20.

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now."

The Holmes family cottage was covered in Christmas decorations; Elspeth had strung lights around the tree, on the curtain rail, and around a picture frame while Christmas carols played incessantly on the radio. The tree had been set up in the living room and Timothy Holmes had only just finished clearing away the stray wrapping paper and bits of sellotape.

"How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony," Mycroft moaned with the same despairing tone, rubbing one hand wearily against his brow. Laughing and wearing a paper crown that had fallen out of her cracker, Elspeth wrapped her arms around Mycroft's chest from behind.

"Cheer up, Uncle Mycroft," she said happily. "It's Christmas!" she kissed his cheek and Mycroft scowled, batting her away. Sherlock looked up from his paper – Lord Smallwood suicide: Shamed peer takes own life; 63 year old dies following letters scandal – and smiled slightly at his daughter, watching her jump up on the kitchen counter, perching there despite Wanda's tutting.

"Mikey, is this your laptop?" she asked Mycroft, pointing down at the laptop on the table. It was half obscured by a chopping board on top of it. Looking down, Mycroft let out a long, suffering sigh.

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes –" he gave his mother a sarcastic smile. "– and you've got potatoes on it."

Elspeth laughed. Wanda rolled her eyes, unamused. "Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," she scolded.

"Why are we doing this? We never do this."

"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy," Wanda told him sternly. Mycroft's smile was fake and insincere.

"Am I happy too?" he asked her. "I haven't checked."

"Behave, Mike."

"Yeah, Mike, behave," Elspeth piped up, grinning when Mycroft turned and glowered at her. "You're such a Scrooge this time of year."

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end," he sneered at his mother. She ignored his sarcastic tone, used to dealing with him and Sherlock, and turned around when Bill offered her a glass of punch.

"Oh! Thank you, dear." Wanda looked closely at him. "Not absolutely sure why you're here," she added doubtfully.

"I invited him," Elspeth said with a smile. "You said it was alright, remember?"

"I'm Mr 'olmes' protégé, Mrs 'olmes. When 'e dies, I get all 'is stuff, an' 'is job," Bill explained, much to Wanda's shock. Elspeth frowned.

"No you don't," she said.

"Oh. Well, I 'elp out a bit."

"Closer," Sherlock said dryly. He didn't look up from his newspaper.

"If 'e does get murdered or something –"

"Bill," Elspeth said. Wanda and Mycroft were looking at her friend with matching appalled expressions, and she thought her grandmother might have a heart attack if they continued to talk about Sherlock being murdered. Bill looked round at her. "Shut up."

"Elspeth!" Wanda scolded.

"Sorry, Nan," Elspeth said sheepishly. "Bill, I would very much appreciate it if you were to shut your mouth and cease talking. If my Dad does ever get murdered, I'll be the one to inherit his stuff and job."

"It's always lovely when you bring your friends round," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"Stop it, you," Wanda said. "Somebody's put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." Sherlock and Elspeth's gazes met across the room then, quickly looking away from each other when Wanda turned, spotting something on the counter. "Ah. This was for Mary. I'll be back in a minute."

"We'd all hate to see her be monstrous," Elspeth mumbled behind her grandmother's back, nibbling on a biscuit. Bill leaned on the counter next to her.

"You look real pretty today, Els," he told her. She was wearing a new dress from her grandparents with boots that wouldn't have looked out of place on a biker and her hoodie. Elspeth grinned at Bill.

"You've told me that three times now," she teased. Taking her phone out of her pocket, she frowned. "Oh, er – excuse me . . ." shoving the half eaten biscuit into Bill's hand, she muttered something under her breath and ducked out of the kitchen through the side door, disappearing from sight. Sherlock watched her go.

Elspeth had been let loose in the living room with the Christmas decorations as well. Mary leaned back in the armchair, pulled her blanket a bit closer, and smiled with content as she turned the page of the book she was reading. Timothy hummed while he tended to the fire.

"Ah, Mary," Wanda said, walking in with a mug in her hand. "There you are – cup of tea. Now, if father starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it."

Mary laughed, Timothy sighing good naturedly as his wife made a joke at his expense.

"Did you write this?" Mary asked Wanda, holding the book up and showing her the cover – The Dynamics of Combustion, it was titled.

"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn't read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!" Wanda said, shaking her head. She turned and walked towards her husband, who had started to hum again. "Now, no humming, you!" she patted his backside affectionately, husband and wife sharing a brief, but meaningful smile before she left. Mary smiled at them as well.

"Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius," Timothy told her.

"She was a mathematician?"

"Gave it all up for children. I could never bear to argue with her. I'm something of a moron myself. But she's –" Timothy paused, looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one was within earshot. "Unbelievably hot!"

"Oh my God," Mary said, realisation dawning on her. "You're the sane one, aren't you?"

The living room door opened, John looking between Timothy and Mary awkwardly. Nervous, Mary flicked the book on her lap to a random page and pretended to read, just to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Oh, er – er – do you two need a moment?" Timothy asked.

"If you don't mind."

"No, of course not. I'll – I'll go see if I can help with . . . something or another." Timothy shut the door behind him, leaving John and Mary in an awkward silence that neither one knew how to break. He took a step towards her, then seemed to change his mind and walked towards the fire.

"So, are you ok?" John asked Mary.

"Oh! Are we doing conversation today?" she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "It really is Christmas!" her defensive attitude dropped slightly when John reached into his pocket, taking out the pen drive. She stared at it. "Now? Seriously? Months of silence and we're going to do this . . . now?" John nodded. "Have you read it?"

John didn't answer. He turned the pen drive around in his fingers repeatedly, not taking his eyes off it, then clasped his fist around it. "Would you come here a moment?"

"No. Tell me. Have you?"

"Just . . ." John paused. "Come here," he pleaded. Mary grimaced unhappily, unwrapping the blanket from around her and starting to rise to her feet. It was somewhat difficult considering she was very pregnant, but she waved off John's attempt to help her, too stubborn to accept it. She walked across the room and stopped in front of John. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you," he said in a tight whisper. "These are prepared words, Mary. I've chosen these words with care."

"Ok," Mary said softly.

John cleared his throat, played with the pen drive in his fist, then finally looked up at her. "The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future . . . are my privilege. It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know," he said firmly, both of them looking at the pen drive in his hand – John with determination, Mary tearfully. He dropped it into the fireplace. "No, I didn't read it."

Tears rolled down Mary's cheeks as she gazed at him disbelieving. "You don't even know my name," she choked out.

"Is Mary Watson good enough for you?"

"Oh my God, yes!" Mary sobbed, more tears escaping when John smiled – actually smiled – at her. She wrapped her arms around him, letting herself cry a bit more as her husband held her close, his embrace tight and warm and familiar. It was like they had never been apart.

Elspeth, it seemed, had disappeared completely. Sherlock did a quick sweep of the garden as he and Mycroft wandered down the path, but he couldn't see her footsteps. She must've walked down the path as well.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business," Mycroft told Sherlock. "I'm still curious, though. He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you . . . hate him?"

"Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't you?"

"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that. He's a business-man, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil – not a dragon for you to slay." Mycroft paused to take a drag from his cigarette, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"A dragon slayer," he said thoughtfully. "Is that what you think of me?" he also took a drag from his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Mycroft also smiled. "No, it's what you think of yourself," he said, his tone almost fond as he glanced at his brother.

"Are you two smoking?" Wanda demanded crossly from behind them. Both the Holmes boys whirled around, frantically holding their cigarettes behind their backs while they looked at her guiltily.

"No!" Mycroft denied quickly; Sherlock simultaneously blurted out, "It was Mycroft."

Wanda gave her boys a suspicious look, not entirely convinced by their protests, and then shut the door behind her as she walked back inside. Smirking like a schoolboy who had got away with doing something naughty, Sherlock blew out a long trail of smoke in the direction of the door. Mycroft rolled his eyes at his little brother.

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline," he told Sherlock.

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked him.

"MI6 – they want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

Sherlock had started to raise his cigarette to his lips as Mycroft spoke, but lowered in surprise. "Then why don't you want me to take it?" his tone was slightly suspicious. He and Mycroft never took care of each other, not in the conventional way siblings were supposed to. Mycroft's outright refusal to put his brother in danger surprised him.

"It's . . . tempting," Mycroft admitted. "But on balance, you have more utility closer to home."

Utility. Sherlock wanted to snort at that. "And Ellie would never forgive you," he told Mycroft, who smiled.

"I would hate to be on the receiving end of your daughter's wrath," he said. He took in a drag from his cigarette, frowning when it made him cough. "This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in."

"You need low tar. You still smoke like a beginner," Sherlock said snidely. It wouldn't be a proper conversation if one of them didn't sneer at the other.

Mycroft ignored him, strolling to the door and stopping when he reached it. "Also," Mycroft said. He didn't turn around. "Your loss would break my heart."

Spluttering, Sherlock coughed several times as he tried to comprehend what Mycroft had just said to him.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" Sherlock demanded incredulously.

"Merry Christmas?"

"You hate Christmas."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, his lips twitching into a small smile. "Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly. Go and have some more."

Elspeth was escorted up the stairs by a tall, silent man in a suit – one of Magnussen's many security guards. Her eyes were wide as she took in the opulence of her surroundings, the paper crown she'd been wearing folded and crinkling in her hoodie pocket. She'd received a phone call from an unknown number, Magnussen dryly suggesting that she get into the helicopter seconds before it arrived, landing in the field down the road from the cottage. No one told her what was going on.

The room she was led into was large and spacious, a curved white sofa facing a glass wall. The security guard left Elspeth there, walking away without a word.

"Oh, bye then," she said sarcastically.

Sudden yelling made Elspeth jump, and she turned around quickly, facing the glass wall behind her. Her eyes widened. There, on the wall, was the footage from the bonfire night months ago. Elspeth watched, her mouth open, as Sherlock rescued John from the fire. What surprised her the most, however, was that Sherlock then left John's side and threw himself further into the bonfire so he could pull Elspeth out.

She couldn't remember much from that night. Elspeth could vaguely recall that someone had stuck a needle into the side of her neck, but she was otherwise uncertain as to what had happened after that. Elspeth didn't even know that Sherlock had saved her.

Tilting her head to the side, Elspeth took a step closer to the glass screen and frowned, watching the continuous loop of footage. Why didn't she know that Sherlock helped her? Why hadn't anyone told her?

Curious, Elspeth reached out and touched the screen with the tip of her finger. She jumped when the footage suddenly got smaller and slid to the side.

"We mustn't touch what isn't yours," Magnussen scolded, standing behind her. Elspeth turned around quickly, her eyes widening as she gazed back at him sheepishly. Magnussen smirked at her. "Elspeth Holmes . . . I do hope you don't mind me pulling you away so rudely from your family dinner."

"How . . ." Elspeth paused and cleared her throat, looking over her shoulder at the screen. "How did you get this?"

"I have my ways," Magnussen replied with a smile. He strolled forwards, brushing past Elspeth. She shrunk back slightly. "It's quite amazing, isn't it? Fire often exposes pressure points."

Magnussen's finger swiped the screen and the footage enlarged again, filling the screen. Elspeth watched it again, turning away so she wouldn't have to see the desperation in her father's eyes as he threw himself into the fire. Why did she not remember that? If she had known what he had done, that he risked his life to save hers . . . she would've forgiven him sooner.

"Your family is truly a peculiar one," Magnussen continued when Elspeth remained silent. He stepped a bit closer to her, closing the space between them. "Everyone has a pressure point – one, maybe two. Your father has a rather large amount. I've never seen so many."

"You put John and I in the bonfire," Elspeth said finally. She looked up at Magnussen and tried not to shiver when he gazed back down at her with those dead eyes of his. "I can understand me, but why John?"

Magnussen smiled. His eyes were still flat. "There are warnings to always check your bonfires for hedgehogs, and John Watson does so resemble the creature, don't you think?"

Blinking, Elspeth frowned and turned away from Magnussen.

"Jim Moriarty," he said suddenly. She froze. "It's an awful thing that happened." Elspeth bit down on her bottom lip and clenched her fists, trying not to flinch when Magnussen reached out to brush her hair over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her skin and, thoughtful, Magnussen deliberately curled his fingers around her neck. "Tell me, Miss Holmes, do you still think about it? Do you still have nightmares? I should imagine so."

Jerking away, Elspeth knocked Magnussen's hand from her throat and glowered at him angrily, her mouth open to snap at him. She was caught by surprise, however, when his own hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed.

"Do you really that is wise?" Magnussen asked her. His tone was condescending as he looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his eyebrows raised. His hand was sweaty.

"Let go of me," Elspeth said stiffly.

"You're terribly frail, Miss Holmes, if you don't mind me saying. It must be so easy to take advantage of one such as yourself," Magnussen said, ignoring her. He tightened his grip around her wrist, his nails digging into her skin, and suddenly Elspeth felt panic coursing through her. In the club, still posing as Molly's boyfriend, Moriarty had grabbed her wrist, pinned it down against the bar . . .

"Let go."

Magnussen looked back at her for a few seconds more before releasing her wrist, watching her closely as she rubbed it with her other hand, refusing to meet his intrusive gaze. Finally Elspeth turned back to him, her eyes wide with fear. It was truly beautiful, in Magnussen's opinion. Fear made people so easy to control and manipulate.

"Why am I here?" Elspeth asked. Her voice trembled.

"Because I want you to be," Magnussen replied. Elspeth's eyes darted up to meet his again; she was confused. "Leverage, Miss Holmes, to ensure that your father and John Watson behave themselves."

"They're coming here?"

"You're just full of questions, aren't you?"

"And you're a disgusting man but you don't see me complaining about it," Elspeth snapped back before she could stop herself. It made Magnussen laugh softly.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see why they keep you now." He walked past her, pouring himself a drink before sitting down on the curved sofa behind her. Elspeth turned around and frowned at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes is the great detective, John Watson is the doctor and assistant," Magnussen said with a casual wave of his hand. He straightened up, looking at Elspeth closely. "What is it, exactly, you do to aid them? I wouldn't think a teenager on antidepressants, whose panic attacks are triggered by dead bodies, is very helpful when it comes to the cases your father inspects."

Elspeth opened her mouth, then shut it again. She'd always thought that she was helpful, that she made a worthwhile contribution to Sherlock's work, but now Magnussen had pointed it out, she began to doubt herself. Sherlock made deductions, John could save people's lives and she . . . well, Magnussen was right. She couldn't stand the sight of dead bodies, she wasn't as good as Sherlock at spotting things, and she didn't have any skills or talents that actually helped them.

. . . Where they just letting her tag along because she was Sherlock's daughter?

No, Elspeth thought. If I was rubbish, Dad would tell me . . . wouldn't he?

"How rude of me," Magnussen said. Elspeth lifted her gaze to meet his. "Please, Miss Holmes, do take a seat. We won't be waiting for too long, I hope."

She was half tempted to refuse. Elspeth decided against it, however, when she realised that Magnussen's words had left her shaking. She took a few steps forwards, dropped onto the edge of the curved sofa as far from Magnussen as she could possibly be, and looked down at her feet. Magnussen and Elspeth sat in silence, and together, they waited.

Thank you Bookworm45669, meg, GeorgyannWayson, ScissorLuv143, pax am days, ArabellaBlack25, tardislover1, Ms Moonshoes Potter, Adrillian1497, bellechat, Aimee - for both your half reviews! - EICochrane, AnythingBut, iwanttobeaneverdeen, KirstyLauraBear and ElizabethCullen08 for reviewing!

Bleh . . . I dislike Magnussen, I hope that my characterisation of him is alright and accurate, he's a hard character to write! Not as hard as Moriarty, thankfully.

I am currently in the process of writing another AU, which - if I decide to post it, depending on the ideas/interest - would be a fic as opposed to a one shot. And, yes, I'm also going to give writing my own series 4 a go . . . it's a daunting task, but series 3 was left on such a good cliffhanger that I can't leave it there!