First Meetings
A holiday giftfic for eeeelieh! Happy Wintery season!
Viclock, holiday fluff.
He didn’t know why he had never met the Holmes parents. It wasn’t for a lack of invitations from Mummy Holmes— Sherlock seemed to feel obligated each new semester to inform Victor of the formal invitation out to the family home for a holiday or dinner or birthday. But after years of evasion and work and breakups and makeups and life, visits to families and hometowns seemed less and less important. It wasn’t until well after Victor had moved to London (and subsequently to Baker Street after John Watson had left with his own family) that the idea of a visit to meet Mummy and Daddy Holmes was raised again.
It was an idea posed by Mycroft, and fervently opposed by Sherlock (on principle, Victor thought), but it stuck.
So here he stood, in a suit that was not his style, and wondering if he should follow Sherlock’’s example, or Mycroft’s. Victor Trevor knew the importance of presenting himself well. He understood that being the less threatening, less overbearing, less intrusive than Sherlock could help smooth over the ruffled feathers left in Sherlock’s wake over the years. He dressed well, he spoke well, he rarely seemed out of place at Sherlock’s side when they did manage to go out into public at a decent hour. Since university, he thought that he was the only one capable of tagging along after Sherlock without seeming like a lost puppy or a a shadow. He had always hoped to just come across as the unassuming Indian friend who could feign an obnoxious accent to get out of talking to people who hoped to complain about Sherlock.
He wondered, almost idly, if he should follow John’s example.
It was Christmas, after all, and the man did seem to get on well enough in a cuddly jumper and a seething indignant air.
Still, if Victor was a master of appearing to belong at Sherlock’s side, why was he nervous about meeting the Holmes parents? He supposed that it had to do with the fact that, even after all these years, this was his first holiday dinner with them.
In the end, he opted for going without the tie for the first meeting. And packed a comfortable jumper for Christmas morning.
——
“They’re going to love you, you know.” Greg said when he stopped by to deliver a handful of cold cases. “They love everyone willing to associate with their kids.”
“Low standards.”
“Just bring an appetite and a fondness for paper crowns.”
——
The presents were awkward. Packed carefully in several layers, pressed between folded shirts and a bottle of wine, Victor had to admit that he had panicked when he realised that he would be expected to have presents wrapped and ready.
His family had never bothered much with the gift giving part of holidays, and Sherlock seemed to have much the same mindset (when he remembered that there were any sorts of holidays at all). But the idea of bringing presents to a family gathering— a first meeting, a dinner, a first impression— had never actually occurred to Victor before.
At least not until Mycroft had texted him a list and schedule with his assistant to meet at Harrods. Sherlock had brushed off the vague threats involving a Christmas pudding, but Victor had kept the appointment.
Now, with a delay on the rails, and a few hours wait, he was wishing that there had been plans for a week-long getaway to Norfolk. Or India. He was sure that there was still the holdings there he could hide in for a few years to avoid this.
——
“You’ll be expected to watch the Queen’s address,” Sherlock warned. His phone had barely left his hands throughout the ride out of London. “And go for a walk. Smoking is frowned upon.”
“Do you think I could pretend to be deaf?”
“Mummy will know if you’re lying.”
“Death is an option.”
“Make it interesting.”
“Such a romantic.”
Perhaps he could pretend not to speak English.
——
The house was normal. There were no decorations save a wreath and ribbon on the front door and a sign on the garden gate. Victor was pleased to see the fields just beyond the limits of the yards along the street. It was a good, open area on the edge of a village, and Victor could excuse himself for hours if there were fields to wander.
——
In the end, he had been volunteered to add the star to the tree. Mummy Holmes had insisted that he helped, once he changed out of the stuffy suit. ‘Looked too much like Mikey’ was the excuse, and Victor wasn’t sure who had looked more offended between them and who had looked more amused between Sherlock and Greg. So Victor changed into one of the warm jumpers, tied his hair back with a bit of tinsel, and climbed on the step tool when directed to hang mistletoe and place the star.
Daddy Holmes had taken him out for a walk in the fields while dinner was made. He expected the interrogation Mycroft had put him through years ago, and was treated instead to stories of Sherlock running wild with his childhood pet. They talked politics and work, current events and the weather. Victor volunteered stories of Sherlock from school, and Daddy Holmes offered to show him pictures Sherlock had claimed were destroyed. He learnt that Mummy Holmes was doting and fussy, and that Mycroft took after her far more than Sherlock ever could. He learnt that there were games in the attic that could tempt every genius in the household and that Greg spiked the eggnog when the boys started to bicker.
They came back to a warm house with cold mud caked to their boots, and vague plans to each get a dog.
He helped Mummy in the kitchen before he was shooed out to keep the surprise. He and Greg treated to (what he was told was the annual) stories over favourite foods and hidden treats to put in stockings. Pictures and cakes, and how ‘Mikey’ believed that all stocking were filled by Santa until he worked out the math when he was six. Even then, the secret was never ruined for Sherlock.
There were crackers and paper crowns, and Mummy put the yellow one on Victor herself when he beat the boys at scrabble.
——
He didn’t know why he had never met the Holmes parents before. He supposed that he had always wondered what a full family was like. He remembered cold holidays home from school— tucked away in his rooms or his father’s library, or out for walks or fishing on the lake even when it was frozen— with empty houses and phone calls from far away. He remembered the glee his classmates faced the season with, and wondered what the point of presents were.
Now, giggling with Greg over the latest bickering and slightly tipsy on eggnog, Victor wondered how he had ever done without.
