BBC Sherlock: The Schemer's Pit

EPILOGUE

What happened on Boxing Day

The Set Up:

Parliament's Christmas recess meant Mycroft Holmes's pre-recess diary was crammed with public commitments and secret affairs of state that would have crushed the fortitude of a lesser man. Yet dealing with responsibilities of global proportions energized the "most indispensable man in the country." It put him in a cheery mood. So when Sherlock requested the use of Mycroft's posh London pied-a-terre—some excuse about 221B needing to be fumigated several days before Christmas—Mycroft felt munificence; he granted Sherlock's request and paid little mind to how long Sherlock planned to stay. It hardly mattered; Mycroft anticipated that his government business would keep him out of the city and quite likely the country for a week. He did not anticipate returning until Christmas Eve.

Landing at Luton at half ten on the morning of the 24th of December, Mycroft directed his driver to bypass London altogether. An hour later, they arrived at the country residence where the Holmes' family held their Yuletide festivities. Once his driver removed his bags, Mycroft dismissed him for the two-day holiday, expecting Gilbert would spend the time with his family nearby.

Mycroft stood on the doorstep of the red-brick cottage, rolled his neck and shoulders and prepared for one of the toughest challenges of the year—being hugged and kissed and squeezed with overwhelming affection by Mummy. While he had long-since grown accustomed to this seasonal invasion of personal space by his doting mother, along with his father's reminders how she worried, he tried to be the good son by not showing his distaste for parental sentiments. His efforts were moderately successful. They were not deterred but seemed pleased.

"Sherlock here yet?" Mycroft asked as he followed his parents into the chaos of a kitchen disordered by his mother's voluminous food preparation for their Christmas feast.

"He's on his way," Mummy said.

"A few last-minute chores in London," Father explained. "Soon, I expect."

"Harrumph!" Mycroft frowned but held his peace. As irritating as the Holmes' traditions were to them both, if Sherlock were the dutiful son—which he had decidedly become of late—he also would spend family time in the country: their sons' presence, even briefly, was their parents' only holiday desire. Both sons would return to London on Boxing Day.

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The Prep:

Sherlock took over his brother's residence as soon as Mycroft had flown to points undisclosed. The Holmes' household had once hosted affairs to impress the PM and various members of the House of Lords, but those events were long in the past, having ceased once Mycroft had gained position and top-secret status. Still, Mycroft's pied-a-terre was ideal for hosting an intimate affair with friends. The dining room was welcoming with its wainscoting in warm polished oak while leaded-glass windows bathed the room with soft December daylight. With Mycroft both conveniently out of the way and unaware of his younger brother's plan, Sherlock had the entire week to prepare unbothered and unimpeded for his Boxing Day fête.

The dinner would be an evening affair and lighting would be crucial in setting the proper ambiance, so Sherlock tested the lumens of the wall sconces and chandelier. For a dramatic flair, he brought out the silver candelabras—Vernet family heirlooms that had been tucked in anti-tarnish cloth for ages in the back of Mycroft's cupboards. A bit of polish was all they needed to bring them back to full luster.

Upon a fine linen tablecloth Sherlock set the table for six with the Holmes' family treasures. The silver shell-pattern cutlery, the delicate Crown Derby fine bone china in the old Imari pattern, and Waterford crystal he polished and washed spotless until they gleamed and sparkled. Linen serviettes graced each setting.

Most of Sherlock's time was spent in Mycroft's well-appointed kitchen. Several years earlier the kitchen had been modernized, fitted with stainless steel appliances—rarely used, Sherlock noted—and a luxury, high-end AGA oven—never used. With its requisite appurtenances, Scott Williams would have no trouble creating master dishes here.

Respecting the contents of his brother's larder, pantry, and prized wine-cellar, Sherlock had scoured Borough Market for fresh ingredients for the menu and a selection of choice cognacs, champagnes, and brandies to pair with his starters, dishes, and desserts. Mycroft's empty refrigerator had ample room to hold the plethora of ingredients for the Boxing Day menu.

To satisfy his need for the dramatic, Sherlock decided upon a main dish everyone would know and appreciate—raised-game pie. It would provide a fabulous presentation as the centerpiece of his dinner and would put to good use the grouse he annually received as a gift for past services from the current Duke of Denver—Lord Peter Wimsey's grandson Paul Bredon—who still hunted game on the substantial estate in Yorkshire. Although Sherlock customarily received a brace of grouse, this year at Sherlock's request Wimsey included some pheasant—more meat for the pie. Sherlock had accepted the Duke's offer to hang the game meat along with his own until, improved by aging, they were ready for Sherlock's pie preparations. With the birds in hand, via the Duke's special courier bringing them to Mycroft's kitchen, Sherlock was set for his main course.

Ensconced in his brother's home, Sherlock planned and strategized all his courses. On Christmas Eve morning, he brought in the wait staff—people he had vetted and culled from the most discreet servers—to rehearse the courses. Once they had passed muster, he dismissed them and finished the day preparing the desserts until he could no longer delay his departure to the country. Before leaving, Sherlock took one last look around. He ticked off in his head the to-do list for the morning of the 26th. He knew when to expect the last, prearranged delivery of ingredients from Fortnum & Mason, when his wait staff would arrive, when the florist would deliver the table's centerpiece, and when precisely he would execute his dishes in anticipation of his guests. Satisfied with his well-planned scheme, Sherlock locked Mycroft's door, and hurried off into the foggy Monday evening to celebrate the holiday

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Christmas with his parents and brother had been uneventful. All did their best to get along famously—it helped that Sherlock had been neither provocative, rude, nor moody—but before dawn on Boxing Day Sherlock slipped out from his parents' cottage. This was not uncommon. In the past, he had needed no excuses to bolt without so much as a good-bye. He hated good-byes and avoided them entirely, but this year Sherlock was a man with a purpose and drove the rental car back to the outskirts of London, before taking the Tube to Mycroft's London residence.

Early on the 26th in Mycroft's kitchen, the eager chef unloaded the deliveries, assembled his herbs, spices, and oils and set up his cutting section with his sharp knives. Stepping back to survey the kitchen he had meticulously laid out with all the ingredients, he smiled like a maestro smiles upon his musicians moments before a concert. Then lifting his prized wooden spoon, Scott Williams rapped it twice upon the worktop and began to conduct a symphony of tastes.

88**88

The Guests:

"Keep Boxing Day free," Sherlock had told John at the end of November.

Consequently, the next day John had arranged with his childminder to take Rosie the evening of Wednesday, the 26th December, then he waited. After two weeks, his patience had been rewarded and his suspicions confirmed when he had received a succinct dinner invitation by post. In typical Sherlock fashion, it sounded like a demand: "Herewith, I require your company at a Boxing Day Dinner prepared by Master Chef Scott Williams. Arrive at 17:00 hours. Be punctual. Bring no guests, but come with an appetite."

After providing the address, the invitation ended with three final words, underscored for emphasis: No Regrets Permitted! It was signed "Sherlock Holmes" in his unmistakable scrawl.

While standing on the pavement in front of the white stucco-front period building—dusk descending on a mild December night—John recognized where he was from his rare visits to Mycroft's Mayfair residence. What was Sherlock up to and how much of it did Mycroft know, if at all? It was entirely possible that Mycroft was unaware that Sherlock was having company. It was equally conceivable he was out of town on government business and would not be privy to the affair within his own home.

What had Sherlock said about Mycroft and his diets? "…takes the fun out of things," John recalled, chuckling to himself, and checked his watch. It was 4:54. Who and where were the other guests?

The chirpy chatter of familiar voices nearby answered his question. Martha Hudson and Molly Hooper—"MH2," Sherlock had referred to them since sharing the Godparent's role with Rosie's two Godmothers. "And Mycroft makes MH3," he had added as an afterthought—were walking toward him with bemused expressions. Their eyes searching for the street numbers illuminated by the wall lanterns showed relief when they recognized John.

"John!" Molly acknowledged him with a shy, dimpled smile.

John barely had time to respond before they were startled by the authoritative voice of Greg Lestrade, heralding his timely arrival, "Oi! The usual suspects, is it?"

"Hey, Greg!" John coughed to hide his amused snicker and shook the DI's hand. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Sherlock take the piss out of Lestrade with the grand reveal. Serves Greg right, he thought while giving Greg his broadest grin. That night when Sherlock solved the asphyxiation cases, Greg had scoffed, "At least you weren't a cook! That, I'd never believe."

"Ladies, you're both looking well. Merry Christmas," Greg nodded politely to the two women.

"No. Happy Boxing Day!" Mrs. Hudson corrected him with a girlish giggle. "A private dinner with a chef. Isn't this special? And Sherlock arranged it all. You think it's his way of thanking us? For all the things we do the rest of the year…?"

"Whatever this really is…," Molly added with a twinkle in her eyes. "We're both quite curious."

"That's what brought me round today," Greg snorted a laugh. "So, John, what gives? You must know something about this invite?"

"Can't say," John smiled evasively. "Probably know less than I think."

"Well, I'd be glad to meet this bloke, this Scott Williams, face to face. Y'know, he's been a hard one to track down after the Atkinson case," Greg hesitated. He, along with the two women, was distracted by the bright headlamps of a black saloon car pulling into the kerb. Mrs. Hudson and Molly eyed it as Greg continued, "The chef had landed another restaurant gig in the States. Eventually my detectives rung him up and got a statement from him about the Atkinson case. He confirmed what Sherlock told me. So, if this invitation's to be believed, Chef Williams's back now—" Greg cut off when he saw who was getting out of the car.

"Oh, dear! It's Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson hissed to the others, sounding like a child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. She turned to John. "What should we do? He's going to ruin Sherlock's party. What's he doing here, anyway?"

"Well, it is his home, Mrs. Hudson," John admitted much to her surprise. Greg and Molly, too, were taken aback by this revelation and exchanged astonished glances. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson's worry seemed justified.

Mycroft's face briefly registered dismay, then irritation when he saw who were waiting on his doorstep, and just as quickly went neutral. He, too, clutched an invitation in his hand. It had been waiting for him on a silver tray when he had returned from Downing Street to his office late that afternoon. After a tedious and frustrating day settling national matters with uncooperative foreign bureaucrats, he had hoped to salvage what was left of the Boxing Day holiday by seeking solace in his home—not company. Sherlock's formal note suggested otherwise. Vexed by his brother's nerve to use his private home, Mycroft wondered at his own foolishness for not having suggested Sherlock go to one of his bolt holes instead during the fumigation. What have I got myself into now? And what have you been up to while I was away?

The answers—four of them—stared Mycroft in the face. He gave them an impassive glance and checked his pocket watch. "Hmmm. 4:59. It has been said, 'Punctuality is a virtue because it shows respect for the lives of others.' For my brother, it has more to do with scientific timing. What mischief awaits us I wonder?" Mycroft unlocked the front door and led the way into the vestibule where delectable aromas greeted them. The four looked at each other, intrigued and smiling—Mycroft's nostrils flared—and all five followed their noses.

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The Reveal:

A server greeted them at the door and took their coats. "Please go through to the library...for drinks and starters..."

Mycroft scrutinized the man dressed in black trousers, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie collecting their coats and who seemed to weather the intense Holmesian stare as if accustomed to it. Not liking to be directed anywhere in his own home, he blew past the server with a dismissive huff, "My brother?"

"... in the kitchen…," he tilted his head.

The server led Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg to the library, but John hesitated. Mycroft stormed past more servers bearing trays of ratatouille on garlic points, caviar canapes, goose liver pâté served with toasted brioche, cornichons and chutney and tomatoes Rockefeller. The aroma of baked tomatoes stuffed with spinach and cheese was nearly irresistible but Mycroft fought his desire to follow the food. He pushed his way into the kitchen.

Purposely trailing his friends, John listened for Mycroft's reaction on the other side of the kitchen door. "Sher!-lock?—" he heard, but it was hard to tell by the elder Holmes' tone if he were angry or surprised. Likely a mix of both, John snickered in delight. Tempted though he was to witness the fireworks between brothers in the kitchen, John reluctantly followed the others through to the library.

The taste sensations of the starters along with the open bar—the Bellini cocktail was Mrs. Hudson's particular favorite—encouraged lively conversation about movies, local gossip, travel plans, and good old times among the friends. Molly, with her inhibitions diminished, was more prone to witty repartee with Greg and John and fell easily into cascading giggles with Mrs. Hudson. Eventually, Sherlock and Mycroft joined them—Sherlock looking flushed by exertions and Mycroft by an unexpected dinner party. Mycroft accepted the samples the servers presented on the trays with as much dignity as his lingering astonishment permitted. John noted with amusement how Mycroft's eyelids fluttered closed as he savored the delectable flavors.

After the small assembly had had ample time for chatting and sampling, the first server politely murmured something to Sherlock who gave a quick nod and turned to his guests. "Please everyone!' His crisp voice silenced the room. "Shall we go through? Dinner is served!" Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson's arm and led all, including Mycroft, to their seats at the festive dinner table adorned by a floral arrangement of Naomi roses, orchid flowers, holly sprigs of bright berries and glittering, gilded winter foliage.

"Heaven's, Sherlock!' Mrs. Hudson voiced her amazement at the beautiful setting and gave his forearm a tight squeeze of delight, before he seated her.

They enjoyed oyster stew, plump oysters in a creamy sauce, with a nice rosé wine. The wait staff moved silently and efficiently to remove the bowls and serve the next course: palate-cleansing lemon sherbet, scooped into delicate balls, nestled in crystal dishes. Once the servers cleared the sherbet dishes, Sherlock rose from the table and excused himself "to confer" with his chef; he was gone for several minutes before returning as if all he had done was talk.

John, aware of the ploy, glanced toward Mycroft for confirmation, who despite meeting John's gaze, betrayed nothing. John wondered how long Sherlock would play chef and host without revealing his dual roles. The longer Sherlock delayed the inevitable, the more John's excitement grew and the more he admired his brilliant friend's stamina. It was the most delicious secret—to know that Sherlock as Chef Scott Williams was preparing the entire menu, directing the trained wait staff to bring each successive remarkable dish from the kitchen. How much more amazing it was to watch Sherlock pretend otherwise as he sat and dined with his friends and brother in an atmosphere of unprecedented conviviality!

The diner's oohs and aahs grew more appreciative with each artistic presentation: side dishes of sautéed asparagus, baked beetroot with herby hazelnut crumb and goat's curd, roasted celery root and carrots with parsley and dill. Delighted applause erupted, however, when the raised-game pie was brought to the table. Formed in an antique Georgian mould, the crisp and rich, hot-water-crust pastry trapped the savory meat juices. It was a handsome centerpiece for the Boxing Day dinner. John caught his friend's eye across the table and gave him a smile and nod of admiration. Sherlock smiled back with satisfaction, pride, and something else, something deeper...affection? …for those gathered there.

The warm flush John felt was not just from the abundance of fine wines and exceptional cuisine. It was from the realization that this feast was more than it appeared. Sherlock was not showing off his exceptional culinary skills. He was revealing his great heart with the food he had prepared for the special few whom he had invited to this Boxing Day feast.

Mycroft, too, seemed uncharacteristically moved—enough to stand and address everyone present. "May I make a contribution," he pulled from the silver ice bucket nearby a choice bottle of chilled Pommery Extra Brut, "to pair with this magnificent raised-game pie." He eyed the label with a fondness rarely seen on his face. "Seeing the menu for us tonight I brought this up from my cellar… It had been the preferred champagne of the ducal house—Wimsey. Found it quite good at my last visit in Yorkshire—Ah!" He popped open the bottle with surprising skill and handed it to a server who poured for all in quick time.

The gusto with which they enjoyed the pie belied the amount of starters and sides they had consumed prior. The delicious blends of herbs and spices enhanced the flavorful game bird while the blackberry jelly offered the perfect balance as the sweet accompaniment. And then the salad course followed: a simple bed of endive drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar to lighten the stomach and relieve the sense of fullness.

Patting his stomach and leaning back in the chair, Greg groaned, satisfied and satiated. "Can't remember when I've ever eaten like this."

"Like the royals," Mrs. Hudson enthused highly influenced by the evening's spirits.

"We shouldn't forget to thank him, Sherlock," Molly smiled, her doe-brown eyes, dreamy—an effect of the Pommery, evidently. "The chef, I mean. Is he still in the lab, um, kitchen?"

John's posture stiffened. The meal had progressed for several hours without Sherlock making any hint that he was behind it all; John had expected Sherlock would tell them after dessert, if at all. Was this request premature? When had Sherlock planned to tell them he was their chef?

Greg stood and raised his glass, "To the chef!"

Brought to her feet by Greg's example Molly also cheered. "To the chef!"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson agreed pushing herself up slowly, "We must meet your wonderful chef!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Of course," he said after several seconds of consideration; he dabbed the serviette against his lips, and rose from his seat. "Follow me, please. You can meet him in the kitchen."

Molly was swift, though slightly unsteady, as she moved away from the table. Greg pushed back his chair and helped Mrs. Hudson with hers. She took the arm he offered to lead her away. Only John and Mycroft remained frozen in their seats, aware that the moment was upon them—the moment John had been waiting for all evening. He sprang to his feet, bypassed the three friends and reached the kitchen door right behind Sherlock.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," he whispered gleefully as Sherlock pushed open the door.

John was the first to catch a glimpse of a man he had never seen before standing in kitchen wearing a chef's hat and signature white jacket. A moment of confusion and disappointment gripped him: he looked at his friend in utter disillusionment, "Sherlock?"

Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson were right behind John eager to congratulate the chef. Mycroft alone was unamused to find yet another stranger in his kitchen.

"Withers!" Sherlock pulled back in surprise.

"Oi. You caught me. Snuck in just now, Scott," he grinned, "Well, I asked Davies to let me in…to see this big event you planned. You've outdone yourself, yes?"

"So… you're Chef Williams?" Greg stepped forward with hand outstretched to greet Withers. "Just want to say…you're a great cook! We've really enjoyed our meal tonight."

"Why, thank you. Yes, I am a great cook," Withers laughed amicably, "but you're mistaken about tonight's cuisine unless you were eating at the restaurant two streets over. I'm Teddy Withers, chef at Le Gavroche. I must hurry back, actually, but you're great cook tonight is the man standing right there," he pointed to Sherlock, "an even greater chef, Scott Williams!"

Greg turned, his eyes darting in confusion between Sherlock and Withers, while Molly and Mrs. Hudson stood in silent shock.

John beamed both with immense pleasure at witnessing their reactions and with pride in his friend's accomplishments. As they exchanged glances, Sherlock's eyes twinkled in merriment igniting John's explosive giggles.

Until the shock wore off, Greg was speechless, but Molly laughed, quick to appreciate Sherlock's hidden talent: "What I've seen you do in the lab! Why am I not surprised?"

Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop exclaiming, "Sherlock? You did all this… cook-in'and bak-in' and plan-nin'…? My lord! "

"Sherlock?" Withers, looking perplexed, questioned, "Who's Sherlock?"

John doubled over, roaring with laughter.

"Family pet name," Sherlock replied evenly as he enjoyed John's escalating hysterics.

"Switched it around a bit though, didn't he?" whispered Mrs. Hudson clutching Lestrade's arm and leaning in front of him toward Molly who stood on Lestrade's other side.

Molly nodded at Mrs. Hudson and whispered back, "Yes. It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"You bastard!" Greg growled finally able to talk and broke free of the flanking women. "You bloody bastard! So, you're Scott Williams! How the hell…? Learnt to do all this? You got me big time…this…this…this…, you unbelievable cock!" he shouted behind his astonished grin. "You cook?"

"This is hardly remarkable," Mycroft scoffed at their overblown responses to Sherlock's culinary exhibition. "Before he became such an excessively unruly lad, he was a curious pest, interrogating the household cooks ad nauseam with questions. They oft complained he demanded to know what they were doing and why they were doing it. He wanted them to explain the scientific process of cooking and how it chemically changed the textures and tastes of food."

"That hasn't changed much," Withers interjected with laugh. "Now he tells everyone in his kitchen the science behind the process. It's never been a taste thing for you, has it Scott? It's always been a science thing!"

"Always!" Mycroft sniffed. "Many a cook resigned. We discovered later he had berated them for their ignorance in chemistry and physics of food science."

John wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and clamped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Well, thanks mate." He heaved a breath to finish, "You pulled a blinder here! No one could've done it better."

"We're not done yet, John," Mycroft gave John a disdainful look. "I reserved three bottles of my best Pommery for the pudding. This celebration would hardly be complete without dessert—yes, Sherlock?"

Chuffed at his brother's praise, Sherlock smiled. "The dessert table…" he looked toward his wait staff for confirmation before continuing, "…awaits. Join us, Withers?"

"Sorry! My kitchen can only go so long without me. Must dash," Withers backed off with one last question, "Did you make your fabulous croquembouche, Scott?"

"And macarons, a Dobos torte, and of course, it would not be a worthwhile closer without mousseline de chocolate, no?"

"Show-off!" Withers shouted behind him as he left.

"So, you didn't plan this part, then?" John turned to Sherlock after Withers had gone.

"Hmmm. What part?"

"Your friend Withers… making an appearance to fool us? It would be just like you to create another layer of subterfuge to throw everyone off the scent—including me—for added shock value."

"Not a friend...a colleague...but you are a suspicious one, John," Sherlock's half-smile preceded his reply. "However, had I planned it, it couldn't have been better." He shook head, "No. I'm sorry to say, I had no hand in it. It was completely unexpected, a genuine coincidence, I assure you!" He grinned at Mycroft rolling his eyes and gestured everyone back to the dining room.

Lagging behind Greg and Mrs. Hudson, Molly paused to ask, "…when did you learn all this, Sherlock…and why have you been hiding it from us?"

"Shall we hold further questions or comments until we've been served dessert?" Mycroft suggested and eagerly led the friends into the dining room.

Sherlock hung back to watch; John waited quietly beside him.

"Success?" Sherlock asked softly from the side of his mouth, as if he would always need John's perspective to be sure.

"The best Boxing Day feast, ever!" came the reply in a voice tinged with warmth and affection.

A smile of great delight—rare and genuine—appeared on Sherlock's lips. He met and held John's glance, long enough for John to see that smile shine in his eyes, making their brilliance gleam even brighter. For a moment they stood in silent acknowledgement, then Sherlock gestured toward the dining room. "Shall we? Before Mycroft inhales it all!"

Trading chuckles, the friends walked side by side into the dining room.

The End

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A.N.: A very special thanks to my knowledgeable friend for her amazing culinary advice. Sherlock/Scott Williams could not have done it without her! Gratitude and thanks go to Chai4anne to whom I owe new insights about bone china. I bow to her authority and family connections in this area of expertise!