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Hand Challenge: BBC Sherlock: Fanfic: Many Hands Make Light Work

Mar. 1st, 2016 at 1:24 PM

okapi1895.livejournal.com

Title: Many Hands Make Light Work
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen (no slash)
Word Count: 546
Content Notes: The end of the Biblical parable of the prodigal son re-told as a post-Reichenbach Holmes family reunion; Mr. & Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock, Mycroft.
Author’s Note: The idea for this story came from the February 27, 2016 entry in The Little Black Book: Six-minute reflections on the Weekday Gospels of Lent.

“Yes, that’s right. The choicest leg you have. I’ll be around to pick it up. Yes, it’s a celebration: my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found!”

He clicked off the phone.

“My dear, Sherlock is returned! Pick some mint from the garden, and we’ll have fresh sauce with the lamb. And those nice potatoes! And, of course, no feast would be complete without my famous cherries jubilee. Let’s see how much of the good brandy is left. Oh, we will be merry tonight!”

He glanced out the window.

“There he is now, coming up the walk.”

He flew out the door.

“Sherlock! Oh, my son!”

“Hello, father. Can I be called your son after all that I have seen and done these past three years?”

“Of course, you’re still a Holmes!” He looked up at the sky with his hands raised. “Oh, my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found!”

“I have squandered your inheritance: your good will, your faith in others, your trust in Providence. Am I found? I still feel lost.”

“What piffle you talk! You’re as thin as a rake! Well, we’re going to see to that right away. I’ve a feast planned. Mycroft! What are you doing skulking there? Come! The Holmes family is going to dine splendidly: leg of lamb with fresh mint sauce, those nice potatoes, let’s see, some spring cabbage, and my cherries jubilee!”

“It does sound delightful, father. I have not been lost for three years. I’ve been right here, and I don’t believe you prepared so much as a bowl of grisly mutton stew for me, but, of course, you kill the proverbial fatted calf for Sherlock.”

“Oh, Mycroft, don’t grumble! All that I have is yours. But your brother was dead and is alive again!”

“Yes, I heard you; the entire street heard you, father.”

“Now, Mycroft…”

“Boys!”

The three turned toward the door.

“Mummy!”

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re thin as a rake!”

She held out her arms, and he went to her.

“Now, listen, Father, you dote on Sherlock. You always have. You need to start appreciating Mycroft more and all that he does for you and for this family, Sherlock, in particular.”

She turned her pointing finger to Mycroft.

“And you need to stop acting like a martyr and thinking you’re the only one who makes sacrifices around here. We all do. Put on your big boy trousers and stop pouting!”

“And you,” she turned to Sherlock, “are spoilt. You need to thank Mycroft, and properly, for the pains he took to keep you alive and safe while you were on your mission. Pull that beautiful head out of those lovely buttocks and see that you are not the centre of the universe.”

“And the three of you need to come in and get to work. Feasts don’t just happen. I need every Holmes hand in the kitchen.”

“But wait,” protested Sherlock, “I was dead, and am alive again. Shouldn’t you be bringing forth the best robe and putting a ring on my hand?”

She hooked an aubergine-coloured garment over his head and tied it around his waist. “How about an apron? You always look so regal in purple. Welcome home, my prince.”