“Sherlock,” there was a knock on his bedroom door and the detective glanced up from his microscope.
The DI came in and a dropped a few crime scene photos on his desk. “Nothing special, a bit gruesome, we think it's the brother.”
Sherlock pushed his microscope out of the way and flicked through them. After a moment, he smiled. “Correct.”
Greg paused from his examination of some of the things on the detective's shelf. He looked across at the younger man. “Seriously?”
Sherlock grouped the photos together again and passed them back. “Yeah. Seriously.” He let an eyebrow raise with a smirk tugging at his lips. “You were right.”
Greg's grin lit up his face, but he said, “I thought it would get you out of the house.”
“You should stop trying to solve them then,” Sherlock noted down something from his own experiment on his jotter pad.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Maybe. Is that all?”
Greg hummed non-committedly.
Sighing, Sherlock put his pen down and span around in his chair. “Spit it out.”
“You should speak to John.”
Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why?”
“He's been trying to get hold of you for months.”
“He hasn't rung.”
“He's rung me. And when was the last time you even looked at your phone?”
He shrugged. “I don't need it. Or him. I'm doing just fine on my own.”
“You should talk to him,” he repeated, ignoring whatever he had to say.
“What for? I've got nothing to say to him.”
“You walked out of Baker Street months ago and he hasn't seen you since.”
“He knows where I am. We didn't argue, it wasn't on bad terms, I didn't go straight to drugs when I left. There's nothing to talk about.”
Greg sighed and shut the door behind him, the stubborn sod.
Sherlock slumped across the room and fell back against the headboard of his bed, flicking on the telly.
The news headline, popular newspaper owner Charles Augustus Magnussen was shot at point blank range in his office last month, floated across the screen. No one has been caught, police do not even have a suspect.
Sherlock shrugged and flicked over. God, he was soooo bored! It was a shame Greg had got the case right, it would have been fun to get out.
“We never go there for Christmas anymore.” Sherlock sat at the the table alongside his brother and the DI.
“We have to, little brother, I promised.” He had done no such thing, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.
The detective looked up from the food he was actually eating.
“I don't know. Something about, ‘family means everything’ Mummy said.”
The detective rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
It was December 23rd and Sherlock was sat sulking in his parents front room. Across from him was his brother, a chess board sat between them.
Sherlock shuffled the bishop diagonally 3 spaces by only blowing at it.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved his own bishop, but properly; with his fingers.
“Gotcha,” Sherlock grinned as his queen took it.
“Gotcha,” Mycroft mimicked as his king took Sherlock's queen.
“That's no fair!”
“Don't sulk, little brother, its very unbecoming.”
“I don't give a shit what it is.”
At the knock on the door, Mycroft pushed his chair back, relieved to be able to leave the room. “I'll get it.”
“Since when were you in a hurry to answer the door? You hate it. It's so very beneath you.”
Mycroft shrugged. “Better than sitting here and beating you at chess repeatedly.”
“Twice!” He argued, but his brother had left the room.
Sherlock sat and listened, but the front door was too far from the sitting room for him to hear much.
Instead, the sitting room door was opened and suddenly John was shoved in.
Sherlock's head snapped up.
“Hi, Sherlock,” he replied as he stumbled, trying to retain his balance.
“You look about as surprised as I feel.”
“Mary said we were going to her friend's for Christmas.”
“She hasn't really lied…”
“What are you doing here?”
“Are you serious? This is my parents' place.”
John looked around in shock. “What?”
Both, John and Sherlock stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Mycroft and Mary were sat at the table.
“Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “What the hell?!”
“Language, son,” Siger chastised from the kitchen doorway. He had always had the habit of appearing out of nowhere.
He nodded and headed off upstairs.
Sherlock ran his hand through his curls, mimicking the doctor almost exactly and at the same time.
Mary looked up pointedly and glanced between them. “You two so miss each other.”
They shared glances and John stepped forward. “Mary…”
“She wasn't the instigator, John,” Sherlock couldn't help but point out. “My brother was.”
“Actually, little bro, it was a joint effort.” He smiled at Mary in a way the younger Holmes had never seen before.
Sherlock turned his own glare on Mrs. Watson.
“Oh, come on! Look at the pair of you, you haven't said a word to each other in 4 months and you're already ganging up against myself and Mycroft.”
The pair shared a glance. Mary was right.
“I had to leave.”
John sniffed slightly. “I know, mate. And I know why you went… we need to talk. Properly.” He glared at his wife pointedly.
“This isn't my fault, sunshine She snapped, glaring at him. She rubbed her baby bump and Sherlock's eyes widened, as if noticing it for the first time.
“It's a girl,” John said before Sherlock could say anything.
“I know. I can tell.”
“Don't talk shit.”
They both smirked at one another before Mary shooed them out of the room. “Go on. Talk. You're boring me already.”