Possibly, I'm Insane

John has this idea that a ski trip will be a fun family holiday. He’s not the best at skiing, but he likes very much the thought of going on holiday. He feels like they need it. It’s been a long year full of murder, and yes, that’s their lives, but still. He wants to sit by a fireplace sipping hot cocoa.

Mycroft says, “At a ski resort in the Alps? Nasty hotbeds of international intrigue.”

This recommends the idea to Sherlock. “Oh, excellent, let’s go.”

John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when someone dies in an avalanche and Sherlock insists it was murder. He suspects Mycroft arranged the whole thing.

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Sherlock says that baking is just chemistry and so he and Oliver have a whole plan to make crime-scene gingerbread men.

“And women,” Oliver adds. “Women can be murderers, too.”

John wonders if he should be proud of this feminist lesson from Oliver.

In retrospect, John realizes it was foolish of him to pop down to get a cuppa. He’s only gone a few minutes but he comes back to a flat filled with smoke, Sherlock darting around opening windows.

Oliver sits sadly with the remains of his gingerbread men. “They’ve been reduced to ashes.”

“It’s an arson,” John suggests.

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John thinks Oliver should take lessons. As if there’s anything Oliver could learn from other people!

“It’s just that it’s good for kids to learn new skills. Karate—”

“I can teach him self-defense skills.”

“—or cooking—”

“Cooking is just chemistry, I can teach him that, too.”

“These would be edible cooking lessons.”

Sherlock glares at John.

“Ice skating lessons?”

“Stupid.”

“Dancing,” John concludes. “He could learn dancing.”

“Why would Oliver need to know how to tango?” Sherlock asks disgustedly.

“He might want to woo someone someday. I’d like it if you knew how to tango, for instance.”

“I don’t see why he even needs to know how to drive,” Sherlock proclaims.  

“It’s a useful life skill. You never know when it might come in handy. Plus, he isn’t Mycroft. He won’t be driven around by dodgy black cars for the rest of his life.”

Sherlock considers. “He could be. I could talk to Mycroft about it. He’d support it.”

“Nope.” Sometimes the simplest way to put his foot down is the best, John has found.

“Well. Don’t think you’re teaching him. You’re a terrible driver. You miss everything important on the road. You’ll give him bad habits.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, sniffing the glass suspiciously.

“It’s eggnog,” Lestrade replied, amused. “Never had eggnog before?”

“When I was little,” John said, “I thought it was eggsnog.”

“And that you had it whilst snogging? Like mistletoe?”

“No, that it was made by eggs snogging.”

“How can eggs snog?” Sherlock demanded severely. “They don’t have mouths.”

“I was a kid, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed, like even a child should have realized eggs don’t have mouths. He said, “What’s it made of?”

“You can’t tell the chemical composition just by taking a sip?” Lestrade asked sarcastically.

Sherlock took a sip. “Maybe.”

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It’s a good thing they don’t do Father Christmas, because John has no idea when he would accomplish the subterfuge of bringing in the presents, given how scattered Oliver’s sleep schedule is.

But on the Christmas when Oliver is five, he surprises John by falling asleep in front of the fire early in the night, a book on communicable diseases open on his chest. John doesn’t have any secret presents to arrange, so he sits and watches Oliver sleep.

The clock chimes midnight, and Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his experiment when he murmurs, “Merry Christmas.”

“Indeed,” John agrees.

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According to John, it was time for Sherlock to “help with Christmas.” Sherlock found this unfair because he had helpfully informed John that the tree was crooked.

John gave him and Oliver the task of wrapping the presents for Mycroft and Lestrade.

“It’s like a math problem,” John said before he left.

Oliver said, “Is there a reason why we can’t just stick everything in a bin bag?”

“I already suggested that. Papa says it’s ‘not festive.’”

Oliver thinks for a moment. “We could stick a big bow on the top, though.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock agreed. “This is why we’re geniuses.”