Sophia Holmes and the Scandal in Belgravia *Completed*

Chapter Twenty Four - Christmas with the Holmes' Part II

At lunch, I'm drawn away from my investigations when Mrs Hudson brings in a tray with four plates piled high with roast dinner. Remembering the promise we'd made to Mrs Hudson to be nice to her today, I set the book down and take my seat at the table.

The fire crackles in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the grey room. It's snowing outside and a fresh layer has long since covered the deliverer's footprints.

It's evident from the wrapping paper that it was a gift from the Doctor, but it's very unlikely he delivered it personally. It must have been delivered by someone who lives quite close as the absence of a postage stamp suggests it was delivered by hand.

"You alright, Sophie dear?" Mrs Hudson asks, setting down a plate in front of me. "You look a bit out of it?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I lie, but put my thoughts of the present to the side for now and fix a grin to my face. "Has John told you yet about what Sherlock put up as a Christmas decoration last week?" I ask and she frowns, shaking her head. John chuckles as he puts a roast potato into his mouth while dad looks indignantly over. "John suggested we made the place a bit more festive so asked Sherlock to buy a leaf of mistletoe," I explain, watching dad. "When he came back with the tree, John found a severed toe tied to a piece of ribbon suspended from the door frame." Mrs Hudson looks questioningly over at dad.

"Oh Sherlock," she began, disapprovingly, "what did you do that for?"

"I thought he said a 'missing toe'," dad grumbled, barely audible before raising a hand in indignation. "How was I supposed to know that he meant I should hang a clump of foliage from the ceiling. It's completely ridiculous."

"Yeah," I say, patting him on the back mockingly, "because hanging a toe from the door makes total sense."

"Says the girl who thought you hang Christmas lights on the tree after you hang the ornaments."

"Well at least I didn't burn that Christmas tree," I retort, glancing pointedly at the space where the tree had been. A few crispy needles are still embedded in the carpet as lasting evidence of the failed experiment.

"That was an accident, Sophia," dad protests and I raise an eyebrow.

"You know, an accident is, by definition, an unplanned event or circumstance," I return and dad goes quiet. Realisation crosses John's face.

"Anyone for pudding?" Mrs Hudson asks, standing up and collecting our plates before dad can argue back. I wonder if she ever regrets breaking off her relationship with her daughter - maternal instinct seems to come naturally to her.

"No thanks, Mrs H," John replies. "I'm stuffed."

"Cracker?" I ask him, breaking the staring competition between dad and I as I offer him one from beside my chair.

"I wondered where they had got to," John exclaims, gripping the opposite end to me. As he pulls, it triggers a large explosion his end of the cracker - not enough to harm him, but his face and hands are black from the spark.

Dad and I redesigned these crackers a couple weeks ago while John was out. Well, ordinary crackers are so boring - what could be the harm in livening them up a bit? I let my end of the cracker go and jump up from the table as John recovers from his shock.

"You little ..." he starts before standing up himself. I bolt for the door, dodging Mrs Hudson and her Christmas pudding as she takes it back into the kitchen. John follows me as I sprint down the stairs and through the front door into the snowy streets outside.

I get outside with enough time to gather up a ball of snow and toss it at John as he emerges from inside. It hits him square in the face. He freezes for a moment and I quickly read his body language to anticipate his next move, but he quickly squats down, gathers up his own ball and throws it over. It hits me on the forehead before I can dodge it and the snow begins to melt in my hair and trickles down my neck. That's when the war began.

Taking shelter behind a parked car, I build up an arsenal of compacted snow and peer round the side to check John's position. He has also taken shelter behind a van a little further up the road.

Other than us and a few passers by, Baker Street is like a ghost street with everybody still inside, enjoying Christmas with their family, leaving the road to be a perfect battlefield.

Maybe I should have thought twice before launching an attack on an ex-soldier. I see his reflection in the wing-mirror of the car and aim a snowball so it curves around and hits him. His face contorts as the snow melts and clears a pathway where it washes away some of the soot. In return, he stands up and shoots several over the car so they hit me in quick succession. Feeling more trickle down my back, I dart back to the door to the flats, carrying with me the last of my snowballs and throwing them as I run. Three of them hit the car but the last two manage to hit their mark as John stands up and begins chasing me, pelting more snowballs towards me as I run. As I reach the door to the flats, dad blocks my entrance allowing John to catch up with me and push a large lump of snow down the back of my shirt.

Laughing, dad and John escort me back inside and Mrs Hudson hands me a towel which I gratefully receive. I'm shivering with the cold of outside and the melted snow which has made my clothes sodden. John is a little less worse for wear but his jumper and face is nevertheless soaking wet.

"You should have seen your face!" I laugh as we march back upstairs.

"Exploding crackers?!" John questions, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know quite what I was expecting when having Christmas with the Holmes'." He looks at me and reads my expression. "No, you're not using them tonight."

"You spoil all my fun," I smile as we reach the top of the stairs. "Who's for a game of Cluedo?"