Author: Sectumsempra
Beta: Xenya-m
Translator: med_cat; translation beta: lindahoyland
Rating: G
Word count: 2146
Genre: Humor, Xmas Eve crack
Characters: Sherlock, John, and two unknown individuals
Translator's note: Originally posted in Russian on 6/2014 on the Russian fanfic site snapetales dot ru
(snapetales index . php? fic_ id = 30860)
"And I'm telling you, young man, that my elf has gone missing!"
In the living room on Baker Street, in an armchair by the glowing fireplace, sat a peculiar-looking fellow: he was dressed like a cosplayer who ran away from a Middle Ages-themed convention. This guest had agreed to take off his fur coat and his peaked hat. He looked like an unfinished Santa-his own long hair and beard were insufficiently white to permit dressing him in a red suit and sitting him down in a mall somewhere. His red bulbous nose and ruddy cheeks made one more likely to suspect his predilection for drinking in a pub nearest to his house.
"Your elf has gone missing? A bit early for him to go on a drinking binge, don't you think?" Sherlock smirked.
"You think he's gone on a drinking binge, do you? Oh, he'll get it from me then! But on the whole, he's a reliable fellow and has never done such a thing before. Until after we get all the work done, he never took a sip of ale, my good sirs."
"Would you like some coffee?" John asked.
"What's that? No, I don't drink that sort of stuff. I keep away from any such imported swill. Now, if you offered me a mug of good ale…" the guest stroked his beard, a dreamy look on his face.
The beard, one had to admit, was quite luxurious-thick, silky, very even, and the ends of it curled up.
"What's your name, to begin with?" asked Sherlock.
He was looking at their guest's beard with a rather predatory expression on his face, and John began to worry.
"Nicholas."
"And your surname?"
"What's that?"
"Your name is Nicholas, and after that?"
"In some places, they call me Pere Noel. Some places, it's Joulupukki."
"Yes, yes… I see you're quite a good actor. But I won't be able to find your partner if you continue in the same vein."
"We don't have any ale. Will whisky be all right?" John held out a glass to their guest.
"You mean moonshine?" Nicholas chuckled into his moustache. "It's true that I walk the earth during Yuletide, but I don't eat ice, my friend. Why'd you throw so much ice in here?"
"All right," John chuckled, took away the glass, poured another glass of whisky, neat.
"That's much better." Nicholas swallowed down all of the whisky and grunted. "Not bad, it does warm one up."
"When was the last time you saw that...elf...of yours?" asked Sherlock.
"Let's see now…"
Nicholas pulled out a small scroll from the pocket of his outfit, and, holding the scroll by the edge, allowed it to unfold. Unexpectedly, the scroll turned out to be far longer than it initially seemed. It fell onto the carpet and continued unfolding, until its edge reached the table leg. The entire scroll was covered with very small handwriting. Sherlock bent down, touched it, and his eyes grew big with surprise.
"What is this, parchment?!"
"Why, what else would it be?"
Having slid a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose (that kind of eyewear one could only find in a museum, nowadays), Nicholas started running his finger down the lines on the scroll.
"There...After we visited Bobby Collins, in Southwork, near St. Olaf's Church. The youngster had behaved badly all year, and got pinched and whacked on the side of the head a few times for it. As soon as we left the house, then, I turned around, and my mate was nowhere to be seen."
Sherlock pulled out his mobile and ran a Google search.
"There's a pub on that street," he pronounced, darkly. "I think it would be logical to look for your partner there. Well then? You're an excellent actor. However, I am somewhat concerned about your mention of pinching and whacking on the head. One could end up in prison that way, and rather quickly, you know."
"In prison? Whatever for? All bad children get pinched and whacked on the head instead of getting presents. Or even get caned. That's how things should be. Good children get presents, bad children get caned."
"I was never the best-behaved of children. But I don't remember any elf caning me at Christmastime. I always had presents under the tree, although it is a ludicrous custom. After I turned six or so, I would ask my parents for the presents I wanted. I remember that chemistry set…" Sherlock gave a dreamy smile.
"Parents, that's different. You didn't ask me for any presents, laddie. You were lucky. Nowadays, many children ask their parents for presents. But in the times gone by, my scroll would not have fit in your room." Nicholas suddenly jerked the edge of the parchment, and it immediately rolled up into a tight narrow tube.
"How do you do that?" John asked in surprise.
"Quality work, one must admit," Sherlock was forced to agree. "Although I don't recall ever hearing about a stage magician who moonlighted as Father Christmas."
"I am Father Christmas!" Nicholas turned dark red.
"And I am the Queen of England," Sherlock chuckled. "Well, make a miracle of some sort, so I might believe you. You are a long-term investment of the Coca-Cola Company. There are hundreds of thousands, at least, of Santas like you, coming out onto the streets every Christmas. Although not many of them work in partnership with elves-only the ones who are the most fixated on the old traditions. An elf, you know, is superfluous. Gifts must be bought in large quantities. Otherwise, the corporations that sell merchandise won't be able to make a profit."
Nicholas was giving Sherlock a half-pitying look usually reserved for those not quite right in the head.
"I should have visited you, lad, when you were a child. Maybe you would have grown up to be a better human being."
"Thank you for a good performance. I would still advise you to stop by the pubs near the street address you mentioned. Your elf is probably looking for you by now. You should've phoned his mobile a long time ago. Authenticity is a worthwhile thing, of course, but why deliberately put yourself in a ridiculous situation?"
"And you, I do remember," Nicholas turned to look at John. "A good boy."
Sherlock leaned back in the armchair and guffawed.
"I remember what you asked me for, too," Nicholas continued, not paying Sherlock any attention.
John suddenly felt his knees tremble.
"And what did I ask for?"
"A dog. You remember that puppy you found on your front porch?"
"How do you know?" John sat down on the sofa.
"Listen, John, it's simply a shot in the dark," Sherlock grumbled. "All little boys usually want a dog and are ready to believe in the devil himself, let alone in Santa, just so they would receive a dog as a present."
"I really did find a puppy, Harry and I hid it in the closet during the entire Christmas holiday, but then our parents found it and made us take it to the shelter. Our mother was allergic to animal fur."
"What a very sad story." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, for God's sake, I beg you, don't play into this crazy man's delusions! What's the matter with you, really? Nicholas, or what was your name...I can't help you with anything further in my role as a detective. All of that is amusing...perhaps...but couldn't you...just leave ?"
"It's sad to see you like this, lad. Just sad."
Nicholas got up, stuffed the scroll into his pocket and sighed.
"So where's my fur coat?"
"Allow me." John came out of his daydream and ran to the coat-stand.
With difficulty, he helped their guest, who was two feet taller than Sherlock, to put on the sheepskin-lined coat.
"So do you want a dog?" Nicholas quietly asked John.
"Where would I even put it?" John whispered back.
"That's true too, buddy. Well, happy Christmas to you. On Twelfth Night, send this fellow here to bed early, or else he might blurt something out, and it'll come true."
Sherlock was already beginning to growl, drumming his fingers on the armrest. Nicholas turned towards the door, when they heard Mrs. Hudson squeal, downstairs:
"Oh my God!"
John opened the door wide, and a short man rolled into their sitting room. For some reason, they'd never heard him coming up the stairs. There had been no ringing of the doorbell either-one couldn't understand why Mrs Hudson opened the front door at all.
"Nikki! Where have you been?!" the midget squeaked.
"And where have you been, you rascal?!"
Nicholas snatched his lost companion up and embraced the elf so hard that he could have been squished to death.
"Well, I had a pint or two. Do you think I enjoy all this whacking and pinching, eh? Three houses in a row-that's too much, Nikki."
"And I've been looking for you everywhere, you naughty thing!"
"How touching!" was heard from the vicinity of the fireplace.
"And who is that?" the midget squeaked, once he was set on his feet. "Is he on our list?"
"He's not on our list, and never has been. But he's a very bad boy, very bad indeed. He doesn't believe in us, can you imagine that, my friend?"
"He doesn't believe in us?"
John finally managed to have a good look at the midget. He didn't look any prettier than the house elf from the series of films about a bespectacled young wizard. In fact, it was with difficulty that John refrained from feeling the pointed ears, to see if they were glued on well. Although, this kind of cranial bone deformation can occur from natural causes. All one has to do then is to get a set of ears and one can play an elf, a goblin, or a leprechaun and make decent money from it.
"All right," the midget squeaked. "Let's go, Nikki. We still have so much work to do. Farewell, good sirs."
The odd couple went down the stairs. John went over to the window and looked out onto the street. Nicholas came out of the house; his friend was trotting along next to him and heatedly expounding about something.
"As you see, they didn't vanish into thin air, they're walking along on their own two feet," Sherlock's voice sounded just above John's ear.
"Yes, I see it," John replied darkly, although he did notice something odd: none of the passersby paid Nicholas and the elf any attention, nobody even turned to look at them.
"Come on, don't be upset," Sherlock continued peaceably. "Hey, if you want, we can even put up a Christmas tree. How about that?"
"I don't think it's worth the bother…"
"Oh, come on now. At least, even if the tree won't fit in the room, we can hang up some Christmas lights."
"All right, let's do that then…" John smiled crookedly.
Having eaten, each one of them settled himself in his corner. Sherlock, as was his habit, was watching some TV show and making indignant comments about it, John was typing in his blog. Then they went to their bedrooms. During the night, John was awakened by noise and shouting coming from downstairs. Not shouting, actually, more like screams. Jumping out of bed, barefoot, he ran down the stairs and dashed into the dark sitting-room. The screams were coming from Sherlock's bedroom. John turned on the light and ran there. But as soon as he came to the doorway, he froze in place, and his mouth even fell open.
Sherlock, clad in his pajamas, was running around the bedroom, making short dashes around and across his bed. The midget from yesterday was hopping around, right behind Sherlock, and whipping him on the bottom with a cane.
"What the***?!" roared John, adding a few unprintable words.
The midget froze in place, his cane aloft. Sherlock too froze in place, pressing his palms to his bottom. Both stared at John. Sherlock came to first, dashed over to his friend and hid behind his back.
"A very, very bad boy," the midget declared, his tone ominous.
What can one do in such a case? Call the police? It's obviously breaking and entering into a private dwelling. However, this particular night, the police didn't have to do any extra work; John spent a long time plying Sherlock with tea, and drinking some himself. Then they both smoothly transitioned from tea to brandy. And the reason for their drinking was that, after announcing his verdict, the midget suddenly jumped up and, with a loud clap, vanished into thin air, leaving behind only a small cloud which smelled of snow, pine needles, and orange peel.
Link to the original fic in Russian: www .snapetales index. php ? fic_id = 3 0860 (remove spaces)