It was mid-December in the countryside not far from London, and a small dusting of snow lay on the ground and dusted the boughs of the trees and hedgerows with a powdery white frosting. Inside the cottage, an elderly couple sat by the fireplace, the man reading the London Times while the woman quickly maneuvered a pair of knitting needles. A cliche, one might think. And it was to some extent, except these were the exceptional parents of two exceptional men, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, the "British government" and the world's only consulting detective, respectively.

Violet Holmes once again brought up the topic with which she had driving her husband crazy to the past several weeks. "Si, what are we getting the boys for Christmas? You've got to have some ideas!"

"Violet, every year it's the same thing. The traditional answer to the question of what to get for the man who has everything is nothing! What else can Mycroft need, for heaven's sake! You've already knitted him that horrendous jumper, for which he is unlikely to ever forgive you, so what else can you do?"

"He will hate the jumper, won't he? Good, then I've done my job! I'll make him wear it on Christmas. Show him to …"

"Violet, love, Mycroft may be a rather important part of the government, but I hardly think it was ever in the realm of possibility that you would be named a godparent of this new royal baby…"

"First little George, now this new one. One becomes very disappointed after a while, especially when one has no grandchildren on which to lavish attention, Siger."

"I know, I know. Perhaps you should expend your considerable energy in that direction, instead of knitting horrendous jumpers?"

"Don't think I've given up on that front, dear. I have something in mind for Sherlock…"

"I thought you had knitted a jumper for him, also…"

"Yes, and it is truly awful! Lots of elves and holly leaves. He'll absolutely loathe it!" The elderly woman giggled with joy. "Faking his death! How absolutely absurd…"

"Violet, you know there were reasons…"

"Yes, I know, I know. And wearing that ridiculous jumper won't make up for his two year absence. But it's a start, Si!"

The man rose from his chair and crossed the room to give his wife a fond kiss on her forehead. "You must concede, Vi, that I've been a good boy. You don't have any little knitted surprises for me, do you?"

"Don't be absurd, Si. I have to appear in public with you! Anything I make for you will be tasteful and elegant. With the exception of that willie warmer I've been working on. But, then again, hopefully you won't be wearing that in public!"

The two laughed affectionately, and continued to enjoy their afternoon together.

Two weeks later, the annual Christmas Eve get together at Baker Street was just beginning take shape. Even though John Watson had moved out ages ago, married, and had a baby daughter, Claire, he still continued to co-host the event at his old flat. Sherlock Holmes was not one for social occasions, and, left to his own devices, this tradition would have fallen by the wayside. It was not that the detective would have made a conscious decision to do so, but he surely would have neglected the occasion. So John and Mary were more than willing to expend a little time and effort to insure the festivities continued.

Sherlock was secretly relieved that this was the case. He would deny it to the death, but he had lately come to appreciate his friends and family more and more, drawing not some small comfort from this yearly affirmation that he was, indeed, connected to the world outside his own mind palace. He had come to crave the warmth of friendship during the chill of the holiday season, and often wondered, at least to himself, if friendship was all he craved. And the holiday season, especially, tended to highlight his state of single blessedness, and his growing unease at this condition.

That evening, the lager and wine were flowing, champagne toasts were being exchanged, and everyone was enveloped in a state of Christmas bonhomie. Mike Stamford and his wife were in the kitchen, bragging about their son, freshly home from uni, and doing quite well. Anderson was in the corner trying desperately to impress Sally Donovan, who had known him far too long and far too well to ever be impressed. Mrs. Hudson was leading a few ladies from the neighborhood in a chorus of "Good king's What's His Name", not to be confused with the traditional carol of similar title. The landlady was wearing a lovely shawl, knitted of a fine gauge glittering yarn which caught the twinkling fairy lights which illuminated the sitting room, as well as the Christmas tree. A handmade gift from Violet Holmes to one of her oldest and dearest friends. Mummy always had a knack for deciding on a perfect gift for friends and acquaintances, Sherlock mused. DI Greg Lestrade approached Sherlock, drink in hand.

"Another successful Christmas Eve, mate. Thanks for the invite!"

"You should thank John, Graham. He handles all the arrangements." Sherlock hated to admit any involvement in social doings, so he always tended to shrug them off.

"The name is 'Greg', as you well know, Sherlock!" Lestrade then waved the newly knitted scarf, with his given name knitted into the pattern, in the detective's face. "Or at least your mother does! Be sure to thank her for the Christmas gift, mate!" Lestrade winked as he went in search of a refill. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his mother's little dig at his constant misuse of the policeman's first name. You certainly had to admire her sense of humor, he thought.

Sherlock was sitting in his favorite chair, studying his favorite pathologist, when the Watsons joined him, plopping little Claire, his goddaughter, down on his lap.

"Give us a break, will you. The little bugger is a lot heavier than she looks! You hold her for awhile." Mary laughed now that she had both hands free to handle her drink. She really hadn't needed to ask, of course. Sherlock was completely besotted with the child, and always happy to relieve her parents of her care.

"Sherlock, what gives with your mother? Is she trying to denude every sheep in the British Isles? What's with all the knitting?"

"A newly acquired skill, John. And, like a true Holmes, she seems to have gone to an extreme." Sherlock looked down at the holiday jumper his mother had gifted him, a bright red monstrosity festooned with dancing elves and holly, and shook his head.

John noticed his sneer, and had to comment. "Mine's really nice, mate. Irish fisherman knit, a nice blue color. Mary got a hat, mittens, and scarf set, and Claire's is beautiful, a mini version of her mother's. But what in the bloody hell did you do to the poor woman to deserve that?" Dr. Watson laughed derisively and pointed at his friend's attire.

"I am sure Mummy is addressing any number of perceived grievances with this blight upon my wardrobe, and I am just as sure that Mycroft's is every bit as bad, which is some small consolation." Sherlock took a sip of his Scotch.

"May I ask why the hell you're actually wearing it?"

"Truthfully, Mummy ordered me to wear it this evening, and tomorrow as well, and as I am not quite sure if I have completely removed all of Mycroft's surveillance cameras, I thought I would err on the side of caution." But there was a twinkle in his eyes as he added, "Additionally, it is my Christmas gift to everyone in the room. We all know they love to see me taken down a peg!"

John shifted his position slightly as he laughed out loud at his friend's comment, but soon noticed that the detective was straining to see around him. "Problem, Sherlock? Am I blocking your view?" He turned to follow the other man's gaze, and his eyes fell upon one Dr. Molly Hooper. "Ah, Molly looks lovely tonight, doesn't she, Sherlock? But what is that thing around her neck?"

The thing in question had to be at least twelve feet long, about twelve inches wide, and was of varying colors, made up a stripes of different widths. It had to be wrapped around her several time to prevent it being dragged along the floor behind her petite frame. Molly kept petting it affectionately, and glancing over to smile at Sherlock.

"That, John, is evidently a scarf modeled after one worn by one of the many Doctor Who incarnations. Or so I was so informed by my pathologist, once she stopped squealing, and had disengaged herself from my neck. I had originally thought it to be a gift along the lines of my own, a vague attempt at humor. But Molly truly loves it! Mummy wins again!" Sherlock shook his head. "There truly is no accounting for taste, John."

"Evidently not, mate, as Molly seems rather fond of you, too!" John smirked, and Sherlock turned slightly red to match his jumper. That's a new reaction, thought the doctor. Interesting!

Later that evening, as the party was winding down, Sherlock Holmes sat surveying the room from his favorite chair, with his favorite pathologist perched on the arm. People were making their farewells, and finding their way down the staircase, happily overindulged in holiday cheer. As the Watsons had young Claire to take care of, and Mrs. Hudson had, apparently, overdosed on the aforementioned cheer, Molly had planned to remain behind to help clean up. This usually meant that she did the scutwork while he offered commentary and instructions from his comfortable chair. Tonight turned out slightly differently, as Sherlock reached into the front of his jumper and pulled out an envelope with Molly Hooper's name on it.

"Mummy made a special point that I was to give this to you tonight, Molly."

"Your mother? Really, Sherlock? I was surprised enough at the lovely scarf," Molly said as she fondled the item yet again. "What is this?"

"I have no idea. She said it's your real Christmas present, and that you were to open it tonight. So have at it!" Sherlock handed her the envelope, and, to her surprise, rose from his chair to actually start disposing of the detritus of the party.

Molly slid from the arm of the chair onto the seat, and opened the envelope cautiously, taking care not to damage the elegant paper. Her eyes widened with every word she read.

My Dear Dr. Hooper,

Even though we have met only a few times in all the years you have been associated with my son, I feel that I know you quite well. Sherlock talks about you all the time. That is how I knew you would appreciate the scarf, being a true Whovian. Mycroft speaks very highly of you as well, and if you know my elder son at all, you know that is no mean accomplishment,

The scarf was just a small token, my dear. My real gift to you is something I hold very precious and dear, as I am sure you do, too. Take a good look at my son. I am sure he is trying to appear busy, not at all interested in what you are reading. But, if I know him at all, he is stealing curious glances, trying to deduce what I have written. But, then again, you know that as well as I do!

So, not to beat about the bush, my Christmas gift to you is my somewhat misbegotten son Sherlock. He cares about you very deeply, so don't let him tell you otherwise. He has always made excuses to himself about sentiment as weakness, not wishing to hurt you, keeping you from harm, etc. None of that matters anymore because I have "outed" his affection for you, and to deny this would make a liar out of his poor old mother. Something which I am sure he would be very loathe to do!

Show him my letter and watch his reaction. I am sure you will be able to read the truth of my words in his expression, no matter how guarded. He has told me that you are the one person, aside from me, who can truly see him. So take a good, long look, and make both of you happy.

Happy Christmas!

Violet Holmes

Sherlock was, indeed, secretly studying the young woman, and when he saw tears in her eyes was immediately concerned. What sore spot had Mummy Holmes poked at now!

"Molly, what's the matter? What kind of a present could she have given you to make you cry? Are they happy tears? You know I have a problem differentiating…"

"Do be quiet a moment, Sherlock, while I process this!"

"She didn't give you the farmhouse in Tuscany, did you?" Sherlock tried to make light of the matter. "Mycroft will be extremely upset. He's had his eye on that property for years!"

Molly Hooper shook her head, still trying to regain control. Sherlock was now standing in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. "Do calm down, Dr. Hooper. How bad can it bad? What the bloody hell has she gifted you with, anyway?"

"You!" Molly finally got the word out, then handed his mother's letter to the detective for him to peruse.

"Ah!" Sherlock slowly let out a breath, as Molly studied him closely. "That can be a problem. Mummy has a strict 'no return' policy, you know. No exchanges, either, for size or color! I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Molly smiled a genuinely happy smile as the detective took her in his arms, and, for the first time ever, planted a kiss on her lips which felt gentle, loving, passionate, and somehow permanent all at the same time. When they finally separated, the young woman shouted out, "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes!" as she looked around the almost empty room. "For the cameras, just in case!" she whispered to Sherlock.

The detective, seeing the wisdom of her taking this precaution, also looked around, and, speaking to the empty air, said, "I certainly hope there are none in the bedroom, as promised, or someone is about to see much more than they would want!" Then, swinging Molly around in his arms just once, he quickly hurried her off down the hallway.

In the quiet countryside just outside of London. an elderly woman sat smiling at the screen of the laptop open on the table before her. She looked up happily at the tall man standing next to her, garbed in a ridiculously ugly green jumper decorated with the image of a snowman, attired in a pinstripe waistcoat and carrying an umbrella.

"Congratulations, Mummy! Your plan seems to have worked," the man said, almost sneering.

"I wouldn't be so smug, Mikey. You know Boxing Day is coming, when you traditionally give gifts to employees, servants, and tradesmen…"

"Yes…." Mycroft Holmes was beginning to sound the least bit suspicious.

"Well, Mikey, you should see the gift I have selected for your 'personal assistant', Anthea. And perhaps you would be so kind as to pass along this note to her, as well. It really is slightly more than a note, in fact…"

And while his mother droned on, Mycroft was already adjusting to the possible new dimensions of his future life.