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A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 11)

Y/N and Sherlock pile their plates distractedly, filled with childlike anticipation for the bonfire to commence, excitement buzzing in the cool air like the nighttime insects gathering around the tee lights.

They have been dotted amongst the buffet-style meal so people can see roughly what they're grabbing with salad tongues and wooden spoons. Brought all the way from the cottage, the food has been hastily spread over several fold-out tables---soups and breads and salads and colourful things to fold up in wraps.

Eventually, when twilight begins to gather, Mr Holmes steps forward, a box of matches held ceremoniously above his head.

The hum of conversation falls silent, faces turning to watch him approach the humongous heap of branches and logs. They're wet and glistening with petrol, the moonlight stretched and warped over their grizzled bark.

Revelling in having everyone's attention, Mr Holmes strikes the match and declares loudly, holding the fluttering flame skyward towards the night:

"Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean!"

A cheer roars up from the small crowd, some standing, others squashed comfortably into lawn chairs and fold-out deck furniture.

Y/N's hand tightens on her dinner plate subconsciously, the atmosphere suddenly cultish.

Sherlock notices, smiling sideways at her. "He's quoting Ray Bradbury. You know...Fahrenheit 451."

Y/N's cheeks colour. "I knew that."

He smirks. "Obviously."

"Just light it, man!" Someone yells from a deckchair. It had been Trudi, Y/N thinks, cradling a bowl absolutely stacked with potato salad.

"Yeah! Stop dicking around, Charles!" Grandad George joins in, using a wooden spoon to cover his own plate with ham.

"He's so dramatic."

"He gets it from your side of the family," someone points out, his accent neatly ironed with the crispness of Cambridge.

"Well, obviously." A woman croons. "Don't you remember my performance in Les Mis?"

"You mean the 'performance' you gave in Kensington Gardens where you played all the characters yourself and were asked to leave by a mounted police officer?"

"Excuse me?" Mr Holmes clears his throat. "If you all wouldn't mind?"

"Oh yes, sorry dear," Miriam pipes up, making shushing motions with her little bird hands. "Everyone quiet down so Charlie can concentrate."

Charles' brother, Wilber, sniggers.

It is the first noise Y/N has heard him make.

Mycroft notices and adds, snidely, trying to make him laugh:

"Yes, pay attention, Father, and be careful! Fire can get quite hot."

Mr Holmes grumbles, using his free hand to wave away his son's teasing remarks. He's been leaning over for a while now, gently touching the little glowing match stick against a branch. However, the fire won't catch, and Y/N can just about see the little flame creeping closer and closer to his fingertips.

Swearing, he drops the match into the wood and pops his singed finger into his mouth.

"I did warn you," Mycroft sighs in mock pity, and Wilber sniggers again.

"Here you go, dear," Mrs Holmes bustles over with the butter dish. "Put your finger in this."

"Wendy, I don't want to put my finger in---"