A/N: HELLO EVERYONE! It's Spockologist speaking to you from beyond! Sparky Dorian and Mrs. P have been amazing in telling me what's been going on in my absence, and can I just say, I love you all! Thank you so much for your support. For those of you who are curious as to why I haven't been there, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or Mormons. I am currently serving an 18 month mission in the fabulous world of Spokane, Washington, and expect to be back partying it up with y'all in March of 2015. It just wasn't Christmas without me throwing in something, so I have asked Sparky to type this up for me.

I hope all of you are having a wonderful year, and I wish you a very Merry Christmas! If you are ever curious about what I'm doing, or what I believe, please ask Sparky Dorian for my writing address-I'd love to answer questions. Or better yet, check out and find missionaries like me to come visit you!

My contribution is short, I have little time out here, but I want all of you to know how much you mean to me. I am terribly out of practice when it comes to writing, so I hope you will forgive me.

Merry Christmas!

(And a note from Sparky Dorian: Sorry I was a bit slow in getting this up, but I'd like to second Spockologist's Christmas wishes and let you all know that I will pass along any reviews you leave for her. She loves hearing from you, so please do leave them!)

Sherlock Holmes was not prone to sentimentality. In fact, the whole notion of wreath hanging and gift giving seemed, to him, a bit nonsensical.

Christmas was a time to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child-not a time to conjure up stories of a kindly old elf who left presents for children in their worn and tattered stockings.

You could say that he was cold; a perfect companion to Dicken's turn-about protagonist. And he was, to a point. (For instance, Christmas carollers drove him positively batty.)

But this Christmas, as he walked the humid streets of a foreign city, he found himself missing things he normally would have taken for granted; the scent of cloves and oranges in every home. The throngs of children pressed against the window of a sweet bread shop, eyes wide as they hoped for a warm piece of gingerbread.

He missed the churches and their many bells, the camaraderie of those he passed on the streets.

Sherlock Holmes missed London. That was what bothered him. At this festive time of year, all he wanted was a sense of familiarity. Even carollers with their out of tune voices would be preferable to the foreign language that now surrounded him.

Hands deep in his pockets and pipe clenched in teeth, he rounded a corner. When his eyes fell upon the scene there, he was filled with surprise.

In a dominantly Buddhist country, the last thing he had expected to find was a mark of Christianity. The sight shocked him, the homesickness that twisted inside made the scene all the more bittersweet to him.

Tucked back in the corner, away from the traffic of the road, a sort of makeshift Nativity lay before him. Carved from wood, the features were simple and plain. Years of wear were evident as he stepped forward to examine it.

He fingered the wooden carving of the Mother Mary and felt a hush of reverence wash over him. A familiar part of a song drifted into his consciousness as he stared down at the roughly carved Infant.

Silent Night,

Holy night, All is calm, all is bright...

He smiled to himself and places his hands back in his pockets as he whistled and walked away.

All would be calm, all would be bright.