It was Christmas Eve in London, and the day had dawned with a kind of with a steely gray sky, the kind of sky that held the promise of a blanket of snow in the near future, or the threat of a simple shroud of grayness. It was cold, and damp, as was most of the winter in this part of the world, but the Christmas lights and decorations festooning the city lent an air festive enough to to cut through the chill, even at Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes was alone in his flat this morning, actually looking forward, he thought, to spending the day on his own. John had long since moved into a flat with his wife, as was to be expected. This would be his second Christmas as a married man, his first as a father Last year, John and Mary had spent the holiday with Sherlock and his brother at their parents' country home, a not altogether pleasant occasion. But, disastrous as it had been, it had served to set a precedent in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and their boys were once again expected to visit them this year. John and Mary had been insistent about spending their first Christmas Eve as parents at home, and had invited Sherlock to join them. Molly Hooper had also been invited, as she had become very fond of the child, and, having no family in town, would otherwise have been left to her own devices. Mrs. Hudson was spending the holidays with her sister, and DI Greg Lestrade seemed to be working on yet another ill-fated reconciliation with his sometimes ex- wife. Sherlock may have preferred to spend the evening on his own, but had come to the realization that he didn't want to miss his beloved goddaughter's first Christmas after all.
Others may have been spending the last few hours of the shops being open searching for last-minute gifts, but not Sherlock. He had never been one for exchanging gifts at the holidays, and most of his friends abided by his wishes. Gift giving involved sentiment, and sentiment made Sherlock uncomfortable. It was a waste, a distraction. More than once, he had overheard mentions of the name "Scrooge" in connection with him at Christmas, but this did not bother him. He bought no gifts, and he expected none. Except for the ten-month old infant girl, Claire, who had stolen what passed for his heart. But she was a child, and Christmas was for children, not adults, he reasoned. Sherlock looked out of his window, and hoped that it would not snow before he had to leave for the Watson's flat, perhaps the only man in Britain who didn't wish for a white Christmas.
Molly Hooper awoke on Christmas Eve and looked out her window, and saw, not the overwhelming grayness of the sky, but only the possibility of a snowy surprise later in the day. She hurried to her kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, and to light the Christmas tree which she had installed in her sitting room the previous evening. It was far to big for the room, and far too bright. It contained every ornament which Molly had collected during the thirty-five years of her life. There were glittering glass balls from her childhood, papier mache thingamajigs which she and her sister had made years ago, Star Wars, and Doctor Who miniatures, tinsel, and enough fairy lights to illuminate a small town. It was just the way Molly liked it. She may be on her own every year, but her annual tree kept her anchored to her memories, and her life.
Molly then sat on her couch, basking in the glow of the tree, hoping for snow, and counting the hours until she would leave for the Watson's. For the first time in years, she actually had a few days off this holiday season. Molly, helpful soul that she was, had usually volunteered to work on holidays, so that others could enjoy time with their families. But this year, Mike Stamford had taken her aside and explained to her that he would brook no arguments, and that Molly was to take some time off to celebrate the season. And she was looking forward to watching little Claire enjoy her first Christmas Eve. The infant was much too young to understand the meaning of the holiday, and the story of Father Christmas, but Molly hoped that she would feel the love and warmth which surrounded her. Coming even from Sherlock Holmes! The pathologist had to admit that she was looking forward to spending the evening with Sherlock, as much as the Watson family, truthfully, even more. The detective was never much of a one for holiday spirit, but Christmas did seem to soften him a bit, especially in the past couple of years. He had come to appreciate friends and companionship even more since his return from the dead. He was a different man. Not better, because in Molly's eyes he couldn't possibly be a better man, but different. Softer around the edges, more approachable, a bit kinder. She hadn't believed that she could love him any more than she had before he had left for those two years, but she had been mistaken. She could, and she did.
By the time they set out, separately, for the Watson's flat, it was snowing, much to Molly's delight and Sherlock's despair. Molly and Sherlock arrived within moments of each other, and were soon sitting in the Watson's comfortable sitting room, politely commenting on the tree, and cooing over baby Claire. Sherlock rolled his eyes disparagingly as Molly handed out presents, asking the Watsons to place them under their tree, and not to open them until tomorrow.
"It's just that that's the way we always did it at my house. You can open them now, if you really want too, though…"
"No, indeed. That's just the way Harry and I used to do it, too. Our parents always made us wait until Christmas morning," John agreed. "How about you, Sherlock? When did you and Mycroft get to open your presents?"
"Christmas Day, as well. Mummy and Papa always tried to maintain the illusion that Father Christmas had delivered them during the night."
"Just how old were you when you stopped believing, Sherlock?" Molly asked curiously.
"I had my suspicions by the year I was four, but they were not completely confirmed until I was five."
Molly giggled, thinking how long into her childhood she had continued to believe in the magic of the holiday. "Did Mycroft have anything to do with it?"
"Not at all, Molly. My brother tried to keep me in the dark for as long as possible. To this day I believe that he drugged my bedtime glass of milk that year I was four. I had been determined to remain awake and hidden to ascertain who exactly delivered those gifts, but mysteriously found myself back in my bed the following morning, feeling slightly more drowsy that a child should be on Christmas Day. Since I do not believe that a concerned parent would drug a small child, that leaves my brother as the only suspect. The following year, I switched glasses with him, and discovered my father piling presents under the tree as Mycroft slept soundly."
Sherlock recounted this story as if it were perfectly natural, and looked slightly confused as his friends laughed out loud.
"I'm certainly glad that Claire is much too young to understand that story, and I will kill you if you repeat it to her at any time before she reaches puberty, Sherlock," Mary said through her laughter. She then gathered the packages, and placed them under the tree, to be opened on Christmas Day. But Molly had one more package in her hand, which she then shoved in Sherlock's direction. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock!"
The detective rolled his eyes with disdain, and looked at the pathologist. "It's no use giving me a lecture, Sherlock Holmes. I know how you feel about Christmas, and sentiment, and everything. But this isn't about how you feel, you git. It's about how others feel. And if I want to give you a gift, I will give you a gift. Now, make use of the manners I know your mother taught you, take the package, and say 'thank you' !"
And, to everyone's surprise, with no further objections, Sherlock Holmes took the brightly wrapped gift and said a simple, "Thank you, Molly Hooper. I will open it in the morning, as per your request."
"Sherlock, has somebody drugged your milk again?" John asked.
"Why, John, are you surprised that I can exhibit some evidence of a decent upbringing? You have met my parents, after all. Did you not say that they were surprisingly normal?" But while the detective was being annoyingly calm on the outside, much more was going on inside. He had taken the gift without any sense of surprise. He had known Molly would show up with a token for the holidays. That was who she was. She was all kindness, and giving, and caring. He had even debated breaking his own custom, and purchasing a gift for her, too. But he could not think of a single thing which would express what she meant to him. And so, he had taken the easier path of doing nothing. But Molly still sat next to him, smiling at him, happy just that he had thanked her instead of launching into one of his famous diatribes. And before long, everybody was smiling, enjoying a happy evening of warmth, friendship, and holiday cheer. When the time came for Sherlock and Molly to take their leave, the detective insisted on seeing her home in a cab, and didn't complain in the least about the light dusting of snow which now covered the streets. As the cab pulled up in front of Molly's building, Sherlock jumped out to open the door for her.
"So, Molly, good-night. Have a happy Christmas. I'll be going to see my parents tomorrow, so…"
"I know, Sherlock. Why don't you come over on Boxing Day? We can do takeaway, and watch telly, or something…"
"Yes, that sounds acceptable. Chinese? Indian? Which do you prefer?"
"Chinese sounds good. Text me when you'll be here," Molly smiled up at him, and as he leaned in to give her his customary kiss on the cheek, she turned her head just enough to catch his lips with hers. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock!" she said just before she turned and hurried up the steps to her flat. Sherlock got back into the cab with a puzzled smile on his face.
Back at Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite chair, studying the brightly wrapped package he held in his hand. Molly had told him to put it under his tree, and open it on Christmas morning, but that wasn't about to happen. He had no tree, and, technically speaking, it was already Christmas morning. He thought back to all those Christmased in his past, and hers. He pictured the little girl with the long hair and the warm brown eyes bursting into the room on Christmas morning, excited to find what Father Christmas had left for her under the tree. He remembered the small boy with the dark curls and icy eyes, trying unsuccessfully to appear nonchalant about the the packages illuminated by the fairy lights which glowed on the family tree. He was growing more and more sentimental by the moment, and therefore, more and more unsettled. Perhaps, if he opened her gift, and found it ordinary, the spell would be broken. But he already suspected that this was not about to happen, as nothing Molly Hooper ever did for him was ordinary. He ripped at the package to find a jar of honey. No ordinary honey, but a Greek variety, very rare and very special, which he had mentioned to her, he believed, only once, when he been reminiscing about summers spent as a child with his family at a small villa near Athens. It was a jar of Hymettus honey, made by bees who fed exclusively off the wild thyme which grew on the mountain of that name. It had been produced for three thousand years, even Cicero had spoken of it. It was during these summers abroad when Sherlock had developed a fascination for the honeybee, and its culture, and a taste for this particular variety. But also in the package was a small fossilized honey bee, sixty million years old. Not many people were aware of his interest in bees, and no one else would think to make him a gift of one. Only Molly.
She never seemed to forget a single thing about him. If he mentioned something in passing, he knew that it was forever stored in her heart. She knew everything about him. She saw him when no one else could, or cared to. He had always assumed that this was because she was so infatuated with him, because she loved him. She made no effort to hide the fact, it seemed to be common knowledge among their friends. But he was now finding it harder and harder to explain to himself why the same had always applied to himself, as well. He had never deleted a single fact about Molly Hooper, he realized. He knew her parents' names, her shoe size. her takeaway food preferences. He knew her shade of lipstick, how her closet was organized, and her favorite scifi movie. He would be hard pressed to come up with the same information about John, he knew. If John had his own room in Sherlock's mind palace, Molly Hooper occupied an entire wing. And once he came to admit this, Sherlock also knew that he had discovered the perfect gift for his pathologist.
Molly was lying in her bed, curled on her side, with her cat Toby asleep at her feet. She had just awakened, and realized that it was now Christmas Day. She glanced over at her bedroom door, and immediately noticed that there was light coming in underneath it. Believing that she had, as usual, turned off all the lights in her sitting room, especially her Christmas tree, Molly was slightly disturbed by the discovery. But, then again, she had had a few drinks at the Watson's the night before, and perhaps she had forgotten. She rose from the bed, disturbing the cat, wrapped a bright red dressing gown around her, and opened the door. Even at this angle she could tell that the light was from her gaudily illuminated tree, and she slowly entered the sitting room to investigate.
As she walked cautiously into the room, she let out a small gasp. For under her tree, nestled among gifts from friends and family which she had been saving to open this day, was the world's only consulting detective, curled in a fetal position, head resting on a cushion stolen from her couch, wrapped warmly in his Belstaff coat. She approached slowly, and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"
"Took you long enough to wake up, Dr. Hooper. I'm so stiff, I may never be able to straighten out again!" Sherlock said in his customarily gruff voice, and was fishing around in his coat pocket for something. Finally, he retrieved a rather rumpled paper bow, with a sticky baking, placed it on his forehead, and said, dramatically, "Happy Christmas, Molly Hooper!"
Molly was staring at him in disbelief, as he tried to arrange himself into a sitting position, without knocking over the tree, or getting tangled in its branches. Finally managing to do so, he then reached for the small woman and gathered her into his arms. "I decided that it was rather rude of me not to get you a present, Molly, so here I am! No returns or exchanges, by the way. You're stuck with me."
Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, and nestled into his chest. "What brought this on? I thought you didn't believe in exchanging gifts?"
"Yes, but this could work out so nicely, don't you think? You get me this morning, and this afternoon, I present a future daughter-in-law to my parents. Mummy can't complain about my lack of Christmas spirit after that, can she?" Sherlock was now nibbling on her ear, but stopped long enough to snicker, "Would you mind wearing a bow, love. You're sure to outshine anything Mycroft can come up with!"
"Oh, so you're like the gift that keeps on giving, are you?" Molly was now working her fingers over the buttons on his beautifully fitted purple shirt, and had started to nibble on his neck. "Do you mind if I unwrap you first, Sherlock? It is Christmas morning, after all."
"Not at all, Molly!" And while Molly worked on the buttons, Sherlock pushed her slowly backwards until her hair was entangled with tinsel, and a candy cane was poking him in the eye. "Perhaps if we time everything correctly, we can present my parents with a grandchild next Christmas."
"It seems you'll go to any extreme to avoid fighting crowds in the shops, Sherlock!" Molly managed to laugh one last time before she was silenced once and for all by a very determined consulting detective with his newly discovered Christmas spirit.