YULE

[fighting_northumerland]

John stopped in front of the front door. It wasn't too late, he reasoned-- they hadn't seen him yet. They could escape back into the cab, get Chinese, have a quiet night to themselves and not deal with the madness of Watson Christmas...

Behind them, the cab pulled away and turned off into traffic. Trapped.

"Well then," he said, steeling himself, and knocked.

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[punchmeitssubtext]

The silence that followed was absolutely deafening.

The children seemed astonished that their nice old Uncle John could be so, well, angry about something. The adults were trying to process the information: John, the war hero who'd shown up with a different girlfriend several years in a row, had just admitted that the strange and phenomenally awkward man next to him was his partner. John's father looked distinctly confused. Harry looked astonished to have been proven right.

Only his mother was still smiling, a very small and gentle smile.

Sherlock rather felt like he wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there until June.

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Susan, possible appreciative of the 2.34 pounds Sherlock had slipped over the course of the evening, came to their rescue.

"So...is he my Uncle Sherlock, now? Do I get to tell the kids at school? They'll be jealous."

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That was the last damned straw. Sherlock pushed back from the table, springing up to his full height and letting go of John's hand abruptly.

"Mrs Watson," he said, focusing on John's mother. "I'd be... more than happy to help you bring in the coffee."

It was a desperate move and everyone at the table knew it. There were a few stifled giggles and a handful of uncomfortable murmurs--none of them, surprisingly, from Harry, who seemed to be working her way up to a shriek of some kind but wouldn't be ready to let loose for another minute or two.

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"Of course," Mrs. Watson says, "how sweet of you," before pushing her chair back and gesturing to the kitchen. John, stone-faced, helped himself to another roll. He buttered it more aggressively than may have been necessary.

"Oh, come on," He finally said. "It's not like this is the most shocking thing that could have happened."

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Sherlock practically scrambled into the kitchen, pausing only to hold the door open for John's mother before disappearing from sight. Once he was fairly certain no one could see him, he leaned heavily against the doorframe, feeling as if his knees had suddenly turned to water.

"I knew it!" Harry finally crowed, which provoked a fair amount of tension-breaking laughter.

John's father looked somewhat dubious. "Thought you said he was a terrible flatmate," he said, as if that automatically disqualified Sherlock from the role of significant other.

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"Are you alright?" John's mother asked, carefully measuring out the grounds. "You don't have to worry about them-- they're just..." she shrugged. "We were already to meet one of John's sweet girls and then never see her again. It's lovely that you two are committed."

Back in the dining room, John tore off another hunk of roll, but was otherwise appeased. "He is a terrible flatmate," John said, "and sometimes a bit-- you just have to be gentle with him. He's actually behaved quite well this whole time."

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"It's not... very public," Sherlock offered, weakly. He forced himself to stand up straight and move to the counter to help her. "We don't really--advertise, I suppose. But. It's almost a year now." Oh God, why was he saying these things to John's mother, of all people? And why couldn't he stop? "He's... a good friend."

Harry sort of snorted at her brother. "That's well-behaved?"

Next to him, however, Susan leaned over in her chair, fixing John with wide and earnest eyes. "What's that mean, be gentle with him? He's a grown-up."

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"A year?" She asked. "Well, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that-- its troublesome, you know? When John does this serial dating, a new girl every two months...its good to see him settle down a bit. Have some consistency. His therapist said that's important."

John held back a sigh. Harry had no idea. "You read the blog. He's trying to impress you lot, why is beyond me, but you ought to be flattered."

Bless Susan. She was getting extra Boxing Day presents this year. "He certainly is a grown-up," he said, carefully. "Just...a little bit different. He doesn't do many-- group events."

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"You don't seem terribly surprised," he remarked, his voice still a touch less steady than usual. Spoons--he should get spoons. And start generally assembling things. A little routine might help him get his thoughts back in order.

"Does he have one of those disorders?" John's father asked in a low voice, leaning across the table with a frown. "You know--the spectrum stuff? Where kids don't talk till they're eight and the like."

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Mrs. Watson looked thoughtful. "I suppose I should be," she said, finally. "Harry's always been-- Harry, no question about what was up, and I thought that there was usually about- one to a family, you know? But its not really important- you were dragging John around London on wild adventures before, I don' think you've stopped."

John frowned. "It's...possible," he said, finally. "Dunno, that wasn't my area of doctoring. He's not..." John shrugs. "Just get to know him, give him the same amount of leeway you would with an awkward child. It'll be worth it."

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That, finally, provoked a tiny but genuine laugh from him.

"No," he admitted. "No, we really haven't. He's--incredibly helpful, I can't imagine anyone else doing half the things he..." Sherlock stopped, realizing just how personal he was getting with a woman who was effectively a stranger, and cleared his throat. "Well."

The look on Harry's face was totally unfamiliar. "Bloody hell," she murmured. "Oh my God, John, you're really serious about him, aren't you? I am actually living in the first hour of Brokeback Mountain."

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Mrs. Watson sighed. "Really, I'm more upset about the shooting and the bombs than anything else. I thought that was over after he came home," she shrugged. "But John...wants what he wants. It's not the booze, but..." again she shrugged.

"Harry!" John groaned, exasperated. "You, of all people, are being extremely unhelpful about this entire thing! Can't you just--?" he gestured vaguely, searching for words "- just let it be?"

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There was a sudden pang of guilt somewhere in the back of his throat. "He's an extremely capable man," he muttered, suppressing an absurd urge to stare at the floor. "We protect each other."

A loud bang came from the dining room as Harry slapped the table in triumph and surprise. "You've gone totally mad over your flatmate! How did this even happen?"

"Harry," their father said warningly. She waved a hand at him, the gesture vaguely dismissive.

"No, look, I'm happy, I really am. More power to you, and all that. But seriously--how?"

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"I know you do," she said, warm and steady. "And really, John would have found something to terrify me anyways. At least there's no time difference between here and London."


John threw his hands in the air, frustrated beyond words. "It just does! Frankly, he's brilliant, we like each other, end of story. Whatever feud you're trying to start up is just childish, really."

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"Um." Sherlock managed to look her in the eye. "Could you give me a moment? Thanks."

He picked up the tray of cups and saucers, already carefully assembled, and nudged the kitchen door open with one foot. If he had one social gift, it was knowing exactly when to interrupt a conversation.

"Coffee's not ready yet, but. Might as well get things started. And--sorry, Thomas, was it? Over in the bag we brought there's a box of Christmas crackers. You might want to let the kids at them. Help them let off a little energy."

Now, now, he'd finally managed to achieve charming. If only for a brief moment.

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At the word 'crackers' the children were gone, attacking the bag like wolves. John felt Sherlock's unease around them may have been somewhat justified.

"Thanks," he said, taking a cup. He took a second, two lumps of sugar, and set it in Sherlock's place.

"Tell us, then," John's father started, "You're with the police, is that right?"

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"Actually, no. Well, not officially." He didn't smile, but his tone of voice was less strained than it had been half an hour ago. "I'm a private detective. The police consult me when they need special help with a case--and, of course, thanks to John's blog there are plenty of private clients."

He rested a hand on John's shoulder, fingers tapping very slightly. Morse code, again.

Ok now.

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John smiled at the message, grinning broadly- their code was secure, but the look on his face was enough to give everyone at the table a hint that something was up.

"We get all sorts," he said, nodding his head. "Bankers, government, the occasional child with a lost rabbit- really, I didn't know there was such a demand."

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"There's always something," Sherlock put in smoothly. "Well. Almost always. And when there isn't, there's freelance forensics research."

He very tactfully did not mention that this usually amounted to body parts in the kitchen.

"One of the good guys, then," John's father remarked. He was clearly still getting used to the idea of having two gay children at the table, but, well... to be frank, Harry had caused far more drama in her time. "So--how long has this been...?" He gestured at the two of them, as if to indicate their general togetherness.

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John nearly rolled his eyes. Of course, Dad.

"'Bout a year," he said, looking to Sherlock. "It just kind of...happened. Totally unexpected."

Not at all unwanted.

Harry laughed, loudly but without malice. "You moved in the first day you met him!"

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"Well, we did both need a flatmate. But the rest of it didn't happen till much later." Despite the switch into charming mode, Sherlock was still deeply reluctant to reveal any details of his emotional life to people he'd only known a few hours.

"And here I thought John was this big romantic," Harry mock-complained, as Mrs. Watson emerged from the kitchen with the coffeepot.

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John did roll his eyes. "For God's sake, Harry, we aren't teenagers," he sighed. "We just...solve mysteries and eat breakfast. Not much to it."

Susan's nose wrinkled. Clearly, boys were vastly overrated.

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"Been making him your famous eggs, John?" Mrs Watson asked pleasantly. "Susan, dear, move aside a little--there, we can't have a big spill at the dinner table, now can we?"

Still a touch skittish, Sherlock finally reclaimed his seat, taking John's hand under the table.

Harry, for her part, shot her brother a look. "Not much to it? That's disappointing." There was something smug and knowing in her tone that suggested she knew details were missing and was really unhappy they'd been omitted.

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John squeezed Sherlock's hand. You are doing so well, not much longer. With his free hand he sipped his coffee.

"We're not celebrities, despite what some very confused teenage girls seem to think," he said, in lieu of 'piss off, Harry'. "No tabloid stories for you, sorry."

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"Do you find things that have been stolen?" Susan asked, peering around John to address Sherlock directly.

"All the time," Sherlock responded, eyes fixed on his coffee.

"What was the hardest one to find?"

That made him look up.

"Huh. That's--you know, I have to think about that."