BBC Sherlock Imagines

Sherlock: Meeting His Parents

(I'm using Ben's real parents' names since we don't know Mr. and Mrs. Holmes actual names)

~

"What should I call them?"

"I don't know."

"Would it be weird if I called them 'Wanda' and 'Tim'?"

"I don't know."

"It might be too formal if I call them Mr. and Mrs. Holmes don't you think?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know Sherlock?" you cried. He didn't say anything, only continued staring ahead, one hand gripped tightly on top of the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the automatic gear shift. He was wearing his weekly best: dress shirt - the buttons about to burst - a tie strung neatly around his neck, black dress pants that clung tightly to his muscles, and finally, his overcoat topped with a scarf. You had, at one time, tried to hide his scarf, thinking it would be a kindhearted joke, only for it to turn into something else completely. But that was a different story altogether.
"It would really help me out if you could give me some pointers. I don't know about you, but I want them to like me." For a split second his eyes found you, then they darted back to the road.

"My mother will adore you and wonder why you put up with me. My father will think you're funny and witty when he hears you joke around. There, happy?" You crinkled your eyes in disbelief. He couldn't know that. For all you knew, his mum would think you were a snob and his dad would think you're stupid. "I know what you're thinking (y/n). They won't think those things. They'll love you." Reassuringly he slid his hand off of the gear shift and patted your leg twice. You savored the warmth of his skin, hoping it would give you strength for what was to come.

~

It was New Year's Eve. The sky was clear of rain, but the usual grey color painted the sky. Sherlock pulled up to a small cottage. The outside was red, like an apple from an orchard. It was still decorated in holiday ornaments, and smoke billowed out the chimney. It could have been a house straight out of a feel-good Christmas movie.

"Do you plan to just stare at the house all day, or actually come in?" teased Sherlock. You opened the door and got out, the cold biting your fingers and nose. Sherlock had already strode to the door, and stood outside waiting for you. You marched up, finally reaching him. He stood on the top step, his hand resting on the doorknob, however, he made no move to open the door.

"Okay now you're being the weird one. Can we go in? It's freezing out here." Slowly, he turned to face you, a look in his eyes. "What's wrong now?" you asked.

"It's just -," he shut his mouth, glancing around his surroundings and gathering his thoughts, "they're not like me." You didn't know how to respond to this strange description. He must have noted your confusion, because he went on. "I mean they're, well they're normal. Like you."

"And this is bad because..."

"Because they have normal human emotions and are like normal embarrassing parents and I just wanted you to know that they're a little overwhelming." You shook your head, pretending to understand what he was getting at just for his sake.

"Okay," you said seriously, taking his hand and squeezing it.

"Ow," he whined, ripping his hand away.

"That was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze, like that reassuring pat you gave me in the car!" you argued defensively. He shook his head in disbelief, still rubbing it sorely. "Drama queen," you mumbled, grabbing it and kissing the "injured" part. He tried not to smile, but failed to hide it, so instead he turned and opened the door. A floodgate of warmth came over you head to toe. It smelled like you had walked inside a freshly baked pastry.