The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Three

Updated as of 12/31/16

White fairy lights twinkled and bits of tinsel shimmered among the ornaments on the Christmas tree. John smiled. He'd done a bang up job. He sat back in his chair by the fire, stomach pleasantly full from Christmas dinner. What a spread. Mrs. Hudson's chestnut stuffed turkey, Lestrade's brussel sprouts with bacon, and Molly's roasted potatoes. He and Sherlock had contributed sausages and a few mince pies. Not as good as home-made, but neither of them were skilled cooks, or at least if Sherlock was, he refused to bother.

Sherlock finished playing a rousing rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' on his violin, and everyone applauded.

"That was wonderful," Mrs. Hudson said, cheeks pink.

"Just lovely," Molly agreed.

John's mobile chimed.

Sorry! Nearly there.

"She's almost here," John called over to Sherlock. Vivian had texted him earlier saying she'd be late to the party. He'd begun to wonder whether she would show at all.

Sherlock's hand slowed as he ran a dry cloth over his violin strings, but he made no reply.

"Someone else is coming?" Molly turned to face John, ponytail bobbing.

"Yes, Vivian Walker, a friend of ours. We met her during a case," John said.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Wasn't she the woman who drugged her husband's tea?"

John laughed. "No, that was Valerie Cooper. Vivian is the one who walloped a murderer in the face with her cast."

"Oh, that's right. I remember now."

"It was a hell of shot," Lestrade said, grinning. "She knocked Renee's front tooth loose."

Mrs. Hudson set her hands on her hips. "Well, from what John told me, that awful woman deserved it."

"And you invited her here?" Molly asked.

"Yes. She hasn't got any family, and she was kind enough to treat us to dinner last night."

"Oh." Molly worried the hem of her jumper, and cast a furtive look at Sherlock who was busy settling his violin back in its case.

Right. Time for a drink. John stood and went into the kitchen. Steam rose from a pot of simmering ruby liquid. He ladled the mulled wine into a mug. Cinnamon, cloves, and honey scented the air.

"She's young and pretty, isn't she?"

Molly had followed him. She wound a bit of loose yarn from the cuff of her jumper around one finger, eyes refusing to meet his. John pursed his lips. So. Definitely still carrying a torch for Sherlock, then. That took both commitment and terrible taste in men.

"She's thirty-three." As to the second half of Molly's question, well, there was really no safe way to answer it. It wasn't as if he could lie and say Vivian was repulsive since Molly would find out for herself soon enough. And as far as telling the truth went, well, he seriously doubted Molly really wanted to know. Or did she? Women were confusing.

"It makes sense now," Molly said, pulling the yarn taut. "Sherlock kept sneaking glances out the window and checking the time like he was waiting for something. But he's been waiting for her, hasn't he?"

John hadn't noticed anything, but he hadn't been watching Sherlock, certainly not as closely as Molly. He handed her the glass of mulled wine since it was clear she needed it more than he did. "Look, Sherlock might have been keeping an eye out for her, but you know he's not into that sort of thing."