So far, Christmas Eve at Musgrave Hall had gone exceedingly well. It was past tea time and the first cross word had yet to be spoken. The reason, despite Mummy's hopes that her adult children were finally above the childish feuding that frequently occurred between such strong-willed siblings, was due more to the fact that they had an audience and knew that if they squabbled in front of guests Mummy would turn monstrous, rather than any desire to get along. Aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides of the family had been invited to celebrate the resurrection of not one but two children. Sherrin and Sherlock had protested that they had been home more than a year now, two in Sherlock's case and that if their relatives were so anxious to reunite with them they had had more than ample time to do so already.

Mummy shook them off with a "Hush, you!" and sent the twins and Mycroft, by association, off to separate corners of the house to make ready for guests. John, who had stood idly by with an expression of barely contained mirth, was treated with a sampling of both Daddy's Christmas Stollen and Mummy's Christmas pudding while the first of the guests began to arrive.

After stocking the last bathroom with fresh towels, Sherrin wandered into the green bedroom where Sherlock was lighting a fire in the fireplace. She sat on the end of the freshly made bed and watched her brother. "You will rescue me, won't you?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her as he prodded a log with the iron poker, "Hmm?"

"You'll keep them from overwhelming me with all the meaningless chit-chat and dull catching up they will want to do. You know they will want to know what we both got up to while we were away. The fewer people that know that the better," and after a moment's hesitation, she added, "in both our cases."

Sherlock placed a hand on the floor and with a pained grunt, pushed himself up from the crouch he had been in. He dusted his hands with the flannel Sherrin held out and rebuttoned his suit jacket. "I will, if you will."

She nodded, then asked softly. "Is the stab wound in your thigh bothering you?"

Sherlock nodded. "It is. It does that when the weather turns cold," Slowly, he turned to face her as a fever fueled half-memory stirred at the back of his mind. He let his eyes scan her face, looking for some sort of clarification. "It's an old wound and you've not seen it. How did you know I'd been stabbed there?"

Sherrin shrugged and averted her eyes. "I think John must have mentioned it." She didn't feel like going into the story right now. He would either figure it out or she would tell him when the moment was right.

Sherlock frowned. John, of course, had seen the wound but had never specifically asked about the circumstances surrounding it. He had simply taken it as one of Sherlock's many scars acquired during 'The Great Hiatus', as John's blog readers had come to term Sherlock's time away. When he had some quiet time to himself, he was going to peruse the halls of his mind palace and sort out that particular memory relating to the injury and examine it closer.

For now, it could wait. Sounds of laughter drifted up from below and Sherlock held out his open hand. "I talked to Quentin last night. He has promised to bring along that double-O boyfriend of his. If anyone gets too inquisitive regarding either of us or if third cousin Ginny gets too preachy regarding the abomination of same-sex relationships, they vowed to stage a rescue mission and transport us to London with no one the wiser."

"Lock, you do know Bond drives a bloody two-seater Aston Martin, don't you?" Sherrin took the proffered hand and let him pull her to standing.

"Well, I guess we will just have to make the best of it then." Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze and led her out of the room.

Fighting the postprandial somnolence that tended to occur after a hearty meal, the family retired to the library for after dinner drinks where the furnishings tended to be more forgiving if one fell into a doze. Sherlock and Sherrin were sitting by the fire discussing iPhone versus Android technology with Quentin while Mummy and Uncle Albert sat on the sofa debating whether Grand-mere Vernet had used Sherry or Port in her Plum Pudding recipe. Uncle Calvin, Bond and a few of the younger cousins had drifted off to the parlour and were enjoying a round of billiards. John was being cordial and sat with Aunt Genevieve, as she sat at the piano and took requests from the children and a few of the adults. Daddy was tending to the fire and refilling drinks while Mycroft was off somewhere, most likely keeping his fingers on the pulse of the nation. Sherrin didn't blame him, it was a bit too crowded for her taste and she was beginning to feel just the least bit claustrophobic.

She slid her fingers out of Sherlock's grasp and rose from her perch on the arm of his chair, "I'm just going to step outside for a minute. I need some fresh air."

Sherlock nodded, frowning at Aunt Genevieve's less than perfect attempt to play Ave Maria. "Take the Belstaff, it's hanging by the door."

"I have my own coat."

He didn't bother looking up from the fire, "Yes. It is upstairs, and I doubt you will bother going to get it. The temperature has dropped three degrees since sunset and the wind has increased markedly in that time, also. Take the damn coat, Beth."

"Cheeky bastard," she grinned and turned on her heel. She had missed bantering with her brothers while she was away. Taking the coat off the hook in the kitchen, she slipped it on and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Chinese takeaway, Lock's aftershave, a bit like John's, and something she had a hard time identifying. Remembering that John had said he had to drag Sherlock out of St. Bart's to make the train, she assumed it was formaldehyde.

The cold air bit at her cheeks and ankles the moment she stepped outside, and she was glad for the Belstaff's warmth. Lock was right, she probably would not have bothered to run upstairs to get her coat. She was no stranger to being ill-clothed for the weather, but that didn't mean she liked being cold when she could do otherwise.

"The crowded room is making you anxious." Mycroft crooned from where he leant against the rain barrel just to the left of the door.

"A little bit," She slipped under the arm he held out. It was so good to be home and she felt utterly safe snuggled up to her big brother. There had been many a time in the past that she had wished Mycroft would find her and whisk her away from whatever danger she was facing. Sometimes she had just wanted to get his advice or listen to him read aloud to her like he did when she was little. "May I?" She nodded to the lit cigarette he held.

He looked down at her disapprovingly but held it out anyway. It had been a long time since she had smoked. She'd never made it a regular habit, just something she had indulged in occasionally when bored or in social situations where it seemed prudent to fit in.

"Just the one drag," he said. "I hardly think the good doctor would approve of you smoking in your condition."

She nodded and handed it back after one pull, not at all surprised he had guessed. "How?"

Mycroft inhaled and let the smoke out slowly, before dropping the fag and crushing it under his shoe. "You turned positively green this morning when Mummy set your breakfast plate in front of you, even though she had fixed all your favourites. I was unsure, but my suspicions were confirmed when you declined the wine with dinner. That particular Pinot Noir used to be your favourite."

Mycroft wrapped both arms around her and she hummed her reply, "As usual, you're right."

"I assume John is the father of the child?"

"He is," she sighed and listened to the comforting beat of his heart that lay so close beneath her cheek. "How on earth did you deduce that?"

"You stole food off his plate at dinner. That indicates a certain level of intimacy not usually found between brother and sister-in-law. It was obvious. You really must work on your deductive reasoning, Sherrin."

"Yeah, and you should learn to write your own code and hack a mainframe, Mycroft," she quipped. "I won't be available to do your bidding when I take maternity leave."

"Oh?" he looked down his nose at her. "You intend to take the pregnancy to term?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Suddenly worried, Sherrin stepped out of his arms and frowned up at him. "You aren't going to have John murdered and dumped in the Thames, are you?"

"I'm considering it," Mycroft said icily. "It will save Sherlock the trouble."

"Don't, Mycroft!" she gasped. "Sherlock knows. He knows and approves."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, looking for evidence to substantiate her claim. "He knows the two of you are having an affair and you are pregnant with John's child? I find it hard to believe he approves."

"It's not what you think, Myc. They want to start a family and I offered to be their gestational surrogate. John and I have been trying to conceive for the last several months." She felt her cheeks redden and she suddenly found interest in her manicure. "My pregnancy test was positive last week."

Mycroft nodded. "When do you plan on telling Mummy and Daddy?"

Sherrin shrugged, reminding him of when she had been little and oh, so shy. "We were going to tell them today, but I had no idea that she was going to invite the whole family to spend the day. I would rather tell them in private."

"Yes, that would be best," Mycroft said absently. He pulled out his phone and began to type. "Have you told your Miss Hooper?"

"She's known from the start. She's been a great support and is very excited." Sherrin gave a nervous laugh. "You're not texting Anthea to have John picked up once he's back in London, are you?" She was not entirely sure that Mycroft wouldn't do such a thing.

Mycroft smiled, not his fake diplomatic smile, but a genuine one. "Sherrin, despite what others may think, I do like my brother-in-law. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. John understands him in a way no one, save you, can. No, I was just clearing my schedule for the third week in July."

Sherrin's brow wrinkled. "July? I'm not due until August twelfth."

"Yes, but I see you delivering July eighteenth to the twentieth. Come now, Mummy will come looking for us if we don't get back soon." He kissed her cheek and turned toward the door.

She pulled the wool tighter around her and turned to follow. "Alright, smart-arse. Boy or girl?"

"I, contrary to popular belief, am not omniscient." He smirked, holding the door open for her.

Sherrin kissed his cheek as she moved by him, "Oh, yes you are. Near enough anyway. Boy or girl? And, you had better not say both. Sherlock's already said if it's twins, I have to keep one of them."