cubes down people's shirts and dresses as they sat in their chairs before Chris' dad caught the four of them and punished them with ice cubes down their shirts.

It had been freezing. No wonder all the people had yelped. Mycroft had watched with amusement as John had wriggled at the sensation.

And it was weird to see the way everyone reacted to the Holmes family. Most people seemed eager for Mycroft's attention while they all seemed to respect his grandparents. His grandmother looked elegant and…warm, which sounded stupid, he guessed.

"Have you tried some of the buffet?" she asked, catching him in between games.

John peered down at the table and turned to her. "Which one's got crabs in it?" he asked warily. "Or weird things?"

"Did your father tell you that?" she asked, frowning.

"It came up," John said trying to not look to disturbed at the idea.

She smiled down at him and led him to the table. "Here," she said. "Chicken, coleslaw, ham. Potatoes. Crisps."

John peered at them all, satisfying himself that they all looked the same as normal. "Where's the fancy stuff?"

"At the adults table," she said, nodding to what looked like a huge dead fish on the table across from them.

John stared at the unseeing eye and then at the rather elaborate looking food surrounded by quite a bit of greenery. "You can have some from here if you like," he offered.

She laughed, sounding delighted and reached out, popping a crisp in her mouth as she winked at him before finding a plate for him.

"Sit down to eat it," she added, pointing at the table to the side. "I imagine your fellow miscreantswill be joining you soon."

John hesitated suddenly. "Am I being too-"

"No," she shook her head. "I believe the expression is 'delightfully cheeky' rather than naughty."

He could live with that.

Outside, Mycroft approached the figure standing on the balcony, staring down at the gardens below as he smoked.

"Mother will have your head if she catches you."

"I doubt not smoking will change that," Sherlock said, taking a deep drag. In the cold weather the smoke billowed up as Mycroft stood next to him.

"Why not let them know you're here?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored him. "John's enjoying himself."

Mycroft wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was pleased with that. "It's good," he pointed out. "They'll be his classmates."

Sherlock pulled a face at that. "I know," he scowled, glaring out at the night.

"You should talk to them," Mycroft added, taking a sip of brandy. "You may have to put up with their presence in your flat at some point."

Sherlock turned to him quickly, "Why?"

"He may wish to invite them over."

Sherlock looked pained at the idea, but turned back to the gardens as if seeking the answer to his distaste at the idea in the view.

"I see Mr Pentay is still having his affair," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Indeed. One does wonder why, after fifteen years, he doesn't simply end the marriage."

"Coward," Sherlock said dismissively. "All of them: they're so hypocritical and useless."

"You're generalising," Mycroft warned quietly.

Sherlock smiled. "No greater crime in your eyes."

Mycroft smiled as he took a sip. "Did you see David Myer tonight with John?"

"Ah yes, the ice cube punishment," Sherlock shook his head. "I still remember when his mother bit him after he bit you."

Mycroft nodded slowly, "They seem to have developed an interesting tradition for punishment. His son and John appear to partners in crime this evening."

"I suppose of all the people here John could have picked worse."

"Indeed. Were you aware Lisa Williams married and had children?" Mycroft asked, thinking of the irritating peer of his.

"I rather believe I had deleted that horrendous fact," Sherlock said, turning suddenly so he was leaning back against the rails and looking into the grand room.

"Strange isn't it? To see those we grew up with have children of their own."

"No," Sherlock tilted his head back as he breathed out the smoke. "Strange how most you grew up with have children by now."

Mycroft swallowed. "You sound like mother."

"And your reasoning is foolish," Sherlock replied flicking away the butt of the cigarette.

"Leave it alone, Sherlock."

Suddenly Mycroft felt his brother's attention snap away from him as he stood up properly, alert. Curious by the sudden change, Mycroft turned to see Alice Watson greet a couple.

"Where's Nigel?" Mycroft asked, eyes darting around the crowd.

"Where's John," Sherlock snarled, striding forward.

He, Chris, Max and Phoebe had snuck upstairs for a game of hide and seek. There were some epic hiding places around the place – heavy curtains and deep furniture were fantastic for it and it had taken Max ages to find all of them.

But Max had found John first so it was his turn to search for them all.

Laughing, he dashed down the hall, ignoring the rooms that had been useless when he's looked for a hiding place.

Someone was in the hallway and he skidded, trying to miss them and not slow down too much. "Sorry," he called.

And panicked when a hand shot out and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off his feet. He ended up being pushed against the wall, staring up at a familiar face.

Horrified, he stared up at Nigel Watson, swallowing nervously without a clue of what he was meant to say.

"How dare you?" Nigel asked, "Come here with the decent people you little thief."

John tried to squeeze himself back against the wall. "I…"

But Nigel wasn't having it. Instead he shoved John harder into the wall. "I will not have you ruin my reputation," he hissed. "Leave, before they connect us. Run away."

John stared up at him, hating the fact that they shared the same eyes and colouring. The memory of his Mum's tears after seeing this man, of the look, the screaming the shouting, the horrible words.

But he hadn't had Sherlock then.

"No," John said, hating that his voice wobbled and broke as he said the single word.

The blow took him by surprise. His cheek suddenly burned from the slap and his cheek smarted as one of the rings on Nigel's hand caught the skin. Stunned, he raised his hand to his cheek and stared at the drops of blood that came off.

Nigel grabbed at him again. "They won't want you when they know," he hissed.

"They know already," John protested, wriggling.

"That you've stolen? Been used to break into a house like theirs?"

John stared up at him, horrified. "How-"

"Your mother thought the story would tug at my heart strings," Nigel scoffed. "How trapped she was, forced to let you wriggle through a window for burglars." He leaned forward and John winced at the smell of alcohol. "You both disgust me. Rotten to the core, you and your mother."

At the mention of his mother, John felt his temper rise. "We had to," he hissed. "You threw her out."

"Because of you."

John's breath hitched and he tried to press back into the wall, hoping stupidly that he would manage to vanish through it.

"Every bad thing she has done had been because of you," Nigel snarled. "You've poisoned everything."

John sucked in a sob, determined not to cry in front of him.

"They shouldn't have broken your arm," Nigel added. "They should have done us all a favour and gotten rid of you, once and for all."

This time he couldn't stop the hitched sob and the way his vision blurred.

"Run," Nigel snarled at him.

John stared up at him, too scared to do anything.

"Remove your hands from my nephew."

Nigel stiffened and let out a scornful puff of whiskey soaked breath before he turned his head. His body blocked John's view of Mycroft.

"This isn't the same Mycroft," Nigel said after a moment. "At least with you there was some hope of improvement. This boy is rotten to the core, there's nothing there to salvage."

John closed his eyes, not wanting to hear what Mycroft was going to say. What if he agreed? What if he joined in? What if he suddenly realised and was upset?

"I suggest you do not make me ask twice."

The bruising grip suddenly vanished but John remained exactly where he had been pressed, not daring to move.

"Come here, John."

Instantly obedient, John scampered forward, Mycroft looked tall and menacing and didn't look at him as John darted him. Instead, like Sherlock sometimes did, he lifted his arm for John to duck under.

Wanting desperately to hide somewhere, John pressed his face into Mycroft's side and felt Mycroft's arm lower to curl around him protectively.

"He's fooling you-"

"You were not invited," Mycroft said firmly.

"Because of him?" Nigel sneered. "I will not have that boy associated with me-"

"Most people had forgotten," Mycroft argued. "You have reminded them, not us."

"The boy carries my name."

No. It was his mum's name and fuck him if he thought he was giving it up. Riding on the swell of temper, John started to pull out of Mycroft's comforting hold but the arm tightened, preventing him from looking over.

"It's a common name," Mycroft said simply.

Despite everything, John almost sniggered at that, knowing it would infuriate Nigel. Under him he felt Mycroft tense, not in fear but just as if he were getting ready for something.

"I don't think your grandfather did a thorough job with you," Nigel sneered.

A tremor of something went through Mycroft. "I'm sure you can imagine how much I care about your attempts at a thought process," Mycroft hissed, suddenly sounding a lot like Sherlock.

"There's a failure in every generation, isn't there Mycroft?"

John pressed against his uncle, wanting to help yet having no idea how to. But he was shocked when suddenly Mycroft's body rumbled with laughter.

"Something funny?" Nigel asked, sounding more annoyed that Mycroft wasn't afraid.

"I fear it would go over your head."

There was a snort. "I do hope you remember our chat, John."

John just pressed into Mycroft. A hand rubbed his back gently, then paused.

"Sherlock, leave it," Mycroft suddenly called.

Sherlock?

John pulled away from Mycroft and flew at his father, not even caring that Sherlock and Nigel were glaring at each other. Sherlock turned to pull him close and then froze, the fury on his face making John nearly fall over himself as he stopped suddenly.

Then his mouth gaped as Sherlock turned and threw a punch at Nigel, catching the older man as he stumbled and almost throwing him up against the wall.

"Sherlock!"

"He hit him," Sherlock growled, fingers tightening around Nigel's throat.

A hand suddenly reached around to cup John's chin and tilt his head up. Mycroft's face suddenly turned to thunder and John curled in on himself

"Go downstairs," Mycroft said, raising cold eyes to Nigel and Sherlock.

A little lost and suddenly scared of all the people downstairs, John stuck to the edges of the room, carefully making his way around until he spotted his grandmother doing up the bow of a little girl.

His friends were probably still upstairs, John thought suddenly. They were probably starting to think he was rubbish at hide and seek.

"Grandma?"

The word came out without him really thinking about it. She turned, her face lit up before it suddenly dropped at the sight of him.

He flinched back, even as she came forward and, like Mycroft, cupped his chin. "What happened?"

"I…nothing," he hunched his shoulders, wondering what he looked like.

"Sweetheart, someone's hit you," she breathed, tilting him up to the light so she could see the marks better. Then she paused and turned to look at a lady across the room, straightening angrily.

"No," John blinked in confusion having no idea who the woman was. "It was a man upstairs. Sherlock and Mycroft are talking to him."

His grandmother hesitated, her eyes looking up, then over John's head.

"Did you see Nigel go up?" she asked.

"They're leaving soon," his grandfather's tired voice said.

"Did you see Nigel-"

"It was him," John huffed miserably.

"What do you mean-" his grandfather said behind him, suddenly sounding alert.

His grandmother put her hand on his shoulders comfortingly. "It's all right sweetheart."

"Bella?" his grandfather was starting sound really pissed off. "What's happened?"

"He hit me," John shrugged her hand off and turned around. "It's not a big-"

His grandfather's pale face made him stop. He seemed to be struggling to breathe as he stared at John's cheek.

Jesus, no-one had been this fussed when his arm had been broken. It was a bruise and a cut!

"You need some ice," his grandfather said eventually. "Come on."

"You let him in?" Sherlock stormed in, the doors banging in his wake as he entered the hall to the kitchens where they were sat. "You let him near my son."

"Has he gone?" Lucian asked, standing up.

Sherlock sneered, "Of course he has; do you really think I would be here if that man were remotely near the building?"

Behind him, Mycroft entered with far less drama, his face drawn and tight.

"What did you do to him?"

Sherlock's face spasmed in fury. "Nothing he didn't deserve-"

"Do you think I'm concerned about him?" Lucian asked. "I couldn't give a damn if he were bleeding in a gutter somewhere. What I care about is if you will be held up for it."

Mycroft shook his head minutely. "Unless he wishes to discuss what led to it."

"You lecture me about being irresponsible," Sherlock sneered. "He should not have been allowed anywhere near-"

"And you should have brought John down before you did anything," Bella said, standing and leaving John sat on a seat alone. "I can't believe the pair of you! He'd been hit and you brushed him off-"

"Brushed him off?" Mycroft asked, sounding taken aback.

"He was scared-"

"Because Nigel had been let in the building-"

"You care more about your own vengeance than your son," Bella scolded.

Sherlock took a furious step forward. "What did you just say?"

"Don't you dare talk to your mother like that," Lucian snarled.

"Oh yes, it's just your wife you wish to defend-"

John stared at them all, his heart slumping until it weighed down in his stomach painfully.

"You're poison."

He skulked backwards, eyes darting from angry face to angry face.

Then he turned.

"Run."