Christmas in East Dean
25 December 2015
And, this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by.
Wintersong, Sarah McLachlan
For Mary
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Except for Sherlock, who was thrice busy making logistical lists on how the morning would go – what time everyone should wake up, what we should do first, when breakfast should be served and that film, not pictures, were the best way to capture Rosie's first Christmas morning. He also had a running commentary on what I was putting in everyone's stocking, pointing out that Rosie was far too young for sweeties, nuts, or peeling Satsumas. Trying to explain to him that it was the idea that was important, not the fact she would actually eat the stuff, was an exercise in futility – until I asked him what he got to put in the stockings and he immediately shut up.
And, it was no longer Christmas eve, but instead after midnight. Colorfully wrapped presents were tucked under the (finally!) decorated tree - note to self: Sherlock and John decorating a Christmas tree should Not. Ever. Happen. Again. Ever. As a matter of fact, distracting Sherlock with something else is imperative for everyone's well being and mental health. I mean, who the hell works out "mathematical equations" to measures the length between ornaments for "optimal spatial pleasure"? Sherlock Holmes does, that's who. And, while it was charming, instead of Christmas music, Sherlock entertained us with probably every Yule tree tradition known to man, since the dawn of time. Along with remarking that I was remiss in not having Birch logs – aka Yule logs – for the hearth. That is until Nan showed up a short time later to prove him wrong. Thank the Elves!
So, what was my point? Oh, that's right – presents tucked neatly under the tree (although organized by size and color, thanks to Sherlock) and now…well, now he could barely contain himself to go downstairs and set out a display of Baby Einstein presents for Rosie, from 'Santa' – which he found ridiculous to perpetuate a myth that will eventually turn into a cruel lie, which will shatter Rosie's perception of trust, causing feelings of betrayal, and might one day lead her into therapy.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Were you ever a child? Engaged in play…fantasy…make-believe?"
"…"
"I'm waiting."
"I was always brilliant."
"No doubt. Still…"
"I was perfectly logical and reasonable. Mycroft is my older brother, after all."
"That explains a lot."
"Explains what?"
"Why you act like a child now."
But, then he did it – the thing that Sherlock does, that takes me by surprise and melts my heart and mind into a puddle of unintelligible goo.
"Sit on the bed, Molly, and close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Because that's what you're suppose to do when someone asks."
"Okay…"
I felt him place a long, heavy box in my arms and could not begin to imagine what he might be surprising me with…although fairly certain it wasn't handcuffs this time.
"I wanted to give you this in private. Just us."
"Sherlock…"
"Open your eyes."
~*~
I recognized the beautifully wrapped package from Harrods and almost didn't want to open it, but instead allow this memory to linger a bit longer. Inside was the most perfect and lovely black dress I'd ever seen. A form fitting, cami strapped, Victoria Beckham formal gown, with a matching satin dress coat.
"Do you like it?"
"Oh my…oh…oh, I can't form words, Sherlock. It's stunning..."
"I had it tailored for three inch heels, but two inch should work fine as well."
"What?"
"There's one more…you don't need to close your eyes."
He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the all too familiar turquoise box, adorned with a simple silver bow. A pair of Akoya pearl drop earrings with diamond studs from Tiffany's.
~*~"
"You're crying. Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?"
"Oh my God, Sherlock…no…no…nothing's wrong."
"In that case, if you'd do me the pleasure, I have this 'thing' on New Year's Eve. I don't normally-"
"Yes! A million yes's!"
I threw myself into his arms, almost knocking him to the floor, which he probably wouldn't have minded, considering what gift giving eventually led to, and the fact we ended up on the floor anyway. In front of the Christmas tree.
"Sherlock, what if John or Mrs. Hudson walk in on us?"
"Didn't you ask me earlier if I ever had childhood fantasies?"
"Yes, but— Wait. What?"
"Ho, Ho, Ho, Molly. Have you been a good, little elf?"
"…"
"If you don't stop laughing, you will wake them."
"Okay, okay…Oh my, Santa, is that a peppermint stick in your pocket, or are you just really jolly to see me?"
"You need to stop talking, Molly, or you'll kill the mood."
"Ooo, Santa, the only package I want for Christmas is yours."
"Oh, dear Lord."
"I wanna climb your sled, big guy, and jingle your bells."
"Where's John or Mrs. Hudson when you need them?"
"I've been up all night, excited for Santa to…come."
"I should move you to the naughty list."
"I can give you sixty-nine reasons why."
"A not so silent night, then…"
"All I want for Sexmas-"
"Is you."
I had another gift for him, as well. A David Hockney sketch that was hanging in my father's library. I noticed how much he admired it when he was here for Taid's memorial service and knew then that it 'belonged' with him. Sometimes, he's so much like my father that it leaves me paused for breath. I don't know if he realizes, but this place suites him well – everything here does. He comes alive, even without a case. All of this is his home, even if he doesn't know it. Every blade of grass, every swaying tree, the sunrises and sunsets. Especially the bees.
It seemed like no sooner did we fall asleep, that Mrs. Hudson knocked at our bedroom door, telling us to wake up and come down for breakfast. So much for Sherlock's logistic list. But, what a sight to behold. Rosie encircled by grandmothers fussing over her, making her giggle and squeal with excitement. Sherlock not-so-sneakily sneaking cakes instead of eating quiche. John goading Sherlock into a game of billiards by wagering it's the one game he can't win, and I watched every nuance, every moment unfold, pinching myself to make sure it was real. All of this is real. These are the people I love. Oh, my little book of secrets, I don't think I've ever felt so overwhelmed by happiness…so much so I thought I would cry. I did cry. These are the memories worth holding onto.
I quietly left the room, grabbed a sweater, and went outside to speak with the Marys. I thanked them for this family and promised I'd do my best. But, most of all, I promised Mary that Rosie would always know how much her mother loved…loves her, and that her memory would never fade. Rosie belongs to all of us and we would fill her world with love and happiness.
It was cold and a light snow had started to fall. The pond was frozen over and I thought how lovely it might be to go skating later on…I haven't done that for years. I felt so light and playful, I swear my feet could fly across the ice.
Presents were torn open with excitement…hand-loomed woolen scarves from Nan, tins of cakes and biscuits, abstract paintings from Laura – which left John a bit quizzical – Taid's research on bees gifted to Sherlock, too many wonderful gifts to mention. But, when John opened Cards Against Humanity, the look that came over his face, especially when he stared down Sherlock, the 'game' was definitely on.
"Forget billiards. This. After dinner. And, you can't cheat."
"I don't cheat, John. I simply arrive at logical conclusions. It's hardly my fault that dullards create games that are irrational."
"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Einstein. This is a different kind of genius...something you lack."
"What? I don't lack anything. What could I possibly lack?"
"For starters, a sense of humor."
"I don't find that funny, John."
"Exactly."
Okay. So maybe playing Cards Against Humanity wasn't the best game to play with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, but it didn't stop John and I from laughing so much, and for so long, I almost peed my knickers.
"These scenarios are preposterous. How can anyone 'win.'"
"That's the point, Sherlock. It's why it's called Cards Against Humanity. It's socially and politically incorrect."
"I don't understand. Why is that funny?"
"Just play the game."
"Is this a good answer, Molly? I've never seen this word before."
"Give it here, Mrs. Hudson. Let's see."
"This game really should come with a dictionary."
"I think so, too, Marilyn. I doubt even Sherlock knows what half this stuff means."
"Why would you say that? I have an excellent grasp and understanding of the English language, along with speaking ten other languages fluently."
"Yeah, but slang and humor isn't one of them."
"Not funny, John."
"Nope. Let's get you a new card, Mrs. Hudson."
"What's wrong with her card?"
"Do you really want her using this card, John?"
"Okay. Not going there."
"Right then. New card."
"Why does Mrs. Hudson get a new card? And why are you helping her?"
"Okay, Sherlock. Go ahead, explain the meaning of this word to Mrs. Hudson."
"That's ridiculous. That's not even a valid…oh. Oh! Mrs. Hudson, use a different card."
"What did her card say, Molly?"
"I'll explain later, Nan."
"I don't know why you kids are treating us like old ladies. We did grow up in the 1960's after all. Our generation probably invented half the things you take for granted."
"Mmm, yes, Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, if I recall."
"Glass houses, Sherlock."
"What? Mrs. Hudson's husband ran a drug cartel."
"Did he really, Martha?"
"Oh, it was truly dreadful, Laura."
"Until he was executed and she bought property in central London."
"Sherlock Holmes! I'm a widow using death benefits."
"Queaffing! The word was queaf!"
"Next time, Molly, it's you, me, Greg, Meena and anyone else but these four."
"I agree, John, I really, really do."
Dinner was magnificent and, as I always dreamt, we lounged in the sitting room, too full to do anything. Sherlocked played a soothing lullaby, while I fed Rosie her bottle, rocking her to sleep. John lightly dosed on the sofa, snoring, and Nan, Laura and Mrs. Hudson disappeared…no doubt discussing the 'various strengths of herbal soothers' as Sherlock implied. I'm not catholic, or religious, and I have no idea how the actual prayer is meant to be said - but in my mind I kept repeating, "Hail Mary, full of grace, thank you."
I didn't think this day could have been anymore perfect, until Sherlock and I went to bed. No, it wasn't mind-blowing sex, although all sex with Sherlock is mind-blowing. This was something far more wonderful, that I still can't wrap my mind around.
"Do you think we should marry?"
"Are you asking?"
"A question."
"I haven't given it much thought, to be honest. Do you want a conversation?"
"What are your thoughts?"
"I'd like to know if marriage is something you've been thinking about?"
"Yes."
"Is it something you want?"
"Maybe."
"Are you asking me to marry you?"
"Possibly."
"That's sneaky."
"I thought clever."
"You would."
"So?"
What?
"Is it yay or nay?"
"I have to think about it?"
"What's there to think about?"
"That's why I have to think about it, so I can know what I'm thinking about."
"Makes sense."
"I thought so."
"What do you think you're going to think about?"
"About whether or not I want to marry you."
"What if I throw in a ring for added incentive?"
"Depends upon the ring."
"In what way?"
"I don't know. I'll have to see the ring first."
"Why?"
"Because I have to see if it's a worthy incentive.'
"Fair enough."
"Is there a ring to see?"
"No. It was hypothetical. What about a promissory note for a ring?'
'For a what kind of ring?"
"That depends."
"Upon what?"
"The intention of the bearer of the promissory note."
"Why?"
"Is the bearer serious to consider the hypothesis?"
"The bearer considers the hypothesis seriously, which does not extend to the promissory note."
'Why?"
"Because the promissory note is different than the hypothesis.'
"A simple yes or no would have done."
"I know."
"Molly?"
"Yes?"
"Would you ever consider marrying me?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Good enough."
Sherlock Holmes, you wonderful man, you've always had my heart. Always.
