Thank you all for reading, I do appreciate it!

Enjoy!

o

Their Best Man

o

Part 7: Eve

o

Mary had sounded surprised when Sherlock had called her about Christmas, but she had agreed. He in turn was surprised that she did not even try to argue- he had anticipated objections such as "I'm not sure John'll want me there", but none had come. He was certain that she could guess the real reason behind the invitation, but he had also heard the slightest bit of relief in her voice. Mary had been lonely these past weeks, and she was bound to have missed John as much as he missed her.

Mycroft had audibly pulled a face when Sherlock had asked him whether they could drive to the cottage on Christmas Eve rather than on the morning of Christmas Day: "Why?" he had asked, "it's one additional dinner I'll have to get through."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment; he was not going to tell his brother that he wanted to be gone so that John did not have a reason to stay at 221B and would hopefully be with Mary that night.

"I promised Dad I'd ring more often," he eventually said. "Which I didn't. I want to make up for it."

Mycroft seemed speechless. "Well," he muttered after a while, "if you try to behave."

"Not a child anymore," Sherlock reminded him.

"That has yet to be established," his brother replied before he rang off.

Their mother was delighted, of course.

"I'll have your rooms ready," she said, apparently trying not to sound too excited. "Your dad will be ever so pleased."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock felt a pang of what might be homesickness. He knew it was deceptive; the home he was sometimes missing did not exist anymore. He was not going to be greeted by his dog when he got there, and the world no longer was a place yet to be discovered, promising wondrous things. Most importantly, his parents had long since realized that he was capable of disappointing them and vice versa.

He remembered the safety of his father's arms, the warmth in his mother's soft voice when he showed her a caterpillar he had found, and it saddened him that he did not need those things any longer, that he did not want them any longer at that. And yet, here he was, feeling nostalgic about the pending visit even though he knew it was very likely going to be disappointing, as usual. Suffocating, probably; his parents had never understood that Sherlock needed other things than they did, that he could not bear too much closeness ever since Redbeard had died and he had had his heart broken so severely that he thought he was losing his mind.

He did suppose he was fond of his parents, deep down, and it showed from time to time, but more often it was hard to endure their presence, especially when they were being fussy, or called each other "Mother" and "Father" (they weren't each other's parents, after all); just like his childhood home from back then, he sometimes missed the parents they once had been, the untroubled relationship which had been possible when he was very young.

Well. He simply needed to bear in mind that the whole matter was not about him; he merely had arranged it for two reasons, namely to bring John and Mary back together, and to finish with Magnussen once and for all.

"Great," Sherlock now said, keeping his tone neutral even though he did feel vaguely sorry for her, "by the way, John and Mary will be bringing along another guest."

"Oh?"

"His name is Bill Wiggins."

Sherlock was quiet during the drive to Sussex. So far, everything had gone according to plan: after breakfast that morning, John had reluctantly gone home to prepare for the visit, and Mycroft had picked his brother up on the late afternoon, taking the wheel himself for a change.

Sherlock kneaded his fingers while he stared out of the window, his mind on Magnussen; he did not doubt that Mycroft would use him as well if their situation were reversed, and he did not want to allow himself any second thoughts. There was no alternative to the plan, it was as simple as that. Mycroft, though he'd frown upon Sherlock's methods as usual, would probably understand why he had done it, because his mind worked like that. He'd not approve of it, of course, and was very likely to keep berating his brother for years to come, but he'd see, eventually, that Sherlock had done the right thing. People like Magnussen ought not to be protected just because the damage they were doing was being considered minor by the likes of Mycroft.

And yet, Sherlock could not help a slight uneasiness which made itself known, probably due to the many contributing factors which might still go wrong.

Surreptitiously, he glanced at his brother; unwanted, unbidden memories of Serbia flooded his mind. Mycroft had never explained himself, never further defended his decision to wait so long until he helped Sherlock. Wading in, he had called his interference. Preposterous, Sherlock thought; "wading in" would have meant to stop his torturer from inflicting more unnecessary pain on him instead of watching it. He wondered whether Mycroft really had not been aware of how dire the situation had been, or whether he had in fact enjoyed it, as Sherlock had accused him of. The latter, even though Sherlock did not like to admit it, was difficult to believe, despite all their frequent animosities.

Sherlock turned his head back to the window; his brother undoubtedly was the biggest riddle of all.

Mrs Holmes knew that neither of her sons appreciated being what they called coddled. Once they had passed a certain age, they barely tolerated any physical contact. She sometimes missed the little boys she once had, missed being loved and needed unconditionally. She had often tried to understand what had gone wrong, where she and her husband had failed, but she could not put a finger on it.

She knew that disappointment played an important part, unfulfilled expectations, perhaps, and the fact that all of them, herself included, were rather stubborn. She did not like to ponder these things, however; for the most part, she liked to pretend everything was fine. She had made certain decisions a long time ago, and she was sticking by them.

This self-deception usually worked marvellously, though it did not keep her from worrying, in the dark of the night, and it did not keep her sons from doing silly and sometimes dangerous things. She wished she could stop Mycroft from being on his own all the time, and she wished she could keep Sherlock out of harm's way. Since it was not in her powers to do so, however, she could at least try and make this Christmas special. She told herself she was not going to argue with the two of them so much in order to keep the peace; if only Sherlock remembered his manners, everything might go down well.

She stroked over the pillow on the freshly made bed in Sherlock's old room; she was ever so glad that he was back home and, according to Mycroft, recovering splendidly (which was rather more satisfactory than Sherlock's own answer on the phone; more than a "I'm fine" was not to be obtained from him). Still, she could not wait to see him.

When Mycroft's car pulled up at the cottage, Mrs Holmes knew better than to rush outside; instead, she watched her boys from the window. Sherlock did indeed look well; nothing in his appearance betrayed what had transpired during the past few months.

Mycroft seemed to have maintained his weight, something he'd be proud of; hopefully, he was going to eat. With a shudder, she remembered a time when he'd only have salad and egg-white omelettes, something which was torture for him. She had baked his favourite Christmas cookies and planned two delicious meals; he worked so hard during the year, he deserved to be spoiled a bit in her opinion.

She quickly withdrew from the window when they approached the house, and soon enough, the front door opened. Father was there before her; she suspected he had been looking out for their boys as well. For a brief moment, Mrs Holmes had a heavy heart; if only all of them were here. She quickly banished the thought, however; this was not the right moment.

Mikey had brought her an enormous poinsettia: "Merry Christmas," he said with that sweet smile of his, and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Mikey," she said, kissing him back,"oh, this is beautiful."

Sherlock allowed her to embrace him as she greeted him, and she was careful not to squeeze him too hard, but she couldn't subdue an involuntary shudder of relief; everyone had been trying to be optimistic around her while he was in the hospital and they did not know whether he'd live, but she had not been fooled back then. She knew what a close shave it had been, and now that Sherlock was here, she felt the terror at the prospect of losing him anew.

"Merry Christmas, my darling," she whispered, not caring whether he liked it or not.

"Merry Christmas," he replied very softly, and nothing in his tone indicated that he had taken offense. He even smiled at her as they pulled back, making her heart beat faster: maybe, Christmas was going to be different this year.

o

To Be Continued

o

Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

o