fighting_northumerland

"Yes, Sherlock, I'll tell them I willingly continue to live with a man who has been known to slip hallucinogens into my coffee," John muttered.

"Susan," he called, as they stepped into the living room. "If you'd hand me the package in green, you'll find the red one under it is for you--" he'd hardly finished his sentence before the package zoomed to his hands, brought by a child-sized blur.

"Happy Christmas," he said, handing the package to Sherlock.

"But it wasn't even--oh." Sherlock blinked down at it. "You didn't have to--"

"Open it, open it!" Susan cried, attaching herself to his leg. Apparently she'd forgotten her Uncle John's advice about being gentle. "And come sit by me! Daddy says you went to Buckingham Palace, I want to hear about it!"

"Susan, lovely, Sherlock can't sit down if you've got his leg hostage," John said, trying without success to pry her off. He gave up after one or two half-hearted tugs.

"Of course I got you a present. It's Christmas," he said. "Dunno if you like it, but I know you like useful things..."

"Well. I could--" He moved, somewhat stiffly and still supporting the little girl's weight, to lean against an armchair. Several of the adults chuckled appreciatively; Susan herself let out a delighted giggle. "There. Not quite sitting, but it'll do. Oh--and John, like I said. In the bag, near the bottom with the violin, that's yours. And pass your father the one in the silver paper."

Okay, so a copy of Freakonomics personally annotated by Sherlock Holmes might be a really weird Christmas present, but it wasn't like he'd ever bought presents for anything approaching in-laws before.

"Open your present!" Susan chided, "Uncle John won't tell stories until you do!" John shook his head. His tiny cousins were nothing if not persistent.

"Ta, Sherlock," Mr. Watson said, surprised. "How did you know--" he stopped, and then laughed uproariously.

"What?" Sherlock stopped midway through unwrapping his present, eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. "Something wrong?"

John's father gave him a very sympathetic look, one that clearly said I am proud of you and whatever autistic boyfriend you choose to bring home, before reaching over and patting Sherlock on the hand.

"Erm, he just means," John cut in, quickly, "you seem to know everything, so we shouldn't be surprised at this point. Open your present, Susan might burst."

"Oh. Well--no, like I said, it's really just a matter of training yourself to look at things. And in any case--"

He'd finally managed to get the package open, and when he realized just what the sleek headphones inside were for, his face softened with a genuine smile.

"Now that," he said, "is brilliant."

Susan wriggled gleefully, only releasing Sherlock's leg to clap her hands. Finally, the her uncle's strange boyfriend had smiled!

John flushed pink. "I just thought, you know, when you're trying to work a case and Anderson won't shut up," he said, breathlessly. "Be best to just tune him out."

"That's fantastic. Exactly what I need--this'll be a huge help."

Without really thinking about it, he moved back to John and hugged him, right there in front of his family, God, and everyone.

Apparently the way to Sherlock's heart was through his disdain for other human beings.

"I'm gl--- oooohff," John groaned, taken by surprise. He happily wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return, making a rude gesture at Harry, who was sniggering. "John!" his mother admonished, and Susan shrieked with glee.

"See, not all bad," John whispered.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock replied at the same volume, but the tension was more or less gone from his thin shoulders and his voice. The smile hadn't faded when he pulled back. "This, really--we work with this complete idiot sometimes, one of those people you just want to give a good hard smack whenever he starts talking. I think John's just solved that problem."

Harry made kissing noises, while Susan covered her face (either in disgust or excitement, it was difficult to tell).

"Well, you can use it to ignore Anderson all you like, but if you don't hear me call for breakfast I'll come find you and drag you down by the ear," John murmured.

"Well, hang on, let's give it a try--"

He slipped the headphones on, and almost immediately his face relaxed into an expression of pure bliss. With one source of outside stimuli muffled, his mind had far less clutter to sort through.

"Should we try calling him for breakfast, dear?" Mrs Watson asked, a touch impishly.

"There's no point, he's lost to us," John sighed. He would normally be put off by the trouble Sherlock's new toy was bound to cause, but not...when he looks so happy.

"Only one way to be sure, though," he leaned in close and shouted "Sherlock! PANCAKES!"

Sherlock, whose eyes had drifted shut in a moment of sheer self-indulgence--oh, it was truly glorious to have so much of the noise and light and information dampened so he could simply process--jumped.

"All right, all right!" he nearly shouted back, taking the headphones off again. "You've made your point."

Quite a few of the other Watsons were laughing and applauding. "Don't worry, dear, my Tom's the same way," one of the women put in, which touched off quite a few affectionate arguments among the married couples.

John smirked. It was good to know that he still had some leverage.

"You'll have your pancakes yet," John promised, ignoring the watchful eyes of the Watsons.

Susan tugged at his jumper, clearly at the end of her patience. "Uncle John, the gifts are open. Stories?"

"Oh yes, please do give us a story." His dry, sharp humor was back now in full force. "A nice fairy tale for the children, with lots of running about in it. You're good at describing the running about."

"There wouldn't be so much running around if you didn't grab my hand and drag me all over London," John said, fondly. His father quirked an eyebrow at this reference to blatant, midday hand holding, but he said nothing. John seemed happy.

"Well," John said slowly, leaning back against the couch. "Just how much have you heard about the Study in Pink?"

"A Study in--John, that one's old," Sherlock protested. Susan, however, seemed to be mulling over her options.

"Are there a prince and princess in it?" she asked.

John realizes he's walked directly into this one. Harry, unable to contain herself, nearly cries laughing behind her hand.

"Not quite. There's a mysterious string of deaths and a brilliant madman, though."

"Really John, murders? Isn't she a bit--"

"Oh, its just the same as what she sees on the telly."

"Does it start with 'once upon a time'?" Susan asked, a little dubiously.

And, much to everyone's astonishment, Sherlock decided to respond to that.

"Once upon a time there was an army doctor who needed a flatmate." He gave John an even look, as if to say, You can take it from here.

John rolled his eyes. "You're an awful storyteller, you know that? Clinical." He turned to Susan.

"Once there was an army doctor in need of a flatmate. I'd been away from London too long, and it seemed like everyone else had their affairs all squared away. Then, when I'd run out of money and things were looking grim, I met up with Mike Stamford, who brought me to meet a total stranger. Do you know what he asked me?" He turned, expectantly

Sherlock's smile was slow and understanding, one of those little my assistant is better than a dozen of your people put together smirks he usually only aimed at Lestrade over John's head.

Susan, meanwhile, shook her head, already wide-eyed with wonder. "What did he ask you?"

"'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" John quoted, the memory still fresh. "Not so much as a 'hello'. Total stranger knew where I'd been, then asked me how I felt about the violin- it was important, he said, that two flatmates know the worst about each other up front. Mike hadn't said a word about me."

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