(Author's Note: It was a race to finish this in time to publish for Christmas-in fact, I've a pile of gifts need last minute wrapping so I could finally post it here. Please forgive any spelling & grammar errors, as they are due to my haste. Hopefully, the content of the story-in which my heart is deeply invested-more than makes up for the mistakes. As always, thank you form reading!)
"On the first day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..."
This was, beyond question, Tessa's happiest Christmas season since the halcyon days of her childhood, each frosty December morning presenting her with another chance to share all that she loved about the holidays with those she held most dear-the dearest of whom was easy, for anyone who truly knew her, to reckon. It had taken quiet, perpetual patience, but Tessa had never doubted that she would eventually succeed in winning Sherlock over to a softer, gentler attitude towards Christmas and all that it encompassed.
Going into the holiday season, Tessa started with the hope of guiding Sherlock towards humoring her sentimental nature and tolerating her genuine devotion to the spirit of Christmas. She had proceeded cautiously, looking for any sign that she was overdoing things enough to truly irritate him, wagering that an understated approach might be a sly enough route to ease him into a proper, festive frame of mind. And it had worked marvelously. She hadn't even envisioned him warming to the point where he'd been willing to attend that Christmas pageant, and yet he had volunteered, attended, and not complained in the least—so that each day now she felt confident enough to take a baby step or two forward insinuating Christmas into life on Baker Street. To her wonder and joy, Sherlock had offered minimal resistance after a time—so that she couldn't be more excited about the prospects for the days to come.
If asked, Sherlock would have told her that it wasn't so much the purposeful little things she'd been doing that had opened his heart to the Christmas season, but the many things she did simply by virtue of her nature, that had made it impossible for him to resist her sweet and sincere Yuletide enthusiasm. But that was the way it had been from their first meetings in the Spring; Tessa had taken him by surprise a little at a time, until the thought of a day without her in his life was one he refused to entertain.
As for the gifts, well, Tess had been thinking of that as far back as late October, desiring to find something so uniquely suited to him that he would simply have to love it. Sherlock was the sort of man who went out and got exactly what he needed when he needed it, without any fuss and generally without concern for cost-so she'd have to find something he'd never think of for himself. Added to that the complication of aspiring to actually surprise him, and it became a major challenge.
After studied consideration, Tessa had a plan in mind by mid-November, and went about her business quietly, so all would be achieved with plenty of time left to enjoy the weeks before Christmas free of that sort of stress. She was careful to keep a poker face when any discussion of gift-giving arose, for she knew how well Sherlock could read her; in this, at least, her training yielded benefit. She wished, in fact, to surprise him just as thoroughly and happily as he had surprised her.
The arrival of her family might have set her plans awry if she hadn't already wrapped up all the details. Tessa thanked her lucky stars more than once during their visit, that she had the foresight to plan Sherlock's gifts well in advance.
It was a tearful farewell at Heathrow, but not a sad one, for their time together had been well spent; Tessa having tailored their sightseeing to what she knew would delight them best. As thrilled as she was to have them in London during the holidays, Tessa knew they were also anxious to return home to their own Christmas celebrations—and she'd been missing Sherlock, in those times he hadn't joined them in their excursions throughout the city. Tessa liked to think he was missing her as well.
And so the final countdown to Christmas began; meetings with friends, drinks with cast mates, and parties enough to fill her free time. Even so, she made sure to visit Baker Street at least once a day—and with each visit, would bring a gift or two to leave beneath the tree, never saying a word. Her gifts for John and Mrs. Hudson were wrapped straightforward as any Christmas offering; but those for Sherlock she had to disguise in whatever ingenious way she could manage, knowing he'd try to decipher the contents the moment her back was turned. It didn't occur to Tessa that he might choose to open them in her absence, and then rewrap them—not being privy to the knowledge that he'd done just that as an adolescent, she trusted him entirely. Fortunately, Sherlock behaved, for he could see how much the giving meant to her.
Christmas Eve arrived, with all in high expectation. Tessa and Mrs. Hudson had laid in well the supplies for Christmas brunch and Christmas dinner. The few days before were spent in the close quarters of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, finalizing plans, polishing the silver, and readying any item that could be prepared in advance. If either of "the Boys" wandered in—be it out of curiosity, or drawn there by the scent of something yummy—the women firmly shushed them away (although in Sherlock's case, he more than once attempted to charm his way past Tessa, just to prove to John he could pass where his friend had so blatantly failed). Both meals were to be a mix of classic British Christmas fare and samplings of Tessa's family favorites.
Tessa had left for the theatre around noon, promising to return as soon as the matinee of A Little Night Music concluded, and John and Mrs. Hudson had ventured out to pick up a few last minute Christmas presents, leaving Sherlock at odds and ends for a few hours. He filled the time with wrapping the last of his gifts, enjoying the challenge of customizing the paper and trimming to the recipient and the particular item. It fended off the boredom, anyway.
Tessa returned shortly before five, breathless from the rush, her cheeks quite rosy from the cold, the light snow that dusted her coat evaporating in moments. Anticipating her return, Sherlock had set the kettle to boil, betting she'd like some hot chocolate to warm up with. Shrugging off her coat, she draped it across the chair near the sofa, and then took the mug from him, pleased with his thoughtfulness.
"It was a full house this afternoon," she told between sips, "SRO, in fact. And we got a standing O."
He nodded motioning for her to join him on the sofa, "How's your appetite?" he asked, "It's still a little early for supper, but I thought perhaps we could get something now."
"Oh, I'd love that, but I can't right now, darling," she told him, sitting down beside him and resting her mug on the coffee table, "I can't stay long, but we had a table of treats at the theatre, so I grabbed something there to hold me over until supper"
"What, you're going out again?" Sherlock didn't intend to sound so irritated, but his expression left no doubt in Tessa's mind that he was starting to feel put out.
She took his hand in both of hers, her eyes wide and deep with entreaty, "Sylvie invited me to join her and Jasper and the girls at Christmas Eve mass. You don't mind too terribly, do you?" Her tone made clear the answer she was hoping for from him.
He retorted with an exasperated sigh. Tessa rushed a soothing response, "I'll be back straightaway, and then we'll have the whole rest of Christmas together." She teased him gently, "You'll probably be tired of all my sentimental carrying on by this time tomorrow night anyway."
Sherlock tilted his head, a half-smile of acknowledgement and appreciation creeping across his cheek—how she'd learned so well to anticipate his reactions, how easily she navigated his weather before a storm arose. He knew he couldn't deny her this, though he was truly disappointed to have to spend the next few hours still alone.
"Alright, fine," he told her irascibly, "I suppose I can find something amusing to fill the hours in between." Tessa leaned in to give him a grateful kiss, but he held her off a moment longer, "But the only surprises I want after this are the ones wrapped and waiting under the tree."
"Hmmmm," she said as she kissed him, her voice grown husky, "don't make me promise something you know very well I may not be able to deliver."
How could he not respond in kind? In the end, she never really left him any choice, her softness so sweet, her mouth ever ready to yield to him. Sherlock traced the line of her jaw, holding her face and returning her kiss, to murmur after, "Are you sure you have to go?"
Tessa's lips remained a hairsbreadth away, "Don't tempt me, darling. I've got to behave a while yet." Even so, Sherlock wove his fingers in her hair, not willing to let her leave.
Perhaps he might have persuaded Tessa to linger still, if not for the "yoo-hooing" of Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. She was dressed for church as well, wearing her best coat, buttoned and ready to go, looking a little excited about the outing ahead, "Shall we go now, Tessa?
Breaking the pleasant gravity that held them rapt in one another, Tessa looked down a moment before answering her. "Yes, I'm coming, Mrs. Hudson." She pressed a finger across Sherlock's lips, and mouthed silently "Later, darling," then rose to get her coat.
Sherlock stood with her, helping her back into her coat—his convenient excuse to loiter close a little longer. "Come straight home then," he admonished Tessa gently, "and then we can make a proper start of Christmas."
Tessa bit her lip with a little smile of regret, and then followed Mrs. Hudson down the stairs.
It had only been twenty minutes since they'd left, and Sherlock was already ruing Tessa's absence. He was glad to see John come into the flat, ready to suggest to him that they head out for a light dinner and a holiday libation, certain it would fill the time nicely until the women returned to Baker Street.
John hesitated a bit—enough for Sherlock to read his answer in the set of his shoulders and the way he looked away before answering—"Oooo, love to but I can't. Stella asked me to join her at a get together with her friends—I've just come to change before going over."
"Oh." Sherlock expressed a world of disappointment in the one syllable.
"Isn't Tessa coming by?" John asked, glancing about to see if she'd already arrived.
"Church." Sherlock countered, pursing his lips in frustration.
"Oh. Well then…" John trailed off; he didn't really want to offer, but felt he had to, although he doubted Sherlock would take up him up on it, "Um…you're welcome to come along with me, if you'd like. I won't know anyone there besides Stella, so it would be a bit of a favor to have you there." He squinted at Sherlock, awaiting his reply.
Sherlock sighed, looking altogether resigned, "No, that's fine. I'm, uh, sure I can keep myself busy for a couple of hours. There's a paper on potential changes in the field of medical examination that Molly recommended; I've been meaning to catch up with online."
John nodded, "Of course…" not fooled in the least and fairly certain that the only thing Sherlock might end up catching up on was pouting time. A little sorry for his friend, John knew it was survivable, and felt it wasn't so grave that he'd have to miss out on his own plans. He watched as Sherlock took a seat at the desk and opened up his laptop, making a point of being completely absorbed in whatever appeared upon the screen. John headed upstairs to change.
Once ready to go, John popped his head through the door to find that Sherlock had not budged from where he sat when he'd left the room. "Not too late to change your mind, Sherlock. Could be a case of the more, the merrier."
Sherlock didn't look up, waving John off with an inaudible mumble. No less than John had expected; he turned and left the flat.
Sherlock waited a moment, and then looked towards the doorway, vexed that John had ignored his quiet signals that he'd have preferred his company for the evening over the quiet that now filled the room. He glanced back at the screen, and then unceremoniously closed the lid, reaching into his jacket for his phone. He quickly dialed a number.
His call was answered after several rings. "Yes, Sherlock, what do you need this fine Christmas Eve?" As ever, Mycroft's voice held a distinctive mocking tone.
Sherlock vowed to sound just as detached, "Who said I wanted anything? I was just wondering what you were up to this evening; I know that house of yours must be echoing with silence on such a festive night."
"How brotherly of you, Sherlock, to be so concerned for my emotional welfare." There was a hint of amusement through Mycroft's sarcasm, "But then you must have a houseful of guests right now; I wonder you even had the opportunity to give me a passing thought."
"Well, at the moment it's rather quiet here, but then the evening's still young, isn't it? I was only…" Sherlock paused, as it wouldn't do for Mycroft to think he needed company, "…speculating if perhaps you might like to stop by for a Christmas toast of sorts. Surely even you have to raise a glass or two to the season."
Mycroft huffed, which Sherlock supposed was as close to a laugh as he was likely to get, "As exciting as your invitation sounds, I think I shall decline. Seeing you twice over the holiday might be a bit too much for either of our likings."
"Twice?" the younger brother repeated, now perplexed.
"Well, tomorrow of course." From his tone, Sherlock could tell Mycroft felt he had the upper hand. "Your Tessa invited me over for Christmas dinner—such a pretty thing, I couldn't stand to say no and see a look of disappointment cross her hopeful face…..or didn't she mention it to you?"
Sherlock couldn't recall a single statement or allusion to such an invitation. He had to smile though, at Tessa's quiet thoughtfulness. This certainly was an unexpected surprise, and welcome too he supposed—though he wouldn't want to let such information on to Mycroft. "Oh yes, I'd forgotten that."
"Indeed." Sherlock could tell Mycroft was not convinced. "Well then, I'll let you go, Sherlock, as I'm sure Baker Street is just coming to life with Christmas cheer even now."
"Indeed." Sherlock concluded, smoothly enough he hoped, to maintain the illusion that he wasn't actually alone, "Until tomorrow then, Mycroft—for it would be a shame, should you disappoint Tessa."
His brother replied with genuine sincerity, "I shall do my utmost to avoid such a travesty." Mycroft chuckled, and then added, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock. And please do give that lovely young lady my best."
"It's as soon said as done, brother dear. Goodnight."
Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket, frustrated. It would probably be at least two hours until Tessa and Mrs. Hudson were back, and he was feeling out of sorts. In the past, solitude on Christmas Eve had never bothered him; once past the days of childhood fantasy, and the youthful anticpation of gifts and other satisfactions that the holiday season held, he had come to think of Christmas as just another day of the year, observed by the masses as a comforting religious myth, and by modern society as opportunity for greedy indulgence. Tessa had changed all that for him, and he had begun to enjoy each aspect of the season, now as never before; and thus had not expected to be feeling—frankly—abandoned by those who knew him best, those who meant the most to him. Frankly, by the woman who'd caused him to embrace the season to begin with.
Left restless by these thoughts, Sherlock grabbed his coat, intending to stop on the Marylebone Road at the fish & chips shoppe he favored. Perhaps the fresh air would do him some good, and surely a stroll through a neighborhood or two, lit with Christmas cheer, might make the time pass more quickly.
Somehow, without even meaning to, Sherlock's path had taken him here: Notting Hill, Saint Mary's of the Angels Church. He certainly had not intended to end up here, not as he left the shoppe (its final customer of the day), his hot food wrapped up to be consumed along the way. Had he been woolgathering so much that he'd moved without thinking to the place he knew her to be? Or, he asked himself truthfully, had he intended to get here all along, knowing his heart really did long for the comfort of community the brightly lit church represented, the warmth that seemed to flow out with the strains of music coming from within? The thought of Tessa inside, joined in prayer and song with others of her faith—was that the magnet that drew him here? A man who stood outside of everything this building represented, yet wanted nothing more than to do as he was doing—opening the door to feel the wash of shared and simple Christmas gladness wash over him.
Sherlock allowed himself to enter the vestibule, but stopped there, feeling it was enough for now. He knew, not just from what he could hear (and remembering similar services he'd attended as a boy), but from the time itself, that the service was almost over. It was quite enough to imagine her inside, singing joyfully, and most likely wishing he was there to share it with her. He felt a sense of peace that had eluded him all day long, a sense of belonging that had for so many years been out of reach. He thought of those who had made it posible for him to finally feel he fit in somewhere—of John and Mrs. Hudson, of Lestrade and Molly, and of his Tessa, who had worked a minor miracle of sorts; they had gotten him to this marvelous threshold, and she had managed to carry him across at last. Sherlock felt such a swell of love for all of them, that he was grateful to be alone, fearing the light of it would shine so obviously upon his face that he might be taken, by strangers, for a fool.
He could hear the sound of the congregation rising as one for the final blessing; moments later came the resonant harmonies of the folk group, accompanied by guitars and keyboards; Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and quite a joyful noise it made at that. The doors opened wide to knots of people chattering cheerfully as they exited, farewelling and "Merry Christmasing" to all whom they recognized.
Sherlock stood off to the side watching them pass, his eyes focused as he searched for a sight of Tessa and Mrs. Hudson. Knowing her, he thought, Tessa will be one of the last to leave, likely to stay until the last note of the last carol rang out.
That, in fact, was exactly what she did. Tessa and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, arm in arm, following Sylvie and her family. Sherlock remained silent, but took a few steps closer, patient for her to notice him. She beamed at him in happy surprise, pointing him out to Mrs. Hudson, before rushing over to embrace him. "You should have come in and joined us, Sherlock," concern in her voice, "Have you been waiting long?" Her cheek against his was welcome and warm, and Sherlock breathed in the light fragrance of her perfume, glad that she was his.
He kept his voice low, smiling down at her sweet reaction, "Not long at all, my dear. I only just arrived." The others had stopped a few feet away, allowing the couple their privacy. The adults looked surprised and pleased to see him there. Tessa squeezed his hand, then pulled him along to greet them.
Pleasantries exchanged, Sherlock turned back to Tessa, "I was thinking we might take a walk before returning home. If you're up to it. Its a near perfect December evening."
"Sounds wonderful," she answered, turning to Sylvie and Mrs. Hudson, "Do you mind?"
Sylvie laughed lightly, "Not at all. Sounds too romantic to resist." Tessa looked down, bashful at how obvious she must have looked, and Sylvie added, "We can see Mrs. Hudson gets home safely."
Mrs. Hudson, looking on indulgently, told them "No problem at all, dear. You two take your time." She winked at Sherlock, "You keep her warm now, Sherlock. Keep her close."
He nodded, his gaze locked upon Tessa, his response more for her ears than anyone's there, "I have no intention of anything other than that."
Within a few blocks, it had begun to snow lightly, flakes huge enough to make out the unique crystal patterns of each, falling lightly and muffling the sounds of the world around them. It made them feel as though they traveled the night alone. Tessa tightened her hold upon his arm, grateful for this peaceful, quiet time at Sherlock's side.
"You know," she sighed, "this has always been my favorite night of the year."
That did not surprise him, but he went on to indulge her, asking why. Tessa paused to think, as they came to a corner and waited for the light to change so they could cross the street. The snowflakes alighting upon her hair gave the appearance of a lacy bridal veil, and he felt a tender sort of satsifaction seeing her so. "What?" she asked, puzzled but smiling as a warm expression spread across his features.
"Nothing," he answered, happy to keep the lovely observation to himself, "You were saying what made Christmas Eve your favorite."
She shook her head, puzzled by his enigmatic response, before continuing, "As a child, you feel it as the most thrilling anticipation. What will Santa bring for me?" The light finally flashed for them to cross, and Sherlock led her forward. "Even as a teen, you're mostly thinking about what gifts you'll get. But eventually you understand," Tessa pressed closer at his side, her voice sincere and holding his attention, "eventually you get it."
Sherlock thought he knew where she was leading, although there might be any number of answers. "Tell me, my dear."
She gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering, "How much better it feels to give than to get. How wonderful you feel when you've brought happiness to someone. The ones you love," she stressed that last for his sake, "and the ones in need of kindness."
That's me, he thought, on both accounts, as he silently tallied all the wonderful ways she'd given to him in their time together. "That's a lesson doesn't need Christmas to learn, Tessa." Sherlock stopped, wanting to face her as he told her, "You've shown me that so many times already."
She lowered her eyes a moment, shy at his honest flattery, and then looked up at him, "But that's exactly what Christmas is. If you believe, like Ido," Tessa's voice was as hopeful as her spirit, "than you recognize this night as the night of the most profound loving and giving ever." She blinked and a few sentimental tears graced her cheeks.
Another Sherlock might have given a dry, clinical answer to her assertions; would have been eager to dispell the myths—pointing out that Christ the historical figure was likely born in the spring and certainly wasn't visited within days of his birth by scientist-philosophers bearing gifts. But he had changed in the several months since they had met, and even if he couldn't entirely agree with her beliefs, he valued her quiet, enduring faith and the view of the world it created in her. Instead, he leaned in to brush his lips softly upon her cheek. "Tessa, come home with me now. That's all the gift of Christmas I'll ever need."
Agreeing easily, Tessa bit her lip, her love for him writ clear on her features, and Sherlock waved down the next passing cab, as the snow continued to colour the streets fresh and white.
Tessa stole from his bed Christmas morning, truly excited about the day ahead, and doing her best not to wake him prematurely. She borrowed Sherlock's tartan dressing gown—always her favorite—to head downstairs and join Mrs. Hudson with the brunch preparations.
Mrs. Hudson hugged her tightly, "Merry Christmas, dear." Tessa wished her the same, then poured herself glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from the pitcher set upon the table. The older woman was animated with excitement, asking eagerly, "Are the Boys up yet?"
Tessa shook her head, "Sound asleep, as far as I could tell." She began to collect what she needed from the cupboard and refrigerator; they had decided it would be Tessa's French toast today, as Sherlock had a preference for them. The women had an easy rhythm as they worked, anticipating what the other needed, moving out of one another's way before being asked, and chatting quietly between bouts of more concentrated effort.
At last, Mrs. Hudson was arranging muffins on a platter, one of the finishing touches for the morning feast, and then carried them to the small table in little her dining room; rarely seeing use, it would be central to both meals today. "I heard Sherlock playing last night," she mentioned as she reentered the kitchen. "It sounded just lovely."
Tessa straightened up, having finished loading the dishwasher, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and looking wistful, "Yes. I had a private concert of sorts—one of Sherlock's gifts for me." Her contented smile alone told the tale of what it meant to her. Sherlock had chosen carols he knew would please her; he had figured there would be plenty of requests for Christmas music from their guests the next day, and he had wanted to give her those particular songs in the quiet of the hour when Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. Ave Maria, O Holy Night, and of course, her favorite, Silent Night. He had moved her to happy tears, making Tessa look forward even more to the surprises she had for him—for he had unwittingly chosen something of a theme quite similar to what she had in store.
Mrs. Hudson was adding the finishing touches to their table, so Tessa moved upstairs to get properly dressed, and let Sherlock and John know everything was ready. Sherlock was finishing a cup of coffee in the kitchen; as she passed on her way to his room to change, he caught her under the mistletoe. "Merry Christmas, my dear." he told her, before kissing her thoroughly, "Missed you this morning."
"The merriest ever, Darling" she replied before kissing him back, "Brunch is ready. Is John up yet?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, "Yes, he was frantically texting that girlfriend of his this morning. I think he went up to change as well."
"Good for him," Tessa exclaimed, as John entered the room.
"Merry Christmas, Tessa." He joined the two under the mistletoe, giving her a peck on the cheek. "What's good for me?"
Tessa answered with a little chuckle, "Stella. Will she be joining us for dinner?"
"She's hoping to get away from the family luncheon to make it over on time, so yes, hopefully." He gave Sherlock a pointed look, joking, "And no 'bah humbugging' from you, Mr. Scrooge."
Sherlock's response was a very dry, "I wouldn't even dream of it, John."
They returned to the upstairs flat pleasantly satiated, joined by Mrs. Hudson for the giving of gifts. Tessa and John were ready with mobiles to capture the joy, although Sherlock would have preferred not to memorialize the process; at Tessa's insistence, his objection was duly ignored.
Sherlock opened the first package, from Tessa—the gloves he had told her he wanted weeks ago. She hoped that would set him off track toward figuring out the others gifts in store.
Having spent enough time in their company, Tessa was especially proud of her selections for John and Mrs. Hudson. She had noticed that Mrs. Hudson's china service had suffered some losses over the years—three cups broken or chipped, and four saucers missing as well. When she'd inquired about it, Mrs. Hudson had told her sadly that the service was no longer in production, but a little research (worthy of Sherlock himself) helped Tessa locate replacements, with a couple extra of each in addition. The older woman was ecstatic over the present. Her gifts to Tessa: a pair of opal earrings and a baby pink cashmere sweater, which Tessa adored immediately.
John might have been a tricky case, but Tessa had discovered his nostalgic side, and so gifted him with a dvd collection of British sitcoms from his youth. John was delighted, for it was truly something he'd never think to buy himself. The two shared a knowing look and bit of laughter when she opened his gifts to her—a bottle of the very same perfume that had alerted him that past June that Sherlock had, extraordinarily, a woman in his life, accompanied by a beautiful set of filigreed combs, set with pale pink stones.
Sherlock then plucked a rectangular box wrapped in gold foil and a small red bow, from within the branches of the Christmas tree. It took Tessa by surprise, as she hadn't noticed it in all the times she'd had reason to look at the tree. He watched intently as she opened it. Tessa was fairly certain it had to contain a piece of jewelry. The box itself was black velvet, and her hands shook a little with exhilaration as she lifted the hinged lid to reveal a strand of pearls, fine pearls of exceptional luminescence, with just a kiss of palest pink about them. Tessa was speechless as she lifted them from the box, with Sherlock looking on triumphant at how he'd managed to surprise her.
She had to catch her breath before she could speak, finally managing, "But Sherlock…Darling…this is far too extravagant!"
He had known she would respond just so. "Nonsense," he replied, "I shopped wisely, and called upon a connection or two, so they didn't set me too far back. There are certain tenets our mother lives by, maxims which she made sure my brother and I understood as essential to being a gentleman, no matter what the setting. Paramount among them being that every woman deserves a good set of pearls." He took the strand from her hand and undid the clasp, motioning for her to allow him to place them around her neck, telling her in his sagest tone, "To refuse them now would be to refute her wisdom—and I'm certain you wouldn't want me to do that."
Thus conveniently given no choice, Tessa conceded, lifting the hair from her neck so he could settle them upon her skin. They stood a moment more, taking one another's measure, until she smiled and rose up so that her lips were level with his.
Her kiss was long and deep, the very sort she usually reserved for their most private moments. Despite the fact that they were not alone, Sherlock felt himself respond in kind, heedless of decorum for a time, allowing himself to be fully vested in the message she was sending. They only came apart at the sound of John's hearty wolf-whistle.
Even then, Tessa remained pressed against him, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his hair, as was her favorite wont.
She spoke not a word, but the arch of her brow and the play of her sly smile told him all he needed to know—this was no mere gratitude, this was the promise of things to come. Sherlock had no doubt as to what these small signs meant—nor later in the day, the several times she caught his eye across the room, across the dinner table even, as she let her gaze linger before looking away in faux bashfulness. He felt without a doubt, that when Tessa came to bed that night, she would be wearing the pearls still. The pearls and nothing more—unless it was a blush of anticipation for what they would soon share.
The last gift of the morning was Tessa's to give, a modestly sized box, which she handed on to Sherlock. Inside he found several items, all of the very best quality, for she had done her homework. A set of Evah Parazzi Gold Violin Strings. A round cake of rosin nestled in a fine wood case. Violin polish and an Glaesel Orchestral polishing cloth. And that which would be his favorite—a leather portfolio, embossed with a treble clef, his initials in the bottom corner in gold leaf. She had seen to it that it was filled with the finest staff-lined parchment paper, as old-fashioned as any composer might adore.
She waited, bright-eyed, as Sherlock held each item in hand, until she simply had to ask him if she'd managed to surprise him. His smile reached from ear to ear, the biggest of the day so far, as he told her, "Truthfully, I expected something of a musical nature, but nothing as glorious as this." Tessa batted her eyes prettily, her hand stealing to caress the pearls around her neck. There was still one secret left, but she planned to wait until later to bestow that gift.
Their dinner guests began to arrive in the late afternoon. It had started to snow again, making for the prettiest of pictures outside the windows, especially when viewed from the warm glow of the hearth and amber lighting of the front room. Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper arrived together, bearing gifts which promptly found their places beneath the tree. Molly quickly checked with Mrs. Hudson and Tessa to see if a hand was needed in the kitchen, but everything was moving along on their well-planned schedule, leaving them free for the time, to indulge in drinks and appetizers. Stella arrived shortly after, finding her place near John for introductions all around.
Then there was Mycroft, the last to arrive-in his usual dramatic style-sweeping into the room with a swirl of his snow covered coat, carrying a valise of sorts, filled with a selection of fine wines. He also presented the two hostesses with small gift boxes, surely in keeping with the good manners mother Holmes had fostered in both of her sons.
Dinner was served buffet style, as there wasn't room enough in either flat to seat everyone. Jenna showed up halfway through, full of cheer and apologizing for her tardiness. Tessa was delighted to pull her aside and show off her pearls, which Jenna eyed with an appraising eye and gave the highest of approvals. Tessa's friend flirted shamelessly with Lestrade, and even tested her wiles upon Mycroft, which Sherlock found to be especially amusing.
Between the opening of the remaining gifts and the bountiful dessert table, music was called for, just as Sherlock had expected. The room was comfortable with good will, fueled mostly by the day and partly by the drink and good company, augmented by the glad carols Sherlock played. Mrs. Hudson told John and Sherlock that it had been the grandest Christmas she'd seen on Baker Street in many years.
Through it all—through the laughter and comraderie, the music and the making merry—Tessa returned when she could to Sherlock's side. As wonderful as the flat full of happy people made her, she looked forward to after the party, for the final gift she had planned for Sherlock.
By 10pm, the guests had trickled away, some for home and others—like Jenna—for other parties to attend. John had gone as well, to see Stella home. Before Mycroft departed, he pulled Tessa aside to thank her for including him in the evening, and she gave him the warmest and most unexpected sisterly sort of hug. He observed to Sherlock, the next time they spoke, that her charm was undeniable and how rare a find she was, with the unlikely talent of getting past both of their staid social defenses.
Mrs. Hudson was exhausted by the end of the evening, bidding the remaining couple goodnight, and swearing she was likely to sleep round the clock. "But it's been well worth it!" she told Tessa, hugging her before going downstairs.
Alone at last, Tessa could barely contain the desire to rush and bring out her final gift for Sherlock. She excused herself, on excuse to use the loo, but instead went to get the package—hidden beneath Sherlock's bed the whole day through, as it's distinctive shape would have given the surprise away. She hurried back into the front room with it, to find him seated and waiting for her, a wrapped box sitting on the coffee table before him—another gift, it appeared, for her.
She laughed out loud at the realization; each had held back one thing, to be given in private, that last bit of Christmas, each wanting to carry off that last dramatic, defining note of yuletide giving.
Sherlock patted the cushion beside him, beckoning her to sit, and telling her "Ladies first," meaning for her to make her presentation first. Tessa ceded to him the honor of giving the last gift, and handed the large, flat package over to him, holding her breath in anticipation of his response. He didn't disappoint her.
"My god, Tessa," he exclaimed, truly surprised—to her heart's joy—"This is the most remarkable gift." He held the frame in wonder, staring at what lay beneath the glass. Tessa leaned close and kissed his cheek, knowing he wasn't entirely paying her mind at the moment, but oh so happy to have pleased him so.
"Merry Christmas, my love," she whispered, savoring the feel of his skin beneath her lips. She rested her cheek against his as she turned to view the frame as well.
Beneath the glass was a sheet of paper, bearing a portion of Mozart's Violin Concerto in G Major-the first piece he had ever played for her. She had commissioned a calligrapher to painstaking copy the work from scans of Mozart's original composition, so that the work matched his writing very closely. Even the music staves were hand rendered. Tessa allowed him to gaze in awe moments more, before telling him softly, "Now look at the back, Sherlock."
He turned to face her, wonder still clear on his face, then looked down at the frame as he turned it over. Tessa had written indelibly upon the brown backing paper:
My Darling Sherlock,
These notes have been engraved upon my heart from the moment you played them for me. Just as my love for you is engraved upon my Soul.
All my Love, today & every day to follow,
Tessa
Beside her name, she had sealed the missive with a kiss, in her distinctive shade of dark pink lipstick.
Tessa watched while Sherlock looked down, closing his eyes. His nostrils flared as he took a very deep breath, as though he was trying to control an unruly impulse. The corners of his mouth moved slowly into a smile, until he turned to her at last. He had no words, but from depth of his eyes, she understood exactly what he felt, and so no words were needed.
After a little, Sherlock cleared his throat, regaining his usual demeanor, and handing to her his final gift of the season. Tessa handled the package gently, feeling its weight and the weight of his eyes upon her. Once unwrapped, she opened the plain white box to find a well-worn, leather-bound book. There was no writing on the cover, so she had to open it to the title page to discover what it was; the paper was strong stuff, not too fragile with age, so the book must've been well cared for. The title showed it to be The Complete Collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and Tessa soon realized this was a copy dating back to the 19th century. She turned the page, looking for an inscription.
Sure enough, there was faint writing at the top of the page, and the date read Christmas, 1861. A long dead hand had written here:
To: SB
Never doubt I love thee. You own my heart forever.
From: MD
"SB?" she murmured, searching for a name to fit the initials.
"Sarah Bernhardt," he told her quietly. "MD was Maximillian Dunham, a very ardent suitor."
"This…this…belonged to Sarah Bernhardt?" Tessa was completely stunned. Sarah Bernhardt—the premiere American actress of her time, lauded on both sides of the Atlantic as the finest actress of her generation. Sarah Bernhardt of the famed beauty and talent. "This belonged to her?" she marveled, "I'm holding something in my hands that belonged to her?"
"Yes, my dear, you are indeed." Tessa could hear the pleased smile in his voice, "Given to her by a man who apparently adored her utterly." The beautiful implications of his gift left Tessa feeling dizzy.
But there was more. Sherlock reached to turn the next page so she could see the inscription he had added:
My Dearest Tessa-
When my words fail to express my depth of feeling for you, please let these speak in my stead. Merry Christmas.
Yours always,
Sherlock
Tessa remained incredulous, "Oh Sherlock! However did you manage this?" She was overwhelmed with wonder, tears prickling her eyes as she waited upon his answer.
"My dear, my sweet," Sherlock stroked her face, tracing the fine line of her cheekbone with his thumb, seeing the tears were close again, knowing he'd be happy to kiss them away when they came, "my Tessa. That's a story for another day." She smiled brightly and he continued, drolly "Besides which, you know my methods enough to know I can't reveal all my secrets."
Tessa sighed and nodded, knowing—as always—how right he was.
The snow had lightened, but continued to fall outside the windows of their warm little sanctuary. Christmas was winding to a close, and though Tessa would have liked to suspend time a bit, so as the relish it longer, she was satisfied knowing that whatever lay ahead, this Christmas would live in her memories as the best she'd ever known. As she leaned back into Sherlock's arms, she was certain the dear man beside her would say the very same.
Finis…
…and Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes. Merry Christmas to one and all.
December 24, 2014