Anoning, because the topic is not something I'm comfortable with (or, thankfully, know much about.) Let's hope, I won't offend anyone.
~~~
Mrs Holmes (Mr Holmes buried since thirty years) is a tall, dark haired, grey-eyed woman with a thin smile and wrinkles around her eyes. Her hand is sure as John shakes it after Sherlock - sort of nervous and oddly adorable - introduces him as a friend.
"Glad to meet you," she says. "Sherlock never before managed to get a friend."
John smiles awkwardly. It's a common enough observation but it still makes him uncomfortable.
The house is in the countryside, big enough to house two families but Mrs Holmes lives alone in it. The house is sparsely decorated but there is a tall pine in the living-room. There is no smell of freshly backed goods and John suddenly misses his own mother and her cinnamon rolls.
Mycroft arrives half an hour later, alone and kissing his mother on the face. They sit around the table and John knows something bothers him about the interaction but then there is food to be eaten and conservation he needs to partake.
"How are you, mummy?" Mycroft asks.
"A bit lonely, since both of you moved out," she says. There is mild reproach in her voice. But John can understand this; after all she is at least sixty (closer to sixty-five) and had lived alone for more than ten years.
Sherlock mutters a barely audible 'sorry' but Mrs Holmes turns toward him. "And what about you, Sherlock? Did you find a proper job?
"I am a consulting detective, mummy," Sherlock replies. "I helped to solve those suicide-murders last year."
"And it was brilliantly done," John adds despite remembering the cold fury and fear as he watched Sherlock lift the pill to his mouth. "Your son is a genius, Mrs Holmes."
"So he claims," she replies. There is no smile on her face. "Still, I wish you'd find something proper to do. Your brother at least managed to be a civil servant. What did you say, when are you due to a promotion, Mycroft?"
There is a flash of hurt on Sherlock's face that John almost misses before it's schooled into neutrality. After this, John listens more carefully to the conversation that flows slowly and punctuated with disappointed silences and sighs.
Mycroft seems to manage better at keeping Mrs Holmes happy, but there is nothing they do that is perfect. John is more than ready to finish the dinner when, at last, Mrs Holmes stands. Her sons scramble to their legs and John straightens a bit belatedly as well. "Good night," she says to them before turning around and walking upstairs presumably to her room.
John blinks. "She didn't say 'Merry Christmas'," he says.
"Obviously," Sherlock snaps before wandering to the decanter of whiskey to pour three glasses. "She hadn't a merry one since father died."
Mycroft nods. "I can barely make time to visit her. It's not surprising she is lonely."
"No," Sherlock replies to something John didn't notice in Mycroft's stand, or probably the way he sips the drink.
"You can leave London more easily," Mycroft prompts. "And it would make her happy."
"I..." Sherlock makes an expression John can't identify. "I will try."
this is wonderfully uncomfortable and sad so far, and gives a very different twist on the 'you know how it upsets Mummy' conversation from show!canon. Hope there's more to come.
~~~
Mrs Holmes (Mr Holmes buried since thirty years) is a tall, dark haired, grey-eyed woman with a thin smile and wrinkles around her eyes. Her hand is sure as John shakes it after Sherlock - sort of nervous and oddly adorable - introduces him as a friend.
"Glad to meet you," she says. "Sherlock never before managed to get a friend."
John smiles awkwardly. It's a common enough observation but it still makes him uncomfortable.
The house is in the countryside, big enough to house two families but Mrs Holmes lives alone in it. The house is sparsely decorated but there is a tall pine in the living-room. There is no smell of freshly backed goods and John suddenly misses his own mother and her cinnamon rolls.
Mycroft arrives half an hour later, alone and kissing his mother on the face. They sit around the table and John knows something bothers him about the interaction but then there is food to be eaten and conservation he needs to partake.
"How are you, mummy?" Mycroft asks.
"A bit lonely, since both of you moved out," she says. There is mild reproach in her voice. But John can understand this; after all she is at least sixty (closer to sixty-five) and had lived alone for more than ten years.
Sherlock mutters a barely audible 'sorry' but Mrs Holmes turns toward him. "And what about you, Sherlock? Did you find a proper job?
"I am a consulting detective, mummy," Sherlock replies. "I helped to solve those suicide-murders last year."
"And it was brilliantly done," John adds despite remembering the cold fury and fear as he watched Sherlock lift the pill to his mouth. "Your son is a genius, Mrs Holmes."
"So he claims," she replies. There is no smile on her face. "Still, I wish you'd find something proper to do. Your brother at least managed to be a civil servant. What did you say, when are you due to a promotion, Mycroft?"
There is a flash of hurt on Sherlock's face that John almost misses before it's schooled into neutrality. After this, John listens more carefully to the conversation that flows slowly and punctuated with disappointed silences and sighs.
Mycroft seems to manage better at keeping Mrs Holmes happy, but there is nothing they do that is perfect. John is more than ready to finish the dinner when, at last, Mrs Holmes stands. Her sons scramble to their legs and John straightens a bit belatedly as well. "Good night," she says to them before turning around and walking upstairs presumably to her room.
John blinks. "She didn't say 'Merry Christmas'," he says.
"Obviously," Sherlock snaps before wandering to the decanter of whiskey to pour three glasses. "She hadn't a merry one since father died."
Mycroft nods. "I can barely make time to visit her. It's not surprising she is lonely."
"No," Sherlock replies to something John didn't notice in Mycroft's stand, or probably the way he sips the drink.
"You can leave London more easily," Mycroft prompts. "And it would make her happy."
"I..." Sherlock makes an expression John can't identify. "I will try."
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