You really can't imagine the Christmas dinners
Note: Written for this MMAM in sherlockbbc. It was totally chaotic to write and when I read it through I got the same feeling. But it was so much fun writing it (like the Harry Potter-poker-chaos). The hardest part was the names, because if two of the children are named Sherlock and Mycroft, the rest are not going to have names like Tom or Lisa.
Promt: The Holmes Bros. come from a large and boisterous middle-class family, complete with younger sibling and older siblings who don't really share their eccentricites.
Summary: You just can't imagine the Christmas dinners.
***
Any luck at cancelling Christmas this year?
SH
No, you know I would if I could.
MH
You good-for-nothing.
SH
See you at Mummy’s.
MH
***
Mycroft braced himself before knocking on the door to his parents’ home. It was the strangest thing, he had the power to start at least five different wars (or just a really big one future historians could call “World War III” if they liked) by just a phone call and he could probably decide who was going to be the next prime minister in whatever country he felt like if he just put his mind to it, still he could not shake the feeling of being sixteen years old every time he stepped into this yard.
Sometimes he wished he was.
When he’d been sixteen he’d had an excuse for being silent and grumpy. Now he was supposed to be polite, act as well-educated and well-dressed as he was and smile at the stupid jokes and comments that were made about a man his age, still holding just a minor position in the government.
“Mycroft!” Berenice opened the door, wearing a wide (or wild? Or both?) smile and their mother’s apron - so Mariamne hadn’t arrived yet? - and gave him a much longer hug than necessary. “Kids! Look! It’s Uncle My!”
No.
No it was not uncle My.
“Merry Christmas Bernie,” Mycroft said without sighing and gave his youngest sister a kiss on the cheek as a heard of children came into the room. Let’s see….Jo, Lila, Tracy and Elias. So beside Berenice at least Wighlek was here. The small children (age four to eight) threw themselves at Mycroft’s legs.
Smile Mycroft.
Smile.
When Mycroft managed to wiggle himself out of the pile of children and navigate further into the house he spotted Noah and Henry - two of his teenage nephews - who both looked almost as amused by being here as he was. Wonder where their sister was? Their presence proved Dorothea was here though, but Mycroft didn’t feel the need to find his oldest younger sister and be smothered by hugs and kisses just yet.
“Croft!” Wighlek waved from the other side of the room where he apparently was pouring drinks.
Lovely.
Alcohol was highly needed.
“Hello Wiggy,” Mycroft answered as he made his way towards the whiskey by zigzagging between Christmas decorations and religious kitsch. The children, everyone under the age of ten (because he thought he saw Sophia among them) ran passed him and his oldest younger brother just as he got a glass in his hand.
“Everything all right?” Wighlek wondered just as their mother walked into the room, carrying a plate with food to the table.
“Yes, yes,” Mycroft answered absent-minded, “You? Maria’s not here?”
“Yea, she’s just upstairs breastfeeding,” Wighlek said, sharing way too much if you asked Mycroft, “You haven’t seen Rose yet right?”
“Oh, no…I’m sorry. You got my gift though?”
“Yes thank you. It was very…snobbish,” Wighlek smiled and then left without excusing himself since Elias fell flat on his face and with that, the first child-crying of the evening begun.
Lovely.
“Mycroft….” His mother got hold of him when she got her hands free from the plate, “My goodness, you’re just skin and bones! Aren’t you eating properly? We’ll see to that tonight! Have you seen dad? He’s been hiding for some time now.”
With that, without even giving him time to answer, his mother disappeared to the kitchen again. He was a smart man Mycroft’s father; hiding was probably the best thing to do. Mycroft felt sad for his nephews who were too young to drink.
There was a ring on the door and apparently Berenice seemed to be the one opening again because soon Mycroft could hear a high pitched chatter without words between at least four women - Berenice, Dorothea, Mariamne (the oldest of the Holmes siblings) and Celia (the oldest niece who recently had made Mycroft a great-uncle). Soon the voice of Mummy Holmes joined her daughters’ and Mycroft looked around for a place to sit down.
Wighlek came back together with Robert and Philip - their brother-in-laws - all of them with a beer in hand. So now it was time for the ritual football conversation.
Lovely.
If he couldn’t ban Christmas, Mycroft was pretty tempted to at least forbid football in the whole European Union. The thought of that kept him occupied and even smiling during the duration of this very uninterested conversation. Manchester United (Robert) versus Arsenal (Wighlek) versus Liverpool (Philip). How could they care so much about something so unimportant? Sports were a weighted random number generator at best, a means for death and mutilation at worst.
Suddenly there was a draft, obviously coming from terrace door and Mycroft turned his head just to block out something about safety.
Stepping in from the cold was Sherlock. Mycroft met his eyes; they were almost nothing but pupils. He was high.
Lovely.
Just lovely.
“Sherry!” Mariamne twittered, almost dancing over the room with Dorothea at her tail to hug the second to youngest in the host of siblings. Mycroft all of a sudden felt grateful that the football conversation had shielded him from a similar greeting.
Sherlock managed well, maybe he was just as stoned as Mycroft planned to get drunk tonight?
Probably.
Didn’t want to upset Mummy, now would we?
“Where have you been?” Mariamne wondered. Sherlock didn’t need to answer; it was delivered by Berenice who came in from the kitchen.
“Out smoking,” she provided with a laugh, “Behind the shed right Sher?”
Sherlock gave Mycroft an almost desperate glare, but there wasn’t anything he could do to help him.
“Where’s Toby?” Mariamne then asked the room, apparently satisfied with that silly answer referring to Sherlock’s early teenage years. Mycroft did his best to eavesdrop over yet another crying child (Jo), because yea, where was Tobert - the baby of the family?
“Up in the attic getting the star down,” Dorothea said, taking over the laying of the table from Berenice since she needed to look after Jo.
“You sent the baby to the roof?” Mariamne called out, sounding much more hysterical than Mycroft knew she was. “Sherlock, go and help him.”
Again Sherlock looked desperately over at Mycroft, but what could Mycroft do? He had a four-year-old trying to crawl up his lap. Mycroft didn’t help. Uncle My, uncle Croft, uncle whatever, didn’t want to encourage that sort of behaviour. Wighlek on the other hand thought it was a splendid idea and lifted the child onto Mycroft knee.
Lovely.
“Mortimer Holmes!” Mummy called as she walked through the room towards the stairs, “Come down here right now and socialise with your children!”
“Bob, can you please give me some more?” Mycroft asked his brother-in-law, handing him the empty glass over the toddlers head.
Before the refill arrived Mariamne’s husband joined the football discussion along with his son-in-law (David, who was carrying the latest addition to the family - Oliver 3 month) while his two teenage girls joined their cousins in mopping around the candy jars. Still no sight of Dorothea’s daughter, but no way she could have gotten out of this.
Mycroft wished he could stand with the teenagers in silence and eat candy as well. At least he had whiskey; which was hard to really enjoy when he had a young nephew in his lap.
Mortimer Holmes descended from his upstairs hiding place - everyone knew it was better to obey Mummy - and got kissed and hugged and greeted by everyone but Mycroft (and the sons currently in the attic). Mycroft just settled with a nod and a raised glass. He respected his father for hiding; still he almost blamed him for this huge, loud family.
Shortly afterwards Sherlock came down, carrying the star that was going to be placed in the window, with Tobert, chattering like there was no stopping him, trailing down after him. Sherlock looked in physical pain; Mycroft couldn’t hear what the youngest Holmes sibling was blabbering about but an elaborated guess was “car”.
Poor Sherlock, Mycroft really felt for him.
Football and cars. The men in this family were so stereotypical it was embarrassing, everything crowned by the vey hush voices they used as they tried to be open-minded and supporting when they asked Mycroft if the reason he didn’t have a woman was because he was “you know…” (“Which would be totally okay!”).
Wonder if Sherlock got the same question?
The sexist roles of the men in the family were complemented by the women, always standing around in the kitchen, gossiping, twittering, arguing…. It was a pure wonder Mycroft had managed out of this household alive, with most of his sanity left. Sherlock had not been so lucky.
How their parents had managed to produce the two of them was a statistical improbability.
“Everyone take their places!” Mummy yelled from three steps up the stairs. The children started to run faster than they had ever before tonight; Elias almost made Mycroft spill the whiskey as he slipped down from his uncle’s knee. The teenagers moved in the slow, uninterested pace that distinguishes their age, and finally the grownups joined as well.
Mycroft and Sherlock too. Stalling this wouldn’t let them out earlier.
Twenty-three people (if you counted all the children as people, Mycroft wasn’t sure he did) around one table in one room; Mycroft had seen negotiations between North and South Korea go smoother. Mycroft and Sherlock were seated facing each other and for most of the meal they had their eyes locked in each other’s in some sort of silent support and understanding.
After dessert, four different kinds, Mycroft fled out on the terrace. Not caring it was December and cold. Not caring there were things to help with inside. The only thing he cared about was to keep his sanity for just a little bit longer.
“You’re drunk,” Sherlock greeted him as soon as the door was shut behind him.
“You’re high,” Mycroft replied calmly and raised his glass in a silent toast.
“Not just high,” Sherlock admitted and showed that he had brought one of the whiskey bottles outside with him as he walked up to give his archenemy a refill. Family gatherings were always a place of truce between them.
“Thank you,” Mycroft said, meaning it more than ever.
“Do you think we should tell Robert?” Sherlock wondered.
“It is getting more obvious every year isn’t it?” Mycroft said with the resemblance of a smile, “But I’m sure we’re supposed to be on Berenice’s side in this.”
“So if it’d been Wighlek kids?” Sherlock wondered with a smirk.
“No, it would suit him right,” Mycroft answered with the same smirk, “How about Noah’s little habits, should we tell Dorothea?”
“Never,” Sherlock said determined, “How do you think I managed to get the joints tonight?”
“You’re a bad uncle Sherlock,” Mycroft informed him with a smirk, “Told anyone inside about Dr Watson? Because you know…it’s totally okay if you’re…you know….”
Sherlock exploded in a very uncharacteristic laughter and Mycroft joined in with a light chuckle. Hypothesis proven correct; Sherlock had also gotten his sexuality questioned. In all honesty, Mycroft couldn’t really tell were his younger brother stood and Mycroft didn’t care (well, he did care about not being able to figure it out, it was infuriating). The short moments of understanding and almost-friendship that existed between Mycroft and Sherlock when they both escaped their family made the rest of the Christmas dinner almost worth while.
“Told anyone inside about your bastard yet?” Sherlock said when he had caught his breath and dried the tears from his eyes.
“Why uncle Sherlock, I didn’t think you know about that,” Mycroft was honestly surprised, “and there’s two.”
“Two?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to sound surprise.
Then something really strange happened. It was never going to be spoken of again and it was all going to be blamed on relatives, alcohol and two joints; but Sherlock hugged his brother.
“Thank you for not bringing them!” Sherlock said overwhelmed.
Mycroft stood paralysed in his baby brother’s - his only brother if you asked him - arms, with no possibility to respond (if he had been present enough to do so) since Sherlock held tight to his arms. It was all over before it had really happened, but it had been intense enough to make them both utterly uncomfortable.
Luckily Mariamne came out on the terrace, talking about catching colds and scolding both of them for drinking in the dark like this and telling them that Celia wanted to take a picture of all the Holmes men together with her son.
Lovely.
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look and walked inside. Suffering. But the picture became good though, the following eight (all in different constellations) turned out quite alright as well.
And then it was time for charades….
Mycroft comment about John being able to imagine the Christmas dinners had been ridiculous; there was no way he possibly would, and both Mycroft and Sherlock wanted it to remain like that.