I.
25 December 2014
Christmas Day
Overcast, no rain
II.
Oh look! "The gang's all here," as the American's say. Sherlock, John, Mary and ... Good God! He's brought one of his homeless with him? As if bringing an assassin to Christmas dinner wasn't bad enough. Nothing to do about it now. Best put on a brave face.
IV.
"John, Mary, Welcome to our humble abode," Mycroft said in his most jovial voice.
"Out of the way, Mike. Let the Watson's come inside." His mother said shooing him away from the door. "Happy Christmas! Oh my! Looks like we'll be expecting another Watson any day now. You must be exhausted, Mary. I remember when I was pregnant with this old boy," she patted Mycroft in the stomach with the back of her hand, "I was constantly needing a lie down. Come in and take a seat by the fire. Sherlock! Take their coats."
"But I just got here, Mummy! Can't Mycroft do it?"
"I've got them," Their father said nimbly stepping forward to take Mary and John's coats. He left Sherlock to put up his own. Sherlock stared for a moment at his father's tie, and then rolled his eyes. Mycroft smirked back in shared horror at their father's horrible taste. He wouldn't tell Sherlock about the musical socks. Some things must be witnessed first hand to be believed.
"I was just about to begin the potatoes. Sherlock, come and help me."
"But Mummy, I want to show John my room."
"You can play with your friend anytime. Come into the kitchen. It's been ages since you've been here, and I want to have a look at you."
Sherlock shrugged and followed her, flinching as she wrapped him up in a hug. He tried to get away, but Mummy won out, and so he stood there pouting until she got her fill and released him. "Now sit down and tell me all about what you've been doing up in London."
"I've been in hospital. I haven't been DOING anything."
"Except driving the nurses insane," Mycroft muttered.
"What is that?" Mummy asked.
"It was nothing," Sherlock said. "She already had schizophrenic tendencies. She would have gone over eventually even without my help."
"Boys," father called from the other room. "Can you bring us some wood, I want to start a fire."
"Both of us?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft complained. "Must you continue to refer to us as children? I'm over forty!" But they relented in the face of their mother's stern look.
.
In the quiet brightness of Christmas Day the two of them gathered wood from the wood pile.
"You look better," Mycroft said as he watched his brother bending over to pick up a log."
"You look heavier," Sherlock said handing two logs to Mycroft. "Here. Carry some more. God knows you could do with the exercise."
"You never did like carrying things. I remember the time when you strapped wood to the sides of your dog so you wouldn't have to carry it in yourself."
"His name was Redbeard."
"He was a pet, Sherlock. It's not my job to keep track of all of your pet's names."
"You can't possibly find that taxing. There was only the one. Besides, didn't you used to have a pet once? A snake... what was his name?"
"Oroboros."
"Yes, that's right. He was a python or something."
"An Albino Boa Constrictor. Quite rare. And she was female."
"They say that pets grow to be like their owners and owners their pets. I think that I can see the resemblance. Your fangs are showing," Sherlock said before walking through the door into the house.
"You know very well that Boas don't have fangs," Mycroft said following him.
II.
Oroboros.
It's been ages since I said that name. I remember when I first got her, a snow white Boa with just a hint of pink diamond on her tail. She was as thin as my thumb. Pale and beautiful and silky. I would feed her frogs from the garden and mice from the back steps. Years I had her until she got to be so big that she outgrew her tank and I let her climb on the top of my bed frame. She scared Mummy so badly that afterwards I had to change my own sheets.
I loved that snake.
IV.
Mycroft walked into the study to see Father taking the wood from Sherlock and piling it carefully into the fireplace. Mycroft stacked his wood on the floor beside them and then turned to look around the room.
Mary was sitting on the couch. She was dressed in red and green as if the bright colors would act as camouflage among all of the Christmas decor. It seemed to be working. The homeless man was walking around the edges of the room examining all of Mummy's curios. Mycroft made a note to count them before he left. Then the homeless man turned his head to look at Mary.
II.
Ah, I see why this man is here. His job must be to watch Mrs Watson in case she does something suspicious. Commendable of my brother, but unnecessary. I have a tactical response team on speed dial ready to come at my command. Hopefully, there will be no need for that. Mummy would be so cross if they trampled her hydrangeas.
Besides, I don't think that she'll strike today, and if she does, I still have the pen in my pocket.
IV.
Mrs Holmes stormed into the room.
"Sherlock! I thought that you were helping in the kitchen."
"But Mummy..."
"Don't 'but Mummy' me. Come and help," she said grabbing his hand and all but pulling him out of the room. Mycroft smirked. Then he realized that if he stayed in the room much longer he might have to talk to Mary, so he left.
III.
Mary, Father, Homeless man - Study. Mother, Sherlock- Kitchen, John ...
IV.
Mycroft found John in the living room. He was sitting on the couch in Father's seat, looking toward the candles on the coffee table but not appearing to see anything as he idly rotated a USB stick in his hand. He looked up when Mycroft entered, focusing on him with blue eyes dark as the North Sea before turning away and placing the data stick in his pocket. He sat back then resuming his vacant stare.
II.
What is he thinking of? What else? Whether or not to take back his wife. I know what I would do, but John Watson and I are very different people.
Why, I think that this may be the first time that the two of us have been alone in a room together since... 2012. That night in the Diogenes club. I did what I had to do, for Sherlock. I knew that saying those things would probably make John hate me. What I didn't know was that I would care that he did.
IV.
Mycroft turned away then and walked toward the window.
II.
Nothing is happening outside, but then again, nothing ever happens here.
I have work that I could be doing instead of boring myself to death in the midst of this domestic farce. There's nothing to do here, no one to talk to. Well, no one worth talking to. Perhaps Sherlock is right. Perhaps things would be better if I had a...goldfish. Then I would have someone to accompany me to these functions and keep me from going totally insane. But where would I find someone who I could even tolerate spending time with?
There's my assistant, Agnes.
Last night as she was leaving for her Christmas break, she stood beside the door just a moment too long. She was stunningly beautiful in green velvet with a black fur stole that matched her hair. I could tell that she was waiting for me to do something. I could have walked up to her and kissed her softly on the mouth. I could have run a finger down her neck. She wouldn't have objected. She doesn't exactly fancy me, but she's not adverse to the possibility of a relationship. She's made that much clear. I can imagine the sensation of her body against mine, the feel of my fingers in her perfectly sculpted hair.
I could have brought her here to meet Mummy and Daddy. She would have looked so charming beside the Christmas tree and Mummy would be so pleased. She would probably make a joke about grandchildren.
I could have kissed her, but instead I wished her a Merry Christmas and added a generous bonus to her check. In truth, the thought of kissing her makes me feel cold. I would really be The Ice Man if I let her believe that I felt that way about her. She is my work. Mixing work and pleasure seems wrong. Besides, women aren't really what I prefer.
I am not without passions. I just don't let them rule me, nor do I repress them like Sherlock does. He doesn't realize that when you repress your needs they will spill out, expressing themselves one way or another. The way to avoid that is to allow yourself to indulge occasionally once the consequences of your actions have been calculated and the allowance seems acceptable.
I think that it might be ... comforting to have a companion. He wouldn't be as smart as I am, obviously, but if he were reasonably intelligent and moderately attractive it might work.
If I were to bring someone home with me, he would have to be intelligent. Someone with a security clearance, or the ability to get one. Someone who was not part of my work, but was loyal to Great Britain, who could not be bought. Someone brave who could resist torture. Someone strong, and yet kind. But where would I ever find someone like that?
IV.
At that moment John let out a sigh. Mycroft turned toward him.
He was leaning back now, his legs stretched out beside the table. Mycroft walked around the room and lowered himself into the red overstuffed chair. It was more comfortable than standing. It also gave him an unobstructed view of John Watson. Mycroft crossed his legs.
II.
Dr. John Hamish Watson. Former Captain in the Northumberland Fusiliers. He has never knowingly revealed secrets even though he has been kidnapped by the likes of villains such as James Moriarty. He is strong under pressure, unerringly loyal, and he believes in Queen and Country. At heart, he is still a soldier, and yet he is also kind. The data in his file suggests that John is well above average as a lover. He has had conquests on at least three continents, and none of his partners seem to have voiced any complaints. Also, despite his constant assurances to the contrary, evidence suggests that not all of these partners were of the opposite gender. It shouldn't be too difficult to get him a security clearance.
IV.
John glanced toward him, shifting to sit properly in his seat. Then his eyes unfocused as thoughts flitted across the surface before he turned his head away again.
Mycroft clasped his hands, looking at John over the top of them before touching his knuckles to his lips.
II.
There is one fact about John Watson that is certain however. He is currently very, very unavailable. In fact, I can tell by the look in his eye and the unconscious way that his hand is resting on his abdomen that he has decided to go back to Mary. When he does, he will go back outside of our security wall, and he will be lost.
So, back to the problem at hand. If I were to imagine that I had such a person here with me now. What exactly would we do? We certainly couldn't talk of anything classified with a rogue spy and an unknown vagabond in the house. Yet it would be enjoyable to have someone here who understands me. I could show him the house, and when we reached the back stairs, I could push him against the wall and kiss him, and that wouldn't feel cold. No, it would be very warm indeed.
I can almost feel his thin lips pressed against mine, as I bend down and wrap one arm around his waist pulling him closer. I would push aside his blazer and draw circles over his nipple. My fingertips stroking that awful polyester cotton blend shirt as I raise my hand to trace the edge of his scar...
Ah!
How embarrassing.
Then again, he has proven that he can be... discreet if need be. John never told Sherlock how often we met to talk about him. Sherlock may have suspected, but John never told. And I never told him that the night before he fell, John came to see me... first.
John and Sherlock. So much emotion under the surface between them, and neither of them able to simply say what they feel. I can't help thinking that if I were in Sherlock's place, I would have already had him by now.
Stop. That's enough time fantasizing. Best see what Mummy and Sherlock are up to.
IV.
Mycroft pushed himself to his feet and went to the kitchen.