Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 5)

Night falls slowly and then all at once, the golden glow leaching from the fields until each head of corn is a crisp silver studded with pearls of moisture.

Up ahead, Y/N can see the Musgrave Cottage swaddled among the dark hills and emerging stars, its curtain-drawn windows and porch light setting the whole thing glowing like a lantern. The kitchen window is the brightest, the few Holmeses that chose to remain behind to prepare dinner occasionally flitting past the pane.

When the driveway eventually crunches under the walker's feet they are greeted by the smell of dinner; yorkies and gravy and the sweet pastry of a pie leaking like steam between the windows, seeping over the sill and dribbling all the way down the garden.

In the desperate, shuffling way wellies are shed, everyone removes their outdoor wear and departs to their rooms to wash up, then assembles in the dining room.

An exceptionally long table takes up the length of the room, and, even then, several other tables have been added to each end---the breakfast table from the kitchen, a desk from the living room, and a folding table from the shed---to accommodate the extra dinner guests.

It takes four vast tablecloths to shroud the entire thing, decorative candles glowing merrily along the centre, utterly swamped by so many heaped plates Y/N worries the table legs will give out.

The air hums with lively, animated conversation, the joy and excitement of being assembled all together evident on every Holmes's face.

Quite smitten with it all, Y/N follows Sherlock to the right side of the table, heavy red curtains drawn across the wide bay windows.

Chairs have been brought in from every room to accommodate the hoard of Holmeses, some of the older generations enjoying armchairs dragged in from the living room, the youngers perched on breakfast stools.

Y/N---who had been generously offered a plush desk chair---makes herself comfortable, arms immediately coming from all directions to offer her a drink.

Beside her, Sherlock crosses his long legs on an upholstered footstool, and Y/N smiles down at him smugly.

"Hello, Shorty," she smirks, and he sticks his pink tongue out at her.

From somewhere a woman's voice chastises him as if he's a naughty child:

"Put that away! You'll catch a fly!"

Startled, Y/N looks around the many faces to see whom the authority figure had been, but it's difficult to tell:

Many conversations criss-cross over the table like multi-colored yarn. Some are in English, but Y/N picks up a few sentences in Russian, and several in French.Two cousins to her side seem to be conversing in a stiff, scripted sort of way, and Y/N realises their entire discussion is in quotations from famous poems, the two riffing off each other as though it were a delightful game.

Uncle Wilber is the only one saying nothing, although after watching him amongst his peers Y/N realises he is saying a great deal but with his eyes and hands, moving them rapidly in his own kind of sign language.

His partners in conversation seem to understand him perfectly:

Y/N watches as Digby remembers something and dips a hand into his voluminous breast pocket.

Finding it, he pulls out the rounded, speckled feather of a barn owl.

Y/N had seen him pick it up from the grass on their walk, and, presently, he presents it to Wilber, who becomes obviously excited and thanks him with a silent hand pressed earnestly to his brother's heart.