Hiya everyone. So who's up for some unnecessary tragedy? Yaaay! But in all seriousness, this fanfic is from the film Muppets Christmas Carol about the death of Tiny Tim. Enjoy!

There wasn't anything much grimmer than living in Victorian England. Especially if you were one of the poor families living in poverty. The Cratchets weren't too worse for wear, since having a house was considered lucky, but there lives were far from perfect.

Still, none of this stopped the youngest and most optimistic Cratchet – Tiny Tim – from hopping around and yelling with excitement on that particular Christmas morning. Yes, it was 5:30 in the morning and Christmas couldn't really start until Tim's father - Bob Cratchet came back from working for the selfish Ebenezer Scrooge (working at Christmas? Ridiculous), but Tiny Tim was sill psyched, because he didn't have much to be happy about, usually.

Tiny Tim had a terminal illness. No-one knew what it was, because the family couldn't afford to have it treated, but they all knew it was serious. Tim had a limp, and would often break into a violent coughing fit. It was predicted that he wouldn't live to see Christmas.

But here he was! Christmas morning and he was still going strong. (Ish). The only thing was, no-one else seemed as enthusiastic as he was. He could hear one of the twins – Belinda and Betina (no-one could tell them apart) saying that he must be mad to be up so early, even if it was Christmas.

Tim was disappointed. Was there nothing he could do, to get his family to be as excited as he was for Christmas? It seemed not. However, there was one thing Tim could do that would get everyone's attention, and that was what happened next.

Tim started coughing.

The first to reach him was his mother – Emily Cratchet. She gave him a gentle scolding.

"What have I told you about getting over-excited?" she said. "It's not good for you!"

Tim didn't reply, he was coughing too much to be able to get any words out.

Emily frowned. This seemed worse than normal, something was wrong.

Tired and dishevelled, Bob Cratchet, Tim's father, pushed through the crowd and scooped his son up in his arms.

"It's OK," he soothed, rocking him gently. "It's alright."

It was anything but alright, and everyone knew it.

Tim's cough would not stop, no matter how much anyone begged him to.

"Please, Tim," Bob pleaded. "You're scaring us."

It was true. Peter and the twins Belinda and Betina had heard the commotion and had come to silently watch the scene, crying tears of fear and sudden despair.

Finally, when the cough had decreased but no entirely disappeared, Tiny Tim struggled to get a few words out.

"D-D-Dad," he wheezed. "I-I'm sorry I t-timed t so badly."

Bob Cratchet said nothing as he waited. Tim had broken off to cough once again.

"I…I s-so wanted to see Christmas."

He gave a few more weak coughs, and then finally, Tim was still at last.

The house filled with deafening silence.

Then the tears came.

Bob would not let his little son go, even though he knew he was long gone. He just sat, burying his tear-stained face in Tim's lifeless body.

Eventually, there was a little voice.

"Father?" It was Peter, the oldest. "What's happened to Tiny Tim?"

Bob sighed. What could he say? Was there anything he could say to his oldest son?

His only son.

"He's…he's in a better place now, Peter. His suffering's over."

Peter said nothing, but picked up Tim's crutch and hugged it to his chest.

Bob glanced up at his family. The twins clutched each other and howled. Similarly, Peter clung to his mother as he cried.

And as for Emily.

Oh, Emmy.

She was trying so hard to be strong, it wouldn't do to let the kids down, but it was clear to see that she was hurting inside.

They all were.

This was one Christmas morning they were never going to forget.