A/N- This will be a 2 part chapter. Reviews are lovely :)
As Christmas time approached, Mary wanted to know what John and Sherlock used to do for Christmas. John had explained about the Irene incident and how it had ruined their holiday cheer. "Mrs. Hudson was so disgusted," he confided. "We were her little family."
"Did Sherlock never go to his family's that Christmas?" She asked.
John coughed on his tea, almost choking as he tried to swallow and laugh. "Christmas? With Sherlock's family? Gosh no. Mycroft once told me, 'You can imagine the Christmas dinners,' and I certainly don't want to."
Mary sniffed. "It was his family, John. I'm sure they all got along, whatever his brother might have said."
"Mary, darling, I don't know if Sherlock Holmes was even capable of enjoying turkey, much less a family Christmas."
In reality, both were partially right, although neither knew it.
"Good evening, little brother."
"Mycroft. Enjoying the Christmas cake, are we?"
"Ever the cynic, Sherlock." Mycroft frowned; he had been enjoying the holiday sweets. "What are you and Irene doing for Christmas?"
"You know I don't do anything for Christmas. The last ones I attended were…disastrous, to say the least. You remember. Without Mrs. Hudson and John forcing me to participate I can happily forget the holiday exists."
Irene walked in, overhearing the last of the sentence. "Nice try, Sherlock. Last Christmas I thought I was going to die and I believe it rather spoiled your holiday. This year lets have Mycroft over and have a nice little Christmas dinner. We have this lovely large mansion; we might as well enjoy it."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the idea but did not contradict her. Sherlock glared at the both of them. "John's not here," he hissed.
"Yes," Mycroft agreed, "But I'm sure I could send him a…present that you picked out for him. Would that suffice instead?"
Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Me? Pick out a present? Why on earth would I do that?"
His brother gave him a bland smile. "Sentiment, Sherlock. Run along now."
Irene laughed as Sherlock angrily stalked out of the room, annoyed at Mycroft's deduction. "What happened the last time Sherlock had a family Christmas?"
Mycroft groaned. "It was…well, saying it was disaster would be putting it lightly." Irene simply waited; there was no way she was passing up a story this blackmail worthy. Mycroft weighed Sherlock's future anger upon learning that Irene had heard the story and then shrugged, launching into the tale. His brother deserved it.
9 year before Sherlock and John met
Sherlock is 20, Mycroft 27
"Sherlock!" Mycroft stormed up the staircase of the Holmes's ancestral home, more than a bit exasperated. He had left his younger brother in his room with orders to dress appropriately for dinner in a timely manner. Half an hour had passed and Sherlock failed to appear. It was Christmas Eve and their parents were holding a small holiday dinner, inviting some very important guests. Mycroft, who was still new to his career in the British government, was hoping to impress. That is, if he could manage to take any time away from babysitting his little brother.
It really was not Sherlock's fault he had turned out the way he did. Their father had cared little for the "problem child", instead grooming his older son in the way of politics and intrigue from a young age. Their mother had a bit more patience and hired the best therapists and nannies to take care of Sherlock. Unfortunately, he was a high maintenance, misunderstood child with a crafty mind and an inclination of speaking his mind. The "help" always fled and their mother would be back to square one. After a while, even her patience ran dry and she gave up on her abnormal son. Some of the lessons the therapists had taught Sherlock had stuck and he had learned to function well enough not to completely embarrass himself at social events. That was all his parents had cared about. So, it had fallen to Mycroft to raise his little brother from a young age.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft banged on the door, finally opening it when he got no answer. He almost walked it before sensing the tension in the room. Something…was not right. Knowing Sherlock's alarming love of scientific experiments at the expense of another, Mycroft had learned to be wary. He stood to the side of the door and pushed it the entire way open, well out of the way. He was right in his assumption. Something came whistling through the space where he had previously been standing and buried itself in the opposite hallway wall. Upon inspection, Mycroft found a small dart with some kind of liquid inside the clear barrel.
"Sherlock Holmes!" The young man in question was laying on his back on his bed, his change of clothes nowhere in sight. Once Mycroft deemed it safe to enter he stalked over to his brother's bed. Sherlock did not even turn his head to look. The older brother took a deep breath though his mouth and blew it out his nose. Making a visible effort, he tried to turn the conversation to something Sherlock would at least answer. "What was in the dart?"
"New sleep medication I mixed up." Sherlock refused to make eye contact, but at least he was talking.
"Clever, how you rigged it to the door." Mycroft's sharp eyes had picked out the motion camera that was attached to the canopy of Sherlock's bed. It was aimed so that once the door opened a certain amount; it would trigger the sensor, presumably sending a signal to launch the dart. Why Sherlock insisted on mixing up chemical compounds, however, Mycroft still did not understand. Sherlock had never been able to decide on a profession to follow, and university was not giving him motivation. He did well in his classes—he loved to learn—but regrettably he considered a large amount of the knowledge useless and promptly forgot it. He was close to flunking his English and history classes, but excelled in the sciences and maths.
Sherlock sighed in answer to Mycroft's earlier comment. "Clever, but boring."
Mycroft sat down gingerly on the bed. He gazed at his little brother both love and frustration. This was a very different time for the Holmes brothers than when John first met them. Sherlock was still a moody teenager and Mycroft was still the exasperated older brother. He was still helping take care of Sherlock, even as his government job put more demands on his time.
Unbeknownst to him, a few short months after Christmas he would handle a highly sensitive situation that would get him noticed by his superiors. He would be vaulted up to the high track with greater responsibility and no free time. Mycroft would no longer be able to care for his younger brother. Sherlock would see this as a betrayal and close off his few emotions, turning brotherly love to hate. When Mycroft next saw Sherlock again, almost a year later, the two would be very different men. There would be no more Christmases together. Sherlock's erratic behavior would threaten Mycroft's new position, making him harsher on his little brother than he normally would be. Sherlock, now in full rebellion and smarting from his brother's perceived betrayal, would merely fight back. The situation would come to head many more times, cumulating in the suicide attempts by Sherlock and the hard hearts of both sides.
But this was Christmas Eve, and none of these things had yet come to pass. Sherlock was still a confused young boy, unsure of how to interact with other adults. Mycroft was still caring and affectionate, understanding of Sherlock's odd quirks.
Sherlock finally turned his head to look at his older brother. "I don't want to go down for dinner. I don't like the people coming."
Mycroft sighed. "It will make Mummy and Father happy. Anyway, you can just stick with me tonight."
Sherlock turned his face away again. "You'll be talking to all the government people, trying to get noticed and appreciated for your job."
Mycroft gave a guilty start; he had been hoping to ditch Sherlock's babysitting on someone else that night. Still, Mycroft would see these men again. Perhaps he could entertain Sherlock with…something, or someone so he could get in a few words. He focused back on Sherlock. "Come on, get dressed and let's go down."
"I don't want to eat turkey; I don't like food the chefs prepare."
"You like the rolls, right? There will be spiced wine, too." Sherlock looked back at Mycroft who, encouraged, continued. "Maybe we can get the chefs to prepare something small on the side for you. What do you want?"
"Chinese. Takeaway." Mycroft gave Sherlock a look. University had giving Sherlock an unhealthy love of the cheap cuisine. How his sensitive palate could handle it, the older brother had no idea. "Fine…fish and chips."
"Sherlock," Mycroft tried, "It is Christmas…"
"Just fish. But the way you make it." With that plea, Mycroft's little brother turned large soulful puppy eyes on him.
He took a deep breath, considered the request, and decided it was not worth the fight to make Sherlock pick another food. "All right. Just this once. The guests have started to arrive by the sound of it, so I'll go see if I can whip it up." Sherlock's face broke into an uncharacteristic smile and Mycroft felt his own lips turn up. "BUT—" he held up a finger. "You have to be dressed and presentable downstairs by the time I'm done. And please, just…don't talk to the guests unless you have to say hello. You can wait by the fire and I'll join you when I'm done making your food, alright?"
Sherlock grinned and bounded off the bed, as tightly wound as a spring. Mycroft left him to ransack his wardrobe and went to cook. It was going to be a long evening. That smile though…it had been worth it.
