Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 2)

Holmeses come at Y/N from all angles, thrusting out hands to shake and hurling introductions, all elegant and dignified but chaotic; like a gaggle of swans lunging at a slice of bread. The majority of them are tall, Y/N's eyes level with the collars of many button-up shirts poking out of cashmere, cuff links twinkling at her as she struggles to clasp all the hands in turn.

From the rear of the chaos, a woman's voice squarks:

"Move aside, Cecil!" and the waistcoats are elbowed out the way, patterned dresses from various Joule's catalogues taking their place. The handshakes now jangle with the clink of bracelets, rings pressed warm against Y/N's fingers. Soft fingers and thumbs pinch her cheeks, feminine arms dragging her in for hugs, her nose tickling with powdery floral perfumes.

Deciding it's pointless to try to fight it, Y/N lets her body be passed around for welcoming cuddles, necklaces poking her cheeks and dangly pearl earrings bumping her head, until suddenly, amongst the disarray, she feels a hand close around her elbow.

It tugs her right through the centre of the crowd of jostling, cooing Holmeses, until she pops out on the other side.

Blinking, Y/N raises her head to thank her saviour and finds the soft round face of a grey-haired woman, her eyes sea-foam green and sparkling with a familiar light. Beaming instantly with recognition:

"Mrs Holmes!"

They had met once before---when she and her husband had visited London for their eldest son's birthday.

Mycroft had insisted that he be spared of a party, but Mrs Holmes had snuck into his house and thrown one anyway. After struggling to wrangle together enough guests to constitute a 'gathering', she managed to wrangle Sherlock and his flatmate, Y/N, who were then subjected to an evening of Mycroft refusing to wear a party hat.

It had not been all bad, however, because once Mycroft had gone to bed early---claiming to have a headache---the small group were then free to play parlour games like Charades and Pictionary, which Mrs Holmes had spiced up with the addition of brandy.

Very quickly Y/N had fallen in love with Sherlock's parents, their kind nature, quick minds and rather chaotic approach to life that contrasts their children's so strikingly. Over Mrs Holme's shoulder, she cranes her head, searching for Mr Holmes but fails to find his floppy haircut amongst the throng.

Mrs Holmes flaps Y/N's formality away with a Union-Jack-patterned tea towel. "Call me Wendy, dear," she insists, her words softened with a delightful Cornish accent.

Sherlock has already unlaced his shiny black Oxfords and places them on a shoe rack among a dozen pairs of mud-cakes walking boots. "Hello, Mum." He gives Wendy a smile Y/N rarely sees and stoops to kiss her tenderly on the cheek.

Copying him, Y/N politely removes her own shoes and then her jacket, hanging it on one of the coat racks---a pair of deer antlers mounted to the wall.

Below them, next to the shoe rack is what appears to be an ivory umbrella stand---except one of the umbrellas is not an umbrella but a rusty longsword.

Y/N is busy staring at its engraved handle when Mrs Holmes takes her hand.

"Come this way, quickly." With surprising speed, she leads her on silent feet up the stairs in a way that makes Y/N think she has mastered the art of avoiding family members over many years of necessary practice.

...

The gaggle of Holmes's in the foyer don't seem to have noticed the new arrivals have scarpered; as Y/N disappears up the stairs they're still bunched tightly together, the tweed jackets and summer dresses churning as they scramble to locate them.