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Christmas at the Holmes’ was not nearly as disastrous as John anticipated it to be. Sherlock and Mycroft were polite enough with one another as to not upset Mummy, though they did have worldless arguments from across their sitting places in the living room. “Oh! John! Did I ever tell you about Sherlock’s favorite book when he was younger?”
Both Sherlock and Mycroft perked up at that, for drastically different reasons. Mycroft looked like the cat that ate the canary, and any other weird metaphor for smug, gleeful, and excited. Sherlock just looked devastated and embarrassed. Period. “No, I’ve never heard,” John said, back straightening and mouth turning up into a small smile. ‘This oughta’ be good,’ John had tried to imagine Sherlock as a child many, many times. He could never think that Sherlock ever read anything less knowledgeable than a college textbook, and going from the looks on both the brother’s faces, this was not the case. “Mummy no…” Sherlock slumped into his seat as if trying to be engulfed by the soft leather couch. This only served to make John lean forward in attention. The fire crackled to the left as it also felt the need to know. “It was ‘Baby Blue Cat and the Whole Batch of Cookies’,” She remarked proudly. Mycroft chuckled, staring at Sherlock who was curled up into ball and burying his head into the cushions.
John huffed a small breath of laughter, “I’ve never heard of it,” “Oh, It’s the most darling book!” She exclaims. “Y’know I’ve never been able to imagine Sherlock as a child, reading children’s books-” “Oh do you want pictures?” Mummy asked just as Sherlock got up to defend his honor. “It was not, as you say, a children’s book. It’s very knowledgeable and informing on guilt, temptation and the art of wanting to do good but personal flaws being an obstacle. It is also teaching of forgiveness.” Sherlock sniffed the last word and raised his nose as if daring anyone to correct him. Mycroft just snorted. “It’s a book about a blue cat that eats a whole batch of cookies and then feels bad and goes crying to his mother,” “Like you don’t eat a batch of cookies on a daily basis Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered, and plopped back down onto the couch again. In his distraction, Mummy had retrieved the Family Photo Album from the antique bookshelves by the fireplace. “I have several of him reading the book all over the house, I call it the Baby Blue Cat era. Before he could read, he would have me read it aloud numerous times before he finally fell asleep. Though sometimes Daddy or Mycroft would have to read it to him if I wasn’t available,” Then she added in a not-whisper, a hand shielding her mouth from the boys, “Mycroft was the most enthusiastic about reading it,” At that, John finally let out a long hard laugh. Mycroft reading a children’s book with a dramatic and in character voice to an enthralled Sherlock was just too pure and adorable to excuse. He was going to treasure this bit of information for the rest of his life. Mycroft looked affronted, and put a hand to his chest in hurt. “That’s… that’s adorable!” John wheezed. The rest of the evening was spent discussing childhood stories. Like how Mycroft was a Blues Clues kid and would go around leaving Post-It notes with pawprints on them all over the house, or how Sherlock screamed betrayal when a bee stung him for the first time. It was the best Christmas they’d had together, and the mellow feeling didn’t go away. Even when John baked Sherlock a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies on New Years.