The chill of a late December night was beginning to rise from the English countryside and the Holmes estate. Inside the grand manor, Sherlock sleepily opened his eyes. Outside the world was beginning to lighten, but the sun was still sat beyond the horizon. He watched his window; a blackbird had come to rest on the sill. The sky was a pure white, and the wind rattled the glass pane. Suddenly, remembering the date, the young boy jerked up in his bed, and grinned. Slipping out of his bed, he shivered in the cold of British winter. Sherlock hoped dearly that his seventh Christmas would be much more eventful and fun than the other six – not that he could remember the first two. But he hadn't high hopes, so thinking this he pulled his favourite dressing-gown on, padded out of his quarters, down his staircase, and up to Mycroft's quarters for what was usually the only fun part of Christmas: the respite from the rest of the house, the present exchange, and a chat in his brother's room. He tapped lightly on the door with the brass lion knocker, but wasn't surprised when he received no answer, as it was no later than half-five. Sherlock slowly pushed open the door, and entered the room. Mycroft lay, still sleeping, in his four-poster bed as Sherlock crept towards him. The younger boy slid onto the side of the queen double bed, and prodded his brother.

"My…hey, Mycroft! Wake up!" Sherlock nudged his brother awake.

"Hey Lockie, merry Christmas!" Mycroft blearily opened his eyes and smiled.

"Merry Christmas My!" Sherlock produced a haphazardly wrapped present, and placed it on Mycroft's bed as the older sat up.

"Oh Sherlock, sentiment again," Mycroft tutted and grinned, but still produced his own gift, so perfectly wrapped without a single crinkle in the paper, and was finessed with a card that read in perfect spidery textbook cursive: Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was not an acquisitive child, but when he took the present he grinned with utter glee: a new state-of-the-art microscope. Mycroft chuckled as he opened his own gift, a black umbrella. Sherlock, being a Holmes, noticed this.

"You were complaining about getting wet the other day," he explained sheepishly.

"I love it Sherlock, thank you."

"Likewise," replied Sherlock, the perfect gentlemen his father was training him to be. "It's a special Christmas this year, My! It's the only Christmas ever that your age will be double mine!"

Mycroft considered this. There'll be nothing special about your day I fear though. Don't be too disappointed, brother.

"Indeed it is."

At seven precisely Sherlock crept out of Mycroft's quarters – he usually wasn't allowed by Father to be there – proceeded back to his room to change, and the Holmes brothers went downstairs to the dining room in their formal attire. They would never dare to go into the main section of the house without looking respectable enough. Father was sat at the head of the long, oak table, and Mummy was kneeling beside the tall, sparkling Christmas tree. The head of the Holmes household had relented to the tree only to show the guests at Mummy's dinner party the other night. Sherlock and Mycroft were presented with one gift each, and their delighted "thank you"s were accompanied by a muttered scoff of "Sentiment" from father. Both boys pretended not to hear.

The day passed normally. It made Sherlock sad to think about his Christmas Day because he had heard about the celebrations that his classmates were treated to. He sat at the frosty window of the music room, the place with the best view of the outside world, his head resting on the cool glass, watching the life go on outside. From his vantage point, he could see the street on the other side of the estate's front gardens. People as small as ants ran along the road, children played, families went for Christmas walks together. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, he could hear his father's voice. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock had heard it over and over ever since he was born, and knew that because of this, it must be true. But still, something made his heart ache. He had no idea what, though.

He heard the door behind him open and close, and Sherlock knew it was his brother, though he didn't twitch. It was the footsteps; Mummy's were light and slow, father's were quick and heavy, and Mycroft's weren't as heavy as father's, but more so than Mummy's. Child's play. Hardly a deduction at all, Sherlock thought. Quite useless. I guess Father's right.

"You're looking rather too melancholy for the festive season, Sherlock," Mycroft commented.

"Festive outside, a normal day in the Holmes manor. Once outside, you're overcome with joy, once inside you're unavoidably not festive," Sherlock's voice was a depressed monotone.

Mycroft thought of this.

"Well, how about you liven the house with some carols? I know you were practicing," Mycroft suggested.

"What's the point? Father wouldn't be welcome to the distraction of carols, and Mummy's gone out."

"I think some beautiful carols on your violin is just what Father needs. And I'd like to hear them; you're forgetting me. Please Sherlock?"

Sherlock picked up his violin. He began to play O Holy Night. It wasn't much, but it was something. He played for Mycroft, and his brother smiled when he knew that he had improved Sherlock's day, even just the tiniest bit.

"Nice to see a smile gracing your features brother," Mycroft told Sherlock. "It's a novelty."

What do I have to smile about usually? Sherlock thought. He played carol after carol, and started to feel marginally happier, and for the first time that day was enjoying Christmas. When he had finished every carol he knew, except for his and Mycroft's favourite, Mycroft walked over to the piano. His fingers swept across the keys, playing the opening chords, and Sherlock smiled. He brought the bow across the strings, and started to play along with Mycroft. O Come, Emmanuelle was a sadder song, but both boys loved it. Their mother had sung it to them going to sleep when they were under the age of three, and Sherlock and Mycroft missed it – Father had vetoed bed-time songs because it would not turn them into proper gentlemen. Sherlock felt content and happy as they played together. As the song finished, Sherlock noticed that the world outside was beginning to be covered in white.

"Myc! It's snowing! It's snowing, Myc!"

With glee, Sherlock rushed to the door.

"Calm, Sherlock! You don't want to upset Father!"

Sherlock knew this was true, so he carefully set his violin down, waited for Mycroft, and the boys walked evenly down the stairs. Sherlock could barely contain his excitement, but he knew he had to, for the sake of his safety around his father. Sherlock lifted his coat and scarf off the hooks by the door as Mycroft sought out the eldest Holmes.

"Father, permission for Sherlock and myself to go outside?"

Mycroft was nodded consent, and so when both boys were sufficiently rugged up, they walked outside. Once out of their father's incriminating sight and earshot, Sherlock ran gleefully. He loved snow, and to have it on Christmas was even better. The flakes were falling thicker and faster now than when Sherlock watched from inside the house, and covered the world in a thick, white, duvet. Sherlock stuck out his tongue to catch snow on it, and giggled when the flakes were so cold they burnt. Mycroft watched his brother, so carefree, and feared that he wouldn't be like this for long. He despaired for the time when Sherlock would grow up and start being influenced more heavily by their father.

On Sherlock's suggestion, the boys went down to cross the river at the foot of the Holmes gardens, the water completely iced-over, and through the parkland and wooded areas behind the house. The trees here were covered in snow, and the white blanket on the ground was marginally thinner.

"My, is there something wrong with me?" Sherlock's voice was small, but he had to ask someone.

"Would do you mean, Sherlock?"

"Is there something wrong with me? There must be, because Father doesn't like me. I always do the wrong thing. But I do the same thing as you, and he likes you. Is there something wrong with me?"

Mycroft's heart ached as he watched his little brother walk next to him; thin, pale, and with his wide, blue-green eyes. His black curls bobbed as he walked, and Mycroft felt scared. What happened to Sherlock when Mycroft was at boarding school?

"Do you have to go to boarding school again, Myc? Can't you go to a school near here, and come home every night?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I am. But why are you thinking about these things? It's Christmas!"

"I know, but I thought…once Christmas is over, it's New Year, and then you'll be gone. It's going too quickly," he paused and both boys were silent. "People wish each other a happy New Year, but I don't want anyone to say that to me this year, because you shouldn't lie."

"Don't mind Father Sherlock. Don't care about him."

The words hung tangibly in the air, unsaid, but still spoken. Spoken to them almost every day, to Sherlock as the reason for half of his beatings. Caring is not an advantage.

"Don't talk about this Lockie, all right?" Sherlock loved Mycroft using his nickname; he only ever did when he was being comforting. "I know you're worried, but I'll always be there for you. When you're alone, and you think no one cares, think of me at school, and know that I still care about you. Whenever I can, I promise I'll try to protect you, and I'll always worry for you."

Sherlock nodded. They had reached the lake that was now ice. Sherlock approached the edge cautiously, and then mounted the ice.

"Careful Sherlock!"

The little boy slid over the ice, and with incredible balance, stayed upright as he glided over the slippery surface. He giggled, restrainedly at first, but then realising that Father wasn't near, he laughed loudly, and squealed with delight as gravity almost won over his staying upright. His hair was whipped by the wind and his coat flapped behind him. It lasted ten seconds before his feet went out from under him, and he landed in a perfect sitting position. He grinned, and scooted over to the edge where Mycroft was. Mycroft checked his watch that dangled by a chain from his trousers.

"We'll have to go back now Sherlock,"

If ever there were seven words to wipe the smile off his brother's face so suddenly, it was those. But he looked resigned as well. He knew he couldn't stay out here, free, forever, so he turned with Mycroft to trudge back to his indefinite sentence at the house. It wasn't his home; just a house that he lived in. He hadn't yet found the place he called a home. Once inside the threshold of Sherlock's personal hell, they hung up their coats, wiped their feet of the snow, and walked to the dining-room where the dinner, Mummy and Father awaited them. This was the only other proof that their father realised there was something special to the rest of the world about this date, as he had ordered more food than usual from the cooks, and there was a succulent turkey sitting in the centre of the table.

Sherlock knew he should be grateful for his circumstance. He had a house any child his age would die for, he had a father with connections who could set up a career for him, and parents who invested a lot into a proper and extensive education for him. But Sherlock thought that he would trade it all for a poor family who celebrated Christmas, for a father who liked him. Sherlock had said that he wanted a microscope and an encyclopaedia for Christmas, both of which he had been given, but his true desire was to swap families. Swap his life. He hadn't been given that Christmas present.

After dinner, Mycroft asked their father if he and Sherlock could go out again.

"Where are we going My?"

"You'll see," Mycroft smiled.

They left the house in the gathering darkness and walked down the path to the street. Mycroft led them down the main road past the beautiful Christmas shop displays. They rounded a few corners and Sherlock gasped. All down this and the next few streets, the homes glowed. Bedecked with Christmas lights, the houses lit up the young seven-year-old's night and world. He and Mycroft started walking. There were lots of people in this part of town, as they had all come to admire the gorgeous spectacle.

"It's a competition in the town these streets compete in," Mycroft told Sherlock.

"This one's my favourite," Sherlock pointed.

His chosen home had on the sides of the house multi-coloured lights around the perimeter, a giant yellow bell outline that moved as if it were ringing, green wreaths of holly with red berries that flashed, and some reindeer outlines pulling a sleigh. In the front garden was a large tree that had sparkling candles, baubles, and more flashing white lights. There were more reindeer outlines, large ones that stood up, and Santa figurines that glowed red. The hedges down the sides of the house sparkled pink and white, and the arch of the entrance to the garden was outlined in blue.

But Sherlock's favourite part was the windows. Inside on the mantels behind the glass panes there were panoramas; one window had a snow-covered ground with a joyous group of children playing together, gathering around Santa, with a sparkling Christmas tree as the centrepiece. The other window had a nativity scene. Sherlock's white face was lit up several colours, and he grinned.

"Even though Santa is merely fictional and he comes up about ten times in the garden, I still love it."

"Santa's real! He gave me presents and ate my cookies!" a young boy, probably around four years old, piped up from next to Sherlock.

"No he isn't. Your parents give you extra presents under the pretence that they are from a man who can somehow travel all around the world in one night, which is physically impossible," anyone would think that Sherlock was an educated adult, rather than a seven-year-old child.

The little boy glared hatefully at Sherlock.

"I don't believe you! You just want to ruin it!"

Sherlock shrugged as the boy flounced off.

Walking with Mycroft through the snow and seeing the lights made Sherlock inexplicably happy. It was something about the joy and festivity in the air, that fell cold and dead on entering Holmes manor, that was so alive here. Sherlock grinned. The outing was so lovely and beautiful that not even when they returned to the manor did it ruin Sherlock's mood. He sat with Mycroft on the couch that night, but despite his fears and apprehension for the future at that moment in time, sitting on the couch next to Mycroft by the crackling fire with the snow gently covering the ground outside and the memories of the sparkling Christmas lights, Sherlock felt happy. He now felt safe.

Sherlock trudged through the cold streets. Like his Christmas at seven years old, tonight London was blanketed in white. Sherlock walked through the more affluent parts of town, violin bouncing on his back as he trod. He was headed for the street he came to every year, but this year the first time in his new circumstance. The street neared, and the thin, black-haired youth could see the glow of lights at the intersection between this street and the next. He grinned. There it was; the lights shone into the night, and suddenly, for the first time that day, Sherlock felt happy. Most spent Christmas Eve and Day in bouts of euphoria, but Sherlock had never felt that in his life. Shrugging the great black coat closer to him, turned up the flaps to the wind, and started down the bright street. For a while he stood and stared. Sherlock was reminded of the time he ran down the streets through the falling snow alongside Mycroft to see the heart-warming festivity strung up over the houses.

Sherlock's favourite since coming to the Kensington lights were always on number 10. A large white terrace with an unusually wide front yard for the style of house, the something about the house that drew Sherlock to it was the something that Sherlock hated and tried to avoid thinking about. Sentiment. In the front windows of this house there were always two snow-covered panoramas: one with a Santa figurine climbing into a chimney, children singing in a choir, and a brightly lit Christmas tree in the centre; the second window had a nativity scene. It wasn't exactly the same, but it was so close. And Sherlock hated the fact that this was the reason he loved this house so much. He pretended it was the green flashes in the hedges, or the Santa lights in the garden, or the purple reindeer. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he missed his relationship with Mycroft. But then he thought of what his brother had done, and his heart hardened. And he remembered: caring is not an advantage.

"All hearts are broken Mycroft, how true of you. You put that into practice well," Sherlock's mutter was hardly louder than the wind.

After lingering in the street for an hour, coming back to number 10 four times, Sherlock left for the main street, near the park and shops. For Christmas Eve, it was extremely busy. He took out his violin, rested it on his chin, and begun to play. In another reminiscence of that same day sixteen years earlier, Sherlock played his carols. When he came to O Come, Emmanuelle, he felt a pang in his chest that he couldn't place the meaning of, couldn't place the feeling; but he knew that it was because there was no piano to play with him. The song had sounded so good with the piano. But, as always when sad about his deteriorating relationship with Mycroft, he thought of his brother's treacherous actions, and his heart turned to ice.

His violin was his soul living on the streets, and now on this bitterly cold night he played his heart to the world through his carols, brightening every passer's Christmas, just a bit.