December 17th: Some Things You Can’t Unsee

The day had ended so well, all things considered. The French prime minister had been sufficiently dealt with—the man was an odious toad, but he was the best the French could do. The poor dears. The Israeli prime minister had been talked out of declaring war with India over his daughter’s unfortunate romantic inclinations. Honestly, if one is determined to fuck their way through all and sundry, one should at least invest in adequate contraceptives. Though, why such a purely sentimental, familial concern should make its way to Mycroft’s desk would be a question for the ages surely.

And so, the day had gone rather well. All crises had been averted. No one who didn’t need it had been killed. No one that hadn’t earned it had been killed. The criminal element of Britain was quiet in deference to the holidays. All was well with Mycroft’s world.

Or it should’ve been, at any rate. It was. Right up until he took a call from Mummy.

“Hello, Mummy,” he said in his usual austere manner.

“Hello, Sweetums! I know you didn’t make any Christmas plans because you were fully intending to come home for Christmas. Isn’t that right, ducky?” She said sweetly.

Mycroft swallowed. It seemed Mummy was in one of her moods and would require delicate handling. “Of course not, Mummy. I always come home for Christmas. Except for that truly unfortunate year where I spent the whole holiday negotiating the release of POWs because those ridiculous colonists couldn’t handle their own dirty work.”

She chuckled. “Yes, I do remember that—a most unfortunate bit of business, to be sure. So you will be home this year?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Excellent! That’s such good news, dear. Now, about Sherlock,” she began.

Mycroft resolutely did not groan, whine, or pout despite how much he wanted to. The British Government was above such plebeian behavior. He was an adult for fuck’s sake.

“I’m having a little soireé this year on Friday next, and I want Sherlock and John to be there.” She paused, “I expect you to get your brother here and adequately attired, Mycroft. That business with the not to be born.” She said with the quiet menace of a furious mother.

Mycroft’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “This year, Mummy?”

“Yes, this Christmas. I’m not about to wait another year. Honestly, Mycroft.” She huffed into the phone. “If your brother comes home in anything less than proper attire, you’ll all regret it—do you understand?

“Yes, Mummy, I understand perfectly.”

“Wonderful. Oh, and do be sure that John doesn’t come in some cheap, off the rack excuse for a suit, won’t you Mycroft? I should hate to be embarrassed by my new son-in-law looking like some sort of street urchin. My reputation just wouldn’t survive it.”

Mycroft cringed. Excellent, John and Sherlock would require new suits.

“Of course, Mummy. I’ll take care of everything.”

“That’s a good boy,” she said sweetly. “Well, I must be off, planning and such you understand. Bye, love.”

“Goodbye, Mummy.”

And thereby was his good mood slain.

No one appreciated his hard work anymore. No one.

In any event, he’d promised Mummy that both Sherlock and John would be present for the soireé—and appropriately attired. No one was ever going to forget that uncouth stunt Sherlock had pulled and with the Queen no less! No, Sherlock would be present, dressed, and presentable for their mother’s event.

Though John would require some maneuvering. The man was an adult, had survived a war, was a doctor—with the income that implied—and yet he was utterly incapable of dressing himself in a proper, acceptable manner. Mycroft knew John had not, in point of fact, been raised in a barn nor by wild circus performers. John’s insistence on wearing sartorial choices that made the man look like a homeless, destitute, drug addict was utterly baffling. Apparently, there were, indeed, some things that even his most exceptional intellect could not fathom.

And so, John would need a proper suit purchased. Which meant he would need to get John’s measurements. Sherlock’s measurements could easily be obtained at the same time. So that was two things down on his list.

Mycroft pursed his lips as he picked up his phone and dialed his assistant. She was going by Christina this week, as she worked her way through female poets of the twentieth century. Which was an improvement over her last choice—Rupi for Rupi Kaur. Not that Mycroft had anything against Rupi Kaur, but Christina was milk pale, had light blue eyes, and light brown hair. Which is to say, she pulled Rupi off about as well as the Zeppelin succeeded after it caught fire.

“Christina, a moment of your time” he began, waiting for her to come into his office. “I require measurements for Sherlock and Dr. Watson immediately. Take them to Trunk Clothiers for a rush order, Vincent should know what to do. And do make sure to tell them this is a rush job. I expect both suits in two days.”

“Yes, sir,” Christina said. She turned and left, the clicking of her nails against her phone screen distinct in the background.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. Everything would come along, precisely as planned.

— — — —

The sun was shining, birds were chirping, by all accounts, it was a good winter’s day.

By all accounts except for Sherlock’s. With the holiday bustle, interesting crime was down. It seemed that even criminals decided to take breaks every now and again. It was bloody awful.

Why couldn’t people just cooperate?!

Sherlock was lying on the couch, naked except for his robe, with his leg thrown over the back of the sofa pouting as though his life depended on it. He was bored for fuck’s sake. Why did no one care?

The sound of footsteps reached him, but he was too deep into his own pity party to really care. It was just John, after all—so nothing interesting.

“Sherlock,” John began. “I’m off to the children’s hospital. I’ll be back later tonight. Try not to blow anything up or drive Mrs. Hudson crazy, yeah?”

“Do try to refrain from terrorizing the poor little things, John,” he said absently. “Some children find strange men dressed as mythological figures to be quite traumatic.”

John rolled his eyes. “Kids love Santa Clause, Sherlock. And by kids, I mean regular kids, not the genius ones. Besides, this is just a bit of holiday cheer for the ones stuck in hospital.” He walked over, kissed Sherlock on the forehead, and then left.

Sherlock never looked up.

He was still bored. Damnit!

— — — —

Later that day, both suits picked up and pressed—including all necessary accouterments—they were ready for their intended recipients. Read victims. Mycroft went to 221B to finagle his brother and John Watson into their proper attire and get them to the estate for Mummy’s soireé. He’d allotted himself six hours for this particular excursion. Three to argue with Sherlock and get him into the suit, two to get him into the car, and an hour to get both men to the final event.

His car pulled up outside the flat, his driver came around to open his door.

“Wait here, please,” he said as he went up the stairs to the front door.

“Yes, sir,” his driver said.

Mycroft opened the door and proceeded up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.

As he approached the door, the television could be heard volume turned to what must’ve been the maximum the television could produce. Some inane Christmas themed movie playing, though Mycroft could not make out any other sounds in the flat. He paused, eyes narrowed in suspicion before he opened the door and walked in.

And then promptly wished he’d never come at all.

In a trail of horrifying breadcrumbs, leading from the door to the living room, were various articles of clothing. All of them garishly red and themed. From the front door down the hallway, were red velvet trousers, reindeer themed pants, black suspenders, and a ridiculous white shirt. By the kitchen, there was an empty violet-colored velvet bag—obviously intended to be used for transporting presents. Hanging from the light fixture were black silk pants covered in little snowmen. Obviously, these were Sherlock’s pants as John wouldn’t dare to purchase silk pants. Mycroft shuddered in horror.

He turned towards the living room, where the television was located and promptly stopped—he gagged a little and promptly wished for a drink—any drink so long as it blocked out the images. He stared, his brain valiantly attempting to reboot.

John Watson, dressed in a horrifically terrible pair of Santa themed socks, a red velvet coat trimmed in fake white fur that was barely hanging onto his shoulders and completely open in the front and, to complete the ensemble, a Santa hat—also trimmed in fake fur—was currently balls deep inside Sherlock. Sherlock, his little brother, who was wearing a matching Santa hat but, thankfully, no atrocious pants was moaning like he’d paid for it.

Which explained why the television had the volume up so loud. Clearly, they were attempting to keep their activities secret from Mrs. Hudson. He should’ve turned right around and left as soon as he heard the noise. Sherlock hated television and especially hated Christmas themed programming.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing such a thing as brain bleach actually existed and was on hand presently.

“Harder John,” Sherlock whimpered as he pulled against the black belt keeping his arms bound behind his back.

“Ahem.” Mycroft cleared his throat.

John groaned deep in his throat, “you’ve been such a good boy, Sherlock,” John said roughly. He pulled Sherlock’s hips back roughly.

“Gentlemen!” He exclaimed, determined to not witness any more of this trauma then absolutely necessary.

“Oh, bugger off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted, his voice hoarse. “I’m busy. Yes, John, just like that!” He moaned deep in his throat and pushed his ass back into John’s thrusts.

“Mummy called and said she expects you both at her annual soireé tonight,” he began.

Sherlock gasped. John groaned and kept pounding into Sherlock like a man possessed.

Mycroft stared at the ceiling, determined to do his duty.

“We’ll be with you in a moment, Mycroft,” John growled. “If you’d leave.” He kept on powering into Sherlock, his hips smacking into Sherlock’s ass loudly.

Sherlock whimpered. “Please, John. Please.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You have ten minutes. I will be timing you.” Then he turned around and left the flat.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard a loud exclamation and an accompanying shout.

Brain bleach. He needed all the brain bleach. He shuddered in horror.

— — — —

John collapsed against Sherlock’s back, panting for breath. Sherlock was still gasping underneath him.

“That was…” John paused.

“Bloody fantastic,” Sherlock gasped.

John groaned. “Sherlock did I or did I not, imagine Mycroft just now.” John was slowly starting to panic.

“That was, indeed, Mycroft—the bloody arse—attempting to interrupt a most fantastic shag,” Sherlock replied smugly. “Well done, by the way. Telling him off like that. You didn’t even pause. I’m most impressed, John.”

John blushed scarlet and buried his face against Sherlock’s hair. “Of, fuck. How the hell am I supposed to be able to face him again?”

Sherlock smirked. “Why you’re not ashamed of me, are you John?” His voice wobbled most piteously.

“What? No! Of course, I’m not ashamed of you, Sherlock,” he began.

“Then it’s all settled! You have nothing to worry about.” Sherlock wiggled to get more comfortable and then pulled John down. “Now shut up and cuddle me!”

— — — —

After the excruciating developments at Baker Street, Mycroft—after employing some assistance from Christina—had finagled both Sherlock and John into their assigned suits and bundled off for the trip to the estate. Everything was well underway if not running smoothly.

Mycroft was determined not to let his unfortunate glimpse into Sherlock’s sex life ruin his evening—or his ability to look his brother in the eye. He was an adult, and such sentimentality would not affect him.

They made it to the party—early even—and, after strongly worded threats to Sherlock, were taken to Mummy for an inspection.

“Mummy,” Mycroft began.

She turned to look at them after excusing herself from her current conversation. “Oh, Mycroft dear! How lovely to see you!” She said with feigned surprise. She hugged Mycroft in the typical high society fashion—read leaned into him and patted his back—and then turned her sights onto Sherlock. “Sherlock, dear, so good of you to come.”

Sherlock’s pout was firmly in place. “Yes, well, it’s not like I had much choice, did I?” He said acerbically.

John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. Sherlock’s pout deepened.

Mummy Holmes turned to John. “Dr. Watson, a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand. “I’ve here ever so much about you.” She said with a smile.

“The pleasure’s mine,” John said stiffly. “Thank you for having me.”

“I’d be having you if it weren’t for this stupid,” Sherlock murmured quietly.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “That’s enough, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Anyway, it’s so good to see my boys! Christmas is a time for family, after all,” Mummy Holmes said serenely. “And John, you look positively wonderful. Navy is your color, dear.”

John smiled stiffly. This was going to be a long night.

Mummy looked more closely at the boys. “Well, there’s no need to be embarrassed, boys, sex happens. Yes, yes,” she waved her hand. “It’s unfortunate that Mycroft walked in on you—really, that was terribly crass of you both—but life happens. Put on your smiles, boys, I’d like you to meet Dr. Alexander.” And so she moved on, leading them from person to person all night, keeping a firm eye on Sherlock to ensure he didn’t escape—and take John with him.

— — — —

Mycroft sat back and sipped his glass of Macallan scotch. He wasn’t usually a drinker, but after the day—and more importantly the night—he’d had, he deserved it.

Never again. He was never going through this ever again.

Profilers for Christmas is an anonymous crime drama Advent Calendar featuring both art and stories. Additional information about the challenge can be found here.