Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 9)

A hare darts across the driveway as the Land Rover rolls through the gates of Musgrave Cottage, the loose gravel skittering under its frantic feet.

As they unload the car, Y/N can see the black and white eye-like markings of its tail watching them as it lollops across the neighbouring field, stained yellow by the sun marinating into a citrusy orange stain on the sky. Instinctually, she ducks her head through the honeysuckle wrapped about the door frame---out of habit; but it merely buzzes tiredly with the last few bumblebees working the late shift, their fuzzy bodies weighed down with sweet, dusty pollen.

Mrs Holmes is preparing dinner as Y/N heaves her grocery bags onto the kitchen, her hands determinedly working a wet lump of mozzarella as large as a brick against a fatigued-looking grater.

Stepping over quickly, Y/N offers brightly:

"Here, let me do that for you, Wendy."

Mrs Holmes relents the cheese gratefully and stretches her aching fingers. "Thank you, dear. I think I'm going to have to start buying dairy on an industrial scale to feed this lot." She gestures to the rest of the family visible through the little kitchen window, gathered out the front of the cottage, chatting merrily and soaking up the evening sun.

"They all disappear for the day then show up again when they get hungry," Wendy sighs, starting on muscling open a tin of tomato sauce with a can opener that looks like it's from the early twentieth century.

Once its contents have been removed, she stacks it with the other empty tins, heaped in a pyramid on the crowded counter like a carnival game.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock has already unpacked his 'Bag For Life' and is trying to shove the fat roast chicken they'd bought into a stout little Smeg freezer. "Mum, are you dead set on presentation or can I dismember this thing?" He slams the door on its behind impatiently, the door refusing to budge with a squeaking of ice and plastic.

"What are you doing, silly boy?" Mrs Holmes hurries over, pushing him aside and he steps back, defeated. Sighing, she hefts the bird onto the table and begins re-shuffling boxes of fish fingers and tubs of Ben and Jerry's. "Look at the mess you've made! Why don't you make yourself useful?"

"I'm already useful."

"Then be even usefuller and help Y/N and I make the lasagna."

Sherlock visibly perks up. "We're having lasagna?"

Managing to slot the chicken next to a family box of potato waffles, Wendy manages to squash the door closed with her shoulder as if zipping up an over-stuffed suitcase. Tentatively, she tests whether it holds and, when it does, straightens up with a sigh. "We should be, but I haven't even minced the meat yet."

"I'll do that, if it will make lasagna happen faster," he offers readily, and his mother snorts.

He looks affronted. "Hey, I know my way around a kitchen."

"Your mum wants you to cook, Sherl, not locate the biscuit tin in the dark," Y/N quips, and he sneers, stealing a wad of cheese from her pile and popping it into his mouth.

All the same, Mrs Holmes clears the countertop next to Y/N and sets him up with a meat grinder, bowl, and chopping board.

He arranges them around him as he does his science equipment, selecting a knife from the draw and holding it between finger and thumb as though it were a scalpel. Methodologically, he begins slicing the meat into even chunks.

Every now and again, Y/N catches him peering over at her workstation enviously, the mozzarella peeling easily off into milky white shavings.

"Can we swap jobs?" He asks, offering Y/N his gory chopping board with a taunting smirk.