Doing a Christmas thing again this year - 12 Days instead of 24 this time, because uni. Set after s3, because reasons. So... spoilers possibly? Hope you enjoy this along with your holiday!

Thank!

12 Days of Christmas

Chapter 1

12 December, 2014

Put on the kettle. Wait for the water to boil. Tap his fingers distractedly. Reach for a mug, the tea, the infuser. Kettle boils. Switch it off, pour. Spoon in the tea, dip in the infuser. Wait for it to steep. Tap his fingers some more. Carefully clean the infuser, place in sink. Find the sugar, pour in one, two tea spoons. Stir. Place spoon in sink. Drink. Make a face. Tastes better than he would have originally thought.

Stop. Phone ringing. Mobile. Do they even have a landline anymore? Unimportant, delete the thought immediately. Sudden burst of excitement. A case? Plausible. Certainly probable.

Pick up his mug, take a sip, walk to the sitting room. Pick up phone, glance at the screen. Mum.

Thumb hovers over the 'Reject' button. Pause.

"Dammit," he murmurs under his breath before answering. "Hello?"

"Oh, Sherlock!" Grimace.

"Yes, hello." Leave the tea abandoned on his work table. Pace. "What is it you've been calling me about?"

"Well if you would ever answer me, you would know." Sigh.

"We're doing Christmas this year, and you're expected to come."

Oh, hell.

"What's the occasion? Has Mycroft gone and gotten himself shot this year?" His mother reprimanded him. Must have been too much glee in his voice at the thought.

"I just thought it we could have a nice Christmas. One where no one's been shot."

Ah. Talking about the Magnussen debacle, is she?

Sherlock paused, considering.

"Will Mycroft be there?"

"Of course Mycroft will be there."

Damn it all.

"When?"

"I was hoping you and your brother would come the day before Christmas Eve and stay until the day after Christmas."

A grimace. "Fine." It's not like he has much of a choice.

He hangs up before his mother can protest.

By the time John gets home from work, Sherlock is still pacing, cold tea still sitting in the table where he left it.

John stares at Sherlock tiredly for a moment, trying to figure out the source of the other man's agitation.

"Why do you look so sour?" John asks from the doorway, frowning. "Did Mycroft stop by?"

Sherlock starts at the breach of silence, turns. "Something like that."

John nods, but continues standing there. "Anything wrong?"

"Oh, um. No." Sherlock waves his hand as if waving away a particularly irritating gnat. "Just a minor inconvenience." A pause. "…Thank you."

Another nod from John.

Sherlock resumes his pacing, only to realize John is still lingering just out of the sitting room, as if he wants to say something. Sherlock stops. "…All right?"

John considers, his expression bleak. "All right." He then heads up the stairs, footsteps heavy and tired.

Sherlock watches until all of John is out of sight.