On the Twelfth Day of Sherlockmas... "The Family You Choose", a gift for eanor.
Author: ?
Title: The Family You Choose
A gift for: eanor
Characters/Pairing: established John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Angelo, Lestrade, Molly;
Category: Gen
Rating: G- PG for brief mentions of alcohol detox , two men sharing a bed,
Girly snoggings and implied ‘manly scrumplings’
Warnings: Shameless amounts of fluff.
Summary: An unexpected gathering of friends on Christmas Eve
Author's Notes: Thanks to G for the britpick and beta and GP as well as the Tumblr gang for sharing various Christmas traditions and memories with me. This started out per request as a comparison of the Christmases at the Holmes family and the Watson family, but Angelo insisted on barging in and brought along a few more people …
********
John woke to a dull ache in his bad shoulder. The weather must be changing, he thought absently as he stretched out languidly, relishing the warmth and comfort of the moment. The slight snores issuing from the other side of the bed assured him Sherlock would not wake for an hour or two.
The case had concluded earlier than expected- perhaps had been some brotherly governmental interference, John mused as he let the hot water of the shower sluice over him. He decided to leave that train of thought alone. They’d caught the blackmailer, given their statements to Lestrade over a mountain of Thai food, then gone home to catch up on sleep- and other pressing needs. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had left for her sisters house already, they had not been terribly quiet, had they? Now here they were, an unexpectedly free day stretched out before them. He grabbed some ibuprophen from the cabinet shelf, absently noting Sherlock was low again on nicotine patches.
As he put on the kettle, John considered what to do with this sudden free time. Nothing was really pressing, actually. At most he had to pack for the infamous Christmas dinner at Holmes estate. He was still not quite sure what to expect, but it was bound to be interesting. Certainly it could be no worse than last year’s holiday, spent watching Harry drown her sorrows in gin and regret while responding to the 100-plus texts of “BORED!” from Sherlock. Harry, in the turnabout surprise of the year, had managed to both succeed in completing detox and repairing her relationship with Clara. He had no doubts they would be spending the holiday wrapped up in each other snogging themselves senseless. He grinned at the thought. It had been a good year for the Watson family, over all, hadn’t it.
Despite the hot shower, his shoulder still twinged as he picked up the kettle, crunching his toast. Looking out the front window it was grey, but no rain yet. A walk might be in order, if he avoided the usual crush of last minute shoppers. He left a cup of tea and a brief note at Sherlock’s bedside table.
The air was brisk and there was the peculiar smell of possible snow as John opened the door to the street. The sun tried its best to break through the clouds, giving it a ghostly appearance. Boots was stuffy, but not terribly crowded. John quickly picked up the muscle rub and the nicotine patches and strode on back towards home.
As he walked past Angelo’s, intending to wish him the season’s greetings, he nearly walked right into him; the man was so engrossed in his conversation.
“Non potete ottenere qui? È Natale! Ma ho quasi fatto con tutta la cucina! No, capisco, cari. Bene.. sì, lo so. A presto.*” Angelo’s whole body slumped as he hung up the phone. He suddenly reminded John of a Bassett Hound who had been scolded.
“Trouble, Angelo?” John asked sympathetically.
“Oh! Dr. Watson, hello… no it’s just- my niece. She and her family were to fly in today for Christmas and her flight is cancelled. I haven’t seen them in so long, I closed the restaurant for the evening, made tutte le specialità di mia Nonna…*” Angelo looked like he might actually shed a tear.
“It does seem a shame to let all that go to waste, “ John agreed, trying to think of something to cheer him, “ perhaps some friends could join you?”
Angelo snorted, “Friends. What friends? Those I knew before starting this- “ he gestured to the café- “No longer call me friend. Besides, N- Christmas- is a time for family!”
“Well, then.” John shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to say. “ I’m sure you will figure it out, Angelo. I’d better get back home. Try and have a good Christmas, eh?”
He was nearly around the corner when Angelo came running after him, beaming like Father Christmas himself.
“I suppose you and Sherlock are - busy tonight?”
John opened his mouth to politely refuse, but what spilled out instead was, “Let me check- I mean we really don’t have- uh, sure.”
It was surprisingly easy to convince Sherlock to go along with the unexpected invitation. The idea of Angelo’s best spread seemed to appeal to him, especially with the mention of oysters. Once that hurdle was cleared, John started calling and texting those he knew. Mike and his family were busy, of course but John recalled that Lestrade had mentioned having no plans for the night, and had mentioned that Molly had said something about her new pilot boyfriend being snowed in at St. Petersburg. Sarah was down for the count with the seasonal flu. Sally, with her recent promotion to D.I. was buried in paperwork, but said she did appreciate the thought. Harry passed the phone over to Clara who giggled but politely declined as well. No one even raised an eyebrow when Mycroft just showed up with champagne, though the lack of a Blackberry- toting assistant was noted.
Perhaps it was the copious amounts of wine and Angelo’s massive spread of not only the traditional seven fish dishes but also known favorite dishes of all assembled, but the mood was more relaxed as the evening progressed. A spirited debate sprung up over coffee about the proper time to open presents- before or after breakfast-with John and Lestrade strongly in the ‘after’ camp and Molly staunchly in the “before” camp. John leaned into Sherlock fondly, and smiled.
“ I’d suppose you just dove right into the presents- were you always so difficult to get to eat?”
Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to reply, Mycroft spoke quietly.
“ I have many fond memories of being awakened at some ungodly hour by a chocolate-smeared face asking what was in my stocking, actually. We did not open our gifts until after breakfast, but got our stockings in our rooms.”
Sherlock shrugged, “ Mummy always did like a bit of a lie-in.”
“That is no wonder, brother of mine! You ran her ragged! Though why you felt the need to impose on me, I never did understand…”
Sherlock grumbled something about Mycroft getting the more “interesting” gifts, and wanting to be sure that big brother didn’t eat all the sweets in both stockings.
Molly ignored Sherlock and turned to Mycroft, exclaiming “ Stockings in the room! That is brilliant! I must tell my sister that idea; she could use it for her boys. They always seem to get up earlier on their non-school days, even more so on Christmas. “
“Getting up early wasn’t a big thing with us, “ Lestrade noted, “ probably because we were all exhausted from all the work the day before. Christmas has always meant work to me, even before Scotland Yard. I used to work at my family’s bakery, as soon as I could hold my hands steady, and Christmas was always so busy. We’d pile into the car and be piping from four a.m. until at least five p.m. every Christmas eve. I was especially good at piping the holly onto the petit fours. I only stopped when I made Detective Sergeant because, and I quote, ‘We can’t count on you to show up and do your share anymore.’ What?”
Molly was gaping at him. “You- you’re one of those Lestrades? The bakers that do all the fancies for the - for Her M-“
Lestrade shushed her with one lifted finger and a wink. “Can’t say- trade secret.”
Mycroft absently stroked his chin and stated. “ The bouche de Noël is a particular favorite of her favorites. I am fond of the meringues, myself.”
“I used to nick the meringue mushrooms off the trays.“ Lestrade confessed, grinning.
“Well, I like a good shortbread, me and my Gram used to make them for my teachers, “ Molly added, “ and while they cooled, my Granddad and I would get out the train set and he’d hide the figure of Father Christmas for us kids to find. The first one to spot it would get the Toblerone. One time when I stayed with them over the holiday, they let me try and stay up to midnight so that I could talk to my cat- I didn’t make it though, fell asleep by ten in on front of the fire.”
John chuckled appreciatively. “I baked with my Gran too, Molly- we did gingerbread. I did the piping- good training for surgery, with the fine motor control and all. Harry was banned from the kitchen for sneaking off with all the sweets we’d set aside specifically for decorating. We’d all - except Mum- go out Christmas Eve for a long walk with my dad to check out the Christmas lights. Sometimes we’d drive.”
“ So your mother could finish wrapping and set up the tree. Obviously.” Sherlock said wryly.
“Yes, genius, obvious now, “ John retorted, “ but it was fun all the same. One time- I was about six- we met Father Christmas along the way home. He winked and told us to get on home he had just been there. I was speechless. Oi, shut up and stop laughing, all of you… I was SIX. Harry told me the bloody truth soon enough, she was not the sort to let painful truths go unsaid- still isn’t really? How old were you, then, when you stopped believing, Sherlock? Two? “
Sherlock scowled a bit, then replied, “I think I was - four?”
Mycroft shook his head the slightest bit, stating, “ Five. You were five and pouted that you didn’t get a real rocket that would fire up and take you to the moon. You sulked for days.”
Lestrade, Molly and John were reduced to helpless giggles at the thought of a petulant five-year-old Sherlock acting his age. When John finally caught his breath, he choked out “Well, it is no wonder you deleted the solar-“ And Molly and Lestrade started giggling again.
“Not another word. You all promised!” Sherlock hissed at them.
Sherlock’s pout had not changed much in thirty- odd years.
“Fine, fine… you do know that may be the most normal thing I have ever heard about you. ” John said, wiping his eyes. “What did you get the year of great disillusionment?”
“Er.. A chemistry set and a violin. I eventually found them instructive.“
A contented silence spread over them all. It was getting late as Angelo cleared away the last of the dishes and cups, refusing any assistance in the kitchen, claiming the industrial dishwasher could wait until the morning. He brought out a round of Sambuca shots and
toasted his guests.
“ My friends, you have filled my night with laughter when it threatened to be filled with gloom. Thank you for sharing it with me. Happy Christmas, and a good year to us all!”
“Here, here, “ said Molly, hiccupping once as she stood up, just slightly swaying, “ To our families, who love us because they must, and to our friends, the family we choose. “
Title: The Family You Choose
A gift for: eanor
Characters/Pairing: established John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Angelo, Lestrade, Molly;
Category: Gen
Rating: G- PG for brief mentions of alcohol detox , two men sharing a bed,
Girly snoggings and implied ‘manly scrumplings’
Warnings: Shameless amounts of fluff.
Summary: An unexpected gathering of friends on Christmas Eve
Author's Notes: Thanks to G for the britpick and beta and GP as well as the Tumblr gang for sharing various Christmas traditions and memories with me. This started out per request as a comparison of the Christmases at the Holmes family and the Watson family, but Angelo insisted on barging in and brought along a few more people …
********
John woke to a dull ache in his bad shoulder. The weather must be changing, he thought absently as he stretched out languidly, relishing the warmth and comfort of the moment. The slight snores issuing from the other side of the bed assured him Sherlock would not wake for an hour or two.
The case had concluded earlier than expected- perhaps had been some brotherly governmental interference, John mused as he let the hot water of the shower sluice over him. He decided to leave that train of thought alone. They’d caught the blackmailer, given their statements to Lestrade over a mountain of Thai food, then gone home to catch up on sleep- and other pressing needs. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had left for her sisters house already, they had not been terribly quiet, had they? Now here they were, an unexpectedly free day stretched out before them. He grabbed some ibuprophen from the cabinet shelf, absently noting Sherlock was low again on nicotine patches.
As he put on the kettle, John considered what to do with this sudden free time. Nothing was really pressing, actually. At most he had to pack for the infamous Christmas dinner at Holmes estate. He was still not quite sure what to expect, but it was bound to be interesting. Certainly it could be no worse than last year’s holiday, spent watching Harry drown her sorrows in gin and regret while responding to the 100-plus texts of “BORED!” from Sherlock. Harry, in the turnabout surprise of the year, had managed to both succeed in completing detox and repairing her relationship with Clara. He had no doubts they would be spending the holiday wrapped up in each other snogging themselves senseless. He grinned at the thought. It had been a good year for the Watson family, over all, hadn’t it.
Despite the hot shower, his shoulder still twinged as he picked up the kettle, crunching his toast. Looking out the front window it was grey, but no rain yet. A walk might be in order, if he avoided the usual crush of last minute shoppers. He left a cup of tea and a brief note at Sherlock’s bedside table.
The air was brisk and there was the peculiar smell of possible snow as John opened the door to the street. The sun tried its best to break through the clouds, giving it a ghostly appearance. Boots was stuffy, but not terribly crowded. John quickly picked up the muscle rub and the nicotine patches and strode on back towards home.
As he walked past Angelo’s, intending to wish him the season’s greetings, he nearly walked right into him; the man was so engrossed in his conversation.
“Non potete ottenere qui? È Natale! Ma ho quasi fatto con tutta la cucina! No, capisco, cari. Bene.. sì, lo so. A presto.*” Angelo’s whole body slumped as he hung up the phone. He suddenly reminded John of a Bassett Hound who had been scolded.
“Trouble, Angelo?” John asked sympathetically.
“Oh! Dr. Watson, hello… no it’s just- my niece. She and her family were to fly in today for Christmas and her flight is cancelled. I haven’t seen them in so long, I closed the restaurant for the evening, made tutte le specialità di mia Nonna…*” Angelo looked like he might actually shed a tear.
“It does seem a shame to let all that go to waste, “ John agreed, trying to think of something to cheer him, “ perhaps some friends could join you?”
Angelo snorted, “Friends. What friends? Those I knew before starting this- “ he gestured to the café- “No longer call me friend. Besides, N- Christmas- is a time for family!”
“Well, then.” John shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to say. “ I’m sure you will figure it out, Angelo. I’d better get back home. Try and have a good Christmas, eh?”
He was nearly around the corner when Angelo came running after him, beaming like Father Christmas himself.
“I suppose you and Sherlock are - busy tonight?”
John opened his mouth to politely refuse, but what spilled out instead was, “Let me check- I mean we really don’t have- uh, sure.”
It was surprisingly easy to convince Sherlock to go along with the unexpected invitation. The idea of Angelo’s best spread seemed to appeal to him, especially with the mention of oysters. Once that hurdle was cleared, John started calling and texting those he knew. Mike and his family were busy, of course but John recalled that Lestrade had mentioned having no plans for the night, and had mentioned that Molly had said something about her new pilot boyfriend being snowed in at St. Petersburg. Sarah was down for the count with the seasonal flu. Sally, with her recent promotion to D.I. was buried in paperwork, but said she did appreciate the thought. Harry passed the phone over to Clara who giggled but politely declined as well. No one even raised an eyebrow when Mycroft just showed up with champagne, though the lack of a Blackberry- toting assistant was noted.
Perhaps it was the copious amounts of wine and Angelo’s massive spread of not only the traditional seven fish dishes but also known favorite dishes of all assembled, but the mood was more relaxed as the evening progressed. A spirited debate sprung up over coffee about the proper time to open presents- before or after breakfast-with John and Lestrade strongly in the ‘after’ camp and Molly staunchly in the “before” camp. John leaned into Sherlock fondly, and smiled.
“ I’d suppose you just dove right into the presents- were you always so difficult to get to eat?”
Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to reply, Mycroft spoke quietly.
“ I have many fond memories of being awakened at some ungodly hour by a chocolate-smeared face asking what was in my stocking, actually. We did not open our gifts until after breakfast, but got our stockings in our rooms.”
Sherlock shrugged, “ Mummy always did like a bit of a lie-in.”
“That is no wonder, brother of mine! You ran her ragged! Though why you felt the need to impose on me, I never did understand…”
Sherlock grumbled something about Mycroft getting the more “interesting” gifts, and wanting to be sure that big brother didn’t eat all the sweets in both stockings.
Molly ignored Sherlock and turned to Mycroft, exclaiming “ Stockings in the room! That is brilliant! I must tell my sister that idea; she could use it for her boys. They always seem to get up earlier on their non-school days, even more so on Christmas. “
“Getting up early wasn’t a big thing with us, “ Lestrade noted, “ probably because we were all exhausted from all the work the day before. Christmas has always meant work to me, even before Scotland Yard. I used to work at my family’s bakery, as soon as I could hold my hands steady, and Christmas was always so busy. We’d pile into the car and be piping from four a.m. until at least five p.m. every Christmas eve. I was especially good at piping the holly onto the petit fours. I only stopped when I made Detective Sergeant because, and I quote, ‘We can’t count on you to show up and do your share anymore.’ What?”
Molly was gaping at him. “You- you’re one of those Lestrades? The bakers that do all the fancies for the - for Her M-“
Lestrade shushed her with one lifted finger and a wink. “Can’t say- trade secret.”
Mycroft absently stroked his chin and stated. “ The bouche de Noël is a particular favorite of her favorites. I am fond of the meringues, myself.”
“I used to nick the meringue mushrooms off the trays.“ Lestrade confessed, grinning.
“Well, I like a good shortbread, me and my Gram used to make them for my teachers, “ Molly added, “ and while they cooled, my Granddad and I would get out the train set and he’d hide the figure of Father Christmas for us kids to find. The first one to spot it would get the Toblerone. One time when I stayed with them over the holiday, they let me try and stay up to midnight so that I could talk to my cat- I didn’t make it though, fell asleep by ten in on front of the fire.”
John chuckled appreciatively. “I baked with my Gran too, Molly- we did gingerbread. I did the piping- good training for surgery, with the fine motor control and all. Harry was banned from the kitchen for sneaking off with all the sweets we’d set aside specifically for decorating. We’d all - except Mum- go out Christmas Eve for a long walk with my dad to check out the Christmas lights. Sometimes we’d drive.”
“ So your mother could finish wrapping and set up the tree. Obviously.” Sherlock said wryly.
“Yes, genius, obvious now, “ John retorted, “ but it was fun all the same. One time- I was about six- we met Father Christmas along the way home. He winked and told us to get on home he had just been there. I was speechless. Oi, shut up and stop laughing, all of you… I was SIX. Harry told me the bloody truth soon enough, she was not the sort to let painful truths go unsaid- still isn’t really? How old were you, then, when you stopped believing, Sherlock? Two? “
Sherlock scowled a bit, then replied, “I think I was - four?”
Mycroft shook his head the slightest bit, stating, “ Five. You were five and pouted that you didn’t get a real rocket that would fire up and take you to the moon. You sulked for days.”
Lestrade, Molly and John were reduced to helpless giggles at the thought of a petulant five-year-old Sherlock acting his age. When John finally caught his breath, he choked out “Well, it is no wonder you deleted the solar-“ And Molly and Lestrade started giggling again.
“Not another word. You all promised!” Sherlock hissed at them.
Sherlock’s pout had not changed much in thirty- odd years.
“Fine, fine… you do know that may be the most normal thing I have ever heard about you. ” John said, wiping his eyes. “What did you get the year of great disillusionment?”
“Er.. A chemistry set and a violin. I eventually found them instructive.“
A contented silence spread over them all. It was getting late as Angelo cleared away the last of the dishes and cups, refusing any assistance in the kitchen, claiming the industrial dishwasher could wait until the morning. He brought out a round of Sambuca shots and
toasted his guests.
“ My friends, you have filled my night with laughter when it threatened to be filled with gloom. Thank you for sharing it with me. Happy Christmas, and a good year to us all!”
“Here, here, “ said Molly, hiccupping once as she stood up, just slightly swaying, “ To our families, who love us because they must, and to our friends, the family we choose. “