A/N: One of my favorite things about Christmas is the cheesy movies they have playing 24/7 on Hallmark and Lifetime channels. Seriously, I don't care how terrible the acting is, the cinematography, anything. I will watch them all. It's a weakness of mine, a character flaw, if you will. My absolute favorite corny Christmas movie is named "Holiday in Handcuffs" and I cannot go a year without watching it. Last year, around this time, I came up with the brilliant idea that I was going to write a Johnlock fic based on said movie, and here it is, in all it's cheesy glory. I hope you enjoy.
December 23rd. 221B Baker Street, London. 07:00.
The shrill ring of a mobile phone filled the lounge, rousing Sherlock Holmes from his unconscious state. He hadn't been sleeping, not fully, but rather resting, allowing his mind to relax without becoming befuddled by sleep. His mobile, however, was doing a fine job of destroying his concentration anyway. Sherlock rolled over, his hand scrabbling for the phone, not bothering to check to see who was calling before answering with one of his usual perfunctory greetings.
"Sherlock Holmes. Don't be boring." He snapped.
"Is that any way to speak to your mother, Sherlock?" The feminine voice of Violet Holmes asked, causing any lingering tendrils of unconsciousness to promptly vanish.
"Mummy!" Sherlock said hurriedly, jumping off the sofa as if his mother could witness him lazing about. "I apologise. I thought you were a potential client."
"That is no way to talk to a client." Mummy admonished. "It's no wonder you're lacking them. Clients, that is. No one wants to go to a detective that is so rude."
"Sorry, Mummy." Sherlock said in an appeasing manner, but Mummy was having none of it.
"Really, Sherlock. I thought you would be over this whole consulting detective nonsense by now. Surely a job with your brother would be far more beneficial…"
"Mummy, I don't want to work for the government." Sherlock replied petulantly. "I want to solve mysteries, puzzles, crimes!"
"You're going to have to grow out of this phase sometime, dear." Mummy tutted. "You're twenty six years old!"
He sighed softly, not really wanting to begin their repetitive fight so early in the morning. Really, if he could go one day without arguing about his job, his romantic life and his future, it couldn't come too soon.
"Anyway, I was calling to confirm the seating order." Mummy continued. "Victor is still coming to our winter estate for Christmas, correct?"
"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock replied, pulling on a pair of black trousers and a white button up. While it may be the uniform for Higbies, the coffee shop that Sherlock was employed at, it would also serve as an acceptable outfit for the insufferable interview his father was forcing him to go on.
"Oh, good." Mummy chirped cheerfully. "Hopefully you'll make it work with this boy. You aren't getting any younger!"
"Mummy!" Sherlock protested, but it was clear from the rumble of his father's voice in the background that Violet was no longer listening to her son. The pair prattled on for about a minute, arguing quietly before Sherlock heard a rustle indicating a passed phone.
"Sherlock!" Siger greeted.
"Hello, Father." Sherlock responded, and, realising that he was pacing, promptly sat down in the worn leather chair near the fireplace. "What can I do for you?"
"I was just checking in to make sure that you were still planning to go to your interview down at the Bank of London."
"Of course, Father." Sherlock replied dully, his distaste for the interview showing through his voice.
"Don't be like that, Sherlock." Father said. "Sebastian Wilkes Sr. is our neighbour, and it would be in poor taste to miss such an important interview. If you get the job, you would be working with your old friend, Sebastian Wilkes Jr."
"Sebastian was not my friend." Sherlock reminded his father. "He broke my arm for telling him that his mother was cheating on his father with the mail man."
Father sighed, and Sherlock gritted his teeth against the sound of pure disappointment. He assumed he would have been used to the sound by now, but it still put him on edge.
"I promise I will go to the interview." Sherlock droned.
"This is your chance to put all that detective nonsense behind you." Father responded, sound far more cheerful than he had a minute previous. "A fresh new start. Make us proud, son."
"I will, Father." Sherlock said before hearing the phone being passed once again to his mother.
"We can't wait to meet Victor." Mummy said quickly, her voice cheerful. "I'm sure he's even lovelier than you claim."
"You'll love him." Sherlock promised. "I've got to be on my way. See you soon!"
"Remember, be here by six!" Mummy said quickly, and Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment before hanging up his phone, shooting the skull on his mantelpiece a weary look.
"You're the only one who isn't a complete idiot, Billy." He said, pushing himself out of his leather chair and walking towards the door. "At least Victor will fit in with them."
December 23rd. Tottenham Court Road, London. 08:15.
Sherlock hadn't been lying when he promised his father that he would be attending the interview. He had had every intention of attending the infernal meeting, and had not the most intriguing distraction made itself known, Sherlock would have made good on his promise.
As it was, the most exciting of crimes happened to be between Sherlock's flat, and the bank that was his intended destination. He had been walking along when a barrier of yellow police tape blocked his path. And really, could he be blamed for stopping to point out what the cops had gotten wrong?
Sherlock stopped to take in the scene in front of him, eyes sweeping along the pavement, taking in the dark blood on the concrete. There was a flower pot that was shattered nearby, somewhere around where the victims head would have been, and a lone shoe nearby. A movement out of the corner of Sherlock's eye caught his attention, and he looked up to see a harried looking detective inspector running a hand through his silver-grey hair. Just one glance at his face and Sherlock could tell he had come to the wrong conclusion about the murder.
"Wrong." Sherlock called out, smirking as the DI jumped. Their eyes met, and he got a brief glance of annoyance and shock before professionalism took over on the other man's face.
"This is a crime scene." The DI said, striding over to Sherlock. "The public isn't allowed here."
"While that's true, you've completely misinterpreted the scene." Sherlock replied quickly. "It was not an accident of a falling pot that killed your victim, but rather the swing of a blunt object, such as a baseball bat. Clearly a murder."
The DI stared at him for a few seconds, obviously trying to comprehend what he had said. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and Sherlock watched fascinated as he tried to gather his words. "Excuse me? Are you on drugs?"
"Of course not." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "At least, not anymore. I don't understand why you're not getting to work, you've got a murder to solve."
"A murder?" The DI scoffed. "What makes you think it was a murder?"
"I don't think, I know." Sherlock sighed slightly, "The flower pot broke on a hard, flat surface, not a rounded one. The pattern of the cracks also suggest that it was dropped so that it was perpendicular to the ground. If the vase had fallen naturally, it would have landed at a much different angle, and the crack pattern would be completely different. Suggesting by blood on the sidewalk, the victim's head was struck by a faster force than a randomly falling flower pot. "
The DI looked completely befuddled, not that Sherlock was very surprised. Most people looked this way whenever he was talking. Victor had always walked off at this point, claiming he needed to get away from all the 'ridiculous talk'.
"That was….really weird, to be honest." The DI said, shaking his head. "And I'm not entirely convinced that you're sober. What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." Sherlock said, confused at the flurry of emotions that flew across the DI's face at the mention of his name. For one brief second he debated on asking why his name caught the DI's attention, but then quickly threw that idea out the window. He needed something interesting to ponder while stuck at his horrendous family Christmas.
"Right. Well it was nice meeting you Mr Holmes, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises now." The DI said.
"Fair enough." Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Though I trust you'll take my words to heart, Detective Inspector?"
"I will, yes." The DI replied. "Now go, before you cost me my job."
"Good to know you're not as idiotic as the rest of the force." Sherlock commented dryly, turning away from the yellow police tape that blocked his path.
"Lestrade." The DI said, causing Sherlock to frown at the non-sequitur. He turned to look at the silver haired DI once more.
"Pardon me?"
"My name. I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." The DI repeated.
"Perhaps I'll assist you more often, Lestrade." Sherlock responded, raising an eyebrow to hide how pleased he was. "Make a proper detective out of you yet."
With that parting comment, Sherlock was off once more, his Belstaff swirling dramatically behind him.
December 23. Higbies Coffee Shop, London. 09:30.
Sherlock never did make it to the interview, and while a large portion of the blame fell to the fact that he stopped by the crime scene, the blame rested in the fact that he didn't really want to go. Oh, he had promised Father that he would attend, but he hadn't wanted to, so when he looked at his phone and discovered that he was already fifteen minutes late for the interview, it wasn't with a heavy heart that he turned to go to work instead.
Naturally, the small coffee shop was completely packed, and Sherlock didn't have any time to brood about the mood his father would be in when he discovered that he had missed the interview. He had just stepped behind the counter, tying his apron on as he went, when his co-worker Molly bounced up to him, cheeks flushed from all the running around she had been doing.
"Thank god you're here!" She chirped, setting a small latte on the counter and calling out the recipient's name. "I was worried that you had decided to leave for your parents place early."
"I'm going to their winter estate in Yorkshire." Sherlock said, not for the first time. "Not their home. And I wouldn't leave early. For one thing, Victor isn't done with work. And I don't want to spend a second longer than I have to with my family."
"Ugh." Molly wrinkled her nose, grabbing the metal cup they used to steam milk, pouring skim milk into it. "You're bringing Victor to meet your parents? He's horrid!"
"Yes." Sherlock replied, pouring coffee beans into the espresso machine. "He'll fit right in with them. Big businessman such as himself? Mycroft will love him, and don't even mention my parents."
"What sort of business is he in again?" Molly asked, placing the milk under the steaming wand and starting it up.
"Oh, I don't remember." Sherlock replied easily. "Something dreadfully boring. Does it matter?"
Molly giggled in response, and Sherlock turned to look at the customers, deducing what sort of coffee they were going to get. It always helped to be prepared.
(Short brunette woman will have a cinnamon latte, redheaded male will take a mocha with extra whip, blond man in the frumpy jumper will have a coffee black with no sugar, and Victor will take…Victor?)
Sherlock froze as he watched his boyfriend walk towards him, his bespoke suit making him stand out uncomfortable among the rest of the coffee shop patrons. Victor was taller than Sherlock, maybe about six foot two, and thick brown hair that most people were jealous of. A bright, false smile showed off his straight teeth, and Sherlock knew that whatever Victor had to say wasn't going to be good.
"Sherly!" Victor chirped, ignoring the full-bodied wince that always accompanied his horrible nickname. "Listen, I have some bad news. I can't make it to your parents' estate this Christmas."
"What do you mean you can't make it?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the agitated customer who was trying to snatch the coffee cup that he was clutching tightly in his hands. "You promised you would come!"
"Yeah, sorry about that." Victor didn't bother to sound sorry at all. "But I only told you that so we would have sex. I don't actually want to meet your parents."
"Excuse me?" Sherlock choked, setting down the coffee cup at long last, the customer who it belonged to grabbing it and grumbling about poor service. "Are you…are you breaking up with me?"
"Well, yes." Victor said, his grin becoming more amused. "Though I didn't want to be the one to say it. Thanks, love."
"I am not your love." Sherlock growled softly. "You can kindly piss off."
"Oh, I intend to." Victor replied, giving a small wave as he turned. "Nice having this chat with you."
Sherlock watched as Victor left, the door tinkling as he made his escape into the London streets. Sherlock could do little else but gape after him, a nudge from Molly bringing him back to his senses.
"Jeez, what a wanker." Molly said, "You're better off without him."
"You don't understand." Sherlock shook his head, not even foul language from Molly unable to break through his shock. "He was my ticket to a decent Christmas. My parents were finally proud of me for something and-fuck!"
"Um…excuse me?" A soft voice interrupted, causing both Sherlock and Molly to jump. The blond man with the frumpy jumper stood there, looking vaguely amused, and Sherlock noted distantly that he was much handsomer than he had originally thought. "I was wondering if I could order my coffee."
"Black, no sugar." Sherlock said absently, his phone that had begun to vibrate pulling him from the haze of the break up.
"Yeah…how did you…?" The blond asked in surprise, but Sherlock paid him no mind as he answered the call from his mother, turning away from the blond and Molly.
"Haven't you left yet?" Violet asked, annoyance clear in her voice. Nearby, Sherlock could hear Molly explaining his little talent to the customer. "Oh, that's just something he does. It's pretty neat, actually…oh shoot, we're out of regular coffee beans…"
"Actually," Sherlock told his mother, a small smile on his face. "We were just leaving now. I'll talk to you later!"
He hung up quickly, whirling back to the pair, a bright smile on his face. "Out of regular coffee? What a shame! How about the customer and I go and grab some out of the back?"
"Oh, I suppose that would be alright." Molly said absently, and Sherlock darted out from behind the counter, steering the customer towards the back door.
"Uh, where are we going?" The blond asked as they passed the store room. Sherlock could practically feel the confusion as he opened the backdoor and pushed him out. "What are you doing?"
"You're coming with me." Sherlock told him. "I'm in need of a boyfriend for Christmas, and you're the perfect contender."
"Wait…" The blond turned to look at Sherlock, anger and confusion on his face. "You're attempting to kidnap me?!"
"Oh no." Sherlock said softly. "I am kidnapping you. It's time to meet the family."