Chapter Text
Sherlock woke early the next morning to head to the morgue before driving out to spend Christmas day with his parents. He needed to quickly pick up a few samples Molly left him and he used the time alone in the cab to reflect on the previous night.
John Watson. Sherlock closed his eyes and couldn’t understand how one man, a man he didn’t even know, could affect him so much. How one man could cause him - him - to forget how to speak. He hadn’t been that flustered since… well, he couldn’t even remember when, that’s how long ago it was. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the seat. John Watson. Sherlock was happy he got through the evening with his dignity intact.
Arriving back home after his errand, he was greeted with the smells of breakfast and heard Mrs. Hudson and Tom in the kitchen, apparently also rehashing last night’s events.
“ … and I thought he was going to pass out!” Mrs. Hudson said through her giggles. “You weren’t a very good son to not warn him, at least!” she scolded Tom good naturedly.
Tom was laughing as Sherlock walked into the room. “Yes, Tom, on this point I do have to agree with Mrs. Hudson. Although I hardly think I was ready to fall on the floor.” He sat down not looking at the two of them, grabbing the Christmas Day paper and reading the front page headlines while holding it high in front of his face.
“Whatever you say,” Tom said with a smirk.
After they ate, and they saw Mrs. Hudson off to her sister’s, they were finally on the road to Sherlock’s parent’s house.
Mycroft insisted upon sending a car for holidays, which Sherlock inevitably refused, but Tom always accepted for the both of them. Sherlock grumbled through the entire ride, complaining that the train would have been a better method of travel without requiring him to thank anyone. At least he could take comfort in the fact that the drive was blessedly British-government-free, since Mycroft would be arriving later in the day.
Sherlock noticed Tom’s feigned normality the entire drive but he refused to give in and make any conversation about the events of Christmas Eve. It was bad enough he let Tom witness his emotions after everyone left last night. Sherlock had berated Tom for not warning him ahead of time regarding their dinner guest and letting him make a fool of himself. “I invited him to the morgue, for heaven’s sake!” he had moaned as he grabbed his hair and spun in a circle.
Tom, well used to Sherlock’s mood swings, just took it all in stride and told his father that he had acted absolutely fine. “Everyone had a fun time,” he assured, “you’re reading too much into this. And who knows, maybe you will take him to the morgue.” He left with a smirk and went upstairs to his bedroom.
Since neither was going to be the one to initiate the conversation, the car ride was uneventful. However, the silence ended as soon as they arrived and the front door opened. Mummy threw her arms around Tom, pulling him inside and handing him over to his grandfather. There was much fussing over snow and long rides and packages being brought in from the car. Sherlock knew his role and stood to the side, quietly, as he looked around his family home.
There were many memories captured within these walls, some pleasant, some most definitely not. Memories of him running around with his sister, closer in age to him than Mycroft, conducting experiments in the garden or rummaging through the attic. Mycroft assisted when asked, he even set up adventures and mysteries for his younger siblings to solve. Eventually, however, as they grew older, Mycroft was rarely home and his sister’s intelligence caused her to rebel from all things family related. By the time Sherlock was in his teens, both of his siblings had moved out and he was alone in the large house, with his interests falling to less than desirable pursuits.
Sherlock’s sister returned home one day with a baby boy. He was immediately enthralled with the infant in a way he couldn’t have predicted. As Tom grew into a toddler, he was left with his grandparents more and more as Sherlock’s sister began to spend less and less time with the family. Sherlock would always be on his best behavior when he knew he was going to see Tom, staying sober and giving Tom his undivided attention. The way Tom looked at him reminded Sherlock of how he himself used to look at Mycroft when he was younger. He vowed not to betray Tom in the way Mycroft did by growing up and leaving when Sherlock needed him the most.
Sherlock’s sister died when Tom was 5, and after it was evident that Tom’s father did not want to be a part of the boy’s life, there was much discussion of where Tom would be raised. His grandparents would certainly raise him, but it wasn’t until Mycroft insisted Tom be brought up properly that Sherlock knew he had one chance to save both their lives. He informed his family of his intentions to raise Tom himself, which shocked his parents and was immediately and loudly dismissed by Mycroft based on his age and unsavory habits. This argument was met with an icy stare from Sherlock and the vow he would get sober and stay that way. With an ultimatum given to him by his parents, he stormed out of the house, went home to pack a bag, and checked himself into a rehab. Looking back now, he knew if he had not had that motivation he would have been dead within the year.
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Mycroft arrived just before dinner. After he and Sherlock spent a proper amount of time insulting each other, they exchanged one look of exhausted solidarity at Mummy’s overenthusiam as she dragged them into the kitchen to bring dish after dish out onto the dining room table.
The topic of Rosie was brought up at dinner. “When can we meet her?” Mrs. Holmes asked. Sherlock was not looking forward to this discussion, still trying to forget the previous night, and absolutely mortified by how he acted.
“Soon I hope,” Tom replied brightly. “She has a break coming up - I’ll bring her by for the afternoon one day.”
“What is her family like?” Mr. Holmes asked. “How are they celebrating today?”
Sherlock huffed and threw down his fork. He needed a change of conversation.
Mrs. Holmes scolded him for being rude, “Hush! We’re excited to hear about Tom’s new friend.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Tom looked at Sherlock and grinned, while stating matter of factly, “Her dad is John Watson.”
Sherlock paused and looked around with his eyes, waiting for his parents’ reaction. After a beat his mother looked at his father and said, “Watson… Watson. I wonder if they’re related to the Watsons in Bristol? Goodness we haven’t seen them in years!”
“No we haven’t, dear.” Mr. Holmes dutifully replied.
It was evident the name held no recognition to his parents. Normal questions followed with Tom enthusiastically describing Rosie to them. Good, Sherlock thought, now we can move on from that. Sherlock looked down into his lap and breathed a sigh of relief. Until…
Sherlock heard it before he saw it. His head shot up, to see Mycroft softly chuckling into his napkin at the other end of the table.
“Oh, Sherlock. Honestly?” Mycroft could barely contain his glee. “John Watson? Oh, this was worth the drive.”
Sherlock shot him daggers with his eyes.
“Mycroft, I haven’t seen you laugh like this in ages!” laughed Mrs. Holmes.
“Oh, Mummy, nothing has ever quite entertained me more.”