John smiled to himself at the dinner table as yet another Holmes Family Christmas drew to a close. Soon it would be time for Sherlock and Mycroft to endure the “My Sons at Christmas” photo. Mummy Holmes insisted upon it each year. And one simply did not refuse Mummy Holmes.Mummy. John thought it was such a misleading, benign name for a woman who had Sherlock’s intellect and Mycroft’s ruthlessness. No other mere mortal could make those two stand still next to each other and look at the camera.
Now, as far as getting either of them to smile, well, that would take something much more powerful. Even Mummy’s influence had its limits.
“Do take off the ridiculous scarf, Sherlock,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth as he folded his arms.
“You’re the one with the umbrella, Mycroft. Expecting rain in the sitting room, are we?” Sherlock shot back.
John chuckled under his breath. It was answered by the formidable, well-nigh terrifying, sound of Mummy Holmes clearing her throat in annoyance.
For a few seconds, John experienced the same panicked, sinking feeling in his abdomen that had once accompanied the sound of nearby artillery fire or exploding ordinance.
“Doctor Watson, we are waiting,” she said coolly.
John looked from Mrs. Holmes to Sherlock, and then to Mycroft, and back.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
A pair of feminine, silver-blue-grey eyes rolled skyward for a moment - something John had seen probably a hundred thousand times back at Baker Street, albeit from a younger, male Holmes.
“This is a photo of my sons,” Mrs. Holmes explained as if she were speaking to a toddler (again, something not at all rare in John’s recent life). “I wish you to take your place, if you would.”
John swallowed hard, and he found he couldn’t speak.
“Surely you’ve guessed that Sherlock is planning to propose over the holiday? Really, it couldn’t be more obvious. And when you and Sherlock are married, John, that will make you my son-in-law. Therefore, you belong in the photo.”
Sherlock merely raised his chin defiantly, as if daring anyone to dispute the assertion.
Feeling a bit dizzy, John managed to make his legs support him, and even carry him the three or four steps over to Sherlock’s side.
“On the count of three, then, shall we? One. Two. Three.”
The photographer snapped the picture.
And that year, for the first time in over three decades, the Annual “My Sons at Christmas” photo contained something approaching a genuine smile.
V, I adore you.
