It was the first Christmas where Sherlock was old enough to be capable of understanding what was going on around him. Mummy and Daddy brought down many boxes from the attic, filled to the brim with shiny, breakable, fascinating things whilst Mycroft, who was supposed to be watching Sherlock, had instead found that a plate of red-sprinkled biscuits were much more appealing.

It was decided a compromise had to be made between "letting Sherlock help" and trying to distract the dark curly-haired boy.

Daddy sat on the floor, opening small paper boxes of delicate ornaments. Toddling Sherlock would then take the ornaments one by one and hold them at arms-length, completely enamoured by the endless supply of new and funny toys.

"Take it to Mummy," Daddy said for the fortieth time. Sherlock, at two years old, still somehow managed to look defiant. "Take it to Mummy and we'll open the next one." Daddy repeated encouragingly.

Mummy thanked Sherlock whenever he handed over one of the ornaments, and praised him when he took the initiative to hang them onto the tree himself. The three of them made a somewhat efficient assembly line, though Sherlock's role remained altogether rather ambiguous.

Mycroft, in the meantime, having seized Daddy's comfy armchair, was watching the news; much too old and mature to help with Christmas decorations. Although, he did still find it of some interest to watch his younger brother try to hoard all of the tree ornaments off to his bedroom. And, of course, he enjoyed his festively-decorated biscuits with a customary cup of milk.

Mummy had the foresight to place the breakable ornaments on higher branches, not that that would prevent them from breaking if Sherlock actually managed to topple over the tree; a disaster becoming increasingly likely each time Sherlock tried pulling at the brightly coloured lights.

Things were progressing somewhat acceptably.

But then Daddy opened the box containing the angel which was to go on top of the tree. She was lit up with yellow, red, and blue lights; her feathery wings sparkling. She even sang, in an eerie child-like voice, "Angels We Have Heard on High."

Sherlock practically shoved the tiny wreath ornament he was holding into Mummy's hand and Daddy did not react quickly enough: Sherlock had snatched up the angel and was staring at her, mesmerized.

"Baby," he said, inspecting the wings.

Mummy approached him slowly "She goes on top of the tree, Sherlock. She isn't a toy." Daddy was also rising to his feet. "Give that to Mummy, Sherlock."

The two parents closed in on the toddler, until, and with an almighty shriek, Sherlock ran across the sitting room to hide behind Mycroft in his chair, still holding the angel by its wings.

"Mycroft, get your brother please," Daddy said in exasperation before deciding that his and Mummy's attentions would be better served turned to the tangled lights that had been giving them all manner of grief before.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. Now Mycroft had to be involved in this charade of Christmas merriment.

Sherlock did not seem to notice Mycroft's grief. He was pressing the button on the angel's foot to make the song play again and again, and the lights to dance rhythmically across the halo and wings.

Suddenly, Mycroft slammed the leg rest back into the reclining armchair and scrambled a hand behind it to try and grab Sherlock. Sherlock shrieked again and ran off towards the direction of the stairs.

The youngest Holmes was a bit careless with the angel however and her body was ripped free from the wings he was holding onto. Sherlock stared for a moment, in confusion, before abandoning the wings and rescuing the angel from the hardwood floor where she had collapsed; this time holding her by her long, blond hair.

Mycroft looked scandalized. "Sherlock, you broke it!" he cried.

That garnered Mummy's attention once again. "Oh, no…" she murmured. "Oh, Sherlock. Well, we'll just have to find a new one."

Mycroft let out a huff, all because of his troublesome little brother. But he swiftly returned to Daddy's chair before Sherlock could steal any of his biscuits.

Sherlock, immensely satisfied that everyone was going to leave him and his new baby alone, wandered back over to the tree, dragging the angel by its hair.

"Sherlock, do you want to have a biscuit?" Mummy asked.

"No," he said, firmly.

"Go see if Mycroft will put on one of your shows on TV," Daddy suggested. "Mummy and I have a bit of a mess to worry about here."

Sherlock, ignoring this, began to reach for an ornament in the shape of a cat. He grabbed the little sparkly plastic and pulled out several of the pine needles from the tree while doing so.

Daddy picked him up and placed him away from the tree. "Sherlock, don't do that. Now, go over to your brother."

Mycroft lay back, not particularly keen to offer any assistance.

"Want that!" Sherlock cried, pointing at the tree.

"Sherlock, it's a Christmas tree," Mummy said. "It stays here so that Father Christmas can-"

"NO!" Sherlock wailed, shaking his fists in the air, the poor angel bouncing around violently with his movements. Before either parent or older brother could intervene, there was a distinct tearing sound, followed by a thud. Everyone in the room froze.

Sherlock stared at his hand. He was now holding only the angel's hair and her fake scalp. The rest of her was lying on the floor, mechanical brains jumbled in a neat pile beside her face. Sherlock looked confused, then horrified.

"Oh my god," Mummy said, quickly taking the angel's body and her scalp, and putting it away before it could permanently traumatize her child. Sherlock stared at the box long after the angel had been packed away.

Mummy then picked him up and tried to soothe him, even though Sherlock was no longer visibly upset. It was just clear that he did not know what to make of the turn of events.

From the other side of the room, Mycroft began to sing, "Angels will have maimed on high…"

He would have continued the song, but Mummy and Daddy frowned at him, so he stopped.