EPILOGUE: CHRISTMAS PARTY

"Why did I need to come to this party, again?" Sherlock asked. "Your grandfather hates me."

"Don't exaggerate. Besides, you should be used to people hating you. Luckily, most of them don't know you as well as I do … or they'd reallyhate you." John told him, handing him a drink snatched from a passing waiter. "That was a joke, Sherlock. Relax."

"Really, John, how relaxed do you expect me to be at a party? I thought you knew me better than that."

John laughed. "This really doesn't bode well for our party next week, does it?"

"Clearly you're a bad influence on me," Sherlock said, scanning the room. "Your grandfather's not down yet?"

"Sometimes he prefers to make an entrance," John said, "And we're actually early."

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course we are. You practically rushed me out the door, muttering about mince pies."

"What can I say? No disrespect to Mrs Hudson's excellent baking, but I've never tasted any mince pies as good as Mrs McTavish's."

"John! That's practically sacrilege, especially considering how Mrs Hudson coddles us even though she's not our housekeeper."

"Just the mince pies, Sherlock, that I've loved since I was five. You can't beat childhood favourites, and there's no sense trying. It's not that Mrs Hudson's mince pies aren't excellent, but they're not the ones I grew up with. Just let it go."

"Ah, John, going on about the mince pies again?" A light, female voice asked from behind them.

"Sarah. It's good to see you, and you Jimmy," he said to the sullen teen trailing behind his cousin as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "And, are you kidding? My only regret about the years I was deployed over Christmas was that I missed them—and seeing you lot, of course. How are you doing?"

"Well enough. You heard about the divorce?"

"Yes, I was sorry to hear it—though Andrew was never good enough for you."

"That's true," she said with an emphatic nod. "So … no uniform this year? You know it's always a treat to see you in your dress uniform."

"Not really appropriate anymore, now that I'm a civilian again," he told her.

She nodded, eyes slightly wide, but her son was outright staring at John. "What do you mean you're not in the army, anymore, Cousin John?"

John took another sip of his drink to wet his suddenly dry mouth. "Just that. I'm surprised you hadn't heard." Well, he wasn't really, since he'd already seen how pathetic the family grapevine was these days—nothing at all like when his mother was still alive and news and rumours would spread at light speed.

"Did you get shot, or something?" The teen's voice was a little too eager, and John froze, dreading the questions that were coming. The last thing he wanted to do was go over his war injury at the family Christmas party. He gave a brief nod, though. "As a matter of fact, I was."

"Cool," the boy breathed. Why were boys so blood-thirsty?

"Not the word I would have picked," Sherlock said, inserting himself into the conversation with aplomb as he glanced sideways at John.

"Oh, sorry," John said, grateful for the chance to change the topic. "This is Sherlock Holmes, my friend, flatmate, and colleague these days. Sherlock, my cousin Sarah and her son Jimmy."

"Oh, are you a doctor, too?" Sarah asked, eyeing Sherlock's elegant suit.

"No, Consulting Detective," Sherlock said,

To John's surprise, Jimmy's face lit up. "Sherlock Holmes? I've read about you. On that blog I told you about, Mum, you remember? With Dr Watson… Wait a minute… That's you, Cousin John?"

He was staring at John now, who tried not to look as surprised as he felt. Not so much that someone was reading his blog, but that his own cousin hadn't recognized him when his picture was right there at the top. He nodded though, and almost felt Jimmy's attention ratchet up another notch until he was practically buzzing with excitement. "Cousin John! That's amazing! And, Mr Holmes. That's … you're just … brilliant. Are all those stories true?"

Sarah looked as surprised as John felt. "I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes. Believe me, he doesn't usually get this excited … about anything."

"Sherlock, please," he told her. "Both of you. Truly, though, I can't take any of the credit for John's blog."

"Considering how you abuse my writing style, titles, and just about everything about it, I should hope not," John said, unable to prevent a smile.

"But, the cases," Jimmy said, face avid with interest, "They're real, right?"

John nodded. "Except for occasionally changing the names for some of the more sensitive ones, yes. All true."

"Romanticized and ignoring many of the important details," Sherlock said, agreeing, "But essentially true."

"That's just … brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled and glanced at John. "Must be the DNA."

"Yes, Sherlock. We'll start up a fan-club for you, right here, so we can keep it in the family," John said, but then hastily added, "I was kidding," when Jimmy's face got even more excited.

Sarah had been watching, amused, but now said, "I'm confused, though. I thought the blogger's name was Watson? Are you using a pen-name, John?"

"Not exactly," he said. He supposed this had been inevitable—his family finding out about his name now that they knew about Sherlock. "I've always used Watson professionally. These days, almost no-one knows me as John Brandon."

"Really?" She looked utterly stunned. "Why on earth would you do that? Does Grandfather know?"

"Of course I do," came the Earl's voice. (When had he come in?) "John started using his Mother's name right after she died, when you were, what, eighteen, John?"

John looked around, surprise at the number of people gathered around, staring at him and Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of his cousin David, looking smug, and had an idea exactly how his blog information had spread through the family. "Yes, just about twenty years, now."

"But why?"

"It's a long story," John said, uncomfortable at all the attention.

Everyone looked interested, though, and he suddenly realized that—even if he hadn't seen most of these people for two years—he hated to disappoint them. "I started using Watson the summer my mother died, just as I went off to school, and then it was just easier to carry that into the army with me … I was Captain Watson, not Brandon, up until about six months ago, when I was shot."

He gestured toward his shoulder. "There was just enough nerve damage to end my days as a surgeon, but when I came back to London, I met Sherlock and found that my skills from the army are well-suited for chasing criminals—and patching up Consulting Detectives. It also gave a purpose to that appalling blog my therapist wanted me to start during convalescence—you've seen the early posts, right? Pathethic. The rest, as they say, is history."

"But … the stories on the blog … they can't possibly be true."

John looked over at his cousin Stephen, calculating. He'd always detested the man—one of the rare bad apples in an otherwise pretty good family. About the only good thing you could say about him right now was that he wasn't drunk yet. Because, really, he was an even worse drunk than Harry. "They are, though. I don't even exaggerate. I don't have to." He glanced at his flatmate, gauging his mood, then said, "Sherlock? Would you like to show him?"

Sherlock looked at him, momentarily surprised, and then a flash of devilish humour crossed his face. "I don't know what you'd like me to say, John. Is it that your … cousin? Yes, third cousin. That he is sceptical because he is jealous of the attention you're getting? He had hoped to impress your grandfather with his new business venture tonight, but because David has so helpfully passed your blog address to what appears to be the entire family, he has no hope of creating the kind of buzz he wanted. A good thing, too, since he's so anxious to make a go of it—you can see his cuffs are frayed, and the lines of strain by his eyes—that he hasn't vetted his new partners as well as he should. He's taking their claims at surface value because he's desperate. Money's been tight for some time—his hair needs a trim, which he was unable to get for the party, even though he was hoping to impress."

John watched his friend carefully, ready to cut him off if he took this too far, but Sherlock looked as aware of their audience as he was. Having seen Sherlock in deductive mode, he knew letting Sherlock loose on his family was potentially a huge mistake—and he hated to use his flatmate's abilities as a parlour trick—but he wanted them to be as impressed as he was.

And, well, he had cordially detested Stephen since he was seven and found he didn't mind a certain amount of embarrassment on his behalf—petty though that might be.

John felt a little badly, though, as Stephen shifted on his feet, looking as if he'd suddenly welcome the ability of becoming invisible. Before he could say anything to Sherlock, though, his friend had passed on to Anna, David's wife, commenting on her still-early pregnancy and how they hoped for a boy to pass the title to in years to come. Jennifer's boyfriend was deduced and complimented for his honourable intentions. (Though Sherlock told John later he had refrained from mentioning the ring-sized jewellery box in the man's pocket, saying he hadn't wanted to spoil the man's surprise when he proposed after the party.)

In short, Sherlock's deductions were a smash success. The fine folk at the Yard would never believe this, John thought, as he watched Sherlock deliberately charm an entire room full of people without once crossing the line into inappropriate conjecture. (Well, not once he was done with Stephen, but even there John thought he had restrained himself admirably.)

"Well, now I know what to do next time we're short on money," John told Sherlock as he examined the food on the catering table. "Give you a satin turban and cape, call you The Great Sherlock, and put you in front of a crowd of sceptics and let you deduce their personal histories for money. It'll be a smash and the money will just roll right in."

"Satin? Really, John. I'm not a charlatan," Sherlock sniffed. "A dinner jacket would be much classier, don't you think?"

"True," John said with a grin. "Though the satin would scandalize Mycroft more."

"Hmm. There is that." Sherlock selected a single canapé from one of the platters and popped it in his mouth. "You don't seem angry."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Why would I be angry? You did exactly what I wanted you to do. If anything, I'd think you'd be upset with me."

"Me? Why?" Sherlock seemed honestly surprised.

"Because I basically used you and your talents solely because Stephen has annoyed me since we were kids?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "That was nothing. You should have seen my classmates at Uni. They couldn't stand me—well, you met Sebastian—but they were more than happy to take advantage of my skills when they needed them."

"Great," said John. "So now I'm just like Sebastian."

Sherlock shook his head. "You misunderstood. They used me. They felt nothing but contempt for me, but had no compunction about using my talents when it would help them—after which they would immediately go back to ignoring and insulting me. You, on the other hand, are myfriend."

"A friend who's using you to impress his family."

"A friend for whom I was able to do a favour."

"Really?" John asked, looking askance at Sherlock. "You don't mind?"

"On the contrary, it was quite enjoyable, if a little dull. Your family is remarkably free of dirty secrets, John. It's quite frustrating."

"Not that you would have outed any if you had seen them, though … right?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, maybe not in public. After all, I was trying to be on my best behaviour."

"You did admirably," John told him. "They might even be willing to invite us back again next year."

"Let's not press our luck."

John reached over and handed Sherlock a mince pie and then took one for himself. "So… different than Holmes family gatherings?"

Sherlock scanned the room, noting the groups of people chatting comfortably, the sounds of laughter coming from the children in the corners. The entire atmosphere was relaxed and warm, and the difference between this and the Holmes Christmas dinners he'd grown up with were manifold. "If this were my family," he finally said, "Everyone would be too busy having important, boring conversations to laugh. The old saying that children should be seen and not heard is still very much enforced, and, in general, we don't seem to like each other very much. It's not nearly this … pleasant."

John turned toward the room, taking in the general feeling of love and good cheer. "Every family's different, I suppose. Though I'd imagine your relatives talk about more important things than the latest rugby match?"

"They wouldn't be caught dead discussing sport," Sherlock told him, nibbling at the mince pie. "Don't underestimate your family, though. They seem intelligent enough."

"Well, thanks for that."

"Even if they were completely unaware of your having changed your name these last twenty years. Or that you were shot and invalided out of the army half a year ago."

John just chuckled. "Yeah, well, maybe not the fastest on the uptake. Good mince pies, though—even if they aren't Mrs Hudson's."

Sherlock wiped a crumb from his lip with a small nod and a sound of enjoyment. "It'll be our secret."

Another convert to Mrs McTavish's mince pies, thought John as he saw Sherlock reach for another one. He could only hope this hadn't been a tactical error—now there were fewer for him.

Still … it was Christmas. His family was well and happy, and Sherlock was actually eating. It might get dull at times, but at moments like this, Peace on Earth was nothing short of wonderful.

THE END.

NOTE:

A little on the sweet and sentimental side (more than a little?) but still ... it rounds it out nicely and brings it level with part 1, with Sherlock being introduced to John's family and ending with John happily eating mince pies. (Some things are meant to stay the same!)

This brings this story to a close. I have another idea for this little series of AUs of AUs, though ... but another story is clamoring to be written first, so...