Rebekah held herself back from shoving the cup of tea at Mycroft. She wasn't especially pleased that he was here, at her table. It had been less than a year since he'd tried to kill her. Sherlock was supposed to be home at any moment, but she couldn't exactly turn the elder Holmes out. Denying Mycroft anything was always a dangerous game, and she was so tired of games she could hardly bear it.

"I don't have to like this, Rebekah."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock was helping John take the last of his boxes to Mary's flat. John and Mary were an adorable newlywed couple, though the separation had taken its toll on both Sherlock and John. John had confessed to Rebekah that morning that he'd worried about leaving Sherlock alone when the day finally came. Then he'd laughed and said that now she was the one who was stuck with him. She'd rolled her eyes and put the box in the car.

"But it seems that it's already out of my hands."

"It would seem so."

"You should know that he isn't ordinary. Whatever act of sentimentality he is performing for you, it isn't sustainable. Even with Irene Adler, he was briefly involved, infatuated even, but it isn't in his character to maintain that."

"You mean to say it isn't in yours."

"We are not so different, my brother and I."

Rebekah sipped her own tea and smirked. "Different enough, so he tells me." Mycroft glowered, and Rebekah felt a little thrill of victory. "Tell me, did you ever quite get over the incident at the Porter's Lodge?"

"He told you about that? Hm."

"You know he wouldn't have had to. I am exceedingly thorough when it comes to considering whom to trust."

"And so there was no stone unturned in this case." She smiled enigmatically. Let the old knight think what he would. "He won't know how to do this. He is a creature of thought, of rationale and logic and process. This is a realm that eludes him."

"What, domestic bliss?" Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting in an available seat between Rebekah and Mycroft.

"You yourself have always said you don't have friends, Sherlock. Even as a boy."

"I don't. It's true. I have one friend, John Watson."

Rebekah could feel Mycroft gauging her response to the statement. The problem was, she'd heard it before. She was nonplussed.

"Then why don't you end the charade, Sherlock."

Sherlock held his brother's challenging gaze for a long moment, then apparently conceded defeat. "Very well." He turned to Rebekah, "My dear, you must understand..."

"Oh sod off."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft, I simply can't. And you are off your game." He raised Rebekah's left hand intertwined with his right - and her hand glinted with a gold band.

"Thank God for City Hall and the Church of England." She couldn't help saying it. Sherlock smirked at her. Mycroft shot her a glare.

"Quite." He took a biscuit, looked at it as though it might bite back, and then chewed it. The table was quiet. "But apparently I'm not allowed to plot against family."

"Anymore," jumped in Sherlock.

"Anymore," droned Mycroft.

"Then it's settled." Sherlock said, grinning.

"What, exactly, is settled?"

"We'll give the baby your name, obviously." Sherlock wrapped his arm around Rebekah. Mycroft choked on his food, and so missed the incredulous look Rebekah shot her husband.

"Baby… Sherlock…"

"For God's sake, Mycroft. It's not true. It's not an impossibility, but it's not true." She elbowed Sherlock. "He's just enjoying getting your goat."

"I do not have a "goat" to be gotten." Mycroft took another bite.

"Be careful, my dearest brother-in-law, or one might take that as a challenge." She tightened her mouth in minor annoyance when Sherlock took two biscuits. Digestion vs intellect indeed. "Just be content that you missed Christmas with me this year."

"Sherlock and I have not celebrated Christmas..."

Sherlock looked chagrined. "I have for the past several years, actually. John started that, and then this year..." He glanced at Rebekah, who was already chuckling.

"When do you think the man was capable of proposing? He'd had a fair bit of eggnog. The fire was on. He turned to me and said, all sweetly, 'Do you think it would be appropriate to set a date?' No ring, no down on one knee. It was absolutely perfect and nearly without sentiment. You might have approved, Mycroft."

Mycroft was about to say something, but his phone rang. He scowled at it, then back at them. "I have to take this. It has been... a pleasure." He stood and picked up his cane. "Sherlock." He nodded. "Mrs. Scott."

"Holmes," she corrected him quickly. It did give her such glee to do that to Mycroft.

He tightened. "Rebekah."

When the door closed behind him, both Sherlock and Rebekah laughed. "He couldn't bring himself to say it."

He caught the flash of hurt in her eyes behind the laugh. He touched her shoulder, as much sentimentality as they allowed between them most of the time. It wore Sherlock out otherwise. "Mrs. Rebekah Holmes. Has a nice ring to it doesn't it?"

She smiled again, genuinely. "Admit it, you just married me to inherit my brother's networks."

"I admit nothing." He kissed her lightly. "Now let's get some dinner. John mentioned that we may have a case coming by later."

Rebekah finished her tea. It never ended with Sherlock. And that was something that seemed to be suiting her just fine.