RtGR!:
Guest (SavedBySwift) - (Chapter 22) Thank you kindly - I love all my Frenchies on here, they set me and all of my mistakes straight. (I studied Spanish. My extent of the French language goes as far as being polite.) I fixed that particular snag. Continue to tell me if anything else pops up, it's highly appreciated.

25 Days of Christmas

Chapter 23

23 December, 2013

"These types of things are the bane of my existence," Sherlock grumbled from the other side of the couch. A car door slammed on the street below, but after a few moments of silence, Sherlock relaxed. Slightly.
John simply watched him from his side, head resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest. His other hand rested comfortably on Sherlock's ankle (Sherlock had his feet propped up on John's thighs). "I think you'll survive - you did fine last year."
"Yes, but as soon as this is over you'll be leaving," he murmured under his breath, looking away.
John was slightly taken aback by the tone of Sherlock's voice. Across the sofa, Sherlock seemed to be biting his tongue. John nearly brought up an argument, but there was no sense in beating a dead horse. Everything that could have been said had already been said; but that didn't prevent him from feeling a little guilty about leaving. The whole time the party was going on, Sherlock would be waiting for its end - and hoping that somehow it would still go on, if only to keep John from leaving.
A voice from below brought both men from their reveries.

"Boys! A little help!"
John and Sherlock quickly obliged, if only to occupy their minds (and hearts) for the moment.
On the stairs they met Greg and Molly.

"Hey," John greeted with a smile. "Mrs Hudson needs us, but you two can go on up," he told them as they passed.
"Alright," Greg said, then leaned a bit to his right. "Hello, Sherlock!" he called, expecting no reply.
"Hullo!"
Greg made a small face of surprise before he pointed upstairs with his chin. "Wanna head up?"
Molly shrugged, said "Sure," and up they went.

"How long do you think they'll be?" Molly asked once they had shrugged off their coats and set down what had been in their hands. Greg was currently rifling through a bag.
"No idea - all the more reason we need to hurry up," he said.
Molly frowned at him. "What are we hurrying to do exactly?"
"Aha," Greg stage-whispered in triumph. "We're hanging up some of this," he grinned mischievously, holding up some mistletoe.
Molly understood the festive part of it all, but she could sense another motive hidden behind the twinkle in Greg's eyes. "Why?"
"Okay, you've seen those two idiots down there, yeah? Well you'd have to be blind to not see that they aren't exactly friends."
"What are you getting at?" she asked, though she very well got the idea.
"They're the only ones who can't see that they might as well be married. Hell, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, and I all saw it from day one."
Molly considered that. "You do have a point."
"I know. Now hurry up and help me."

The first they hung between the kitchen and the sitting room.
"You don't mind that we're trying to hook up John and Sherlock, do you?" Lestrade asked, putting a subtle emphasis on 'Sherlock'.
Molly regarded Lestrade steadily, almost looking him over, then made a small face of approval. "I think I'm over him."
Greg blinked once, but didn't question it. He tried not to stare too long at her clingy red dress.

By the time John and Sherlock made it back upstairs, followed closely by Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly were sitting innocently on the sofa, waiting patiently.
"Sherlock, why don't you play something for everyone while John and I finish setting up?" Mrs Hudson asked him.
Sherlock tried not to let her see him roll his eyes, but obliged. "What am I to play?"
"Oh, just something dear - but something Christmas-related! None of your Russian composers tonight!"
"What of Tchaikovsky?" he asked cheekily.
"Only if it's from the Nutcracker."
Sherlock was satisfied with that, and proceeded to pick up his violin. Molly stood to see if John and Mrs Hudson needed any help, while Greg just sat there, listening to Sherlock play. It had been a long day of paperwork and apprehending criminals.
"So..." Greg started, watching Sherlock play while the Holmes walked between the window and the middle of the room.
"So..." Sherlock said after a bit.
"I actually have no idea."
"Then shut up."

They had all just sat down to eat when John looked up to see Mycroft quickly peep around the doorframe, consider the situation, and hurriedly walk away.
"Mycroft Holmes, if you don't come in here I swear..."
"Mycroft Alain Holmes," Sherlock said around his glass, smiling evilly.
"Mycroft Alain Holmes," John repeated after Mycroft still hadn't shown himself.
It took only a moment's pause before the elder Holmes revealed himself. He looked rather annoyed. "I was only stopping by for a moment, but I see you're busy," he said, trying to excuse himself - he was as good at parties as Sherlock was.
"Sit down," John insisted.
"I don't want to intrude," Mycroft protested politely, backing up.
"Oh, there's plenty of room," Greg said, butting in. He smiled warmly, and Mycroft seemed to consider the option lightly.
"Come on, have a seat," Mrs Hudson implored.
Molly just watched him, not entirely sure of who he was. The two had never met, though she had inferred that he was Sherlock's brother - and not just from the shared surname. The two Holmeses were so alike, it was almost scary.
Finally, with a weary sigh, Mycroft complied. John dug out yet another chair, and made sure that he had a seat as far away from Sherlock as possible.

Dinner itself was pleasant. Sure, Sherlock threw most of his food across the table at his brother (earning him a stern look from Mrs Hudson, after which he immediately stopped), but otherwise it went on without a hitch. Mycroft himself even had a small part in their conversations, though it was mainly John and Greg who did the talking. Occasionally Sherlock would butt in, and Molly had a comment here and there as well. Mrs Hudson just sat and listened for the most part, smiling and enjoying everyone having a good time.

"So Mycroft, I've had to play for everyone, I think it's your turn," Sherlock said pointedly after everyone had finished eating.
All eyes were suddenly on the ginger at the end of the table, and Mycroft would have been glaring, if he hadn't been so surprised. "No, I don't think it is," he said forcefully, eyes sharp.
"I think it's time, don't you? These little sessions here have been fun, but wouldn't you like to branch out a bit?" John looked between the two Holmeses, surprised, but connecting the dots in his head.
"I wouldn't, actually." John's attention was suddenly directed back at Mycroft.
Greg and John exchanged looks.
"Oh you play?" Molly asked curiously from her spot, tactically stopping the impending row.
Mycroft looked up, surprised at her rather blatant intrusion. "Cello..." he said slowly. He rather liked this Molly Hooper. She was quiet. And smart. He liked that in a person.
"Well do you have it here? I'm sure you're rather good."
Mycroft said nothing for a minute. "I haven't played in a long while - haven't the time."
Sherlock murmured to himself from across the table, but Mycroft caught it. "Hasn't played since dad died."
"Fine," Mycroft huffed pointedly, and everyone looked up at him in surprise. Sherlock grinned, an actual smile this time, not one out of contempt for his brother. Mycroft took a moment to burn the image into his memory.
"I'll go get it," the younger Holmes said, pushing himself back from the table, trying to bring a certain level of snark back into his voice. He hadn't succeded very well.
Mycroft nodded, then called after him, "Will you play with me?"
"Of course - I'm not letting you get all of the attention."
John, Greg, Molly, and Mrs Hudson all exchanged glances. Whatever this was going to be, it was going to be interesting.
Outside, rain pattered against the window panes.

Mycroft took his time setting up - turning the pegs, studying his bow, plucking delicately at the strings. He sat in Sherlock's chair, much to his brother's (mild) contempt, while the others were scattered about the room, mostly on the sofa, some in chairs. Sherlock paced around John's chair impatiently, waiting.
"You do remember those Christmas compositions I wrote, don't you?" Mycroft finally asked Sherlock, holding his bow to the strings.
Sherlock scoffed. "The ones you did when I was five? Of course I do."
"Good."
John and the rest waited in anticipation, watching as the Holmeses began to play, almost as one.

They're good together, John thought, studying the two from his spot on the sofa. Shame they don't get along better.
And he was right - the two played a beautiful duet, their contrasting styles complimenting each other nicely. While Sherlock was reckless and seemingly made it up as he went, Mycroft was controlled, yet flowing, natural. The elder Holmes was highly absorbed in it all, and once or twice John thought he saw a smile twitch at the very corners of Mycroft's lips.

No one knew what time it was when they finished, but when they did, the flat was eerily silent. Slowly, Mycroft started to put his cello away. Sherlock flopped into John's chair in front of his brother, content, lazily watching him from his curled up position, violin nestled to his chest.
Suddenly Molly clapped, and it wasn't long before the others followed. Mycroft's head snapped up, startled.
"Please," he tried to say, then gave up. "Thank you," he finally consented, then stood to leave. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's a trifle later than I would have liked. I'm afraid I'm missed some important appointments."
Everyone apologised, but said that it was fantastic, that he should play more often. Mycroft smiled politely, offered a farewell to all, and nodded a goodbye to his brother, which Sherlock waved off, eyes half-lidded. John followed him out.

"That was brilliant," John told him, holding the door open, watching as Mycroft walked past and onto the street. A black car prompty pulled up to meet him at the curb.
"Thank you."
"Do you want your cello?" John asked as Mycroft started to climb into the back seat. The elder Holmes paused.
"You can leave it here for the time being," he said with a curt nod. And then he was gone.
John rubbed the back of his neck and went back inside.

The rest of the evening Sherlock was quiet. Thankfully, he was polite. But quiet. He watched idly as presents were exchanged, forced a smile when he was thanked, said 'thank you' himself when he opened his own gifts, and seemed to listen to conversations with mild interest. John watched him carefully until everyone was safely out of the flat. (In all of the excitement, Molly and Greg had forgotten about the mistletoe.)

At 11:22, the two of them were alone in the sitting room.
Sherlock was still in John's chair.

"I'll be off then," John called from the door, setting down his bags. I'll be back New Year's night, I suppose, maybe earlier if Harry'll let me."
Sherlock said nothing, only stared at the window blankly. John sighed.
"C'mere," he prompted. "Hurry up, I'll miss my train," he added after Sherlock made no move to obey. Finally, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked over. He opened his mouth to say something, face looking somewhat like his usual self, when John curtly told him to shut up. Sherlock was slightly taken aback, and even more so when John pulled him into a warm hug.

John gives the best hugs, he suddenly decided, despite the fact that he hadn't much hugged anybody. The thought surprised him, but only mildly. He was used to this kind of thing by now, at least when it pertained to his blogger. He allowed himself to slowly return the embrace, melting into it.

When John finally released him, Sherlock felt a little better. Until John pointed to the door.
"I better get going," he said, eyes apologetic.
"Yeah," was all that Sherlock said. He watched as John went, standing in the same spot for a good while.

Don't stand in that one spot all day. You'll put an indent in Mrs Hudson's floor.
JW

Sherlock smiled tightly, but kept on standing.