"Merry Christmas Mycroft."
"Shut up Sherlock." Mycroft sneered. He rested his elbow against the car window and started rubbing his forehead.
"Serves you right. Getting us thrown out." Sherlock said with a concealed grin. "And on Christmas, of all days." He said with loads of sarcasm. Mycroft snarled.
Sherlock had taken the centre seat, absorbing all of the tension in the small car, and revelling in the drama. Their paternal grandmother had been livid when she found her eldest grandson molesting his colleague in the kitchen. Mycroft's mother hadn't been too keen on the whole affair when she caught word of it moments later.
She pretended to be shocked by the news that her son was 'that way'. However, when their grandmother proposed they be banished from the estate, their mother was the first to protest. Sherlock had missed the whole ordeal but being the gawper he was, he had to come in and see what the commotion was when he started hearing shouting.
John was caught in the cross-fire of the all woman firing squad that was trying to gun down his inebriated boyfriend. Mycroft had started to sober up and was trying to cover his actions as a simple drunken mistake. His mother looked at Mycroft with such disappointment it broke John's heart.
He couldn't help but be reminded of the day Clara and Harry stood up to his parents. It was frightening then and he wasn't even a part of it. He wished he could hide under his bed once more and will the shouting to stop.
The worst was the look on Sherlock's face as he stood in the corner of the room watching the world burn before him. His grin was positively malicious, he was delighted by chaos; he breathed it in as if it was precious oxygen. He lived for mayhem, he loved disorder.
To most Sherlock would appear to be a psychopath. A sadist. Yet John knew precisely why Sherlock enjoyed watching anarchy unfold. Predictability and order were boring. He needed problems; he needed work, the most abstruse cryptogram or intricate analysis. When the world was in disarray Sherlock was in his prime. He craved mental exaltation and abhorred the dull routine of existence.
This was his proper atmosphere, amid shouting and high anxiety. It was as if he was in the centre of a ticking time bomb, primed to explode, and he was the only one with the means to defuse the situation. Sherlock set back and took it all in.
John kept looking back to Sherlock, praying he would use his wit, get him out of the line of fire before a stray bullet took him down.
"I should have known. Colleague indeed." Grandmother Holmes said crossing her arms. Her gaze could burn a whole through solid steel. Her attention turned to John. "I know you and your type." She spat. She took a step towards John. "You must take great pride in corrupting young respectable gentlemen." She said looking John over. She uncrossed her arms.
"Oh I was already well corrupted before John came along." Mycroft said waving his hand to dismiss the idea.
"Mycroft!" His mother shouted. It was about the only word she could get in edgeways.
"There have been others?" Grandmother Holmes asked in shock.
"No! No." Mycroft said shaking his head. "Well yes." He said scratching the back of his head. "But that is entirely beside the point."
"How long have you been keeping this from us?" His mother asked with concern.
"For twenty-one years now I suppose." Mycroft shrugged. John slapped his face with the palm of his hand. "Oh the sex." He said looking at John who turned bright red. "God, ages and ages." Mycroft started counting his fingers. "A good seven years!"
Mycroft! You idiot! Shut up!
"Violet, I… I feel faint." Grandmother Holmes stammered. She held on to the kitchen island.
"Oh poor, poor grandmother." Sherlock said strolling across the kitchen to hold up his grandmother by her elbows. "Look what you've done to her Mycroft!"
"What I've done?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock fanned his grandmother with his hand.
"Must you be so insensitive? The woman is obviously distraught." He helped his Grandmother to stand properly. "Her eldest grandson a flamer, who would have thought." Sherlock patted his grandmother's hand. "Don't fret gran, I can always carry on the family name." Sherlock shook his head. "For shame Mycroft."
"Oh that is rich." Mycroft said rolling his eyes, he started laughing. "You! Carry on the family name?" He snorted.
"Someone has to be the man of this house." Grandmother Holmes said lifting her nose in the air. "I must request that you and your… colleague… leave first thing in the morning." She turned to face Sherlock. "Sherly dear, you may stay as long as you please." She let out a sigh. "At least someone in this house understands family values." Sherlock grinned wickedly.
"Of course grandmother. Family is all we have in the end."
John and Mycroft retired to their separate bedrooms as Sherlock and his grandmother stayed up half the night chatting away in the study, laughing it up. Their laughter carried through the hollow halls and reverberated through the air vent and into John's bedroom.
John pulled the pillow over his head, feeling sick to his stomach. He heard a gentle rap at his door. He shut his eyes and breathed gently, feigning sleep. He heard the door crack open and shut gently. There was a soft tap of bare feet crossing the hardwood floors and the creak of bedsprings as Mycroft climbed into his bed.
He heard the bed sheets rustle as Mycroft settled in beside him. Mycroft slid his arm under John's elbow and ran his hand down John's stomach and let it rest on his abdomen. He brought him in close, burying his face into the nape of John's neck. He breathed deep, tickling the hairs on the back of John's neck, giving him goose bumps.
"I'm sorry." Mycroft mumbled into John's neck. John lay silently. He felt less at ease in Mycroft's arms. They weren't much stronger than his own and nothing like Greg's strong protective arms.
John had come to find Mycroft drew more comfort from him than vice-versa. John had an innate ability to sooth people who were in great pain. It was only natural that he should become a doctor.
He had great empathy for Mycroft. John often pushed aside his emotions but Mycroft buried them so deep he often lacked any feelings at all. Over the past few months John had seen glimpses of Mycroft's humanity only to have them disappear in an instant.
The rising politician had no compassion for victims of horrific crimes. Like Michael Dimmock, who they retrieved, just days earlier, from the basement of an active industrial warehouse in Bucharest along with twenty other boys. Of the twenty-one boys, Dimmock was the only one still in police custody. Mycroft had requested he be detained for further questioning after he failed to supply adequate information on those involved in his trafficking.
"Mycroft! He's suffering from post traumatic stress!" John had shouted. "He's scared!"
"I am merely trying to gather insurmountable evidence for our case. Don't dabble in matters you don't understand."
John didn't understand why the government had to torture both the victims and the perpetrators of crimes. It was beyond him how Mycroft could be so cold when he was at work but warm in his bed. It was paradoxical.
John found humanity in the Holmes brothers where others would see barbarism. He could see through Mycroft's façade and look past Sherlock's anti-social behaviour because John was a bloody fucking Saint. At least that's what Mycroft said he was.
Mycroft still wasn't completely sober the next morning when his grandmother barged in to find him and John curled up in bed. She started shouting some choice words at Mycroft and used quite a list of derogatory terms, some of which John had never heard before. When her attention turned on John, questioning his Christianity, Mycroft blurted out "Oh piss off! He's a bloody fucking Saint!"
Apparently Mycroft adopted a working class Welsh accent when he was sobering up. And apparently Grandmother Holmes had a hell of a grip, the way Mycroft was howling as he was dragged by his ear down the steps and out the front door.
Mycroft was left alone in his under, waiting for the car outside while John packed up their things. He tried apologising to Miss Sherrinford but she wouldn't hear it.
Sherlock was in quite a chipper mood as he ran down the steps to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. He even hugged his grandmother and gave her a kiss on the cheek before making his way to the car. John shoved Mycroft's clothes into his hands and got in the car first.
He was steaming with rage. He couldn't believe how Mycroft could behave so poorly. The man could charm the stripes off a tiger but a bit too much drink and he became… Greg!
The gravity of the situation hit Mycroft halfway back to London. He groaned as he rubbed his temples. John thought it was about time to pipe up.
"That was the most embarrassing situation... I've ever had to endure." John said gritting his teeth. He didn't even want to look at Mycroft.
"I don't know what came over me." Mycroft moaned.
"I don't even know who you are any more." John said crossing his arms and slinking down in his seat.
"Oh that is so gay." Sherlock chuckled.
"Shut up Sherlock." They said in unison. Sherlock stretched out his arms and placed them behind both men.
"Oh come on, where's your holiday spirit?" Sherlock grinned and looked at Mycroft. "Why, I do believe Mycroft had enough spirit for all of us last night." He jeered. "Has he got himself a little hang-over?" Sherlock said ruffling Mycroft's hair.
"Stop it Sherlock." Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth.
"Is he not the picture of the perfect boyfriend?" Sherlock asked John. "Getting sloshed on Christmas eve, pronouncing his undying love to you in front of our homophobic grandmother. Bringing our mother to tears in the foyer as we were whisked away on Christmas day." Sherlock patted Mycroft's shoulder "Don't worry, Grandmother sneaked me my present. A hideous knit jumper. Probably had a matching one for you Mycroft." Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing we were banished from the estate after all."
"You could have stayed." Mycroft hissed.
"And miss out on your misery?" Sherlock scoffed. "John haven't you anything to say to your boyfriend?"
"Shut up Sherlock." John said looking out the window.
"Now, now John. You know I can't be your boyfriend, I'm still a minor." Sherlock chuckled. "Though I'm highly flattered."
"You know what I fucking meant." John hissed.
"Touchy, touchy." Sherlock said stretching his arms up and brushing his hands against the ceiling. Sherlock sat in silence for all of two minutes before piping up again. "Perhaps we can have Christmas drinks at our flat. What do you think John? Of course you're always invited Mycroft."
"I have more pressing matters to attend to at home." Mycroft said.
"John?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm done talking to both of you."
"Aw, why?" Sherlock whined. John remained silent. "I see." Sherlock said leaning back in his chair. "You're mad at Mycroft for making a scene, so you're taking it out on me. Makes perfect sense."
"Will you just shut up?" John shouted, his hands shook as he brought his hands to his head. He started rocking back and forth in his seat clutching on to his head.
He stopped suddenly and remained motionless as a blissful silence swept the car. He let out a sigh and released his head. The car remained quiet for the duration of the drive. They pulled up to Baker Street and John jumped out first, leaving his suitcase in the boot.
He knocked on the door and waited impatiently as Mrs. Hudson fiddled with the door-lock.
"John! I wasn't expecting you two back so soon. How was your trip?"
"Fine, fine." John said shortly pushing her aside and heading straight for the stairs. He found the door unlocked and gritted his teeth.
John walked in to find everything in its proper place. He stormed in and made way straight to the mantel. He lifted the skull and dug into it via the foramen magnum to pull out a small wrapped present.
He clutched it tight in his hand. He took a bowler's approach and threw it as hard as he could against the wall across the room, nearly hitting Sherlock as he walked in.
"What the hell was that?" Sherlock said looking in shock at the dent in the wall. He knelt down to recover the item.
"Your bloody Christmas present." John said through clenched teeth. Sherlock looked at John with concern. He held the present gingerly in his oversized hands. He un-wrapped the torn paper to reveal a piece of amber, cracked along the top, with a fossilized bee set in the middle. Sherlock thumbed the crack sorrowfully.
"But… I didn't get you anything…" Sherlock said looking at the specimen.
"Yeah and you know what? I bought the damned thing with my money! My own money. Not some bloody money I stole from some drug-lord." John shook his head. Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell John that a hit-man was hardly of rank to be considered a 'drug-lord'. He just kept stroking the broken present.
"Flight of the Bumblebee?" Sherlock asked sadly holding up his fossilized amber.
"Oh shut up Sherlock." John said cracking a smile. Sherlock stood up clutching his present.
"I adore it." Sherlock said throwing it into the air and catching it on its way down. "Now I'll have to get you a present."
"No Sherlock… Don't."
"No, no. I insist." Sherlock said. "Ah-ha, I know! I'll make one."
"What are you? Three?" John scoffed.
"No you'll love it. Give me four hours." Sherlock said rushing to the kitchen, grabbing a pair of kitchen sheers, and running into his bedroom.
"Oi! Didn't your mum tell you not to run with scissors?" John shouted with a smile. "The nut." He said taking his seat. He leaned back and let out a heavy sigh. It felt good to be home.
Four hours of silence, the best Christmas gift of all.
