Prompt: Holmes likes a good Christmas feast, from GWBear
Mycroft Holmes really ought to have known that he would never have a moment's peace when his brother moved down to London to take his place at the University as a chemistry student.
Mycroft also had his doubts about how long Sherlock would last as a chemistry student; knowing his brother's impatience with those less intelligent than himself as well as his famed laziness and disregard for subjects he did not consider important. He predicted Sherlock would last two years (and was correct, two years later, nearly to the day).
Still, Mycroft would do his brotherly duty, as he had done since Sherlock was born (the last time, he realized, there had been peace in the Holmes family). Firstly, because their mother asked him too, worried as Mycroft was about Sherlock's mood swings and tendency to ignore the necessities of life such as food. Secondly, because though Mycroft was more of an island than most, even he found occasional companionship to be beneficial to his mental state, if it came from someone intelligent to keep up with him 95 percent of the time.
Thus far, only Sherlock had ever managed to do so, and so Sherlock would be his only society. His brother's faults might be many, but he knew how to leave one alone, and when he did not, he invariably came with some sort of problem that provided Mycroft with the only intellectual challenge he was likely to find.
Besides, he would have kept an eye on his wayward brother in any case. Sherlock did tend to shut himself in his rooms and ignore things like food or sleep when in the middle of an intellectual exercise or experiment, and the few times Mycroft had seen him in person since his arrival, he had looked less healthy each time. Sherlock was always so frightfully thin, a side effect of both an idiosyncratic palate and a forgetfulness about the necessity of eating Mycroft simply could not understand. His meals were his one indulgence, while Sherlock threw himself into chemistry, violin playing, the study of ancient languages, and all manner of other hobbies with such enthusiasm they pushed all else aside, including his studies.
Mycroft had had the reports from Sherlock's professors. He was proving himself exactly as irritating as Mycroft had assumed he would.
After some weeks of no news, Mycroft resolved to take matters into his own hands. Their mother had already written to say she was going to spend Christmas in France with her relatives, and so Mycroft sent a telegram to invite Sherlock for Christmas dinner (a glorious invention, telegrams, allowing one to say only what was needed without ever needing to speak to an individual at all).
Sherlock wrote back to say he accepted - little choice that he had, for if he had not Mycroft would simply have written to their mother to say so, and then there would have been hell to pay. Mycroft was no tale-teller, but it was the prerogative of an older brother charged with the keeping of a younger one. The plans arranged, Mycroft sent down instructions to his cook to prepare a feast that surpassed even her normal creations, which were sights to behold in their own right.
Sherlock arrived as usual, earlier than expected, in a bluster of complaints about his fellows in the chemistry laboratory (imbeciles), the fellows at the boxing ring (which at least explained the half-healed black eye) and the fellows at the university library (annoyed at him). None of this was in the least surprising, though Sherlock's foray into boxing was alarming. Mycroft supposed he should be grateful that at least it was not something more dangerous like dueling.
"I suppose you have outdone yourself for this feast," Sherlock said. "You will tell Mother I am eating properly, I suppose." At Mycroft's raised eyebrow, he added, "I know very well you report to her. Her last letter was filled with admonishments about my being too thin, and as she has not seen me since the summer, there is nowhere else she might have come by that information. The deduction was simple."
"What I report to her depends on today," Mycroft said, as the serving girls began bringing in dishes. "It is up to you. Besides, I know very well you report to her too. How else was I to take it when she took me to task for not going along with you to every concert you wished to attend?"
Mrs. Holmes was an intelligent woman who had made it her mission to make both her sons into the sort of gentlemen who would do well in society, if a bit eccentric. That neither of them seemed willing to do so was a constant source of frustration for all involved.
Sherlock made a face and was about to respond before being distracted by the first course. "Is that a Welsh rarebit?" he asked.
"It is," Mycroft said. Their childhood cook had come from Wales, and upon finding that the childhood dishes he had enjoyed were rarer in London, Mycroft had gone to no little trouble and expense to find someone who could recreate them.
That he also wanted someone who could recreate the French dishes he had known through his mother's influence made it doubly difficult, but he had at last succeeded, and his cook was well worth the hefty salary she commanded.
Sherlock explored the rest of the table, humming appreciatively at each dish before sitting down and helping himself. "I must say, I do not hold with Christmas as a rule, but it provides a reason for such a feast as this."
Mycroft laughed. "I am in agreement with you about Christmas. Do you think I wait for the excuse to have such a feast? It would be a waste of my cook's talents, if I only allowed her to use them but once a year."
"I should get nothing done if I spent this amount of time at the dining table," Sherlock said.
Mycroft rather thought that this was due to Sherlock attempting to do too much, as he always managed to do his job to the perfection he expected of himself (and his job was rather more difficult than a chemistry degree, but he did not say so). "I see no reason to deny myself after a day at work," Mycroft said.
"Denying myself implies some philosophical bent I do not possess," Sherlock said. "I simply do not care to indulge myself in such a way. There is far too much else to do."
"Like boxing?" Mycroft asked. "I cannot understand why anyone would seek to be punched in the face."
"Well, I was seeking to punch the other fellow," Sherlock said. "I am rising steadily in my weight class. You ought to come watch."
Mycroft could think of nothing he would rather do less than attend a seedy, underground boxing club to watch his younger brother fight ruffians. "The shepherd's pie is to your liking?" he asked instead, as Sherlock took a second piece.
"Indeed. Better than Mother's cook, though do not tell her I said so," Sherlock said.
"Of course not," Mycroft said. Some things were, of course, beyond the bounds of what an older brother might reasonably tell on the younger for. "I hope you have saved some room for dessert. My cook does an excellent raspberry tart, even in winter."
He knew of his brother's weakness for raspberry tarts, and motioned for the serving girl to bring in the dish. He watched as Sherlock tried it; satisfied when he only smiled and nodded his approval.
"Well, Mycroft, I must thank you for an enjoyable Christmas day," Sherlock said, sitting back. "I suppose you consider yourself satisfied that I have eaten and appear none the worse for wear."
"The black eye says otherwise," Mycroft said mildly. "Still, I am glad you enjoyed yourself."
"Most of the men of my year have gone home for Christmas," Sherlock said. "I do not associate with them much, of course, but it means boxing practice has stopped for the moment and the library's hours are curtailed…though I do have the labs to myself."
Mycroft was not fooled. Sherlock might be eccentric and unsociable…but he had never been as unsociable as Mycroft. This could, he supposed, be put down to having an older brother in the first place. Never having had to cultivate the ability to entertain himself, Sherlock might not admit it, but he evidently found it more of a trial than Mycroft did to have no social life at all.
Few men would be Sherlock's equal, or be willing to tolerate his sometimes abrasive personality and (in Mycroft's opinion) well-earned arrogance regarding his intellect. Mycroft considered himself the luckier of the two that he had no need for socializing, but he was observant and he knew his brother. He knew the requests for company to concerts and invitations to view boxing matches were not merely to annoy him. He deduced, correctly, that Sherlock was rather lonely, and as Mycroft was one of the only people whose company and intellect he could tolerate, he acted in the manner of all younger brothers - he annoyed him until he got what he wanted.
It was simple child's play, as deductions went.
Perhaps that accounted for the utterly out of character decision he had made. Pulling an envelope out of his pocket, Mycroft handed it to his brother. "It is Christmas, after all," he said.
"Two tickets to Wagner's latest?" Sherlock asked. "I confess I have been wanting to see it, and my pockets as of late did not allow it-"
"I deduced correctly then," Mycroft said. "I am not such a curmudgeon that I would let my brother leave on Christmas Day without a gift."
"Thank you," Sherlock said. "But who shall I go with? I know no one who enjoys opera."
"I would have thought it obvious," Mycroft said. "Two tickets implies that I shall attend with you?"
"You would? But you go nowhere. And you hate opera!" Sherlock said.
Mycroft shrugged. "I have nothing particular to do that night, and as I have been charged with looking after you, I suppose that might require legwork on occasion."
He had his own reasons - a suspicion that Wagner's pieces, tales of ancient Germanic gods and heroes, were tied in to Germany's recent militaristic buildup, and, well, if making his brother happy by accompanying him to the opera allowed him to test this hypothesis, it was merely practical.
"Thank you, then, Mycroft. I have not attended a concert or an opera in months, having no one to come with me. I do appreciate it," Sherlock said. "Even if you are only doing it to report back to Mother."
"Well, I have no desire to have Mother think I am not doing as she asked," Mycroft said, and a look of commiseration passed between them. "I shall see you on the 18th of next month."
"I look forward to it," Sherlock said. "Wagner is bombastic and the arias are magnificent-"
"Good night, Sherlock."