Sherlock

A.N.: For my "Christmas challenge" this year, I'm doing something a bit different than I did with Blushing Bluebirds. This time I'm going to ruin the childhoods of our favorite characters. Sherlock is about six or seven here. I figure he'd find out early. Enjoy!

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock!" mom gushed. "Let's see what Santa brought you."

I rush downstairs, a big smile on my face, with Redbeard stumbling behind me, tail wagging like a pendulum.

Mycroft, at the chiding of my mother, seems serious on the outside, but I know better. He's just as excited as I am; he's just better at hiding it.

The Christmas bounty was a big one. I got a forensic kit, among other things. I'm so excited; I can't wait to use it!

"Sherlock?" Mycroft blearily calls out as I sneak down to the kitchen. Redbeard doesn't follow me, but he does.

"What are you doing?" he demands to know.

"Just go back to bed. I just want to dust the prints on the wrapping paper," I say as I dig through the trash. Finally locating a piece that was mine, I unbox my package and pull out the finger-printing dust. I examine an area I hadn't touched, but was likely to have a print on it from wrapping, and brushed the powder over it. As explained on the directions, which Mycroft insisted I follow, I transfer the print to a slide and put everything back as I found it. I don't know why, but Mycroft has a sad, worried look on his face.

It's only when I go to place the print next to those of the rest of the family, courtesy of the forensic kit last year, that I begin to understand.

Santa's print matches dad's to a T. Every curve, hump, and swirl is echoed in dad's thumb. Santa never wrapped the present.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," He begins "I'm afraid Santa Claus isn't real. He never was. Mom and Dad buy the toys and put them under the tree."

"Why would they lie about it?" I ask. The world felt so full of hope before, but now I begin to feel it turning bleak. Was this how adults felt all the time?

"To make us feel better. That's what mom said."

I fell to my knees, soon crumpling into a little, wavy-haired ball on the floor. Arms wrap around me. Mycroft is so going to deny this tomorrow.

Right now, however, he holds me tight. Either he really does love me, or mom put something in the hot chocolate. I go with the former.

A.N.: If you my little warning in the summary pertained to you, but still ignored it, I'm deeply sorry that you had to learn this from me. Are there any other characters you want to watch get ruined? I'm planning on John being next, but it's all still flexible. Thank you for your time, merry early Christmas, and GOD BLESS!