enny: Hello you all! In sight of the merry holidays we’re facing currently, I got in the mood to write some Holmesish Christmas lines for you. I’m not that good a writer, but I think you can forgive me that :). The story does not fit in the canon of the blog! Just some random idea I had and not a completely serious attempt. Hope you enjoy and a merry Christmas time to all of you!
As though it wasn’t enough stress and merriness already, the Watsons were invited, too. Mycroft didn’t exactly dislike John and Mary, but somehow he really did. It sure had something to do with the way John was always a bit too close to Sherlock, touching him unnecessarily often. Not that Mycroft was bothered for his own sake, but after all the doctor was married, wasn’t he? It was just undue for a married man to be so obvious about his desire for someone else than his partner. Just that Mary herself seemed rather amused about it. In fact, she was even encouraging - to call it unnerving really would be an understatement. That Sherlock was mostly oblivious to it at least gave some small satisfaction. If his brother noticed, though, he would always give Mycroft a short mocking glance and this terrible half smirk which Mycroft hated if he was lacking the possibility to wipe it away. So usually he would turn his head then and watch his mother for a while, who was preparing all sorts of food, talking to him cheerfully about all sorts of things. The food was actually the only thing Mycroft liked about Christmas. However, Sherlock would tease him about that mercilessly and he wasn’t sure whether that was worth it. An headache was slowly growing behind his left eye.
“Well, see who’s annoyed about having to celebrate at home now,” Sherlock all but snickered as he joined Mycroft outside for a cigarette.
“I never said I wasn’t,” Mycroft sighed. “But other than you I set Mummy’s wishes over my own preferences.” Sherlock laughed lowly. Mycroft’s shiver was absolutely due to the icy wind.
“How noble of you, brother,” he commented and Mycroft didn’t need to see his face to know that the other was laughing at him. Indeed he did quite a few things that would terribly upset their parents and while he felt guilty about it, Sherlock couldn’t be more indifferent. Sometimes Mycroft thought Sherlock enjoyed his guilty conscience far too much.
“At least for Christmas,” he added, but Sherlock’s eyes said quite clearly that the argument was lost for him.
“I’ll see you inside,” Sherlock announced as he finished smoking. He paused for a moment longer as they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions. “John wants to be partners with me for charades.” And, oh, Mycroft so hated Christmas.
The house wasn’t exactly big. The ground floor was mostly living room area with the kitchen, the study slash library and a bathroom. Upstairs were only three bedrooms plus the second bathroom. There was no guest’s room for obvious reasons. An arrangement which led to the pleasure of seeing John Watson in irritation.
“If we’re sleeping in your room, where will you sleep?” he asked Sherlock, with far too much hope in his voice - for Mycroft’s taste anyway.
“The boys are going to share,” Mummy Holmes said with an undertone that clearly told her sons to behave. Mycroft expected Sherlock to protest for good manner, but John spoke first.
“Does that work?” his tone bore surprise and a lot of incredulity.
“Better than you’d expect,” said Mycroft as neutrally as possible.
“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock retorted, a barely visible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Mycroft managed not to choke on his drink. He waited for his mother to scold Sherlock for the comment, but in that moment “So this is Christmas” started to play on the radio. Mycroft groaned inwardly. His mothers face lit up.
“It’s John Lennon! Do you remember how we used to listen to this record every Christmas?” Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft made any attempt to show that they remembered. Their father nodded and hummed with a faint smile. “You must know,” she continued to John and Mary, “Sherly and Myc are incredible dancers. They would always dance to it on Christmas Eve when they were younger. I can’t remember why we didn’t continue that tradition.”
Mycroft did remember. He hadn’t been home for Christmas and Sherlock had by accident broken the vinyl while on drugs.
“I’d love to see that,” said Mary. John had a big grin on that said clearly that he couldn’t even imagine it.
“Oh, boys, would you?” Their mother’s expression was soft, but Mycroft knew that it was rather an order than a plea.
“We aren’t children any more, mother,” he tried to argue despite better judgement.
“You weren’t that young the last time if I remember right.”
“What was that before about fulfilling Mummy’s wishes?” Sherlock asked innocently. Mycroft glared at him over the table. He wasn’t really surprised. Sherlock gave a damn about lines and risks. Mycroft didn’t roll his eyes.
“If we must.” His mother beamed.
It was awkward to say the least - standing up and going over to their dancing spot. It had been ages since they had last done this (officially anyway) and though Mycroft certainly had been bigger back then, he felt like there was less space now. It stopped being uncomfortable the moment Sherlock reached him and they shifted into position like it was the most natural thing.
Dancing with Sherlock was amazing. Of course Mycroft was a good dancer, but he had never cared to evolve the kind of profession Sherlock had. His brother seemed weightless in his arms. All his movements were perfection. Sherlock knew exactly how dancing with him affected Mycroft. Mycroft could see it in his eyes. Usually he enjoyed giving his brother the joy of dancing. This time, though, he was painfully aware that his parents and the Watsons were watching them. He carefully tried to look as unimpressed as possible, tried to remember how this had felt when it had been an innocent act of more or less brotherly affection. Sherlock, of course, didn’t care much. Despite Mycroft being the one in lead, Sherlock pulled him close enough that their bodies touched full length whenever they managed to spin around in the small space. Mycroft had never been more sure that his brother would be the end of him.
“Aren’t they adorable?” He heard his mother say as the last tones played.
“I don’t know why I am even surprised that they’re good at this, too,” John remarked and joined in as Mary applauded.
Sherlock grinned at him and Mycroft almost jumped as the other’s hand brushed the bulge in his pants when Sherlock went past him to join the others at the table.
“Myc, where are you going?” his mother called after him.
“To the bathroom,” Sherlock answered immediately. The brat. Mycroft smiled a tight smile.
“The wine,” he explained and fortunately his mother seemed satisfied enough.
As soon as he had locked the door behind them, Sherlock was on him. Normally Mycroft wouldn’t allow any of this - in their childhood home, for God’s sake, and with their parents and the Watsons next door - but with Sherlock’s lips all ready on his and the possibly most exhausting day ever behind him he felt like he more than deserved this. A part of him even wanted them to hear, to make Sherlock moan and beg and scream his name so John Watson and the rest of the world would know who his brother belonged to.
“You’re ridiculously jealous,” Sherlock murmured lowly into his ear and it took all his will power not to growl, but he didn’t object.
Mycroft was breathing in his brother’s scent, nose buried in his dark curls as they slowly fell asleep next to each other.
“I love you,” he whispered and his voice was so soft that he wasn’t even sure that he had said it out loud. Sherlock didn’t response in a while.
“Don’t take Christmas as an excuse for being sentimental,” he said eventually. Mycroft smiled.
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