John walked down the landing of 221B Baker Street, shaking away the Christmas Eve cold that had numbed the end of his nose. He stood in the doorway of the flat, crossing his arms and looking into the living room as if it were a scene from a Christmas film; a crackling fire, glittering tinsel and the scent of brandy in the air as everyone sat back watching Sherlock play his violin. He smiled as he watched Vaughan playing his own violin at his father's feet, his nose scrunched with focus as he ran the bow back and forth across the plastic strings.

The song came to an end. Mary and Margaux applauded enthusiastically while Mrs Hudson relaxed into the couch with a smile, cradling a glass of sherry.

"Oh do another one, Sherlock, please," she said.

"Perhaps later."

Margaux glanced over her shoulder. "John!" She shouted as she rushed off into the kitchen. "Now everyone's here, we can finally toast," she continued, returning with a tray of champagne flutes.

"Sorry, what are we toasting to?" asked John as he took off his jacket and perched on the arm of Mary's chair.

"Sherlock got discharged from the hospital today," said Mary. "He's officially recovered. No more check-ups."

"And just in time for Christmas," said Mrs Hudson excitedly. "Oh Sherlock, I must say when you got shot, I thought you really were going to die–"

Margaux coughed loudly, nodding towards Vaughan who sat on the floor listening intently to her every word.

"Die…" Mrs Hudson panicked. "Die-nosaurs!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can someone hide the sherry from this woman."

They each took a glass and raised them to Sherlock with a smile as he stood stoically near the window. He nodded, reluctantly accepting their toast.

The evening slowed to an end. John and Mary said their goodbyes and left together quietly, like two strangers walking parallel to one another in the street. Mrs Hudson finished her drink before standing up and planting a drunken kiss on Sherlock's cheek. He grimaced and walked her to the door, listening to make sure she got into her own flat successfully. Margaux walked up behind him, placing a hand on his arm.

"He wants you to put him to bed," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "If I must," he said before wandering back inside the flat.

III

He pulled the bedroom door closed, leaving it open just a sliver. As he walked down the hall, his ears became fixed on a sound coming from the living room. It grew louder as he wandered into the kitchen, finally catching a glimpse of the source. Margaux. Humming a Christmas song to herself as she sat cross-legged on the floor wrapping Vaughan's presents. He emerged slowly through the archway, listening keenly to the soft melody escaping her barely parted lips. She looked up at him.

"What?" She asked as she cut another piece of shiny foiled paper.

"I've never heard you sing before," he replied.

"I've never had the urge to break into song in front of you before. Why? Did you hate it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "On the contrary, it was rather pleasant."

"Wow. Maybe I should call Scotland Yard, tell them I've changed my mind about the job and try to make it as a pop star instead."

"This is why I don't pay you compliments."

"Sorry," she laughed. "Did you have much trouble getting him to sleep?"

"He went on about Father Christmas for a while. Honestly, the naivety to believe that one man could possibly visit 8 billion people over a 3,958-mile radius in one night. And on a sleigh pulled by magic reindeer. Ridiculous."

"I've noticed I spend a lot of time reminding you that he's only two-years-old."

He gave a cynical hum in the back of his throat. "Well forgive me for trying to spare him the feelings of betrayal when he realises it's all a lie."

"Ho Ho Ho."

Sherlock glanced into the kitchen, noticing Mrs Hudson's half-drank bottle of sherry still on the counter. He walked over, grabbed it and filled two glasses, taking one of them to Margaux. He sat in his armchair watching her wrap the final few presents; the way she smoothed her fingers over the edges of the paper, folded it into neat corners, the way she held the sellotape between her lips and tore it with her teeth. He took another sip of sherry.

"Done," she said with a proud smile as she gazed at the pile of gifts beside her. "I swear next year I'll do this way in advance."

"No. You won't."

"Can you not just switch off your powers of deduction for two seconds?"

"No. I can't."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, gathering the remnants of her wrapping from the floor and taking them into the kitchen. She threw the scraps of paper into the bin and slotted the roll of tape into its place on top of the fridge. She slid open a drawer to find room for the scissors when suddenly, something made her stop. She cocked her head, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Sherlock, do you want to explain why there's a bag of cocaine in the kitchen drawer?"

"Hm? Oh yes, it's for emergencies."

"Emergencies…"

"Yes."

She turned to look at him, her face peppered with anger and concern. He sighed, running his hands through his hair.

"Don't worry, Margaux, I haven't taken any of it. In fact, I haven't taken anything in months."

"So why do you need to have it here then?"

"I told you. Emergencies."

She glared at him before slamming the drawer closed and making her way back into the living room. She leaned down to peer into his eyes, so close he could feel her breath on his face, the ends of her hair tickling his neck. He stared back firmly, crossing one leg over the other without breaking eye contact.

"I told you, I'm clean," he said.

She pulled away, satisfied he was telling the truth, and backed up until she could sit down in the chair opposite him, lifting one of her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her leg.

"Why do I feel like something's brooding behind those eyes?" she asked.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I don't brood. I calculate, evaluate. I plan."

"Alright then. What are you planning, Mr Holmes?"

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I'm taking the laptop. Tomorrow," he finally said.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. I have everything in place to execute the strateg–"

"You've been working on this for months and you couldn't have planned it for any other day besides bloody Christmas?"

"I assure you it won't affect the… festivities. At least not for the majority of the day."

"Wonderful."

"I don't suppose this has lessened your annoyance over the cocaine?"

She let out a laugh. He was unbelievable. So unbelievable, in fact, that she had come to expect it. She was no longer surprised or outraged by his behaviour, learning that no matter her reaction, he would inevitably do whatever he wanted anyway.

"Not really," she said. "Sherlock if you ever go near that stuff when you're around our son, I'll make you wish you actually jumped off that roof."

"I don't doubt it," he said plainly, ignoring the goose bumps rising under the sleeves of his shirt.

Midnight crept up on them like frost gathering on the window panes. They sat in their chairs, sipping their drinks and watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Margaux glanced up at the clock on the mantle.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said.

He looked at his watch. "Mm, Merry Christmas."

"Well we're only a couple of minutes in and I'd say this is already way better than last year."

"How so?"

"Because last year I spent Christmas Eve at my flat and when I sent you a text at midnight, you never replied. At least this year I got a response."

"It's a lot more difficult to ignore someone when they're sitting opposite you."

She laughed and threw her shoe at him. He gave a teasing smirk as he batted away the soaring mule before it had a chance to hit him.

When Sherlock smiled, Margaux saw the human in him; she saw personality in the creases around his eyes, emotion in the corners of his mouth. It was one of her favourite versions of him.

"Let me ask you something," she began, the alcohol loosening her tongue. "In… I don't know… in ten years' time, is this what Christmas Eve looks like?"

"Unless there's some sort of apocalypse…"

"Oh, you know what I mean, Sherlock. When you look into the future, is it still like this?"

He swirled the dregs in the bottom of his glass and sipped it down. "I would say so, yes."

"Absolutely nothing different?"

"How would it be different?"

She shifted in her chair. "Well… In ten years' time, I would hope that we'd have our own Christmas Eve routine – John and Mary visiting with their kids, me wrapping presents on the floor after Vaughan's gone to bed, us drinking sherry by the fire."

"We're doing that now."

"Yes, but by then it would be more of a tradition. It would be something we did every year because it wouldn't feel like Christmas Eve without it. Perhaps by then I'd… I don't know, I'd be over there sharing your chair with you instead of sitting across the room. You'd be able to put your arms around me without second guessing yourself. You'd be spending this time with me because you wanted to, not just because you felt obliged because of Vaughan."

"How many glasses have you had?"

She took off her other shoe and threw it at him.

"I'm being serious, Sherlock. Surely you can't envision… this forever?"

"I see nothing wrong with this," he said simply before standing up and walking towards the kitchen. "Margaux, I am not someone who does as they're told. I do what I want, I follow my instinct, I don't tend to dwell on who my actions may upset," he pivoted on his heels to look back at her. "I am choosing to spend tonight with you because I want to. I am choosing to spend tomorrow with you because I want to. Make no mistake, I would not be here otherwise. I want to be here. And I am certain that ten years from now, I will still want to."

She peered over the back of her chair, watching him quietly as he made his way through the kitchen towards the bedroom. She slumped down with a sigh, stretching her legs out in front of her and catching the warmth of the fire on her cold feet.

III

Mr and Mrs Holmes' cottage was traditional and homely, with walls cluttered with knickknacks, and windows strewn with garlands and Christmas lights. In the kitchen, Sherlock sat quietly reading the newspaper. Mrs Holmes shuffled around preparing dinner with Vaughan on her hip while Margaux sat at the kitchen table helping to peel and chop the vegetables. Mycroft sat opposite her, pressing his fingers against his temples.

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now," he droned. "How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony."

"Mikey is this your laptop?" Mrs Holmes pointed to the computer hidden beneath a chopping board on the table.

Sherlock and Margaux shared a glance.

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes," Mycroft smiled at his mother sarcastically. "And you've got potatoes on it."

"Well you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," Mrs Holmes replied.

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

Mrs Holmes leaned forward. "We are here because Sherlock is done with hospital and we are all very happy."

She placed Vaughan on Mycroft's lap. He grimaced.

"Am I happy too?" He asked Vaughan. "I haven't checked."

"Behave Mike."

"Yeah, Mike." Margaux added with a smirk as she continued to chop the vegetables.

"'Mycroft' is the name you gave me. If you could possibly struggle all the way to the end."

A tall, thin man – Bill – stepped into the kitchen holding a glass of punch.

"Mrs Holmes," he said, handing it to her.

"Oh, thank you dear," she replied as she took a sip. "Not absolutely sure why you're here."

"I invited him," said Sherlock.

"I'm his protégé, Mrs Holmes. When he dies, I get all his stuff. And his job," said Bill in his thick cockney accent.

"No," said Sherlock.

"Oh, well I help out a bit."

"Closer."

"If he does get murdered or something…"

"Probably stop talking now."

"Okay."

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Lovely when you bring friends 'round."

"Stop it, you! Somebody put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous."

Vaughan giggled at his grandmother, causing Mycroft's stony face to crack into a slight smile. Sherlock looked down at his watch. Seven minutes. Seven minutes and thirty-six seconds to go.

III

In the living room, Mary sat under a blanket in an armchair. She cradled a cup of tea, nursing it slowly as she talked with Mr Holmes. The door creaked open and John stepped inside, glancing at the two of them. Mary lowered her eyes, struggling to keep her smile as she took another sip of tea.

"Oh," he said. "Sorry, I- I just, er…"

"Oh, er… do you two need a moment?" asked Mr Holmes.

"If you don't mind," replied John.

"No, of course not. I'll, I'll go and see if I can help with… something or other."

John watched as he rose from his seat and wandered out of the room, before turning his attention back to his wife.

"So… are you okay?" he asked.

"Oh!" Mary began sarcastically. "Are we doing conversation today? It really is Christmas!"

John reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the pen drive, rolling it between his fingers.

Mary let out a sigh. "Now?"

He nodded.

"Seriously? Months of silence and we're going to do this now? Fine. Have you read it?"

He looked down at the pen drive in his hand and clutched it in his fist. He pointed to the floor in front of him.

"Would you come here a moment?"

"No." She shook her head. "Tell me. Have you?"

"Just... come here." He sighed.

She grimaced, peeling back the blanket and struggling to her feet. She placed one hand on her round stomach and winced as she straightened her back and walked towards him.

John turned to face her, speaking quietly, almost whispering.

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

"Okay…"

"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 looked down at the pen drive, then back to Mary as she began to cry, before throwing it onto the fire and letting it burn.

"No, I didn't read it," he finished.

"You don't even know my name," Mary cried.

"Is 'Mary Watson' good enough for you?"

"Yes!" She wiped away the tears streaming down her face and pouring from her nose. "Oh my God, yes."

"Then it's good enough for me, too." He wrapped her into a gentle hug, mindful of the bump between them. "All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you."

"I know, I know."

"I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then."

"I know, I know, I know."

"You can mow the sodding lawn from now on."

"I do mow the lawn."

"No, I do it loads."

"You really don't."

"I choose the baby's name."

"Not a chance."

"Okay."

III

Margaux stood outside the cottage looking out at the lush green countryside. She kicked a loose stone along the garden path and wrapped her cardigan tighter around her body as she took another pull of her cigarette. The door opened and closed behind her, and within moment, she felt him at her side. She took the packet from her pocket and offered him one. He accepted it, leaning down to her height to let her light it. He held it between his lips, sucking in his first, deep drag as he flicked up the collar on his coat.

"I love your mother dearly," said Margaux. "But if I have to chop another vegetable I may go crazy."

"She likes you too. She's never let anyone help prepare the dinner before."

"I don't know how to break it to her that I can't cook."

They looked at each other, their plain faces breaking into simultaneous laughter.

"Are you feeling alright?" asked Sherlock.

Her brow furrowed in confusion at his concern. "Yes? I'm fine. I just needed a moment. All this family Christmas stuff is still quite new to me."

"But you feel okay?" he asked again, checking his watch.

"Yes... why?"

"No reason. Have you had any punch?"

"Not yet."

"You should go and take a break from vegetable duty. Have some punch."

Mycroft stepped out of the back door and walked towards them. Margaux looked up at him and then back to Sherlock, before handing Mycroft her half-smoked cigarette and heading inside. Mycroft looked down at it, surveying the part where her mouth had touched. He grimaced before bringing it to his lips.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business," he said.

"Are you?"

"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."

Sherlock smiled, stepping to his brother's side. "A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?"

"No." he smiled. "It's what you think of yourself."

The cottage door opened behind them.

"Are you two smoking!?" Mrs Holmes shouted from the doorway.

They turned quickly, hiding the cigarettes behind their backs.

"No!"

"It was Mycroft."

She looked them up and down, squinting suspiciously, before going back inside and shutting the door. A thick plume of smoke escaped Sherlock's lips.

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline," Mycroft continued.

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?"

"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 glared at him in confusion. "Then why don't you want me to take it?"

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

"Utility. How do I have utility?"

"Here be dragons..."

Mycroft took a pull of his cigarette. He coughed, looking at it with a frown. "This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in." He dropped it and ground it into the floor with his foot.

"You need low tar. You still smoke like a beginner," Sherlock called out behind him.

"Also," Mycroft said as he stopped at the door. "Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock choked on the smoke in his throat, spluttering and coughing before turning to his brother.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that!?"

"'Merry Christmas?'"

"You hate Christmas."

"Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly. Go and have some more."

III

John held Mary tight. He had missed holding her like this, almost angry for keeping himself away from her for so long.

"So you realise that, er, Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?" said Mary.

"His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life. I get that. That is the thing with Sherlock. It's always the unexpected."

John frowned as he felt her grasp on him weaken. He held onto her. "Oi," he said as she began to slump in his arms. "Mary? Jesus Christ Mary?" He walked her carefully to the armchair. "Sit down."

She dropped into the chair like deadweight. Her eyes closed, mouth open as if she had fallen asleep.

"Mary, can you hear me?" he shouted, his voice laced with panic.

The door swung open as Sherlock peered around it. "Don't drink Mary's tea," he said. "Oh, or the punch."

Sherlock strutted into the next room where his father lay on the couch beside an empty punch glass. He placed his hand under his nose to check his breath before continuing towards the kitchen where Bill stood holding Vaughan in his arms; the toddler seemingly unbothered by the chaos around him. Either side of them sat Mrs Holmes and Mycroft; both unconscious and slumped in their chairs.

"Sherlock?" said John.

Sherlock looked up at the clock, seven minutes – he was right.

"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock replied as he checked their breathing. "Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

"I calculated your wife's dose myself," said Bill proudly. "Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on her."

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. "He'll monitor their recovery. It's more or less his day job."

"Sherlock!" Margaux stumbled into the kitchen, grasping onto the edge of the table to keep herself upright. "What's happening to me?" she slurred.

"It's time," he replied with a wink.

She dragged herself around the side of the table towards him, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Okay. B-bu... Wa… Was this n-necessary?"

"Time for what?" asked John.

She knocked over a glass as she pulled herself closer. "D-did you… drug me!?"

"You'll be fine, it'll be like the best nap of your life," said Bill.

Margaux looked up at him, now noticing her son in his arms. She pointed at him and turned to Sherlock. "No. Abs-lute… no way," she slurred, struggling to catch her breath.

"Don't worry, he's great with kids," said Sherlock.

"No…" Her arms gave way beneath her, and like a shot, he was there to catch her. He lowered her gently to the ground, rolling up a tea towel and placing it under her head like a pillow.

"Time for what? What the hell have you done?" asked John.

"A deal with the devil."

"Oh Jesus." He said as he watched him put on his gloves. "Sherlock, please tell me you haven't just gone out of your mind."

"I'd rather keep you guessing," he replied as he plucked Mycroft's laptop from under his limp arm.

The loud rumbling of a helicopter enveloped the cottage; shaking the windows and forcing soot down the fireplaces. Sherlock looked up.

"Ah," he smiled. "There's our lift."

He rushed outside as the helicopter began to descend.

"Coming?" he called out to John.

"Where?"

"Do you want your wife to be safe?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous. One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

"But it's Christmas."

"I feel the same." He smiled. "Oh, you mean it's actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner!?"

"Is it in your coat?"

"Yes."

"Off we go, then."

"Where are we going?"

"Appledore."

Author's Note: Another chapter with quite a few scenes from the show (I guess it's the price I have to pay for writing so bloody canonically!) of course rewritten to include our OC's. I hope you all don't mind the transcribing. It's not a regular thing I promise.

Thank you all so much for your reads, favourites, follows and most of all your reviews. I can't even explain how much your feedback keeps me going! The next chapter is on its way in the next few days!