John looked longingly at the mince pies and wished he were ten again, so that he could snitch one for himself. It never felt like Christmas without them.

Still, he wasn't a child anymore. Christmas might not be quite so magical, but he still felt that warm, fuzzy feeling of a perfect family moment as he looked around the room, resplendent with greens and poinsettias.

Ian was off with his cousins as his grandfather held court somewhere, and John was just enjoying a perfect holiday moment (sans mince pies) when his cousin David came over to say hello. "Still consulting, John?"

"Still working with Sherlock, at any rate," John said with a smile.

"At least he's wearing more than a sheet this time."

John laughed. "Well, this time he wasn't trying to irritate his brother. I made very clear how much trouble he would be in if he misbehaved tonight. I swear, he's worse than Ian."

"I still can't believe that lad of yours is ten already—almost exactly 80 years behind the other birthday boy."

"I don't know which of them looks happier," said John, "I threw him a party for his friends, too, but this is the one he couldn't stop talking about. I can't argue with tradition. Grandfather said he shared his party with Ian every year and wasn't going to stop now."

"It's funny, hearing you talk about upholding tradition," said David. "You're the most unorthodox one of the entire family … ever, I think."

John shrugged it off with a smile. "Hey, I tried to keep my non-traditional originality from contaminating the rest of you. There's a reason I've gone by mother's name all these years."

"True. I thought it was just because you were angry with us."

"Never. I save that for Sherlock."

David looked across the room where Sherlock was sitting surrounded by children hanging on whatever he was saying. "So the two of you…?"

"I'm straight, David," John said wearily. "How many times are you going to make me tell you?"

His cousin's brow creased. "I haven't decided. It's so much fun…"

"Ha ha." John looked at the rapt faces gazing at Sherlock, too, as David asked, "What do you suppose he's telling them?"

"Who knows? It could be his latest experiment, or something from a case. One thing you've got to say about Sherlock, he's got a lot of stories, if you give him a chance to tell them. The trick is making sure he doesn't tell inappropriate ones to the youngsters."

David's eyes widened. "You mean…"

"Oh, no. God, no," John said with a laugh. "He just has a different idea of 'interesting' than most people and sometimes gets a little … graphic … with his descriptions. I got him to stop describing the more gruesome autopsies to Ian, and Sherlock manages to censor the more violent details about our cases … but, the rest? Kids love that he doesn't pander to them. It's the parents I usually need to worry about."

David glanced over at his wife. "I'll keep that in mind. I have to say, though, I'm surprised that he gets along so well with them."

John shrugged. "Like I said, he doesn't pander to them, but he also understands being curious, and all kids ask questions. When he's in the right mood, he's endlessly patient with their quest for knowledge. He says they haven't developed mental blocks yet and are still open to new ideas." He watched the group in the corner for another moment before saying, "I have to admit, I would have loved to meet someone like him when I was a kid. Can you imagine? Someone who questions everything, who observes everything he possibly can as if the world were one, huge puzzle? I mean, kids all do that to a degree, but Sherlock still does."

"So you're saying my brother never grew up?" came Mycroft's voice as he joined them. "I could have told you that, John."

"Yes, but when I say it, I don't mean it as an insult or a comment on his maturity level." He tilted his head, considering. "Or, not this time, anyway. He does sometimes act a bit like a spoiled child."

"Better than he used to," said Mycroft. "I'm sure that's down to your influence, John."

John just smiled. "No, that's all Ian. They used to try to out-sulk or out-tantrum each other, but they seem to have come to some kind of agreement. I frankly haven't worked up the courage to ask about the details, yet. Anyway, it's good to see you, Mycroft."

"It was nice of your grandfather to invite me."

"I think it was Ian's idea. He's gotten attached to you as well as your brother." He was gratified to see something resembling a blush cross Mycroft's cheeks. "Well, you've been a great help, both of you, these last months with all the security."

They had, too. It had almost been entertaining watching David and Mycroft go toe-to-toe, arguing about how stringent the security needed to be at 221B to keep Ian (and John and Sherlock) safe. And if David teased Mycroft about not having discovered John's birth name, well, that just made it more fun.

They had finally agreed to let Mycroft's people run the background checks so that a 'Hannah' (as they were calling it) wouldn't happen again—for all their sakes. Despite what she had done to Ian, John had only sympathy for the girl. She hadn't deserved the threats made against her own family, and certainly had deserved better than, well, he tried not to think about when they'd pulled her body from the Thames. If Mycroft's screening could prevent that from happening again, he was fine with that.

True to his word, Sherlock had agreed to having a security system installed, as well as protocols for all of them, not just Ian, to keep them safe. It didn't stop him from running about as much as ever, or keep him from risking his life chasing criminals, but at least someone knew where he was, most of the time.

More importantly, they knew where Ian was all the time (or as close as they could manage). He always knew exactly who his minders were during the day as he went to and from school, and knew never to go with someone who simply told him 'Dad said.' (They had a worst-case scenario in place, just in case something actually did happen to John, but John chose not to think about that.)

And in the meantime, life was good. Sherlock's practice (or whatever you called it) was thriving. John's family, from his 90-year old grandfather down to his 10-year old son—plus assorted cousins—were doing well. Harry was clean, and seemed happy to be settling into the role of Aunt rather than Mother for Ian. Even Mrs Hudson (currently by the tree practically flirting with John's father) had been welcomed into this odd, extended family and grand-mothered all of them.

Ian looked up then and came running over. "Dad! Sherlock's telling the cabbie story again, and he's getting it all wrong!"

John smiled down at his son. "Is he now? What bits?"

"He says the pill he picked was right, but it couldn't be. Hasn't he ever seen The Princess Bride? Mycroft?"

John met David's eyes, amused, as Mycroft leaned forward to answer. Unlike his brother, he was always stiff and formal around children, though John had seen signs that he was loosening a bit. "I don't believe he has, Ian, no."

"Have you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid I've not had the pleasure. How is it relevant to the, er, cabbie case?"

Ian just stared, dumbfounded, and John reached over to lay a hand on the back of his son's neck. "You need to see it to appreciate it, Mycroft, but there's a scene with a similar scenario, but both pills are poisoned. The killer had just desensitized himself to the poison over the years so it wouldn't affect him. What do you think, Ian? Should we get the DVD for Sherlock for Christmas?"

Ian's face lit with mischief. "Oh, yes. And then he can lend it to Mycroft when he's done."

John looked over at Mycroft and hid a laugh at the trapped expression on his face. "Or maybe we could invite Mycroft to watch it with us? If nothing else, watching him and Sherlock see it together will be entertaining." He looked over to see Sherlock watching. "Go on back, and let him hang on to his delusions a little longer. It makes a good story, no matter what the ending."

He could hear mentions of Fezzig from the kids, though, and Westley, and had a feeling it was already too late—though the blank look on Sherlock's face whenever popular culture came up was always enjoyable.

John spared a thought for Jim Moriarty, wherever he was, and wondered how he was spending his holiday. (Did Consulting Criminals break for Christmas?) They hadn't been able to track down the man yet, and John was sure that he still had plans for them, but couldn't be fussed to care at the moment.

Somehow, against all odds, John had a family again—a real one, however unorthodox. He looked around the room, noting how the Brandons merged seamlessly with the people who made up his own immediate family these days. It was impossible to define any other way. Somehow, he, Sherlock and Ian had turned from just being flatmates to being family, even if there was no real way to quantify it. There was no blood-tie, no romance, no obligation … but there was affection and an odd kind of co-dependence among the three of them, with Mycroft and Mrs Hudson orbiting their tight quasi-family nucleus.

Of course, he supposed, he should expect nothing less. Earldom or not, it was the 21st century. His son had been largely raised by his gay sister and her wife and now lived with his father and his entirely-platonic best friend. Traditional definitions just didn't apply.

What did matter, though, was that everyone in this room loved at least one or more of the others, and all of them, even the distant cousins, were tied together into a fairly formidable group who would do anything for each other.

Moriarty didn't stand a chance.

#

THE END.