Christmas at the Holmes' had become the norm for John. With his parents having passed away, his relationship with Harry nonexistent, and Mary having no living relatives to speak of before she passed, Sherlock had become their closest thing to family. The Holmes' were strange, sure, but he loved them nonetheless.

When they arrive to the old countryside farmhouse this year, John notices more than a few cars outside. Normally it's just him, Sherlock, Rosie, Mycroft, and Sherlock's parents, but there's more than 3 cars today. At least 6. Sherlock sighs heavily and thumps his forehead against the steering wheel. He mumbles something about relations before getting out of the car.

They enter through the front door and the house is more alive than John has ever seen it. People, most of whom he doesn't recognize, are talking in the kitchen and the living room. A few kids run around (maybe it's that the surprises him the most). He spots Mycroft immediately on the sofa, drinking a glass of amber liquor and making unenthusiastic conversation with someone.

Next to him, Sherlock is physically shrinking. He looks ready to bolt out the door. John claps him on the shoulder to keep him moving forward, and they approach his brother.

"Hey, Mycroft. Busy house this year." John greets the official looking man. "Didn't know you were having this many people come by."