Archive of Our Own

John sighed, eyeing his half-packed suitcase warily. What, exactly, was one supposed to pack when spending Christmas with their mad-flatmate-cum-lover, at his childhood home? He sat heavily on the small mattress in the upstairs bedroom, the one nobody ever really used anymore, and scrubbed his face with his hands.

When Mycroft had said so many months ago, You can imagine the Christmas dinners, John hadn't ever expected to actually bear witness to one. But when Sherlock had stood in the doorway, toes fidgeting like a nervous schoolgirl, and asked John to come home for Christmas in such a falsely dismissive tone, how could John possibly have refused? Besides, Harry'd fallen off the wagon again, and it's not as though John had any other family to spend the holidays with anymore.

Resolve strengthened, he stood up and meticulously folded several of his best jumpers, including the soft slate-grey v-neck Sherlock had bought for him when they officially announced they were well and truly a couple. Realising he had no idea how formal this dinner was going to be, he then took his one good suit out of the closet where it resided for the bulk of the year and did his best to fold it neatly into his suitcase. He hefted the bag off the ground with his good arm and headed down the stairs, to where Sherlock was lazing on the sofa.

"Have you packed yet?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

"Sherlock, we're leaving in two hours, or we'll miss the train."

Suddenly Sherlock was standing, inches from John's face. He grabbed a fistful of John's shirt and kissed him forcefully. John, startled and overcome with the force of the assault, slumped against the wall, pulling Sherlock with him. Just as things were starting to get out of hand, Sherlock pulled away, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with undisguised want.

"You... you don't have to do this, John."

"Yes I do. We're a team now. Besides, I'm curious."

Sherlock grinned at that, one of those completely genuine, lopsided grins that John loved so much.

"When did you say we had to leave again?"

John checked his watch. "Just under two hours."

The ensuing grin was equally genuine, but far more seductive. "Excellent. Plenty of time." Sherlock dug his fingers into John's shirt again and dragged him towards the bedroom.

***

One hour and fourteen minutes later, John was scrabbling to get dressed as Sherlock whirled around the bedroom, throwing clothes haphazardly into a small folding garment bag. John darted forwards to save a bottle of aftershave from an untimely death on the hardwood floor and rolled his eyes.

There was a rap at the bedroom door and they both spun around to see Mycroft, impeccable as always and umbrella in hand.

"Your landlady let me in, she was tidying up downstairs. Greg's waiting in the taxi."

Sherlock glared daggers at his brother. "We've got half an hour, at least. I'm not nearly done packing."

Efficiently and meticulously, Mycroft folded several clean shirts and a second suit neatly into the bag, zipped it closed and marched away with it down the hall. If he noticed Sherlock sticking his tongue out, Mycroft made no comment. John laughed and placed one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, steering him towards the door.

"C'mon, you. Putting this off isn't going to prevent it from happening. Let's go."

***

Once the four of them had settled into two facing benches on the train, John found himself staring out the window, watching as urban London shifted into suburbs and then rolling green pastures. He studied the pattern of raindrops on the window, one hand idly stroking Sherlock's knee. The gesture was more for his own benefit than for Sherlock's. It'd been eons since John'd had anything resembling a normal family dinner, and he was starting to worry that he wouldn't know how to behave.

Sherlock and Mycroft were bickering about something, as per their usual, with Greg interjecting on occasion to try to keep the peace, but John wasn't listening. Instead, he spent his time trying to recall any normal, healthy childhood memories. It must have proven futile, because the next thing John remembered, Sherlock was gently shaking him awake.

"John, wake up. We've arrived." The words were in Sherlock's usual terse, clipped tone, but there was a small furrow between his brows, the one he got when he was concerned about John. Shaking the fuzz out of his head, John smiled and stood up, grabbing his suitcase.

"Sorry about that. Let's get going."

***

The Holmes manor was pretty much exactly what John had envisioned. A large but tidy Edwardian house decorated with tasteful pine swags and tiny white fairy lights, surrounded by rolling lawns and a well-maintained garden off to one side. Garden's well kept, but needs some deadheading. There's a patch of exposed ground there, where the rest of the area's been mulched. No professional gardener would leave it in this state, John found himself musing. A labour of love then. Sherlock's mum, maybe? After a moment, John realised he was observing, deducing. He chuckled, and Sherlock quirked a brow at him. He'd have to fill him in later.

There was a tap on John's opposite shoulder. He found himself staring at Greg, whose deep eyes were wide and slightly manic. He ran a hand through his hair, further disordering it.

"Remind me again why we're doing this? Why're we here?"

John bit his lip pensively.

"Because, for better or for worse, we're in love with those two great clots, and if they have to suffer their family this Christmas, so do we? Besides, it's not like either of us have anywhere better to be."

Greg laughed. "Cheers, mate. You've got a knack for putting things in perspective. Anyone ever told you that?"

What was it Sherlock had said, back at Baskerville? A conductor of light. John huffed.

"I think I may have heard something similar, once or twice."

Nerves settled, he reached out and took Sherlock's hand. Nodding, Greg did the same to Mycroft. John punched Greg lightly in the shoulder as Mycroft rapped at the door with the handle of his umbrella.

There was no question at all that the woman who greeted them at the door was Mrs. Holmes. Her hair was a steely grey styled in a flattering bob, but her face was somehow ageless. Sharp cheekbones stood out below unfathomably calculating eyes in a familiar blue/grey/green. She smiled at Sherlock and Mycroft, and her eyes lit up infinitessimally, despite her face remaining impassive. Now John could see where the two of them got it.

She leaned forward, kissing first Mycroft and then Sherlock on the cheeks before gesturing into the warmth of the house.

"Mycroft, Sherlock, dears. Am I to assume these are your partners?" Her tone of voice and raised brow made it evident that nothing had slipped by her. The fact that they were still holding hands made it more than obvious, but John realised this was meant more as a chastisement, a subtly passive-aggressive way of pointing out neither he nor Greg had ever been introduced to her before.

Smoothly, Mycroft stepped into the foyer, and the rest of them followed. Lush woods, oriental carpets, and the pervasive smell of old money surrounded John.

"Mummy, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and that is Doctor John Watson." Awkwardly, John nodded. He felt as though maybe he should bow. A quick, sidelong glance at Greg made it evident that he was feeling the same way, and John smirked. For a moment, they were co-conspirators. Extras in some absurdist play.

"Please make yourselves at home, I'm just putting the finishing touches on dinner. Sherlock, John can put his luggage in the guest bedroom upstairs."

Sherlock bristled, standing so close that John could feel the tension vibrating off him. In an attempt to calm him, John put his hand at the small of Sherlock's back.

"Mummy, I'll thank you not to treat me like a child. If Greg" he spat the word, taking his irritation out on the easiest available target, "can stay in Mycroft's room, John can stay with me. We do live together, you know."

The smile that crossed her face was infinitely patient, but stone-cold. The look of someone who was used to dealing with these sorts of outbursts.

"Suit yourself, Sherlock. I just thought the two of you would be more comfortable in a larger bed - your room still has the single you slept on until you went to Eton."

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking put-out but unable to think of a witty retort. John bit back a snicker.

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. The guest room will be fine." He poured as much charm as he could into it, trying to placate everyone at once.

"Please, call me Violet. The same goes for you, Greg."

She nodded at the four of them, making John feel suddenly about eight years old, and spun around with an elegant flourish, heading back towards the kitchen. John hoisted his own bag, and then Sherlock's, since it looked as though he had no intention of carrying it himself. He leaned up, whispering against the soft skin of Sherlock's ear.

"What do you say you show me the guestroom and then your old bedroom?"

Mycroft, thanks to either his preternatural hearing or some form of psychic eavesdropping, witnessed the exchange and groaned.

"I'll thank you not to defile his childhood bedroom, John."

At this, Greg grinned widely. "Weren't we planning on sleeping in your childhood bedroom, Mycroft? Since you've got the big bed?"

The flush that creeped across Mycroft's face was priceless, and even Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic but completely adorable guffaw.

In an attempt to save face, Mycroft marched stiffly up the stairs, the other three following him, still snickering.

The guest room was snug but comfortable, and John tossed their bags onto the bed. He pulled their suits out and hung them up, leaving the rest for later. They'd have to change before dinner, but for the time being his jeans and jumper were more than sufficient.

"Hey Sherlock, will there be a valet sent up to help us dress for dinner?" John quipped.

"Don't be absurd, John. Nobody's had a valet since Grandfather."

"Oh, my mistake." John rolled his eyes, but he was grinning at Sherlock.

"Besides," Sherlock stepped in close, all sinuous curves and low voice. "I'd be more than happy to help undress you. Shame I'd have to re-dress you afterwards though..."

John swallowed thickly, shifting his weight and leaning against Sherlock.

"Maybe this isn't the best time for this conversation..." His voice was already thick, breathy with barely-disguised want. "Besides, I want to see your bedroom."

Sherlock pouted but pulled away, dragging John into the hallway by the arm.

The interior of the house was decorated and furnished tastefully, a combination of antique furniture, impersonal but well-done landscape paintings, and vintage medical and quackery instruments on display. As he walked down the hallway, studying his surroundings, John's fingers came to rest on top of what appeared to be a matched set of cupping glasses. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock staring fondly at him.

"Those belonged to a great-uncle. There's always been a touch of scientific eccentricity in the family, I suppose." Sherlock's accompanying shrug was eloquent and laden with things left unsaid. "Too bad Mummy has such trouble accepting it."

John put down one of the glass cups he didn't realise he'd been holding onto and reached out to run a fingertip along Sherlock's cheekbone, unsure of how else to respond. Sherlock leaned into the contact for a moment before withdrawing and bumping open a door with his hip.

Whatever John had expected of Sherlock's childhood bedroom, it hadn't been this. The room was tidy to the point of obsession, and something about the way things were organised made it evident that it had always been like this. This wasn't some cleaning staff's attempt at straigtening up a mess made when Sherlock left for school; the owner of this room had always been meticulous. John found himself drawing parallels between this room and Sherlock's bedroom back home.

The bed was impeccably made, with plain white sheets and a well-loved but threadbare quilt. The bookshelves sagged under the weight of every sort of textbook imaginable, from the Victorian era to the late eighties, when Sherlock had likely stopped spending the bulk of his time in here. John ran a reverent finger along the spines, skimming the titles. He felt like he was absorbing a little bit of Sherlock via osmosis. The texts covered disciplines from entomology to psychology, pharmacology to anatomy, biology to architecture, of all things. The shelves were full to overflowing, but John found a gap roughly the width of one finger and stowed the location away for later, when he could get briefly away from Sherlock. The wall facing the bed was an orderly arrangement of photographs and newspaper clippings. One name stood out - Carl Powers.

Along one of the other wall stood various anatomical and botanical studies, and John could chart the age of the artist by the skill level. He smiled, studying them for a moment, and was entirely unsurprised to see a tiny SH in the bottom lefthand corner of each one.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the room, hands in his pockets. It was clear he was trying to give off an air of nonchalance, but every so often John felt Sherlock's eyes following him as he studied his surroundings. John could tell he was itching to say something, but was holding back. Waiting for John's own judgement, perhaps?

"It's..." John paused, looking for the right word. "It's you. I don't know what I was expecting, but now I can't imagine anything else. I can picture you, contorted into some absurd position with your head hanging off the bed here, reading those books."

"Bloodflow to the head increases oxygen, leads to better thinking."

"Bollocks, Sherlock. It's a good way to pass out." John bit back a chuckle, smiling fondly at Sherlock.

"We should head down for dinner soon."

John nodded and looked down at his jeans and threadbare jumper.

"You go on ahead, I'm just going to go change. I'm still not sure how you managed a cab ride, a train ride, and another cab ride without getting a single wrinkle in your suit. Must be another one of your miraculous superpowers."

"It's called starch, John. You should try it sometime." Sherlock straightened his lapels but looked secretly pleased as he headed down the hall. John realised he'd skipped the stairs and was heading towards Mycroft's room. Let Greg and Mycroft deal with him for a bit, John was glad to have him out of his hair for a moment.

He ducked back into the guest room and shed his rumpled clothing. He debated trying to steal a quick shower but decided against it, since his time was limited. With the brisk efficiency of a military man, he put on his suit. Briefly, he debated a tie but thought that might feel too forced and stuffy, so he just buttoned his collar.

John then slipped a thin, foxed volume of a book into the back of his jacket and prayed he wouldn't run into Sherlock in the hallway. He stuck his head out and, seeing that the coast was clear, darted back into Sherlock's childhood bedroom and tucked the book into the gap he'd made note of earlier. He'd just have to ensure Sherlock didn't have any reason to go back in there for the rest of the night.

When he stepped back into the hall, Sherlock was standing there, leaning against the wall. He cocked his head, clearly suspicious, but John raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Was just wondering where you'd gotten to."

At that moment Greg and Mycroft emerged from Mycroft's bedroom. Mycroft, as always, looked impeccable but Greg looked slightly flushed, and had also changed into a fresh suit. John smirked, figuring that Mycroft had "helped" Greg change, much in the same manner Sherlock had threatened to help him earlier.

He threw his hands up in the air.

"I'm surrounded by overgrown teenagers. The lot of you. Let's go downstairs."

Smugly, Mycroft slid an arm through the crook of Greg's elbow. Clearly not wanting to be outdone, Sherlock mirrored the gesture with John. Together the four of them headed down to the main parlour.

When they got down, Violet was hovering behind the sofa, readjusting a couple of the baubles and decorations on the tree. Without turning to look at them, she spoke up.

"Sherlock, there's someone in the back sitting room who would like to see you. Alone."

Sherlock scowled. John squeezed his hand in silent reassurance, wondering who could be in there. From the look on Sherlock's face, he wasn't sure either, but he didn't seem pleased by any of the prospects. Resignedly, he pulled away from John and marched off in the direction of the back room.

The fact that nobody aside from Violet seemed to know who was in there made the squeal that emanated from Sherlock all the more worriesome. John made to dart towards the doors but Mycroft put a firm hand across his chest.

"Do not be concerned, John. I suspect I know who that is." Mycroft looked unconcerned, but also vaguely irritated.

Violet turned towards them and John startled - he'd nearly forgotten she was there.

"Please, boys, have a seat. Would anyone like a drink?"

John debated asking for something, but he was nervous enough as it was, and his holiday memories associated with alcohol were all things he'd rather not be dredging up at the moment.

The three of them sat in awkward silence for a moment, before Sherlock's head reappeared.

"John, would you come in here? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Good lord. Someone from Sherlock's childhood who he seemed genuinely enthused about? John's overwhelming curiosity beat out his nerves and he stood up, brushing nonexistent lint off his suit coat. He took a deep breath to steel his nerves and followed Sherlock into the back room.

The woman sitting on the small chesterfield was a wisp of a thing, with thin white hair pulled back in a sedate bun. Her eyes were slightly protruding, but in a way that made her appear more observant and alert than anything. Despite her advancing age, they were clear and shrewd. There was something almost impish about her. John found himself liking her immediately.

"John, this is my Grandmama Holmes. Grandmama, this is my John."

Something warm settled in John's chest at Sherlock strange wording. My John. Somehow, he found he didn't particularly mind being referred to as property.

He stepped forward, and Grandmama Holmes held a hand out. John nearly found himself bending to kiss it, but instead he shook it, and was impressed by the solid firmness of her grip.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I take it you're Sherlock's paternal grandmother?"

"I'm the only grandmother that matters."

Grinning, Sherlock threw himself onto the cushion next to her and rested his head on her slightly hunched shoulder. John was caught off-guard, seeing how much casual affection he had for her; it was a bit like watching him interact with Mrs. Hudson when he was in a good mood. He wondered why Sherlock had never mentioned her before.

"When I was younger, Grandmama was the only one who encouraged me, who supported my interests. Mummy thought my hobbies were vulgar and Mycroft claimed they were juvenile."

The old woman frowned.

"It's true, they all tried to squelch you. But we showed them, didn't we?"

John sat on a small ottoman facing the sofa. He'd have to tell Sherlock later, how flooded by respect for this woman he found himself. If she hadn't been around, Sherlock might not have become who he is today.

"Thank you." John said softly. "For nurturing him."

She smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing even further.

"Thank you." She replied. "For looking after him."

"I am perfectly capable of looking after myself." Sherlock glowered, like a wounded cat. "John just helps make the tedium of everyday life slightly less unbearable."

"Thank you for that glowing recommendation, Sherlock."

She smiled again, patting Sherlock on the knee. From anyone else the gesture would have been patronising, but from her it seemed like genuine casual affection; something John realised Sherlock hadn't gotten much of, growing up. This exceptional woman was probably the only person who had ever touched Sherlock like that when he was young. The thought was strangely painful, and John pushed it out of his mind.

As if sensing the shift in John's mood, she spoke up.

"Sherlock, would you play me something on your violin? Have you composed anything recently?" Her voice was quiet but steady, and Sherlock looked genuinely pained by the request.

"I didn't bring my violin. Didn't know you'd be here."

"Ah, of course, nobody thought to tell you. That's alright. I'd just like to hear something before I shuffle off my mortal coil."

John smirked, until he noticed how scandalised Sherlock looked.

"Grandmama, stop it. You're not ill." At that moment, Sherlock sounded like a scared little kid, and John felt another pang in his chest.

"No, Sherlock, but I am old. Be reasonable."

Sherlock pouted, but didn't argue further.

"John and I will come visit, and put on a show for you some day."

"What?" John spluttered, wondering what exactly his end of putting on a show would entail.

"Oh, does John also play? How lovely!"

"He plays the clarinet." Sherlock beamed at this, and John felt a slight tremor run through him. Had he ever even mentioned that he'd played in school to Sherlock? How had he retained such a useless, trivial fact? Sometimes, hearing Sherlock on his violin, John had entertained thoughts of finding a new clarinet, of practicing and getting decent enough to play together, but he knew it would never actually materialise. Better to cut this off at the head before it could gather steam.

"I played in high school, and I certainly wasn't any good at it. I'd just drown out Sherlock's lovely music if I attempted it now, so many years later."

Thankfully, Greg and Mycroft chose that moment to come into the sitting room.

"Mummy is about to serve, and requests that we come to the table."

Grandmama Holmes hefted herself out of the deep plush cushions with a grunt.

"Mycroft, come here and help your grandmother." She scowled, and he scowled back. Clearly they did not get along as well as she and Sherlock had, but Mycroft gallantly held out an arm and helped her out of the room. Greg shrugged, looking perplexed, and followed Mycroft, leaving John and Sherlock in peace for a moment.

"She's an incredible woman, Sherlock. You're lucky to have had her around. How come you've never mentioned her before?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes pensive but content.

"After Father became persona non grata in the household, Mummy tried to distance herself from that side of the family. But you just met Grandmama Holmes, can you imagine denying her the privilege of spending time with her charming, intelligent grandsons? Well, her charming, intelligent grandson and Mycroft. I guess I never mentioned her because I... I didn't want to share. I had trouble sharing her with Mycroft. I... apologise."

"It's fine. I just think it might do you some good to keep in touch with her."

John smiled, squeezing Sherlock's hand fondly. Sherlock cocked one corner of his mouth in a slight smile, staring off into the middle distance.

"It was Grandmama Holmes who gave me my first violin. Mummy wanted me to play something polite and respectable, like the piano. Mycroft can play the piano, when he cares enough to. Honestly, I'm surprised she didn't get me a low-pitch brass of some sort, just to infuriate Mummy."

At this, John let out a real guffaw. The idea of a tiny Sherlock, trapped in the central loop of a Sousaphone, bleating away while his poor beleaguered mother tried to tell him off proved too much to contain. The mirth must have been infectious, because Sherlock started giggling too. John was about to lean in and capture his soft, laughing lips in a kiss when Greg and Mycroft barged back in, apparently having settled Grandmama at the table.

"Everyone's waiting. Dare I ask what you two are up to?" Mycroft raised an imperious eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his brother's behaviour.

"No." Sherlock huffed and spun on his heel, slinking around his brother and heading out the doors. Sheepishly, John followed after him, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.

They paused in front of the sliding doors to the dining room, John fussing nervously with his suit jacket. He felt the steady weight of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder.

"You can still escape, you know. Run out the door right now, leave me to deal with the vultures. I'll meet you back home in a few hours."

"Sherlock, stop being ridiculous. I chased after you and shot a man the day after we met. I put up with you mooning over some woman you barely knew. I put up with body parts in places body parts should never be. I..." John's voice faltered. "I... waited for you to come back. I can bloody well deal with your relatives for a few hours."

He took Sherlock's hand into his own and squeezed it tightly. Sherlock pursed his lips, but his eyes crinkled warmly.

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you." He turned and pulled the doors open.

The tableau that welcomed them in felt rather like a parody of some Victorian painting. Violet stood at the head of the table, laden with an enormous roast of beef, far too many side dishes, a basketful of warm yorkshire puddings, and a veritable sea of china and cultery. John panicked briefly, worrying if he'd be able to tell the sorbet spoon from the grapefruit spoon. Who still ate meals like this, anyway? There were several men and women of variously advancing age sitting at the table, with two empty seats on either side of where Sherlock's mum was standing.

 Mycroft settled heavily into the chair at Violet's left shoulder, leaving the seat on her right free for Sherlock, who glowered and chose to set himself in an empty seat next to Grandmama instead. Awkwardly, John looked from his placecard to the large, florid man sitting next to Sherlock and wondered what the protocol for this sort of thing was.

With a smirk, Grandmama reached over, grabbed John's placecard, and swapped it with the man's. His name was Fairfax, appparently. John had no idea whether that was his given name or his surname.

"Problem solved. Fairfax, be a dear and go sit over there."

Violet glowered, but apparently even she had her limits, and was choosing not to argue with the indomitable Grandmama. With a huff, Fairfax stood up, huffed into his moustache, and marched over to his new seat, squinting mutinously at Sherlock.

"Honestly, Violet, the things you let that one get away with." His voice suited him; deep in a beefy, jocular way. Not warm and rich like Sherlock's.

"Oh, do shut up." Grandmama piped up again, and John found himself grinning as he slid into the seat next to Sherlock.

Poor Greg looked even more overwhelmed than John felt, and he managed to slip into the free seat next to Mycroft without raising the hackles of any of the relatives.

Just as Violet stepped back into the kitchen, one of two women who looked strangely identical piped up. Twins perhaps? They would have been handsome women had they not been buried under tangled nests of hair and far too much makeup. The one who spoke had a shrill, unpleasant voice that only served to make her more frightening.

"Mycroft, darling, how is work?"

Mycroft preened, looking for all the world like a self-satisfied cat.

"Boring as ever, Aunt Evelyn. Such a quiet post, but someone has to do it."

Sherlock coughed, but John nudged him gently before he said anything.

Evelyn nodded. "Needs must, Mycroft. Needs must. And who is the charming gentleman at your elbow? A colleague?"

Greg flushed about twelve shades of crimson. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, ma'am. I suppose you could say I've worked with Mycroft on occasion. But I tend to work more with Sherlock."

At this, the other woman piped up.

"Bah, Sherlock hasn't worked a day in his life. Gallivanting around, blowing things up, bothering the poor policemen. Sherlock, when are you going to settle down and grow up? Maybe get a nice lady friend, if you could find one who could tolerate your nonsense."

This was proving to be too much for John, who was mentally preparing himself to tell her off when he felt a steadying hand on his knee.

"John, while I appreciate the notion that you were about to defend my honour, arguing with Aunt Beryl here is a bit like arguing with Anderson. Tiresome, frustrating, and in the end, entirely futile. She's gone a bit senile in her old age. Aunt Beryl, I'll have you know that when dear Mycroft finds himself in pickles he can't solve, he comes to me. And John here is my partner in all things - work and home. I am content and fulfilled in ways you can only imagine, and I'll thank you to keep any further judgement to yourself. Not because I can't defend myself, but simply because it's a waste of time and effort for everyone involved."

Both the aunts went pale, their mouths opening and closing comically. John found himself thinking of a pair of koi fish with too much rouge and lipstick on.

Sensing things were getting out of hand, Violet re-entered from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine in hand.

"Since everyone is here, shall we begin?" She sat down and began to carve the roast, effectively silencing any further bickering.

The mood at the table was tense but quiet as the plates were passed around and people began stuffing themselves. John, still unsure of what utensil did what, stuck to the simple, solid recogniseable things like beef, potatoes, and green beans.

Apparently feeling the need to lighten things up a bit, Greg piped up.

"Violet, this is delicious. Thank you so much." He mumbled from around a mouthful of roast. The look on Mycroft's face was a rather hilarious combination of mortification and affection, and one of the aunties - John had forgotten their names almost immediately after learning them - made a scandalised noise. Sherlock, however, simply wrinkled his nose in apparent irritation.

"Don't thank her, thank Richard-Claude, the caterer. Charming French gentleman, he's taken care of all the holiday meals for as long as I can recall. Does he still live in the village?"

Violet sighed, exasperation clear on her face.

"Yes dear, thank you for pointing out your poor mother's faults." She turned to John, smiling sheepishly. "It's true though, I'm terrible when it comes to large, organised meals."

"You were never very good at small ones, either." Grandmama Holmes interjected, winking conspiratorially at Sherlock.

Violet stabbed at her beef irritably, but said nothing further. The rest of the meal progressed in awkward silence, but without any further verbal sniping from any member of the family. John was relieved when Falstaff or Foxglove or whatever his name was stood up and rather pretentiously announced that it was time to drive the aunties back home, and thank you for a lovely evening.

Following his lead, everyone stood up and filed out of the dining room. There was one last tense moment where everyone felt the need to shake hands with everyone else and say goodbye half a dozen times while Sherlock hovered in the stairwell and rolled his eyes. After finding Grandmama and giving her a genuinely warm farewell hug and making a promise to keep in touch, John managed to extricate himself to grab Greg and Sherlock, and pull them back into the kitchen to get away from the nonsense.

***

They were tidying up - or, rather, John and Greg were tidying up while Sherlock sat on the counter and sulked - when Violet and Mycroft walked back in, apparently having said their goodbyes to everyone's satisfaction.

"Please, don't trouble yourselves. We'll have someone come in tomorrow to take care of all this. Why don't you go sit in the parlour and relax?"

Apparently though, that didn't apply to John. As he wiped his hands off on a dish towel, he felt another steely hand on his shoulder, but this time it was Violet's, not Sherlock's.

"John, may I speak with you privately for a moment?" The hand exerted enough pressure to make it obvious this wasn't a question. John cringed. Was this going to be the mess with my son and I'll kill you speech? Somehow Violet seemed too elegant for that sort of thing, but why else would she want to talk to him? Slightly panicked, he cast around, looking for Greg, who just shrugged at him before slipping into the hallway. Clearly he hadn't been subjected to the same treatment.

Awkwardly, he nodded and followed her into the butler's pantry. Because clearly people like this needed a separate tiny prep-kitchen.

"I know he doesn't see it, but I love Sherlock. Dearly. It frustrated me when he started wasting all his potential, dropping out of university and doing free odd jobs for the police. I worried about him floundering aimlessly and dying alone. But I see now that he's got someone to look out for him. So I'd like to thank you for that."

John coughed and smiled weakly, suddenly strangely choked up.

"Thank you, Violet. I don't know what I'd do without him. Thank you."

"For what, dear?"

"Bringing him into the world, I guess?" Even John realised how trite that sounded, once he'd said it, but Violet just smiled softly and nodded.

"Sherlock's a force of nature. I suspect if I hadn't had a hand in it, he'd have sprung forth fully formed from the forehead of some ancient goddess." She patted John's arm, leaving him standing awkwardly in the pantry.

When he stepped out, Sherlock was looming in the corner, apparently having noticed his absence.

"Well then, what did my mother want?"

John shook his head.

"Nothing, nothing. She just needed help reaching to put away some preserves."

Sherlock squinted at him, the look on his face clearly reading Bollocks, John, you're shorter than she is. But he merely nodded and dropped the subject, swanning back into the main kitchen to pilfer a congealing leftover Yorkshire pudding from the counter.

***

The elderly relatives were all safely home for the evening, and Violet had neatly stacked the last of dishes in the kitchen for the cleaning service to handle tomorrow and gone to bed. John, Sherlock, Greg, and Mycroft were sitting in the parlour, in the dim light of the fireplace embers and the soft glow of the fairy lights on the trees. Mycroft had a scotch in one hand, but he was staring at it rather than drinking it. Greg had loosened his tie and untucked his shirt, and was looking much more at home. John leaned sleepily into the sharp hollow of Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock instinctively wrapped his arm around him.

"That wasn't so bad, all things considered."

Mycroft swirled his scotch in his glass, studying the fingers it left as it dripped slowly, and Sherlock stared at the ceiling before turning to John.

"I suppose it wasn't. I still can't wait for Fairfax and my aunts to shuffle off, but Mummy seems to be mellowing in her old age."

At this Mycroft put down his glass and stared at his brother.

"Sherlock, have you ever stopped to consider maybe she's not the only one?"

"Well, Mycroft, I've often compared you to a sharp and vaguely unpleasant cheese, so maybe you are getting better."

Greg and John laughed, despite themselves. Mycroft huffed.

"I didn't mean me. Greg, let's retire."

Sherlock couldn't resist one more jab. "Oh come on, Mycroft, you're not that old yet!"

Mycroft shot daggers at Sherlock and swept up the stairs, Greg in tow.

John grinned, playfully elbowing Sherlock in the ribs.

"You shouldn't wind him up like that."

"Come on, it's good for him. Keeps him on his toes."

"Maybe, but I think he had the right idea. Let's go to bed."

They stripped down with practiced efficiency, John down to his pants and Sherlock completely naked. Clearly he had no hang-ups about being nude in his ancestral home. They crawled into bed, and Sherlock wrapped himself awkwardly around John, who rolled onto his side in an attempt to fit better together.

"She loves you, you know."

"What?" Sherlock lifted his head off the pillow, apparently perplexed by John's sudden revelation.

"She does. That's what we were talking about in the pantry. She thinks I'm good for you."

"Obvious." Sherlock scoffed, burying his face in the soft hair at the nape of John's neck. It never ceased to amaze John how he could go from being so brash and cold and angular to so soft and needy, once they were in bed and nobody else was around to bear witness. John cast an eye over the clock on the bedstand, which read 12:02. After midnight, then.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

But Sherlock was, impossibly, already asleep. Smiling contentedly, John's breath slowed as he nodded off to join him.

***

John's pleasant slumber was abruptly interrupted by an alarming crash coming from downstairs. Instinctively, he leaned over to reach for his gun before remembering where he was. He rolled over to wake Sherlock and found him face to face with a cold pillow and an empty bed. A quick glance at the bedside clock showed the unreasonable hour of half past three in the morning.

"Christ", John mumbled to nobody in particular. "What's he gotten into this time?"

He pulled on his pyjama bottoms and wrapped himself in his robe, bare feet padding silently across the ridiculously plush carpet. A quick listen at the door gave him the impression that the hallway was empty, so he pushed the door open, nearly smacking Mycroft and Greg in the face.

"Oi." Greg hissed, a feeble attempt at avoiding waking the matriarchs of the household. "Watch it."

"Sorry, I didn't hear any noises after that big one, didn't think anyone else was up."

"D'you really think a detective and... whatever it is that he claims he's doing right now... could sleep through that racket?" Greg grinned and gestured vaguely at Mycroft, and John had the sudden realisation that he probably slept even less than his brother did. As if reading John's thoughts, Mycroft peered at him.

"Where is my dear brother? Surely he's interested in mysterious noises emanating from downstairs?"

John cringed, running his tongue over his lip.

"Honestly, I think he's the source of the mysterious noises. He wasn't in bed when I woke up."

With an incredibly put-upon sigh, Mycroft swept down the hall. He looked more regal and put-together while barefoot in a pair of Egyptian cotton pyjamas and a threadbare robe than most people could hope to look on their wedding day. At least Greg looked as rumpled and discombobulated as John felt.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they were met with an imposing silence. Not the calm lull of an empty room, but the heaviness that can only come with someone trying not to make noise. Wary, John cast a glance around, taking in his surroundings. The fairy lights coming from the main parlour seemed off somehow. Rainbow sparkles were bouncing off the ceiling in a way that they hadn't been earlier. Something had clearly been knocked askew.

John peered into the parlour and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing stock-still in the middle of the room in his pyjamas, one shoulder of his dressing gown hanging low off his shoulder. In his hands he held a meticulously wrapped gift box that happened to be tangled in a string of tinsel. Most alarming though, was the tree. The source of the huge noise was abundantly clear now, as eight feet of Nordman fir and generations' worth of blown-glass baubles had come crashing to the ground. John found himself thankful that the household obsession with antiques and antiquated habits hadn't extended to candles on the tree.

Sherlock blinked at John, his mouth agape, forming a perfect O. The whole vignette was so absurd that John found himself bending at the waist, entirely overcome with a fit of the giggles. He felt Greg patting him on the back and gasped for breath, standing up and staring at Sherlock, who'd graduated from surprise to irritation.

"I suppose you find this terribly amusing, do you?"

"What, finding my boyfriend rummaging around under the tree on Christmas eve, trying to guess what his presents are?"

Sherlock sniffed, his pride hurt. Mycroft let out a low chuckle, a strangely alien and fond noise John had never heard him utter before.

"He's figuring them out, John. Not just his, all of ours. He hasn't done it since it he was ten or eleven, but I suppose the temptation proved too much for him."

"Of course, Sherlock Holmes would never guess at the contents of a box." John smiled. "Not when he could deduce them instead."

"I'll thank you all to stop talking about me as if I'm not here." Sherlock's lower lip stuck out petulantly, and John reached forward, stroking his cheekbone. The gesture felt strangely intimate, given their location and the fact that everyone was in their jimjams, but Sherlock seemed mollified and leaned into John's hand. Carefully, John leaned forward and untangled the offending string of tinsel, freeing the small box in Sherlock's hand. The paper was white with wide green stripes and a silver ribbon, and John didn't remember seeing it before. He stared at it for a moment until Greg's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Since we're all down here, what do you say we have a cuppa and try to fix up the tree."

"What, so Mummy won't notice?" Sherlock said.

"No, I think we're well beyond that, but at least there'll be a tree for tomorrow morning."

John nodded, grinning. "One condition though. Hot cocoa, not tea."

"What are we, toddlers?" Mycroft was attempting to sound disdainful, but John could tell even he was getting a bit caught up in the moment. With a genuine and artless grin, he ducked into the kitchen to prepare the cocoa while John and Greg did their best to right the toppled tree. Sherlock, true to form, stood off to one side and offered helpful commentary.

"No, no. It's listing to the left. No! The OTHER left. My left! Too far. Back a bit."

"Sherlock, either get over here and help or shut it." Greg snapped, but good-naturedly. The absurdity and camaraderie of the evening was getting to them, and they were all a bit giddy.

Eventually, Mycroft re-entered the parlour with a tray loaded with mugs of cocoa and a plate of biscuits. He held the tray out to Greg, who dipped a chocolate finger into his cocoa and held it out to Mycroft. John looked away, grinning at Sherlock, who scowled and rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, do you remember the year Mummy decided to prepare a goose on her own?"

"And her diamond ring got stuck while she was removing the neck? And she insisted it'd been stolen, until poor Uncle Peterson nearly choked on it?"

Greg laughed. "Sounds like your childhood Christmases were far less traumatic than I'd imagined."

Mycroft turned to stare at him, smiling indulgently. "And what, pray tell, were you picturing?"

"Sherlock setting things on fire. You starting a global thermonuclear war in your footie pyjamas. Fucked if I know." Greg grinned.

"There's still time." Sherlock smiled in a way that John found far too unnerving for the middle of the night.

John stared at the three of them, his mind wandering, trying to remember anything positive or amusing about his own childhood Christmases.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was low, concerned. "Alright?"

John shook his head. Sherlock'd been reading him like an open book again.

"Mm, I'm fine. I was just thinking about... you know... when I was little. Christmas was always a bit of a wash."

He regretted it as soon as the words had come out of his mouth. Three sets of eyes were on him.

"It's nothing, really. Just... you know. Lots of drinking. Lots of shouting. Mum used to get into the sherry before she'd even started cooking. One year we ended up having beans on toast cause she'd gotten distracted and burnt the roast. One year dad just walked out on us in the middle of the meal. A few years later he walked out on us and just never came back." He pulled in a long, shuddering sigh. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his own, tracing small circles in his palm. The gesture was strangely soothing, and John continued. "After mum passed, Harry and I tried doing  the dinner thing, just the two of us. But she'd started drinking by then, and it was a fucking disaster."

When he looked up, Sherlock was studying him thoughtfully, Greg looked aghast, and even Mycroft looked genuinely concerned.

"Shite, sorry. Here I am, ruining Christmas with stuff come and gone." He squeezed Sherlock's hand and took a sip of his cocoa, now gone lukewarm. "What about you, Greg? Any fond holiday memories?"

The laugh Greg let out was nervous and awkward, but it broke the spell cast by John's story. "I think my Christmases were probably pretty dull, all things considered. Mum'd be chasing us all around like crazy, I had to wear itchy short pants, Nana'd fall asleep at the table, Dad would wander off to watch some old recording of a footy match while the lot of us tore around the house chasing each other around and trying not to knock down the tree."

At this, everyone turned to look at Sherlock, who just sighed and shrugged theatrically, as if knocking over a Christmas tree was simply par for the course.

John put down his mug and leaned on Sherlock's shoulder again. Sherlock wrapped one arm back around John, the other still turning over the small green-and-white box. John quirked a brow at him.

"What's in that one then?"

Mycroft leaned in, trying to grasp the box. "John, don't encourage him. He ruined gifts for everyone, it would be nice to maintain some semblance of surprise this year."

An impish grin spread across Sherlock's face as he stared intently Mycroft. His hand remained resolutely on the mystery box.

"Greg's given you a set of cufflinks. Gold, judging by the weight. Probably engraved with some... sentiment." Greg's eyes bugged out, and he glared at Sherlock as though he could shut him up by sheer force of will, but Sherlock continued, undaunted. "Probably set him back at least a month's pay. He'd been debating getting you a ring but he knows you only ever wear that gold band of Father's, though I have no idea why you haven't gotten rid of it. Besides, a ring felt too permanent, too traditional. He wanted to offer you something to show you how serious he was, but didn't want you to feel trapped. Make sure it was obviously a gift, not a proposal. Greg, your concern is unwarranted. My brother is, as the expression goes, head over heels for you."

Greg was flushed a livid shade of crimson by now, and even Mycroft had a rosy tint to his cheeks. John buried his face in his hands and willed Sherlock to shut up, but he was on a roll now.

"And you, Mycroft. Judging by the size, shape, and weight of it, there's a waistcoat in this box, addressed to Greg. Probably something nice and reputable. Brooks Brothers? Silk-wool blend, judging by the way it's sliding in the package. You always were a bit of a traditionalist. Thing is, Greg doesn't currently own the sort of suit that requires a waistcoat, so there's an underlying message there too. You're offering to provide, to take him places that warrant dressing up. Having a suit properly custom-tailored to his stature isn't cheap, but for you it's nearly pocket change. That's where the car key comes in. There's a distinctive rattle right where the inner lefthand pocket of the waistcoat would be. Is it for something new? A nice sporty Jaaaaag? Or the Aston parked out back that you've insisted be kept up despite nobody in the house wanting to drive it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but as he did he glanced over at Greg, whose mouth was hanging open in the goofiest, most endearing smile.

Before Sherlock could continue, John reached out and put a hand on his knee.

"This is all very clever, but for me, could you shut it and leave something for tomorrow morning?"

Sherlock looked down in his lap, at the unfamiliar package. "I will drop it, if you tell me what's in this box, John."

John pursed his lips. This was interesting. Clearly Sherlock had no idea what was in the package, or where it had come from. He was just making assumptions at this point. Since there was no other package under the tree from John to Sherlock, he'd made the logical leap that this was John's gift to him.

"Sherlock, I've no idea. I didn't put it there. Honest. Your gift isn't here." John turned to Greg and Mycroft, who both shrugged convincingly enough. Considering what they did for a living it was entirely possible they were both lying, but he took them at face value.

Scowling, Sherlock rattled the box. It made no noise whatsoever. He held it up to his ear, probably checking to see if it was ticking. He weighed it in one hand, and then the other. Finally, apparently giving it up as a lost cause, he tossed it irritably onto the sofa next to him and reached out for John's hand, which was still on his knee.

"Sod it, let's go back to bed."

***

A few hours later, John woke to find Sherlock perched at the foot of the bed, already fully dressed. The light slanting in from the large windows was slightly yellow and diffuse, something John remembered from a few winters spent up in Northern Scotland with relatives, and could only mean one things.

"Did it snow?"

"John, how did you guess?"

"I didn't guess. The light out there, it makes me think of snow. The way it's reflecting, I guess."

Sherlock grinned, and John assumed it was because it was he was proud of John's deduction. At least, that's what he assumed until he blinked and got hit with a faceful of snow. He yelped, jumping out of bed and trying to shake the slush out of his hair.

"Sherlock! That was cruel and unusual." John giggled, running around and trying to get dressed, hopping back into his pyjama bottoms, dragging a jumper along behind him, all while making sure to keep Sherlock within his line of sight. Once John was finally decent, the two of them ran into the hall and pounded furiously on Mycroft's door. The glee on Sherlock's face was impossibly charming and entirely alien, and for a moment John could see him, running up and down these halls at six or seven years old, footie pyjamas skidding off the carpet as he chased Mycroft around. The image hit him hard in the chest, and he made a promise to hold onto it for as long as he could, to try to make Sherlock laugh like that more often.

Mycroft opened the door and peered out, and was met with yet another snowball. John had no idea where Sherlock had secreted it, nor did he want to find out.

Greg peered around Mycroft's shoulder, chuckling.

"Sherlock, do you really want to engage in a snowball fight with a military man, an officer of the law, and... Mycroft?"

Like his brother, Mycroft was already fully dressed, but Greg stepped out into the hall in his boxers, a threadbare crew-neck, and one sock, just in time for Violet to emerge from her bedroom at the other end of the hallway.

"What on earth is all this racket? It's as though you two never grew up and moved out. Oh, hello John, and Greg." She acknowledged their various states of undress with little more than a nod, despite being perfectly coiffed and made up, and wearing an elegant long skirt and cashmere top at eight in the morning.

"I don't suppose I need to ask whether you lot would prefer breakfast or gifts first?"

John glanced over at Sherlock's bedroom, hoping his hiding place hadn't been discovered.

"I think we should get the gifts out of the way." he said, hoping he sounded like a mature, responsible adult and not an over-excited kid.

With a knowing smile, Violet swept down the stairs, leaving them to follow.

They settled in the parlour, and Violet had the tact not to mention that the tree was slightly lopsided, and missing about a third of the decorations. She passed out the gifts that Sherlock had deduced earlier, as well as handing a small box to each Mycroft and Sherlock. John had nothing to open, and found himself wondering if Sherlock had bothered to get him anything. His general disdain for the holiday was evident, maybe that extended to gifts.

Reading his expression, as per usual, Sherlock patted John's knee awkwardly and tossed a small box, meticulously wrapped in celadon-green paper, into John's lap. The box was nearly the same colour as Sherlock's eyes, and the memory of that Christmas party so long ago came flooding back. When Sherlock had torn poor Molly to ribbons, deducing the feelings behind her gift, and then, shockingly, apologising to her. John shook his head and smiled at Sherlock.

"I've got something for you too, but it's not here. It's somewhere in the house, hiding in plain sight. It's not terribly large, or terribly practical, but I think you'll appreciate it."

Grinning manically, as though the puzzle itself was enough of a gift, Sherlock bounded over the back of the sofa and ran off to find his gift.

Violet and John sat off to the side as Greg and Mycroft opened their gifts. Unsurprisingly, they were exactly as Sherlock had guessed, and the key did turn out to belong to the 1964 Aston Martin DB5 in the back garage. It looked like John and Greg had something else in common - an affection for the classic Bond films.

Just as Greg was composing himself, Sherlock came bounding down the stairs. He threw himself onto the sofa, crashing into John, and wrapped his arms around him. In one hand, he held a slim volume. It was an antique Persian poisoner's handbook. When John had found it in the used bookstore, he'd known immediately it would appeal to Sherlock. Even if he couldn't read Farsi (yet), the illustrations and numerical tables would keep him occupied for days.

"It's perfect, John. Thank you. And I have to admit, hiding it in amongst all my other books was quite clever." He gave John a kiss on the mouth that was quick and chaste, but imbued with warmth and gratitude. "Now open yours."

John flipped the box over once or twice. Not in an attempt to deduce anything, something about the weight just felt right. Slowly, meticulously, he unfolded the paper, until Sherlock got impatient and pried it out of his fingers. He ripped the rest of the paper off and then handed the box back to John.

"You were being inefficient. Open!"

Biting back a laugh, John lifted the lid of the box. Inside, on a puff of cotton wool, were a few thin slivers of reed cane, thinned at one end. John picked one up, holding it tight between his fingers.

"Reeds?"

"Clearly, John. Clarinet reeds."

John blinked. "But I don't have a clarinet. I haven't played in years."

"Yes you do. If you didn't, why would I have gotten you reeds for it?"

John's brow furrowed. Sherlock was obviously not joking, or confused, but he hadn't handled a clarinet in decades, and he'd certainly never brought one into the-- oh.

"You... the rest of my present is back home, isn't it?"

The sparkle in Sherlock's eyes made it clear that John figuring out his puzzle was as good a gift as the poisoning text.

"You've never come out and said it, but I know how much you enjoy my playing, and you look wistful sometimes - as though you miss something, or wish you could join me. We'll start slow."

John snorted. When did Sherlock ever do anything slowly?

"Thank you, Sherlock. I'm shocked."

Upon uttering those words, John felt Sherlock tense up.

"You don't like it, do you?"

"Oh god, no, Sherlock. I love it, I really do. I'm just... I'm going to be terrible for a while. You're going to have to be patient with me."

Sherlock softened slightly, and scoffed. "John, I know what you can do with your lips and tongue. You'll be fine. Muscle memory."

Violet coughed discreetly, reminding Sherlock that she was still in the room.

"Oh, Mummy, be reasonable. We're all adults here. Besides, look at the state of Greg's hair. Surely you heard the two of them going at it last night, the wall between those two rooms has always been thin."

Greg grinned and shrugged, but didn't deny it.

"Boys, I believe you still have a present each from me." She nodded at the two small boxes. Sherlock tore into his, and Mycroft opened his with even more care and attention than John had. It was obvious Sherlock was itching to lunge across the room and tear it open as well, but John held him down by the arm and he settled down.

By some strange unspoken sibling bond, they opened their boxes in unison and each pulled out a plain brass house key.

Amusingly still synchronised, they both looked towards their mother for clarification.

"The paperwork's been sorted for both of them. Mycroft, that's for the Vernet manor in Avignon. I figured, you have such a stressful job, and I'm certain Greg does as well, that it would do you both some good to get out of the city now and again." Mycroft reached out and took Greg's hand, and they both nodded at Violet in silent thanks. She then turned to Sherlock.

"That one's for the little house in Sussex. I know you loved going there when you were younger. I can't picture you spending time out there now, but maybe when you and John are ready to retire."

Sherlock's face softened, his eyes wide. "Are the bees still there?"

Violet smiled. "I'm sure so long as the orchard is nearby, the bees will still be there."

John watched Sherlock wrap his hand reverently around the key. He nodded at his mother.

"Thank you, Mummy." He said the words slowly, as if they felt unfamiliar in his mouth. John stroked his knee soothingly and turned to Violet.

"Thank you. It's certainly nothing as grand as what you've given us, but this is from Sherlock and myself."

Greg sat up a bit straighter and pulled a flat box from behind his back, looking a bit lost.

"This one's from us. Me and Mycroft, I mean."

She opened the boxes thoughtfully, though not as meticulously as Mycroft had. First, she opened the one from Greg and Mycroft, unfolding a tasteful (and no doubt expensive) Hermes scarf. John had no delusions as to who'd chosen it, and who'd paid for it. In any case, Violet seemed to like it. She stroked the soft silk a few times before smiling at the two of them and then turning her attention to the box from John and Sherlock.

It was an Italian cameo, some woman whose name had been lost to time but who'd retained immortality through the delicate carving of her profile. It was surrounded in gold filigree. She held it up to the light.

"Sherlock, John, thank you. It's stunning." Smiling, she wrapped the scarf around her throat and affixed it with the brooch.

Sherlock shrugged. "We recovered some antiques belonging to a jewellery collector, and he gave us that as a token of thanks. I certainly wasn't going to wear it, and it would have looked a bit funny on John."

John cringed, embarrassed, but Violet's eyes sparkled with undisguised mirth.

"I guess that job of yours is good for something after all." She teased, goodnaturedly. "Now, I think that's everything?"

Just as Greg and Mycroft were getting up, Sherlock reached under the sofa and pulled out the small green and white striped box that had so perplexed him earlier.

"So who is this one from then?"

Even Violet looked confused. None of them recognised it. She nodded at Sherlock.

"You go on and open it then."

A dark look of concern crossed Sherlock's face, and he pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his suit, putting them on before meticulously unwrapping the package.

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock looked grim.

"If none of us know who it's from..." The rest didn't need to be said. John glanced over at Violet, but she seemed to have accepted that her sons and their partners were in dangerous lines of work.

Sherlock lifted the lid of the box, which was filled with cotton batting. With uncharacteristic trepidation, he pulled the batting out. Nestled inside was a black leather photo album with a simple gold H on the front. Sherlock opened it to the first page and John leaned over, tense and curious.

When he realised what he was looking at, he let out an enormous guffaw. A family photo album, filled with ridiculous photos of Sherlock and Mycroft as children. A secreted gift from Grandmama Holmes, then.

The first page had a photo of a dour-looking Mycroft; toddler-pudgy, freckled, and alarmingly ginger. Clearly his hair had darkened with age. John made a mental note to ask Sherlock later if it was dyed.

The next page contained a photo of what had to be Sherlock, at perhaps seven or eight years old, dressed in a pirate costume. The rest of the book contained more of the same - Mycroft in short pants and a navy blazer, Sherlock performing a necropsy on a stuffed bear. Greg was rolling around on the floor in a fit of giggles by this point, and Violet kept rubbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"Greg, we're going to have to share this."

"I'll take it in to the Yard and have it scanned."

Sherlock balked. "Don't you dare. If I find out Anderson's seen any of this, I am never consulting for you again."

For a moment Greg looked as though it would be a worthwhile tradeoff, but he eventually capitulated. "We'll just take turns."

Sherlock and Mycroft crossed their arms across their chests and scowled in a comically identical gesture. John, undaunted, held the book close to his chest.

"There's no way I'm giving up this blackmail material, sorry guys."

Greg grinned and threw one arm over John's shoulders.

"Glad you said it first, because I'm not either."

***

Breakfast was a quick, quiet affair in the kitchen, and as soon as it was done, John ducked upstairs to re-pack his suit. Sherlock had apparently already packed, which probably involved dumping everything pell-mell into the bag and calling it a day. A cab had been called and would arrive in time to get them on the afternoon train back to London. Feeling as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, John headed back down the staircase only to find Violet waiting for him.

"I do hope you'll keep in touch, John. I've no idea what Sherlock said you about us before you came here, and while I agree that he may not have had the most orthodox upbringing, I did the best I could for both of my boys, and I don't want them to disappear from my life. And now, that goes for you too. You're always welcome here."

"That..." John sighed, thinking back to his own broken family. "No, that really means a lot. Thank you. I'll try to make sure his highness over there gets out here more often." John hefted their bags onto his shoulder and stepped out into the bright sun, reflecting off the snow on the grounds. Violet smiled fondly and John was about to lean in for an awkward hug with his free arm when the unpleasantly hard, wet, freezing sensation of another snowball smacked him roughly in the back of the head.

"Hurry up, John! We're going to be late."