Had lots of fun writing this chapter; I hope you enjoy reading it! 18/12/2011.
Disclaimer: I own an abused oven, many secrets, and an over-active imagination. I don't own the characters. Sob.
Four Varieties Of Mustard
The buzzer requesting entry to the flat sounded, and John hurriedly answered it.
"Hello?"
'I know the code, but wanted to do this formally. More socially acceptable, you know.'
John buzzed Mycroft up with a look of resignation on his face, complete with slight eye twitch.
"John? Who is it?" Sherlock called, from the kitchen.
"Your brother."
"Eurgh."
Mycroft strode into the flat; his suit immaculate and his umbrella swinging proudly. "Have fun in the morgue?"
"Er... yes, I suppose," replied John, unsure of how to correctly answer the question.
"Glad to hear it. Where is my darling brother?"
"Kitchen."
Concern flickered over Mycroft's face. "Ah."
In a gust of smoke, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, wearing yellow rubber gloves and Mrs Hudson's flower-printed apron. "Mycroft."
"Do you want me to...?" John gestured towards the kitchen.
"What? No. The white sauce is under control, thank you, John."
"Anyway, I'd like to speak to you, Dr Watson," said Mycroft, self-importantly.
"Oh?" John looked surprised and even a little thoughtful.
Sherlock's eyes slitted dangerously. He was still holding a smoking whisk.
The smoke alarm went off.
John swore and grabbed a cushion from the sofa. He proceeded to flap it wildly at the shrill alarm, whilst the Holmes brothers watched him with identical expressions of interest on their faces.
Luckily, the alarm soon stopped, and John put the cushion back down.
"You were saying?" he inquired.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes." Mycroft was smirking a little, as though he had never seen such alarm-stopping antics before. "I was speaking to-"
"Why didn't you just shoot it?" Sherlock interrupted, bluntly, to his flat-mate.
"Because normal people don't shoot fire alarms," said John, pointedly.
Sherlock shrugged.
"I was speaking to our mother," said Mycroft, ignoring his younger brother. "She is most curious to meet you, John. She has invited you over with us for Christmas dinner."
"Oh, God, no," said John, without thinking. He clapped his hand to his mouth after the realization that he had spoken aloud.
Sherlock actually giggled.
"What I mean to say is, ah... I wouldn't want to intrude on a family event," John corrected himself.
"You wouldn't be intruding," said Mycroft, benignly. "In fact, Mummy was most insistent."
The smoke alarm sounded again, and this time, Sherlock took it upon himself to wave his whisk in front of it until it stopped. He looked positively smug at his achievement.
John's mouth began to open and close repeatedly of its own accord, utterly unsure of what to say. "Well, I... Um...?"
"Well?"
"Umm..."
The smoke alarm sounded again.
Sherlock threw his whisk down, and it bounced off the arm of the sofa onto the floor. He pulled John's revolver from the pocket of Mrs Hudson's apron, and shot the smoke alarm with little accuracy. Two more shots, and the shrill beeping stopped.
John's mouth hung open in dismay.
Mycroft looked faintly displeased at the ceiling dust on his suit.
Mrs Hudson banged on the door of the flat, cursing Sherlock colourfully.
"He'll pay for it to be replaced, Mrs Hudson!" John called back, placating their landlady, who returned downstairs.
"So. John. Christmas dinner?" Mycroft pressed.
"Sure. Why not?" said John, mentally stabbing himself repeatedly.
"Perhaps you'll even enjoy it," said Mycroft, mysteriously.
"I doubt it," said Sherlock, sourly, picking up his abandoned whisk. "Excuse us, Mycroft; I think dinner might be ready."
"Being creative again?" Mycroft inquired of his brother. "I thought you'd have learnt by now. I'm surprised that the throwing knife 'dartboard' didn't end up worse."
"What? What? What?"
"Calm down, John. I... grazed Anderson. Slightly," explained Sherlock.
"You grazed... That's why he hates you!"
"Perhaps. It's a bit hazy, actually..."
"So," said Mycroft, "you'll both be there at 11.30am? Sherlock, don't be late. And dress sensibly. Be sober."
"I always dress well!" Sherlock objected, hands on flower-printed hips.
Mycroft surveyed him through critical eyes, and made a disbelieving noise in his throat. "Of course. Emphasis on the 'sober' part, though."
Sherlock eyed him steadily, but did not offer an explanation to John. He sat down on the sofa, legs stretched out upon the seat.
"Please." Mycroft tone left no arguments. He swung his umbrella briefly, before turning on his heel and walking to the door. "Bring her proper flowers this time; not ones you've picked from her garden."
"They were from the neighbour's," Sherlock muttered, as the door snapped shut.
"So... dinner?" John inquired, after a while.
"Try and salvage it while I call for a Chinese," Sherlock requested, pulling out his mobile.
"Sounds good," agreed John, as he battled through great clouds of smoke to take the 'lasagne' out of the oven.
"How's it looking?" Sherlock demanded, his finger hovering over the 'call' button.
"Like... a piece of dead, rotten tree," admitted John, sounding mildly awed as well as revolted.
"Fascinating. Don't throw it out." Sherlock held the phone to his ear. "Yes, hello. 221B Baker Street. We'd like..."
Christmas at the Holmes' couldn't be over soon enough, mused John, as he opened all of the windows in the flat as wide as they could go.
Thoughts? xx