J. Joyful
It is Christmas. We are all gathered at 221b, as usual. And by we, I mean – Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and myself. We're two hours into our little celebration, and Molly and Lestrade are rather drunk and flirting in the corner. Mrs. Hudson is gazing dreamily at Sherlock as he plays a series of Christmas tunes on the violin, and I'm… well, I'm here. Documenting it all for our faithful readers.
I've come to discover a few things this evening. Lestrade is a lightweight. Molly drinks vodka cranberries. Sherlock prefers a dry white wine. I hate dry white wine. And Mrs. Hudson can drink us all under the table.
We pass the holiday as we've done in the past. We drink too much, exchange gifts, and Sherlock hurls unwarranted insults at people from time to time. He holds back a little, though, in the spirit of the holiday. I'm thankful for this. So far he has managed not to humiliate poor, sweet Molly. Or anyone else. It's nice.
Towards the end of the evening, Mycroft rings to wish us all a happy Christmas and briefly berate Sherlock for his absence from the family home. The world's only consulting detective has his eyes locked on mine when he says into his mobile, "This year I had someplace else I'd rather be."