Sherlock knew he was in trouble. He had just seen Father Christmas, Santa (or as his highly strict Christian aunt had said, Satan. Santa is just how he spells his name when he wants to trick people). The thing is, Sherlock knew Santa wasn't real, and this man, for it was definitely a man, was not his father playing dress up to humour his children if they happened to come down for some water as Sherlock had. No, it couldn't be, be because Sherlock knew his father to be dead. He saw it happen. The psychologists had told his mother that it was the route of his morbid fascination, and perhaps they were right, but it didn't change anything, Daddy was still dead and there was still a strange fat man in his living room!
The man was eating the cookies, gathering up the carrots and drinking the brandy Mummy had insisted he and Mycroft leave out for Father Christmas (Sherlock saw this for what it was, an attempt of a grieving widow to give her children as normal a childhood as possible after their father died – it was appreciated, though they would never be normal, child or other.)
He stayed in the shadows and watched as the man bent down and placed presents under their tree – what was he doing? Giving them presents because he felt guilty that he was about to steal everything else? Or maybe it was like a reverse trophy or something – instead of taking something he leaves something, like a calling card and was about to murder them all in their beds! Well not on his watch! No way. No how!
As quietly as he could, Sherlock turned and tiptoed his way to his mother's room the floor above, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboards. Her door was a crack open, in case her children needed her in the night so Sherlock quietly slipped in closing the door quietly.
"Mummy!" Sherlock whispered, shaking her shoulder slightly. He wasn't sure she would wake up at first because he knew she was taking those sleepy tablets ever since Daddy died almost three months previous. For the scary dreams, she said – nightmares. He knew they made her tired enough she didn't dream, and so didn't dream of his father, but when he had told her of his dreams of that night she told him the pills would only work for her. When he had asked why she said that the pills were a last resort and that because he was young he could try other ways. This was why he spent every Friday afternoon talking to Dr May, when he would have usually been in reward time at school – no love lost there, he didn't get along with the other children at school.
"Mummy! Mummy!" he shook harder. Luckily his mother hadn't taken them this night as she wanted to up bright and early for Christmas.
"Mmm, what is it sweetie?" Mummy mumbled. She looked over to him bleary eyed though could see enough to recognise the obvious distress in her youngest son's face.
"Lock, sweetie, what's wrong? What's wrong Sherlock?!" She demanded.
"There's someone downstairs! A big fat man dressed as Santa but I know he isn't real so there has to be someone there! He's taking the things we put down and is dropping presents. But Santa isn't real so it has to be a trick!" He told her urgently. At this she sat up and looked at him closely.
"Are you sure love? Are you absolutely sure?" She asked. It did seem farfetched, but Sherlock wasn't the type of child to get so excited at Christmas they imagined thing like that, like other children. He wasn't a very childish child in some ways – he didn't believe, he saw what he saw. The truth lied in what he could observe and what could be repeated and recreated. The brain of a scientist and all that.
"Yes! He's obviously here for some nefarious purpose!" Sherlock hissed. Mummy nodded and got out of bed careful to not make any noise – giving herself a mental note to praise Lock on his expanding vocabulary.
"Okay, come with me Lock, and I want you to stay with your brother, okay? I'll see for myself. There is a phone in Mycroft's room. I trust yours and his judgement, if I'm not back in half an hour or if you think something is wrong call the police. It doesn't matter if it isn't anything, they'll understand, I'll understand, better safe than sorry. Okay?" She told him urgently as she took him by the hand.
Mummy then led him to her middle child's room, Mycroft's. She woke him quickly and explained the situation. As she left them together in the room, Sherlock clutched at the phone.
"So what did you really see?" Mycroft asked. He knew his brother was scared and upset, but he also knew that despite Sherlock being seven years younger than him the younger Holmes was not someone to make things up, or scare easy. He was not someone to imagine things, despite the unfortunate events that led to him witnessing their father's murder. Sherlock was far too literal for that, he noticed things, thing that no one else noticed but were there none the less – unfortunately Sherlock couldn't process the information into proper reasoning because he just didn't know enough about the world to do so.
Mycroft understood what the walk of shame looked like, Sherlock did too, but only Mycroft knew what the walk of shame was and so could put a deduction to his observations, while Sherlock's head was just constantly cluttered with data with no conclusion in sight – it was very tiring; hell it was tiring for Mycroft to watch because his brother, while clever, just didn't not understand the patterns of human behaviour and emotion.
This was why he needed to hear everything from Sherlock. Their mother was clever, very clever – but she was a different clever. She was book smarts and literary brilliance. She wouldn't know what to do with Sherlock's observations and so didn't think to ask, Mycroft would. Sherlock couldn't put them together to make a deduction, didn't even know he had made all those observations, but Mycroft did – data, data, data!
"What do you mean what did I really see? I saw Father Christmas, except he isn't real so how can he be here? How Mycroft? How?!" Sherlock whimpered.
"I need to know everything you remember, everything! Every little detail is important!"
"Um… Well… I came down to get a glass of water because the water upstairs tastes bad. So I was walking past the living room when I saw a shadow on the wall – I went back the way I came because the stairs and front door are out of view from the doorway and if he turned around I didn't want to be trapped in the other side of the house, I wanted to be able to get upstairs or out of the house without him seeing me." Sherlock started. Mycroft nodded along, encouraging his younger brother to carry on.
"So I looked back at the front door and nothing seemed to be out of place, the door wasn't wrong – and there was no mud or anything leading to the room, but I know his boots were wet. He was wearing a Santa outfit. It didn't fit properly, like it was too big for him. Um… he reached the top of the mirror above the fireplace and he had brown leather shoes not back boots" Sherlock recalled.
As Sherlock continued to rattle off details of what he remembered, Mycroft put the details together to form a picture, it had to be real, they were too precise, too correct to be imagined and Sherlock didn't know enough about people to be able to make it up. This man didn't sound like a thief or a murderer, but that didn't mean he wasn't one, or both – while he trusted in Sherlock's detail, Mycroft didn't exactly have much contact with either class of person and so couldn't really say what they were like – politicians, yes, the corrupt and easily manipulated – definitely! But criminals? Not so much yet.
It had only been five minutes since their mother had gone downstairs but they were worried. Sherlock had said all he could and Mycroft had deduced all he could. Mycroft needed to see for himself, and Sherlock needed answers about the strange man downstairs. They decided not to call the police, but Mycroft took the phone with him anyway, no point leaving your weapons behind after all.
Slowly, silently they made their way downstairs. Mycroft in front, Sherlock trailing behind. All he could see was the back of his big brother and so when Mycroft froze he didn't know what was happening.
"Mum? Mummy?" Mycroft asked, unsure – panic rising in his voice. It was a sound Sherlock was unused to hearing in his seventeen year old brother; unease seeped further into Sherlock's bones.
Mycroft took quick strides towards the centre of the room when something caught his eye. However, he seemed to start to slow down until he stood frozen mid step. This was when Sherlock peeked into the room, terror high in his throat and saw his mother and brother frozen in place in the room and the intruder standing to the side, staring at him. He took a deep breath and confronted the man.
"Who are you and what have you done to my bother and Mummy?!" Sherlock demanded, looking at the still forms of his family, frozen in time, mid stride. Time stood still, nothing moved, the dog outside didn't bark, the leaves didn't rustle, the wind didn't howl. The clock didn't tick and the hail didn't clatter against the windows, even the lights didn't flicker – all that moved was Sherlock and the intruder.
"I'm Father Christmas Sherlock. Don't worry about the family, they're safe, I've just frozen time for a moment. So we can talk. I'm not going to hurt you or the family." 'Santa' said.
Sherlock didn't believe him, freeze time; that was just idiotic! He wished he still had the phone with him, but Mycroft had taken it and the lines were apparently down anyway.
"Son, do you know what I do? I give out presents. I give every boy or girl that has ever been or will be under the age of eleven a gift. This is your last year, you'll be eleven by next Christmas. Your brother and mother won't remember this in the morning, I wish they would, but they're too old, so I'm talking to you now." With that Santa pulled off his hat, and his beard and shed his coat and under it was his father in the suit he always wore at Christmas; the one with glitter in the seams and little Santa hats on the lapels and cuffs, with red trim at the end of the sleeves and at the end of his trousers. There stood his father, at Christmas.
"Hello Lock" Daddy whispered, getting to one knee to be the same height as Sherlock.
"No. No! You're not real! Stop it! STOP IT!" Sherlock screamed at him, tears running unbidden down his face.
"Lock, I am real, it's really me" He said.
"But you're dead, I saw it!"
"I know son, and I'm sorry you had to see that. You did so well with the police, so well – I am so proud at you! And I am so, so sorry, it's very hard for you and I am dead, and I'm sorry to say I can't come back – but don't you worry, I will be with you and watching over you every step of your life, and nothing you will ever do or will ever happen will ever, EVER stop me loving you and being so, so proud of you Sherlock Holmes!" Daddy started crying too.
"I'm dreaming. This isn't real" Sherlock whispered.
"Does it matter if you're dreaming or not Sweetie when it's still real? It doesn't change the fact that I'm here now, tonight, and that I love you Lock. Doesn't change any of that. Doesn't change me wanting to be your father for one last Christmas. Come here." Daddy whispered back and Sherlock went running into his arms. Wrapped his legs tight around his Daddy's waist and wailed into his shoulder.
"Daddy I want you! I want you back, come back Daddy, please! I don't want you gone." He hiccoughed into his father's shoulder sobbing and shaking. Daddy held on tight and too sobbed into his son's hair.
"I know, sweetie, I know. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. But you have Mummy. And you had Croft, and even though you won't be able to see me, you will always, always! Have me too! Always. You clever, clever boy! It's going to be hard, it always will, but you will do great things, good things I know it!"
"But why are you here?" Sherlock cried, clinging harder when his father started to stand up.
"I had to see you, to be your father at Christmas, and to give you your present. Mummy knew about Croft's but I'd hidden yours, had to give it to you, didn't I? It's the orange one over there. Open it last won't you Sweetie?" Daddy murmured into his son's ear, hugging him close to his body.
"Okay, Daddy." He sniffed.
Daddy then pried Sherlock away from his shoulder with one hand, so he could see Sherlock's face. The other arm keeping Sherlock up.
"Hey, hey there Lock, it's going to be okay – even when it seems like it won't."
"How can you be sure?"
"Hey, I'm your Daddy, Daddies know these sort of things! I liked the cookies you left out. Mummy's idea?" Sherlock nodded, still sniffling.
"They were very nice, did you make them?"
"No" Sherlock sniffed. "Bought them from the sweetshop" he confessed and gave his Daddy a watery smile.
"Well, good choice!" Daddy chuckled – he should have known, for all Sherlock loved chemistry he hated cooking – only really liked burning the ingredients to observe the energy in them.
They stayed like that for a few seconds before Daddy went to sit down in the rocking chair, Sherlock still plastered to his front. The chair that he always used to inhabit before It happened. Sherlock had taken to falling asleep there, as the chair still smelled of their father, he had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft sprayed it in the aftershave Daddy wore just for that reason.
He didn't know how long he lay there, cuddling his father, but when he woke he was alone, Mycroft and Mummy weren't there and all he had a faint memory of an apology, a goodbye, lips on his forehead and tears on his cheek.
He woke alone on Christmas day in his father's chair, inhaling his newly refreshed scent with a dream of his Father on Christmas.
"Hey sweetie, what are you doing down here? Did you get up in the night?" Mummy asked him.
"Yes, don't you remember?" Sherlock asked quietly, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Remember what Lock?"
"I came down last night and saw Father Christmas. I was scared because I know Santa doesn't exist so you and Mycroft can down with me to look and he froze you in time. But it wasn't really Father Christmas, it was Father. I spent the night with him – he came to give me my present, the orange one, he said that he had hidden it and so you didn't know about it so he had to come himself." Sherlock explained. Mummy then got a slightly pained expression on her face, but gave a watery smile.
"That's lovely Sherlock. That's really nice" It was obvious she thought he had only had a dream, but she still gave the present a curious look. With a kiss to his cheek and a "merry Christmas" she left to make breakfast.
Sherlock knew they wouldn't remember, they were too old! He wasn't sure if it was real or not, but that orange present wasn't there last night and it was now. It didn't make sense that it was a dream, and his Mummy and Daddy did talk about angels, so it wasn't out of the question that it was real.
They opened presents one at a time, all sitting on the floor under the tree, until there was only one present left – the orange one.
It was a box, a large box. In the box were four things. A book on bee's – with an inscription from his father about his love of bee's and how he loved being able to share that with Sherlock. A skull, the one his father had used when playing Hamlet – the one that Sherlock used to play with before it went missing. A framed photo, of the family, all looking happy, unaware of the camera. And a note. A note from his father.
Sherlock,
I hope you liked your presents, I spent ages getting them together, just for you. Perhaps I'll get you that violin you wanted for your birthday. I have a full sized one you can have when you're older – it's too big for you right now. I love you so much Sherlock, so much. I just know you're going to be great. A great man, but also a good one.
You'll have to send me a jar of honey when you become that bee keeper Sherlock, I'm sure it will be the best honey in the entire universe.
Merry Christmas.
Lots of love from Daddy.
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