It was late November, cold, wet and dark, just like home, but Dr. John Watson wasn't in England. He was still in Korea, still with the Yanks and his week's leave in Tokyo that he'd planned to spend with his friend, Major Sherlock Holmes, G2 for brigade, had been cancelled. It was all more than a bit not good.
Father Mulcahy had invited him to join the Christmas party the unit was planning for the orphanage down the road. Watson had donated his small chocolate ration and volunteered to be duty surgeon, but he wanted to do more, so letters went out to his sister Harry, Sherlock and Major Sally Donovan, his unit's version of "Hot Lips."
Sooner than he'd anticipated, a big Sikorsky with the target-like markings of the RAF delivered its payload to the padre: Boxes of toys, warm clothing and Cadbury from Harrods.
"How did you manage it?"
Watson shrugged. "I called in a few favors, and the brother of a friend has some small influence with the MoD."
Christmas Eve found John Watson wearing a red felt hat with a big tassel that kept falling into his face as he handed out presents to happily squealing children. He felt, as well as looked, like one of Santa's elves. He smiled to himself and counted his Christmas blessings.
