Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"I don't see what the problem is," was John's answer when Sherlock rejected Mycroft's invitations to Christmas dinner for the third time.

"Do not form an opinion on matters you know nothing of, John," Sherlock answered wearily.

But John considered himself very well informed on the matter. Although he had met Mycroft few times, he understood that Mycroft assumed the 'big brother' role quite well. He was protective, and concerned— sometimes overly— in his younger brother's matters.

The first invitation was sent via mail in an overly elaborate envelope, government seal and all.

The second invitation was virtually sent. It included an attachment of image of three-year-old Sherlock with his tongue fused to a frozen pole that Mycroft threatened to forward to the entire Scotland Yard if Sherlock refused to dine with him and Mummy.

The third invitation was the most creative at all. A knock on the door early in the morning distracted John from his boiling tea. At first glance, no one was there until a tiny bark stopped the door from closing. Some scuffling noises later, a puppy was inside the flat. It barked excitedly, and curiously sniffed at the furniture— taking special attention in one of Sherlock's rotting experiments sitting on the coffee table.

John knelt down to untie an envelope tied to the puppy's furry neck before letting it go to sniff at Sherlock's pale feet. It was an invitation from Mycroft, this time specifically targeted at John. It requested the audience of Doctor Watson with the Holmes family on the 24th of December for dinner.

"No," Sherlock stated firmly.

"But, Sherlock—"

"No."

John sighed and resigned himself to scratching the puppy's head. It barked happily, and attempted to turn its head to lick John's fingers.

"Though, I must admit, the puppy was a nice touch on Mycroft's part," Sherlock grumbled.

As if the puppy could understand, it barked in reply and scrambled up to Sherlock, where it proceeded to lick his toes.

"I think he likes you," John said.

Sherlock snarled, but he didn't move his feet away.

"Alright," Sherlock finally said.

"What?"

"Alright, we can go,"

John smiled. "Really?"

"Don't make me say it again, John."

—

"So, what is your mother like, exactly?" John asked on the car ride, compliments of Mycroft, to the Holmes' estate.

"There's not much to say. She conceived, carried me for nine months, and hired a nanny," Sherlock replied drily, eyes glued on to his phone.

"I think you're just ashamed to admit that you actually know nothing about your mother."

"John, don't confuse my contempt for oblivion. I know certain things about my mother, but I don't follow her around like Mycroft does."

John licked his lips. "Maybe that's why she wants to see you at Christmas. It's obvious that Mycroft spends more time with his treadmill than you do with your own mum."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up from his phone. He cracked a smile. It was uncommon for John to crack jokes about Mycroft's inconsistent exercise habits. "You must know that she wasn't simply asking me to go home— she's summoning me." Sherlock said.

John chuckled, "The way you talk about her, it's as if—"

"As if?"

"It's as if she's some higher power," John explained. "Tell me, Sherlock, are you scared of your mother?"

"I have no idea what you mean by that," Sherlock said, turning back to his phone.

"You have the choice of either going, or not going. You obviously don't want to go, and yet, here we are."

"Excellent observation, John. Tell me, did you suspect this before, or after Mycroft sent us this absolutely inconspicuous car of his, with a virtually dumb driver at the front?"

John glanced at the driver. "Sorry," he said to him. The driver seemed not to hear, and continued to drive in his own content.

"From what I've seen with the way you deal with Lestrade, or Donovan— or even Anderson— you seem to love defying people. What makes your mother different from any of them?" John continued.

Sherlock sighed. "You'll see."

—

The car stopped at a snowbank in front of a vast lawn. As soon as the squeak of the brakes were audible, a figure stepped out in front of the headlights.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Mycroft said, when John opened the car door.

John nodded his hello in Mycroft's general direction before finally glancing at him. He could not help, but gape. Instead of the politician's usual three-piece suit, Mycroft was wearing a bright red jumper adorned with Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. He noticed John's surprise immediately. "A little festive cheer, compliments of my former nanny," Mycroft explained. John nodded, but his eyebrows remained furrowed. "And where is my apprehensive younger brother?"

"No need for your welcoming speech, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he exited the car.

"Ah, but Doctor Watson is certainly willing. After all, this is his first Christmas with the us." Mycroft paused. "Tell me, brother, how are you going to introduce him to Mummy?"

John was currently fighting the driver over who would unload the luggage from the trunk of the car. He pretended not to hear the conversation in hopes of avoiding another classic Holmes brother quarrel.

"Friend, best friend," Mycroft listed, "but certainly not colleague. No, I should think that your little adventures together have secured a closer bond than that."

"Really, Mycroft, should you be worrying over such petty matters as this when you should be finding yourself another diet to fail?

"How about… lover." Mycroft concluded before chuckled. "Oh, Mummy will love that."

John turned a violent shade of red as he pretended to be interested in tugging his suitcase out of the trunk.

Sherlock looked momentarily disoriented before snapping, "flatmate!"

A look of doubt crossed Mycroft's face before a smirk eclipsed it. "Whatever you say, Sherlock. Come, Mummy is dying to see this flatmate of yours."

—

The house was so large that even John couldn't help, but stare at the marble furnishings, and grand chandeliers. Sherlock breezed by his former home unimpressed.

"I see the puppy worked," Mycroft noted on their way to the sitting room where Mummy awaited.

Sherlock grunted.

"Yes, it was very lovely," John said graciously. "We named him Gladstone."

"Ah, a proper name. I expect he's being taken care of for the time you're away?"

"We managed to bargain with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock would clean his kitchen before we left, and Mrs. Hudson would look after Gladstone. To be honest, I think it was a very one-sided deal. I'm quite sure she has a soft spot for dogs. And she was so relieved that Sherlock was leaving the flat long enough for her to do a good proper cleaning of it. Mind you, I think she thought Sherlock and I were leaving for a couples' retreat—" John stopped when he realized that Sherlock was glaring at him, and Mycroft was grinning broadly.

"I'm glad," was all Mycroft replied.

"You should be glad that your trainer doesn't see you during the holidays— when you show no restraint towards sweets," Sherlock grumbled.

The insult was very weak, and it was obvious to the trio.

"I've lost five pounds since the last time you saw me, Sherlock," Mycroft said with an upturned nose.

A moment of silence later, they arrived before the grand sitting room. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace. The light illuminated a scintillating Christmas tree at the opposite side of the room. A gaunt, noble-looking woman sat on a white sofa. She had her grey hair swept up in a tight bun, and a set of immaculate pearls hung from her ears.

"Sherlock," she smiled, and reached up to hug her son.

Sherlock made no move to hug her back. "Mother," he said politely as he seated himself in the chair farthest away from her.

His mother frowned, and she turned her attention towards John. "You must be Doctor Watson," she said curtly. "I've heard so much about you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Mycroft's told me about how brilliant the Christmas dinners are with you." John smiled.

Mycroft, who was seated beside his mother, did the same.

"Tell me, Doctor Watson—" she began.

"Please, call me John."

"John, I don't like to be interrupted."

"I'm very sorry, please continue," John said, slightly embarrassed.

"You served in the army for a few years, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how long have you been living with my son?"

"A couple of months, I suppose."

"Is he suitable flatmate for a former army doctor?" Mrs. Holmes' eyes narrowed.

John laughed nervously. "Well, I suppose if you like having body parts in your fridge, and experiments spilling into your tea— yeah, he is rather suitable."

Mummy whipped her gaze to her bored-looking son. "I thought you quit doing your experiments in grade school."

"They're for work, Mother. No longer the juvenile playthings for my own amusement— it is my job."

Mrs. Holmes smiled tightly. "Do you still make raucous noises with your violin at ungodly hours of the night?"

"No—"

"Actually, Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock sometimes plays wonderful music. It's very calming." John said quickly.

Mrs. Holmes ignored John and continued observing her son. "Is that a sock hanging out of your pocket?"

Sherlock looked down, and there indeed, was one of John's striped socks just slightly peeking out of his jacket pocket.

"Right, yes, it's mine." John explained. "When I do the laundry, I usually forget to put in the dryer sheets, so everything sticks together. Sorry about that, Sherlock."

Sherlock waved his hands at the matter.

Mrs. Holmes sniffed. "How domestic."

—

By the time dinner was ready, John was back to his primary school self. Mrs. Holmes shot questions at him with canon speed that could only be compared to his least favourite Maths teacher in his fifth year. His woolen jumper felt itchy and hot under her scrutiny. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Sherlock looked cool and uncaring, as usual. John wondered how his flatmate could stand living with such a proper woman for so many years. Even the thought of using the wrong fork during main course made John nervous.

"Sherlock, how is the London society these days?" Mrs. Holmes asked during the soup course.

"Mother, why do you bother asking questions you know full well I do not know the answers of?"

"I was hoping perhaps that your flatmate would become a good influence on your social life."

"We have many friends," Sherlock answered firmly.

Mrs. Holmes raised her eyebrows. "Oh, and you did not invite them here for Christmas dinner?"

"No, I should think a good many of them are content with spending Christmas in the morgue at St. Bart's."

"Your love affair with death and all things morbid still seems to be ever present."

"Actually, Mrs. Holmes— if I may interrupt— Sherlock is improving. He's gotten rid of his old skull. Gained loads of acquaintances too. Last week, I managed to talk him into a double date with me and Sarah."

That caught Mrs. Holmes' attention. "A woman?"

"Yes," John said enthusiastically, glad to have finally said the right thing, "We all went to a Christmas party at St. Bart's. The woman, Molly Hooper, invited all of us. She works at the morgue there."

"Is my son in a relationship with Miss Hooper?"

John laughed nervously, avoiding Sherlock's sharp gaze. "She was very forgiving when Sherlock spilled punch on her dress to see what would happen to the material. In retrospect, maybe I should have gone after her when she started crying."

"Has my son engaged in any other relationships since you became his flatmate?"

"I think I may be able to answer that, Mother," Sherlock spoke. "My work doesn't allow much time for social interaction. So, no, but I'm quite satisfied in my friendship with John."

"I do hope Doctor Watson isn't crippling your chances of my receiving grandchildren."

"Why might that be?"

"One might think you two may be…" Mrs. Holmes trailed off.

At the realization of what she was suggesting, John turned pink. "No, no! I assure you, we're definitely platonic. To be fair, I have set up accounts for Sherlock on multiple dating sites."

"Any success?" Mycroft spoke for the first time since they seated at the dinner table. "I cannot imagine who might be a suitable mate for broody Sherlock."

"Well, since I posted a picture, he's certainly gained an abundance of attention. The only trouble is getting him to actually show up for dates."

"Doctor Watson, you seem to have quite the interest in my son's romantic life. Tell me, should I be worried of an unhealthy obsession forming, or should I let you play the mother's meddling role since you seem to play it so well already." Mrs. Holmes' cold gaze settled on John.

"Mother, I would appreciate you not to intimidate my friend with your possessiveness of me. You do know, of course, that it's mainly the reason why I only see you one week out of three hundred sixty-five days of the year?"

"Sherlock, that's incredibly rude," John said, appalled by his flatmate's behavior, ending the topic of discussion.

The table remained quiet for the entire appetizer and main course until Sherlock finally left the table before dessert was served. John sat quietly while Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes discussed the current state of the economy.

—

After dinner, Mycroft found his younger brother standing at the balcony, affixing two nicotine patches to his pale arm.

"That went rather well," Mycroft said casually.

"If you're referring to dinner, your description may be comparable to calling hurricane placid."

Mycroft laughed. "You're mistaken, Sherlock."

"Oh, maybe I am. Perhaps Mother was trying to give John a hug with her teeth instead of tearing apart his self-esteem."

"She likes him," Mycroft said. "She rather thinks that he's a good influence on you."

Sherlock went quiet.

"I know it's hard to tell with her, but she's been worried about you for a long time."

"There's nothing to be worried about. I'm a grown man, but she still treats me like a boy."

"What choice does she have, but to treat you that way if you refuse to be tried as an adult?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You sulk, Sherlock. You're sulking right now because you think Mummy doesn't approve of your new friend."

"I don't need her approval."

"Even if you don't, you must believe me when I say that she truly likes him."

"How do you expect me to believe your word?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't choose just anyone to be your friend." Silence as snow gracefully coated the balcony in sparkling white. "Perhaps more than a friend," Mycroft said as he turned to leave his brother in peace.

—

After another hour of deep reflection, Sherlock went to his former bedroom to sleep.

As soon as he opened the door, he knew that someone had tampered with his things. On his bare bed was stacks upon stacks of boxes labelled with various words: Christmas Ornaments, Photo Albums, Drinks Glasses

Opening his closet for blankets, he found it empty except for a few coat hangers.

Annoyed, he went to the sitting room to sleep on the sofa, but found it occupied by Mummy's white cat, Calypso, who hissed as soon as he approached. Not wanting to start a row with an obese— but vicious— cat, he left in search of another place to sleep.

The other spare bedrooms were stripped bare of their sheets and blankets. When Sherlock opened up the supply closets in search of the missing necessities, he found the entire house lacking.

Finally cracking, he entered Mycroft's room without knocking. His older brother was already asleep on his vast bed.

"Move over," Sherlock ordered as he climbed in.

Half-conscious Mycroft snorted, "Wha—"

"I don't have a bed. Now make room," Sherlock shoved his way into the bed.

"Ah, oh, okay," Mycroft muttered as he went back to sleep.

Not more than ten minutes later, Mycroft was snoring loudly. Sherlock gritted his teeth, wishing that he had opted for the floor than sharing a bed with his loud brother. He snapped his eyes closed and prayed for sleep. His praying was interrupted when Mycroft swung his arm around Sherlock's chest; a leg followed.

Sherlock shoved his brother off of himself, and immediately left. He had had enough.

Once in the hallway, Sherlock considered his options, and realized that the only option left was to share a bed with John.

—

John was rolling around restlessly when he heard his door opening. A dark figure loomed over his bed. He immediately recognized the flop of curls.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I need a place to sleep." Sherlock answered.

"Oh."

"I'll sleep on the floor if you'll let me have one of your blankets."

"It's fine."

"What?"

"I, er, need all of my blankets. The room's really cold. So, er, we could share the bed."

Sherlock noted the chill in the air and nodded. He walked to the right side of the bed and climbed in. Both men were quiet after the momentary rustling of the blankets as Sherlock made himself comfortable.

John finally found his eyelids growing heavy as Sherlock's added heat warmed the bed.

"John."

"Yeah," John mumbled sleepily.

"Mother likes you."

—

The next morning, the gift exchange happened immediately after breakfast. To be honest, Sherlock felt like a giddy ten year old, even though he didn't show it. He loved gifts. Even if they were from Mycroft and Mummy.

John, however, was not so sure how to react to his gifts. He wasn't sure what Mrs. Holmes had given him, but he imagined that it would be unpleasant.

After Mycroft had opened up his gifts— a new briefcase, and a gold paperweight in the shape of cake (sarcastically gifted from Sherlock), he excused himself to his room, saying that he had forgotten a gift.

Mummy soon followed, explaining that she would make tea for the occasion. That left Sherlock and John to open their presents.

Sherlock received silver cufflinks from his brother, a matching wristwatch from his mother, and from John, a new pair of leather gloves.

John looked around the the tree for his presents, but could only find one with his name: a new coat from Sherlock which probably had a value over twice his last pay cheque.

"There's one more present left," Sherlock announced, frowning at a tiny package under the large tree.

"It's not mine," John said.

Sherlock took the package and examined it. There was indeed no label.

"Open it," John urged.

Sherlock wasted no time in ripping open the paper, but soon became disappointed. "It's just a plant."

John laughed. "Are you serious, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"That's mistletoe, Sherlock."

"Mistletoe… the thing you're supposed to stand under to kiss."

"Yes."

"Why would anyone wrap such a thing?"

Sherlock did not protest when John grabbed the mistletoe out of his hand.

"It's preposterous—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said as he lifted the mistletoe above their heads and leaned in to kiss his flatmate.

Sherlock didn't argue.

—

From the attached dining room, Mummy and Mycroft received a good view of the events happening in the sitting room.

Mummy smiled, as Mycroft grinned broadly.

"I wonder if they know that we've given them our present already."

—

Much later, while Mycroft was trying to catch up on some last minute work in the kitchen, Sherlock entered, and much to Mycroft's surprise, took a seat across from him.

"You planned all of this," he hissed. Sherlock had spent most of the day in a state of confused bliss, doing everything his mother told him to do and exchanging secret smiles with John over supper. However, now that night had fallen, Sherlock's usual personality seemed to reappear.

"No need to thank me," replied Mycroft as he put down the document he was reading. "It was entirely Mummy's idea."

"There was no need for your interference!" Sherlock snarled. He stopped, realizing his increasing volume. Not wanting to attract attention from the rest of the household, he lowered his voice again. "We were content without you sticking your nose in my business."

"Sherlock, you don't have to be alarmed. Everyone knows you're attracted to Doctor Watson. We were just tired of having to watch you pine for him."

"I don't pine, Mycroft. We are flatmates." Sherlock vehemently defended. "He didn't want me. We were..." he trailed off. "...friends." He slumped back in his seat, his eyes narrowed in defiance.

Mycroft suddenly realized what it really was that his brother was upset about. Sherlock was afraid John was going to change his mind; he was afraid he was going to lose him. Mycroft took off his reading glasses as he pondered this. "Doctor Watson has been attracted to you for a very long time, Sherlock. He's just afraid as you, but I'm sure he isn't going to wake up tomorrow with a different opinion of you. Besides," he chucked, "he's voluntarily put up with you longer than anyone else has. I'm sure that's sign of devotion." After a pause, he added, "or his mental instability."

"But, Sarah," Sherlock spat, unable to finish the sentence.

"Nothing serious. He's done nothing more than kiss her on the cheek."

There was no hiding from Mycroft; Sherlock sighed. "You're insufferable," he said without much heat.

Mycroft smiled. "I could say the for you."

Sherlock had turned to look at the window; he couldn't see anything in the dark, but the light from the kitchen had turned the glass into a mirror, reflecting the brothers sitting at the table. They both looked exhausted, though, Mycroft suddenly looked much older to Sherlock than he remembered. "Do you remember that time I put Mother's lipstick on you while you were sleeping?"

"And her eye shadow. And her blush too, if I remember correctly."

"Your face was brighter than a baboon's rear end. I still have the pictures," Sherlock said with malicious glee. He turned to look at Mycroft. "If you meddle in either John's or my affairs again, I will personally see to it that every influential person you have worked with and ever will work with will see these pictures." Making sure his threat was understood, Sherlock stood up from the table to exit the kitchen.

"Blackmail is a two-way street, Brother. I have more information that would ruin you than you have of me."

Sherlock turned back, a devious smirk on his face. "Indeed. Oh, and before I forget, I sent Anthea a little Christmas gift from you. No need to be alarmed," he said at the look of horror on Mycroft's face. "Everyone knows you're attracted to her."

"Sherlock! She's my assistant. That's not professional."

"I know, but we were just so tired of having to watch you pine for her. Expect a phone call from her in the morning, and try not to bugger it up. Good night, dear Brother."

"Sherlock!"

—

Upstairs, Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself when she heard Sherlock walk past her room. Earlier, she'd "accidentally" overheard Sherlock making arrangements over the phone to have some suggestive negligee delivered to Anthea from Mycroft. It was about time someone did something about her eldest son and that assistant of his; they'd been dancing circles around each other for years. Mrs. Holmes wasn't getting any younger, and she was tired of watching her sons make messes out of their personal lives. But, it all worked out in the end.

Mycroft helped Sherlock and John. Sherlock helped Mycroft and Anthea. The brothers both got each other exactly what they wanted this Christmas.

The end!

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