It's a little fragmented this chapter, but it worked so much better than the long narrative version. Although tomorrow's not technically advent, I will do the final chapter then, so one more to go – possibly at midnight if I'm up. Hope you're all having a lovely Christmas Eve! (:

"Sherlock! Get the damn arm out of the fridge! Jesus!"

"Really, John, it's hardly a problem."

"It's a problem because I'm leaving in five minutes to pick up the sodding turkey, and I will not put it next to an arm. Get a grip!"

….

"Have you seen Mrs Hudson?"

"No, I was moving the arm out of the fridge."

"Well she's leaving to visit her sister tonight; I need to give her her present."

"Already done. Don't mention it."

….

Formal dress. Mummy will be there. I'll see you later. MH.

John – please keep him off the alcohol. Don't want a repeat of last year. Or last week. MH.

….

"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES! DO NOT PUT THAT ARM BACK IN THE FRIDGE!"

….

You didn't specify it had to stay out. SH.

Do we need parsnips? I see parsnips. SH.

Yes. JW.

And carrots.

And Brussels.

Sod it; I forgot to get potatoes too. JW.

You're useless. SH.

Don't push it. JW.

….

"You do look nice."

John looked up from fiddling with his tie to see Sherlock eyeing him approvingly from a distance. Bowtie on, the consulting detective looked the picture of sophistication, something John found grossly unfair. Sherlock straightened his tie with one slender finger in the mirror as John tugged the sleeves of his jacket uncomfortably.

"Well, until someone sees you next to me, hey?"

Sherlock spun from the mirror, and glared at him reprovingly.

"I refuse to have a 'no, you look nicer' argument with you, John – but rest assured that you look completely fine…in all honesty I think you should wear suits more regularly."

….

"I wish we'd brought some vodka or something," Sherlock says suddenly, five minutes into the cab ride. John starts.

"Why?" he asks, frowning.

"We could have spiked the drinks. I'd love to see the Turkish Ambassador barely able to stand up."

….

On our way. John won't let me spike the drinks. SH.

I like your doctor friend more and more…MH.

Hands off! SH.

….

They were greeted by Mycroft as they made their way through the second set of huge double doors (sans umbrella), and a small, dark-haired woman, whom John had no doubt was Sherlock's mother.

"Violet Holmes," she said, smiling, as Sherlock released her.

"John Watson."

He smiled back, and watched happily as the British Government and the world's only consulting detective morphed before his eyes into small boys – trying valiantly to outdo each other and impress her the most.

….

Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder as they stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching as Mycroft and Violet twirled around with elegant ease. As soon as the song ended, Sherlock jumped up, whirling his mother around in a dance so intricate, John felt tired just watching.

….

"Food's good," John mumbled, leaning his own head against his friend, and yawning. Sherlock nodded, and moved his head sideways so that it rested on John's.

….

"What's the time?" John asked quietly, as they let themselves into 221B. It was very dark, the soft orange of the streetlight spilling into the front hall.

Sherlock rummaged in his pocket.

"Ten to midnight," he whispered back. "Nearly Christmas."

John looked up at his friend and smiled, realising at the same time that he was still holding the hand that Sherlock had pulled him from the cab with. The tree lights winked happily in the dark.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Of course."