Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 6)

For dessert, several people stand to aid Wendy in the kitchen, returning minutes later with apple pie, sticky toffee pudding, a fruit crumble, and several hundred jam tarts.

Despite their upper-class upbringing and probably nearing two hundred collective years of public school education, as soon as the puddings are placed on the table, manners and English decorum are defenestrated. In a mess of disorganised, desperate chaos they all leap up at once, scrabbling for the plumpest tarts, the chunkiest slices, snatching tubs of Wall's Soft Scoop and jugs of Ambrosia custard from one another like dogs arguing over a ham.

Apparently poised for such an event, Sherlock expertly dips into the mass of hands and manages to secure himself and Y/N a veritable feast of treats.

"Pudding, m'lady?" He jests with a smile, offering her a plate, and she giggles despite herself, hoping he hasn't noticed the genuine blush tinting the tips of her ears.

Everything tastes wonderful, and when the spread had been laid out,Y/N had expected the congratulations to go, once again, to Mrs Holmes, or perhaps an aunty with flour up to her elbows and butter stains scuffing her dress.

In actuality, everyone is clapping Mycroft on the back, hurling compliments at him about 'flakiness' and 'moistness' and the intricacies of the lattice structure of the pie crust.

His pale complexion suffered with an uncharacteristic, barley perceptible dash of pink, he revels in their praise and Y/N gapes at Sherlock, admittedly a little in awe.

"I didn't know Mycroft can cook."

After seeing his childhood bedroom, Y/N had begun to picture Mycroft's home-life like that of some kind of droid; for each meal consuming nothing but a tasteless smoothy of necessary nutrients, then, to sleep, standing in a corner and powering down for exactly eight hours.

A bowl of fresh whipped cream is being passed around and Sherlock heaps some into his plate. With a spoon, he eats it on its own like yoghurt:

"He's always loved food," he drawls with disinterest. "It's the only thing about him that's human. He could have opened a bakery if he actually had a soul."

"Do you think he'd be a better baker than...what even is his job?"

"I don't know; every time he talks to me about it I start composing classical music in my head. However, I do know he'll never follow his true calling so don't even bother complimenting him. He thinks anything creative is below him intellectually." He puts finger quotes around 'intellectually' and while he is speaking, a fork extends to swipe a chunk of his sticky toffee pudding---

---but he prods it warningly with his own and it retreats.

Sherlock catches Y/N's alarmed expression. "You've got to stand up for yourself," he explains.

Sure enough, when she turns back to her own bowl Y/N notices one of her largest and ripest strawberries has been snaffled.

...

Y/N offers to help clear up after dinner but finds the vacancy filled by no less than six of Sherlock's relatives, all bunched around the kitchen sink like hens.

Mrs Holmes is in the process of asking her sister's husband, Pierre, about the health of his many grandchildren.

Balancing nine plates along his tired arms like a skilled waiter, he declares:

"Ce sont des petites canailles!" Which begins a lively discussion in French about child-rearing.

Still feeling slightly guilty about not making herself useful, Y/N has to be led away by Sherlock who directs her to the living room.