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Mycroft Holmes bade farewell to his driver and watched as the black sedan departed with a crunch of gravel. Balancing his briefcase, three gift bags and his ubiquitous umbrella in one arm, he wrestled the front door of the big house open, cursing under his breath as he almost managed to dislodge the Christmas wreath hanging from it
No sooner had the door opened with a cheery carillon than he was being relieved of his burden by the Holmes’ capable housekeeper. Mrs Graham set aside packages before taking his coat, scarf and umbrella off to the cloakroom. “I’ll bring tea through to your study, Mr Mycroft.”
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but she breezed past him with a small smile “They’re out in the stables, sir.”
As usual, the study was a relative calm space in the ocean of chaos that made up the rest of the household, as this was the private domain of the head of the Holmes household. Mycroft nodded gravely to the only other resident who was allowed to seek refuge in his sanctuary, before flipping through the mail that had been left on the console table by the door and checking his messages one last time.
The enormous one-eyed, grey-blue Burmese tomcat with a squashed face sitting on the corner of his desk stared back before yawning insouciantly. Mycroft had long ago given up the battle for alpha male in the household to the cat after purchasing him as a tiny, enormous-eyed kitten for his heartbroken new fiancée after her beloved Toby died unexpectedly. Only Molly still called the silver behemoth ‘Smudge’; as in her eyes he was still the soft ball of fluff Mycroft had put in her hands nearly a decade before. The rest of the household were more aware that the cat was an explosive ball of fury to anything smaller than a pony, and so his names varied from the unrepeatable (the gardener) to the affectionate ‘Monster’ (the children).
Mycroft had warmed to the cat after Molly’s brother and family had visited the Grange for the first time after their marriage. He’d been skimming his mails for the day while absently petting the cat in one of the big leather armchairs when the heavily pregnant Molly had brought her brother in. Matt’s first words had been “Good god, Molls. You married a Bond villain!”. Molly’s subsequent fit of the giggles had dissipated the chilly atmosphere, as she’d hardly been able to move and had needed assistance to make it to the hallway lavatory before embarrassing herself.
Freshly fortified with tea delivered by Mrs Graham, and secure in the knowledge that no international crises were demanding his attention Mycroft finally felt able to relax for the weekend. He stepped back into the hallway and pulled on a wax jacket and a tweed cap to cover his bald patch before heading out through the kitchen to the rear of the big house, crossing the yard to the old stable block.
Light streamed out as he opened the door to the stable and gazed fondly at his wife who knelt in the straw on the floor in front of the last box, making crooning noises. As the chilly air swept in around Mycroft’s ankles, the children looked up at the intrusion. Felicity bounced to her feet with a gap-toothed smile and launched herself at him, long reddish curls flying behind her as she latched around his middle “Papa!” Mycroft rocked back on his heels under the assault, since the eight-year old had a healthy solidity to her, and stroked her hair fondly.
Molly looked up at him, a rueful expression on her face as she gently turned little Alfred round and prodded him forward. The toddler beamed brightly and walked carefully over to present his father with a ball of yellow and black fluff. Mycroft bent down and cradled his son’s small hands in his own larger ones. “It’s a baby goose, Daddy” Alfie announced.
Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Yes, it’s a gosling”.
His eldest daughter huffed her annoyance from behind him. Mycroft could almost hear Pippa rolling her eyes, a habit she’d recently acquired from Sherlock. “Not the point, Alfie” she sneered, then blushed faintly when Molly coughed pointedly so moderated her tone.
“It’s where the gosling came from that’s important.” Pippa announced.
“From a mummy goose’s egg” injected Alfie in tones that clearly added “…you idiot” to the end of the statement. Mycroft drew on three decades of diplomatic impassivity to hide his laugh. Molly’s undignified snort was hastily turned into a cough.
Pippa sighed in utter exasperation, which Mycroft had to admit she’d probably gotten honestly from him. “We’re not supposed to have any goslings. We’re only supposed to have geese, not ganders”.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Molly, who blushed a very becoming shade of pink. “Ummm, well yes.”
The geese were part of Molly’s ongoing efforts to run a smallholding in the expansive grounds of the Holmes’ country seat, which Mycroft had inherited on the death of his great-uncle. Molly had fallen in love with The Grange and had thrown herself enthusiastically into country life. Despite Mycroft’s assurances that he had no expectations and copious guarantees of nannies and support, Molly had chosen to take a career break on starting their family. Baby in tow, she had thrown herself into the nearby village church and WI, and could be relied upon to turn up at every charity coffee morning, fete or concert. Molly’s cheerful disposition and willingness to get stuck in coupled with offers of use of the facilities at The Grange (and Mycroft frequently dipping into his chequebook) had led to her being considered eccentric rather than odd and a bit of a local celebrity.
Her efforts had led to the earlier acquisition of five goats, four llamas, two breeding sows, ten hens and a rescue donkey. Mycroft’s own inability to deny a pair of soulful eyes turned on him in supplication (and therefore a tendency to spoil his children) had further added two ponies, four dogs, three more cats and a veritable menagerie of smaller indoor pets. The Embden geese had been acquired from a local farmer the previous spring, with assurances of the gender.
“We checked in the shed earlier, when we saw the babies” chimes in Felicity. “There’s five more nests with eggs” She frowns slightly “I think we need to rename Bertha. She… he was hissing at us. Mum said that’s what ganders do to scare enemies away from the babies”. Six nests, six brooding females, Mycroft thinks. He’s forced to admit to himself that he’d have no idea how to sex a goose, but the logic seems sound.
Molly holds out a hand, so he reaches down and pulls her to her feet. She deliberately leans into the pull so she overbalances and he’s forced to steady her with an arm round her waist as she leans into him. Mycroft squeezes her against his side and slides a hand over her curvy bottom out of sight of the children, at which she looks up at him through lowered lashes.
“Myc,” she begins, with that tone in her voice that he has absolutely no defences against. “We can’t take them away from their babies. Soooo... I was thinking… how about we have turkey for Christmas dinner, instead of goose like we planned?”
Mycroft wilts a little inside. He doesn’t like turkey; it’s too dry for his palate and he’d been looking forward to a plump roast goose like he remembers from his childhood. The whole reason he’d tolerated the noise and mess of a flock of the damned birds had been the promise of a delectable feast at the end of the process.
The children are usually refreshingly sanguine about eating farmyard animals they’ve petted, much to the shock of their friends (and distaste of many adults), as befits being both Holmeses and children of a pathologist. However today they too have turned pleading eyes on him, even little Alfie from his spot clinging to Mycroft’s trouser leg. Mycroft sighs theatrically, and is profoundly grateful that none of his staff can see how quickly his willpower crumbles in the face of this particular opposition.
“All right. Just this one last time. We’ll buy a turkey” he concedes.
Pippa and Felicity whoop with joy, which of course shows their total shamelessness in knowing just how easily they have him wrapped round their little fingers. Somehow Mycroft can’t quite bring himself to care about it too much when faced with the happiness of his little family. When Molly stands on tiptoe to press a brief kiss to his mouth and smiles brightly at him, he’s content.
Even if he does have to eat bloody turkey for Christmas again.