Christmas Chapter 4 of 4 Cooking

A/N: John can cook! This is (hopefully) funnier than many of the drabbles here; no angst, no whump, no soul-searching or nasty criminals: just nice things given to friends. This is set around the same time, in a post-Hiatus Christmas. As regards the last but-one chapter, one kind reviewer wondered what Sherlock would have thought of John going back to Kandahar to relieve Murray. My angle (which there won't be a chapter on-sorry folks!) is that Sherlock was mightily displeased, but that he knew John wouldn't take no for an answer on this one. I promised fluff, and here is fluff in three different perspectives! I might write another part to this. This is Christmas chapter 4 of 4-I thought it was rather too late in the day to be writing another seasonal chapter after this one, so I took the coward's way out...

Greg, 19th December

The rain fell in large droplets, pattering down onto the pavements, a freezing reminder of many solitary Christmases gone. By the time he'd walked from the Tube to 221B, he was soaked to the skin despite having borrowed one of Mycroft's slightly less kill-y umbrellas after looking out at the grey Kensington sky and saying, "Shit." Mycroft had lingered, mouth turning up at the corner as Greg tried to remember which brollies were which, before sitting down at his desk to finish some paperwork and switching on the lamps as the sky darkened.

John (and Sherlock, probably) had invited him over for dinner that night knowing that he and Mycroft would be leaving to visit Greg's mum before they all converged on the estate for Christmas and Boxing Day. He had to admit that although Sherlock had occasionally cooked when bored, in the immediate aftermath of his living room detox (French like his mother, naturally, and done very well), he was intrigued to see what Three Continents Watson had gleaned in from his wanderings in terms of culinary knowledge. Coming up to the door, he was met by Mrs Hudson, walking stiffly up to the steps with her hands full of shopping. Smiling gently and taking the milk and potatoes without a word, Greg held the door open for her as she beamed up at him.

"Ooh, hello! Come to see the boys, have you? Oh, I do hope you've not got a case on in weather like this! How are you, dear, and how's Mycroft? He's not been around in a while, I 'spect he's busy, poor thing..."

She puttered around contentedly, putting her things away in the right places before patting his arm in a motherly sort of way. "You just pop those bags there and I'll see to them. Off you go, I'm sure I'll see you soon at any rate!" Smiling and nodding, Greg turned out of the flat and up the stairs to 221B, his nostrils filled with the smell of Christmas baking.

Sherlock, as usual, was sprawled on the couch in his thinking pose. Unusually, he turned his head and smiled in greeting as Greg appeared in the doorway setting the brolly out on the landing. "Lestrade."

"Ah, Greg! Hello; the stew's just about ready, as are the potatoes. The bread's just cooling down a bit, and the treacle tart's in the food bit of the fridge."

Greg raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who merely gave an enigmatic smile as John came round the corner from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean tea towel before draping it over his shoulder and grabbing the cutlery. After setting out the table, John turned back, coming out with a loaf of bread on one of the serving plates. The loaf was shiny, with a floury, crackling crust, the slices already cut showing the moist, slightly dark inside off to perfection. "Is that sourdough?"

"Surprised, are we?" John grinned as Greg whipped a piece off the board, eating it without butter even as Sherlock slathered it on. "Baking was always what I did on my days off on leave. Good stress reliever. A Yank mate of mine got a package of homemade things from his mum, and when I tried it I wrote to ask her for the recipe because it tasted like the ones my granddad used to make. He was a baker and confectioner, used to leave his loves to rise for hours. It seems really sentimental-don't, Sherlock-but I wanted to try it the way he had, and her recipe was the closest thing I could get."

Greg had to stay his hand to stop himself from grabbing another slice as a wonderful savoury smell wafting across the kitchen reminded him that the actual meal was still to come. A well-loved dark blue casserole dish was set down on the table alongside some simply boiled cabbage and a tray of potatoes that had been slowly cooked in stock. When John lifted the top from the dish, the rich aroma made him want to dive in. Sherlock smiled at him knowingly (what's new?) as John doled the food out. "Venison stew-we ended up with some lovely stuff couriered down from a grateful client in the Trossachs. It's a Swedish recipe, actually, from a friend of mine when I was a locum in A&E at Kings."

As Greg ate, he could see the meat falling apart in the pot, so tender you could cut it with a spoon, and perfectly seasoned; the potatoes were crisp and soft and savoury, and it was one of the best plates of food he'd had in a very long time. Secretly, he put John's venison stew at the top of the list, higher even than the meal they'd had at the Ritz for Mycroft's birthday.

As John cleared away the plates, waving away Greg's 'it's only fair...', Greg could see Sherlock sitting up straighter. As the triumphant treacle tart was placed in front of them along with a bowl of softly whipped, vanilla-flecked cream, his eyes began to sparkle. Sherlock dived in as soon as John transferred a slice onto his plate, all friable pastry and sticky interior; they ate in companionable silence, then settled down to watch Doctor Who and Futurama.

Well, Greg and John did. Sherlock hunched over his microscope, hand sneaking out every so often to dig a spoon into a slice of leftover pie that John had strategically placed at his right hand side. A little 'hmm' of enjoyment could be heard as Sherlock continued to adjust the microscope at regular intervals.

John looked as though he was going to burst out laughing.

"Does he even know he's doing that?"

"I have no idea, but if he's eating, he's eating."

Greg left Baker Street at 11 o'clock with a neatly packed box of leftovers (including a piece of pie for Mycroft) and a new appreciation of the quiet side to the Watson-Holmes friendship and of John's unexpected craftiness...

Mrs Hudson, 23rd December

Pottering around her kitchen fixing a cup of tea, and with Radio 3 on in the background, Martha smiled as she sank into her armchair, comfy slippers warming her feet as she took a few minutes of peace after the blether of Mrs Turner and her bridge girls. It had been a lovely birthday really, but a little bit of relaxation and some time away from Christmas sights and smells hit the perfect note as she watched the pale pink glow of the sky outside.

She was pulled out of her reverie by a soft rap on the front door.

"Come in!"

She smiled as John stuck his head around the door. He'd swapped his usual cable-knit for a deep fir-green jumper with a sort of Scandinavian design, and grinned as he set his burdens down on the table and gave her a rather sheepish cuddle which she returned with motherly enthusiasm. He closed his eyes, smiling and hugging her tightly to him, then turned his attention to the card and two boxes, one larger, one small. Sherlock had already been in that morning to wish her a happy birthday and drop off his present to her-a beautiful and elegant gold watch that had once belonged to his grandmother. She'd tried to give it back, of course, but he had muttered something about it being bad manners to give back presents and shot off to Barts suspiciously beady-eyed. She would tease him about it mercilessly at her boys' joint present to her-a lovely meal at Angelo's with all her friends around her before the madness of Christmas Day. It had been so hectic that, even as she made cookies for the Paediatric Unit at Barts and mixed up chutneys and jams for her girls' Christmas presents, she'd forgotten to decorate her flat. No point now, she thought, not when John had decorated so beautifully upstairs anyway.

Proffering the boxes, John smiled again. "I know it's not a watch, but I thought something homemade might be nice this year."

Eyeing him slightly quizzically, Martha opened the lid of the pale yellow box. Her eyes widened as she saw what John had made for her.

Christmas decorations.

Shimmering garlands of beads and wonderfully bright-smelling dried fruits, snowflakes painstakingly cut from thick paper woven through with silver threads and a lustrous wreath of holly, ivy, mistletoe and scarlet berries for her front door; all of them had surely taken weeks of work, and as John stepped back she could see the calluses and pinpricks on his fingers.

A shy smile worked its way across John's features as she let out a squeal of joy and hugged him to her. He worked quietly, helping her hang her presents, then left with a soft 'Happy Birthday'.

As she sat in the twinkling light of the lamp, refracted off of the hundreds of glass beads in the garland on her mantelpiece, Martha smiled as she sipped her tea and thought of both her boys.

Sherlock and Mycroft, 26th December

Sherlock had been glum for much of Boxing Day as the usual package from Mummy hadn't turned up. Both of them knew that Mummy's health was deteriorating; she was 84 now, and her hands were starting to fall prey to arthritis, so the complicated process of making pfeffernusse was now beyond her. Mycroft had always been favoured for his behaviour, but Sherlock's tempestuous nature and musical skill brought their mother's affection more easily than the Machiavellian tendency to behave with unerring attention to the internal politics of one's current situation. That sort of thing was more appreciated by Father, but Father was not the sort of man with time for such frivolous things as emotions. Sherlock's fragility and Mycroft's wish for recognition of his hard work meant that they were both much more likely to spend time with their mother, and Mycroft was nothing if not a dutiful son.

Knowing that hosting the traditional Boxing Day gathering would mean too much for Mummy to do, he was hosting a much smaller gathering (just he, Gregory, John, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, Anthea and Miss (ahem, Dr) Hooper) at their townhouse. As the morning unfolded, tendrils of watery light unfurling through the house, Mycroft was momentarily startled by the doorbell. Sherlock was standing on the doorstep, very gently holding Mummy's elbow as she shifted her stick into her other hand. John was carrying a large box, but held out a sturdy hand for her to grip as she pushed herself up the front step.

John had set the mysterious box down in the spacious kitchen, speaking softly to Mummy and listening intently as he took her coat and scarf and hung them on the rack. He made his way through with her, Mummy fixing both he and Sherlock with her sternest gaze.

"Now, neither of you are to come in to the kitchen for at least an hour! John is helping me with a project. No peeking!" She wagged her finger playfully at them before turning to the doctor.

Both of them smiled as John flanked the diminutive woman tottering determinedly towards the kitchen. As the hour wore on, Mycroft could feel the impatience radiating from his younger brother, and it hadn't missed him, either. The tiny wafts from under the door were tantalising. Eventually (finally), John opened the door.

"She says you can come in now."

Mycroft's jaw dropped, Sherlock sucking in a quick breath of shock, as they took in tray after tray of perfectly formed, surgically precise pfeffernusse. Mummy sat on one of the low chairs, comfortably situated with a cup of tea having clearly recited the recipe to John, watching his every move as he made up the dough and formed the cookies. Obviously John had wanted the tradition to continue and, knowing that both he and Mummy were needed for the endeavour, had given her an opportunity to get involved in something she knew and loved. The loss of her dexterity had been harder for her to take than her worsening hearing or her failing balance, so John had come to the logical conclusion as to how to get her out of her depression. The confidence and sense of accomplishment shone through in Mummy's eyes as she held out the same old snowman-patterned plate that Sherlock had nearly broken with 'indoor pinball' at the age of four, and Sherlock's eyes were shining as he took a biscuit.

Mycroft caught John's searching gaze, the diagnostic eyes roving his face. Although he would kill anyone who ever dared insinuate it, Mycroft had to admit that no matter how prodigious one's sweet tooth, a cookie was always much harder to swallow with a lump in your throat.

A/N II: I did promise fluff-hope this delivers! In this, Mycroft is 48, Sherlock 38; it's about two years after a (shortened) Hiatus. The idea of getting older people involved in activities they enjoy, or using songs and films that they would have seen or heard when they were younger, is a really effective way to increase people's confidence, mental health and wellbeing. It's all about empowering people and replacing helplessness with a sense of self worth. Mummy is based on a composite of my granny and grandma. Also, having a birthday so near Christmas must be a bit rubbish-no chance to enjoy another special day in a gloomier part of the year!