Saw the new Sherlock Holmes film last night, very much enjoyed it! And the new Sherlock series starts on New Years Day! That will ease my hangover! I regret that this is the last chapter of this particular story, but hopefully you'll all forgive me, as it has Christmas with the Holmes family! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing concerning characters. I own a large pile of old Kerrang magazines and a very naughty motorbike.

Sherlock -wearing a paper hat and a reindeer-print jumper- was glaring steadily across the large table at his elder brother, who matched his expression with equal intensity.

Mycroft had a garden gnome -mud-splatted, naturally- and a self-help CD next to his glass of wine. It was staring adoringly up at him.

Sherlock had a tin of mushy peas, a can of oxygen, and an electronic cigarette in front of him.

Suffice to say, neither brother had appreciated the gifts received from the other.

Sherlock's pink paper crown slipped down over one eye, but he appeared not to notice.

"You two are awfully quiet," noted Mrs Holmes.

Mycroft forced a smile. "I never know quite what to say when receiving a gift from my favourite brother-"

"I'm your only brother," Sherlock snapped. "But thank you for the zombie figure, Mummy. It's lovely. Isn't it, John?"

John finally tore his eyes away from the green-grey-skinned, meticulously detailed, resin lawn ornament, which featured a life-size undead man from the armpits up, clawing his way back to life. Sherlock had insisted on putting it on the chair next to John. Quite frankly, it terrified him, and he didn't want it in the same country as himself, let alone next to him. It was worse than the skulls already at Baker Street. "The detail is exquisite," John offered.

Sherlock caressed the head affectionately, oblivious to John's discomfort. "What did you get from Mummy, Mycroft?"

Mycroft held up a roll of sudoku-printed toilet paper, smiling cheerfully.

"I know how you like your puzzles, darling," said Mrs Holmes, happily.

"You know me too well, Mummy. Did you like your gift?"

"You shouldn't spend so much money on your silly old Mummy," Mrs Holmes scolded him, good-naturedly. "But the necklace is very beautiful, thank you."

"Sherlock and I clubbed together," Mycroft lied, smoothly. "I said that I would buy the necklace, if he brought you flowers." He eyed the wreath that had been hanging on the door to 221 Baker Street with mild distaste. Mrs Hudson would not be happy that Sherlock had pilfered it.

"It's a beautiful wreath," said Mrs Holmes. "Did you make it yourself, Sherlock?"

"It was a project with my landlady," said Sherlock. "She likes to spend time with John and I. Occasionally, we knit."

John swallowed to contain a snigger.

"How lovely!" Mrs Holmes cooed. "And who is the baker of Baker Street?"

Mrs Hudson had baked them a selection of festive biscuits and gift-wrapped it to take to Mrs Holmes, insisting that 'home-made was best... better than those petrol station chocolates, at least'.

"That would be me," said Sherlock, ducking his head as though being modest. "John wrapped it."

John eyed the large ribbons tied in extravagant bows with something akin to caution.

"Your cooking has improved since last week, then?" Mycroft inquired of his younger brother, failing to keep the smirk from his face.

"Considerably."

"Have you fitted a new smoke alarm yet?"

"Needed a new battery, is all," replied Sherlock, breezily.

"Did the old one die of natural causes or did you blow it into the attic?"

"Boys," Mrs Holmes chided, sounding tired.

John took a sip of water, eyes on anything but the other occupants of the room, and the zombie.

No wonder Sherlock and Mycroft were eccentric – the Holmes family home was a large, Gothic mansion, the sort that belonged in old films. There were creepy ancestor paintings on the walls, and the ceilings were quite incredibly high. There were actual corridors.

Mrs Holmes had taken John on a short tour of the house while Sherlock and Mycroft bickered on arrival.

Mycroft's old bedroom was military-neat, with three identical umbrella stands, made of expensive, highly polished oak wood. There was a stack of briefcases in the corner of the room, all precisely the same, with a pair of night-vision goggles atop of them. A large telescope was assembled, pointing out of the large window, with an astronomy book perched upon an artists easel beside it.

Sherlock's room was a teenage Goth's wet-dream; various life-size skulls lined up along the window sill, the large desk, the wardrobe, and about twenty were perched on the wall-filling bookcase, both atop it, and as dividers. The other walls each had an ornamental sword hung on it. The desk was littered with crumpled cigarette packets, discarded lighters, an ancient mobile phone charger, newspaper clippings, and hundreds of pages of handwritten and typed notes; mostly conspiracy theories and solutions to previously unsolved crimes. On the floor, to the side of the wardrobe, was a still-wrapped gift -clearly a globe of the world- with the tag: 'To Brother Dearest; An Introduction To Geography.'

Mrs Holmes was a strange woman; homely-looking with a sweet-natured, slightly rounded face, but had an almost fierce look in her eyes at times. Her body language was confident; in the set of her shoulders and the angle of her chin. Her gaze was fairly intimidating. She didn't seem like the kind of woman you would want to cross. John was thoroughly creeped out by 'Mummy'.

John took another sip of water, and prayed to go home.

Four hours, two broken plates, one smashed ornamental skull, and a broken umbrella stand later, and Sherlock and John were back at Baker Street, enduring Mrs Hudson's wrath for stealing the wreath that she had lovingly made to 'create festive cheer in these depressing times'. Sherlock offered her a box of chocolates he had bought from a petrol station, and a bottle of home-made mulled wine given to him by his mother. Suffice to say, they were then allowed back into their flat, though Mrs Hudson eyed the zombie bust with great aversion.

John and Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, with identical sighs.

After five minutes of silence, Sherlock turned his head to face his flat-mate. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"Where's my Christmas present?"

John snorted. "We agreed that buying presents for each other was stupid."

"Just testing you," said Sherlock, with a small smile.

"Why, what did you get me?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Really. Just testing."

John said nothing for a while, but then dug his hand down the side of the sofa, and pulled out a small, neatly-wrapped present. He tossed it over to Sherlock, who caught it deftly and enthusiastically. "It's Gallium. Enjoy."

Sherlock ripped off the paper, and held the solid crystal in the palm of his hand. He watched it with unwavering interest as his body heat caused it to slowly melt into a silverly puddly in his hand. "Good present. Very good present." He tipped it onto a clean plate, and it froze back into a solid. "Anything else?"

John passed him a cookery book with a bow tied around it. "With proper instructions."

"I prefer the Gallium," said Sherlock.

"Where's my present, then?" John inquired.

Sherlock rummaged down the side of the sofa, and pulled out a book entitled: 'The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change'.

John's eyes narrowed. "You're serious?"

"Perhaps you'll find it enlightening."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"And to you, John."

FIN.

Hope you liked it! Love to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, favourited, lurked around this story! Twas never a hassle to write or create ideas for. Merry Christmas! Over and out. xxxx