Ta-da! The last chapter to my first three-shot! I have to say, even though this is very angsty (or well, angsty for me) I really like this AU and will probably be back in it at some point :) So if you enjoyed this, keep an eye out for more.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

It was a Holmes family tradition to gather at the country estate every holiday season. From Christmas Eve to New Year's Day, both Holmes brothers were expected to be present and pleasant.

And, apparently, so was John.

Poor John had been coerced by both men to come to the estate this year, though he was proud to say he had been holding his own against them for quite a while. But when Mummy Holmes herself rings you at work, you have no choice but to relent. Oh, she had been polite enough, of course, but not even John could ignore the edge of steel in her tone that broke any argument.

So here he was standing in the grand entrance hall of the Holmes estate, almost feeling like a teenager about to meet someone's parents for the first time. He had to keep wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he fidgeted beside a moody Sherlock. Throughout the season the Consulting Detective had been sulky at best, and John doubted that was going to improve over the familial festivities.

Mummy Holmes appeared in all her glory, wearing a burgundy Christmas dress that swished around her claves in exactly the same way Sherlock's coat moved around his. She was a surprisingly small woman, thin and frail looking though she moved with the ease of someone half her age. Her black hair only had a few strands of gray and her face was nearly wrinkle free, her complexion flawless.

After greeting her sons warmly, the tiny woman turned to John, smiling slightly as her steel grey eyes sized him up, "You must me John."

"Yes," he smiled as warmly as he could. "Thank you for inviting me."

She was waving away his gratitude before it completely left his mouth, "Oh it's nothing, I'm sure. Sherlock mentioned you didn't have any plans this year, and I thought this would be the perfect time to finally get to know you." She smiled again, this time more sincerely, "Now, come with me. Tea's waiting in the parlor. You can sit by me and regale me with everything my son has done in the past to bother you and we can come up with ways to punish him for it." As she spoke she threaded her boney arm through John's and began to lead him away, Sherlock and Mycroft trailing after them.

Sherlock sighed loudly behind them as they enter the next room, "Mother, really."

"Not now, Sherlock dear. Mummy's talking."

He sighed again.

Later that night after supper, Mummy had them all sitting around the parlor. Mycroft was going through old home movies, trying to decide which one would entertain his mother the most. Mummy sat on the settee with John, each sipping from glasses of wine as she told him humorous stories of Sherlock's childhood. Sherlock, who had been gone for the past few minutes, clambered into the room, balancing a large bowl of popcorn, an equally large bowl of cranberries, a couple needles, and thread. Carefully he placed the items on the ground before folding himself in front of the settee, turned so he could both speak with everyone in the room while still seeing the television. It was the first time John had even seen Sherlock try to be hospitable. He had a feeling it had a lot to do with the woman sitting on his left.

"What's all this?" John asked, tapping Sherlock's thigh with his foot to get his attention.

"I'm making garland for the tree." He glanced up from the corner of his eye. "It's tradition."

"It was Caitlyn's tradition and you usually quit half way through," Mycroft said bluntly, setting up the DVD player.

Sherlock scowled at his brother as Mummy frowned sadly. They two brothers had spent most of the day bickering over needless things, but this was way below the belt. Anyone with half a heart would know not to mention Caitlyn, especially on a holiday. Whatever was wrong with Mycroft lately, he didn't need to be taking it out on Sherlock like this.

John cleared his throat, sliding down to sit on the ground with his friend, "Need any help?"

Sherlock merely shrugged, but handed over the spare needle and some thread. They began to string cranberries and popcorn as Mycroft sat back, using the remote to begin the movie. The screen turned blue for a moment before flickering to the grainy pictures old cameras make. Mycroft and Sherlock were little in the first few clips, unwrapping presents and competing for who got the best things. But soon Mycroft started skipping along until coming to a stop on a scene of a younger (eighteen or nineteen) Sherlock playing Christmas music on the violin. Somewhere in the background a woman's sweet voice sang along to I'll Be Home For Christmas. John knew instantly who it was when Sherlock stiffened beside him. He couldn't stop the glare he shot Mycroft, even if he was curious to see how Sherlock had acted when he was in love.

The music stopped and Sherlock smiled to someone off screen as a quiet applause sounded from the handful of other people in the room. Conversation began to pick up again. A woman around Sherlock's age (John recognized Caitlyn by her unique red/brown hair) walked over and wrapped her arms around his neck, an embrace he quickly returned. She wore a red sweater and blue jeans, a wreath of popcorn and cranberries like the ones John was helping Sherlock make circling her head like a crown.

"That was great, Sherlock," her voice was smooth and warm, reminding John of honey. She pulled back to look him in the eye, "You really like your present?"

"Of course," Sherlock assured her, kissing her forehead lightly. "Best present yet."

She raised an eyebrow, "Yet?"

He laughed, a loud carefree sound John had never heard from his friend, not even once. They continued to tease each other on camera, seemingly unaware they were being filmed. Once, John caught a glimpse of a beautiful diamond ring on her left ring finger. This must have been filmed after he proposed to her. The thought of Sherlock engaged was still a little strange for him, but it seemed the detective was whole different man back then.

Eventually, Sherlock snapped. Jumping up, he knocked over the bowl of cranberries, sending the little red berries rolling across the expensive rug and hardwood floor before storming out. They could hear the back door slamming shut as Sherlock went out into the cold. Sighing, Mycroft pushed himself up and followed his brother out.

"Every year," Mummy sighed. "I'm sorry you had to see that John. I was hoping if we had a guest Mycroft wouldn't feel the need to torture his brother so this year."

"It's alright," John assured her, getting up to sit by her again. "But why does he do it? Can't he see how bad Sherlock is feeling?"

"I believe that is why. Mycroft believes Sherlock should at least be trying to get over Caitlyn, and does things like this to express his distaste. However, I don't think any of us are over Caitlyn's disappearance. Even Mycroft. She was a part of this family for so long, it's hard not having her around, even after all this time."

John nodded, squeezing her hand in comfort, "I should go make sure they haven't killed each other."

She chuckled lightly, "Thank you, dear."

John found them on the back porch. Sherlock sat slumped in a chair, smoking a cigarette as Mycroft loomed over him, his face slightly red from obvious yelling. Sherlock looked awfully pale and shaken.

"Mycroft, I think you should go back inside," John called, not moving from his spot near the door. He wanted a quick word with the elder Holmes in private.

Mycroft turned on his heel and came to stand beside the smaller man, "Yes, doctor?"

"Everyone grieves at their own pace and in their own ways. You trying to force Sherlock into doing something he's not ready for could make matters worse, not better. What happened to that man who sat with him with peach tea on March fifteenth?"

"I tried to talk to him then too, but he wouldn't listen. The tea was the only way to salvage the situation. Really it's the only way to calm him down ever."

"Maybe he wouldn't need it if you didn't rile him up." John sighed, reigning in his annoyance, "Look, I'm not saying what's happening is healthy, but he won't get past this if you keep bringing it up so negatively. Just let it lie. Maybe he'll get better with time then."

Mycroft studied the army man for a long moment, "I hope you're right."

After Mycroft returned to the warmth of indoors, John walked out to sit with his flatmate. Sherlock continued to silently smoke, staring out onto the snowy grounds while rolling a cranberry between long fingers.

"I hate Christmas," he murmured between drags.

Taking a leap of faith, John asked, "Did Caitlyn?"

He was quiet for so long, John began to doubt he'd answer.

"She loved it."