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A Bit of Courage

"Dear Father Christmas,

It's been a long time since I've written. And now I think of it, I regret waiting so long. I can't remember how many times I got something I didn't want for Christmas, but I won't think of that anymore. I'll just jump right into it, and take the plunge. You may not even remember me (no doubt you throw away all your files when children become adults). So I'll introduce myself: My name is John, John Hamish Watson. I'm now…let's just say that I'm a rather large child (you don't really need to know my age to leave me a present, do you?)

Now we come to the real reason that I'm writing: my Christmas list. I can tell you right now that it is short and sweet, so you shouldn't be surprised. This year, I would like something special. I don't even know if you're able to give this, or whether your elves can make it, but I still think that you're the best person to help me. After all, magic positively surrounds you.

I would like courage for Christmas. Please don't get me some stupid thing with no magical power. No, I want something that will actually work. A real Christmas miracle, straight from Father Christmas.

I'm counting on you.

I will see you December 24th.

John."

With that, John stuffed the letter into a red envelope and wrote an address on it in gold ink:

Father Christmas

North Pole

Walking out of his room, he found Sherlock in the middle of an experiment on…was that a human hand? He barely noticed it as he passed, grabbing his coat off the hook where it hung.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his experiment.

"To post a letter." John responded.

"While you're out, could pick me up some trifluoromethanesulfonic acid?"

"Excuse me?"

"Trifluoromethanesulfonic acid. It's—"

"I know what it is, but why do you need it?"

"For my experiment." Sherlock said, as though the answer were obvious.

"You know I'm only going to the post at the end of the road? Sherlock, in these cases, normal people would ask for bread or butter—something important!"

"Okay, then bring back bread AND trifluoromethanesulfonic acid. But don't go to the bakery at the end of the road. Go to the French bakery, you know, the one next to Covent Garden? And get two baguettes.

John sighed. Sherlock was hopeless. And yet, John didn't know who was worse, Sherlock or him, because he knew very well that he would go to get the baguettes that Sherlock asked for—not to mention going out of his way to find the trifluoromethanesulfonic acid as well.

Sherlock could ask his for anything, and John would do it without a moment's hesitation. John trusted Sherlock implicitly—even to the point of jumping off the London Bridge if the detective asked him to.

Days passed and Christmas was here. John had invited Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft, who had unexpectedly agreed to come to the festivities that year. The guests all arrived on time, filling the apartment with a festive air.

John took out a bottle of champagne for the pre-dinner drinks, and passed around a plate of hors d'oeuvres.

"How about we open the presents?" Molly suggested.

"Yes, good idea!" John exclaimed.

"I can't wait to see mine." Lestrade smiled, taking several packages from under the tree. "So this one is for…John, here, this one's for you." He handed him a small red package.

"I think that one's from me!" Molly said.

"Oh, thank you." John said, opening his present. "How did you know I'd lost my fountain pen? This one's really nice. Thanks so much, Molly."

"You're welcome." Molly responded, her cheeks reddening.

"And here's another." Lestrade informed them. "This one's for Molly."

One by one, they each opened their presents. They were all happy with what they'd gotten, and the party lasted late into the night.

As John headed to bed that night, a small, sad smile crossed his face. How could he have possibly believed that Father Christmas was real. It was absolutely ridiculous. Yet all the same, he had so needed to believe in this fantasy from his childhood.

Getting into his bed, he noticed that it didn't feel as comfortable as it normally did. There was something under his back. With his fingers, he groped for the object and found a small present wrapped in gleaming gold wrapping paper.

"For John Hamish Watson, the adult who still believes in me."

John must be dreaming. Had Father Christmas actually left him a gift? He ripped open the golden paper, revealing a small cardboard box. Carefully, he lifted the lid open. Inside was a small bottle with an inscription that read "Concentrated courage". A note was in the box as well.

"My dear John,

I'm delighted to find an adult who still believes in me. Your request was a very difficult one, but my elves and I have managed to make you a courage elixir. Drink the whole bottle with a mug of hot chocolate (the chocolate will hide the elixir's bitter taste). The effects are immediate: you'll feel braver right away. But be careful—too much courage at the wrong moment could be catastrophic. The elixir will only last for an hour and a half after you've drunk it.

I'm trusting you, John. Think good and hard before you drink it.

Father Christmas"

John looked at the small vial of blue liquid. When should he take it? When would be the best moment?

The doctor knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep that night. He got out of bed and walked towards his bedroom window. All around him, London slept on. He could see the town breathing, the wind blowing through the deserted streets. The Thames slept in its riverbed, its water rushing through the depths of the English capital. London's soul danced with the stars that night; it was Christmas, and the whole world was full of joy.

One, two, three months passed, and John had yet to use his elixir. Each time he'd almost came around to drinking it, he'd thought better of it at the last minute.

And then on one quite ordinary day, John took out the vial, went to the kitchen, and made himself a hot chocolate as Father Christmas had instructed him.

Sherlock had gone to take a shower following an investigation that had led him into the London sewers.

Today was the day. John would drink the elixir right there, right then. From the bathroom, he heard the shower stop running. At any moment, Sherlock would exit the bathroom.

John poured the viscous blue liquid that Father Christmas had given him into his hot chocolate. He took a deep breath as if diving into a pool, and then drank the entire mug in one gulp. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then, all of a sudden, John felt an intense heat rise in him, from the tips of his toes all the way up to his heart. Everything around him seemed to spin, and his head was suddenly swimming with crazy thoughts and ideas: things that he'd vowed never to attempt, foods that he'd never dared try, or even conversations with people he'd always avoided. All of these thoughts vied for position in his head, yet there was one thought that seemed stronger than the others. There was one thing that he wanted to do more than anything in the world.

John heard the door to the bathroom open, and a cloud of water vapor emerged. The doctor moved towards the newly opened doorway and found himself face-to-face with his friend and roommate, Sherlock Holmes.

Watson no longer knew what he was doing. His actions were controlled entirely by impulse. Sherlock looked at him as though he were crazy, before sidestepping and walking towards his bedroom. John caught him by the wrist.

"Sherlock," John began. "I've wanted to tell you this for ages, but I've never…never had the courage to say it. Sherlock, my life has been turned upside down ever since I've met you. Before, I was just John H. Watson, former army doctor. But you've changed me. I don't know if it's for the better," he said with a small laugh. "But you've changed me all the same. I've never been so happy. All the time spent with you has been…magical. Well actually, that depends. But most of the time, it's magical. And while I may sound completely ridiculous, I can't hold back anymore. So now, I just want to tell you…to confess to you…Sherlock Holmes, I love you.

The consulting detective stood with his mouth hanging open, completely lost for words. Shock was clearly visible on his face. John let out an involuntary burst of laughter, and Sherlock joined in after a moment's hesitation. Once their laughter had passed, a sudden pushed them both forward into a passionate kiss.

"I love you too, John." Sherlock whispered.

And following that first kiss came thousands upon thousands more. The two lovers lived together, happy and in love. And every year, John sent a letter to Father Christmas.

THE END