A/N: So I was kind of all over the place with this today. A little fluffy, a little angsty. I've been getting some lovely reviews and I appreciate every one. It feeds my muse and reminds me why I write, so thank you all! :) I've also had some folks screaming for Sherlolly. The Sherlolly is on its way, have no fear. Just be patient... I'm more of a novelist than a quick draw..LOL
Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel. As usual.
Sherlock didn't hate Christmas. It was more that he was uncomfortable with Christmas. He didn't get it. As a child, Christmas was just like any other day, for the most part. When his grandmother was alive, she insisted on everyone coming to her country estate for Christmas Eve, but it wasn't exactly a warm, family occasion. More like the stuffy, posh social event of the year. For that reason, he always associated Christmas with stiff wool jackets and the smell of that legion of yappy Yorkshire terriers that followed her around. Presents were often either useful items like socks or dress shirts or completely impractical items like Eighteenth Century hunting rifles or silver whisky flasks with your initials engraved on the side. When Sherlock was a little boy, before his parents were divorced, the only time he ever received toys were the little things that he and Mycroft would exchange. Each would save their allowance for several weeks before Christmas and then use the money to buy one another something frivolous. Indeed it was Mycroft who had given him his very first magnifying glass. Once their little family had begun to fall apart, Christmas didn't mean much anymore. It was just a day. Nowadays, he and Mycroft barely spoke, their parents and grandparents were dead… there was no family left to speak of. Though he didn't like to admit it, when others spoke of going out of town to visit relatives or popping over to Christmas parties, Sherlock felt sad. The sadness, over the years, had turned to cold bitterness and hence there was no love lost between Christmas and Sherlock Holmes.
"Look, Dad!" Gabriel shouted, pointing at the television. "An advertisement for the Christmas tree lighting in the square! Can we go?"
Sherlock glanced up at the television. "Oh… well… probably." He was a little puzzled. Gabriel had admitted that he didn't know much about Christmas other than the basic Christian themes that had been drilled into his head by the nuns at St. Christopher's. So his excitement about a Christmas tree was a little surprising.
"John and Mary said we were getting a Christmas tree soon."
"If you want one, I suppose," Sherlock sighed.
"Hooray!" Gabriel exclaimed. He watched a little more, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands supporting his chin. Sherlock peered over the edge of the book, observing him and his reactions to the ads. He could almost feel the excitement radiating off of the little boy as the Christmas frenzy began to kick into high-gear. Suddenly, Sherlock realized how alike they really were. Gabriel was aware of Christmas but it hadn't been anything special until now. And his excitement and wonder might just be enough to infect them all. "Oooh… it's Father Christmas! Dad, do you think there's such a thing as Father Christmas?"
Sherlock considered his answer. On one hand, he believed in complete honesty with everyone, including children. Of course, Gabe was only five and seemed so excited. How could he possibly dash it for him? "Absolutely," he replied. "How did you find out about Father Christmas?"
"The caretaker told me. He was pretty nice. He used to give me a present at Christmas. That's where I got my book with the dragon story. He said it was his when he was a little kid."
"That was pretty nice of him," Sherlock replied.
"He was nice. He said I reminded him of his little boy that had died." Gabe's statement was weighty and it struck a chord with Sherlock. Even though he'd only known of Gabe's existence for a little more than a couple of months, already he knew that if something terrible happened, his life would be devastated. "Father Christmas… there's just one of them right?"
"I think so. Lives in the North Pole or something like that. Hangs out with reindeer."
"So if there's just one, how can there be one on every street? Because when we were in the cab going to the shop the other day, I saw like five of them."
"Well…" Sherlock's brain raced to come up with an acceptable answer that wouldn't punch a hole in Gabriel's blind faith. Father Christmas is a Time Lord like Doctor Who. He can be in lots of places at the same time. That's how he gets all over the world in one night."
"Wow! Really?" Gabriel whispered, climbing into his father's lap.
"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, starting to enjoy it now. "For Christmas, the TARDIS just looks like a sleigh. Which would also explain how he gets all those presents in there. The sleigh's bigger on the inside."
"Ahem…" They jumped as John cleared his throat. He and Mary stood at the top of the stairs, trying to swallow their laughter.
OoOoOo
At first it seemed like part of his dream, the distant screaming of a child. One of those things that in deep sleep seem insignificant. If you just don't pay attention, they'll go away. But this time it got louder and kept getting louder until Sherlock could make out one word distinctly: daddy.
Sherlock sat up with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and trying to focus. It was still pitch dark in the room, the streetlamps below still glowing. He pawed around at the nightstand to find his watch. The hands glowed blue, revealing that the time was 2:12am..
"Daddy!"
This time Sherlock leapt to his feet, pulling his pajama trousers on as he stumbled out of his bedroom and took the stairs two at a time. John poked his head out of his bedroom as Sherlock rounded the corner. "Should I come?" he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep.
"No," Sherlock replied shortly, fumbling with the doorknob. When he fell through the door, Gabriel was sitting straight up in his bed but his eyes were closed and he was pointing at something unseen in the corner. His breaths came in shuddering gasps and his little body was shaking all over. Sherlock rushed to his side, instinctively gathering the child in his arms. "Wake up, Gabriel," he murmured, still sleepy himself as he pinned the tiny arms to his sides before they could smack him in the face. The boy struggled, still reaching out for the invisible enemy even as his father held him. Every muscle in his little body was taut and quivering. The violence scared Sherlock and he shouted, "Wake up!" hoping that the firm tone of his voice would snap the boy out of this fugue. It worked and Gabriel's eyes opened. He was silent at first, obviously shedding the remnants of being asleep and trying to focus. "You're all right," Sherlock said, his voice gentler this time.
As soon as Gabriel's eyes focused on Sherlock, he burst into tears. Not his usual whimpering and sniffling, but full on tears that shook his body and drew heart-wrenching wails from deep down in his chest. Gabriel threw himself against Sherlock's bare chest sobbing into the hollow at the base of his throat. He immediately embraced the child, cradling him tightly and stroking his hair. "Shush… you're all right. It's over." He waited until Gabriel's sobs had subsided into heavy shudders and sniffles. "Let it go." Sherlock felt sorry for him. He'd had the same problem as a child and even now. Highly intelligent people often had extremely vivid dreams that lingered for hours afterward. So many times he'd awakened, his breathing labored and his skin beaded with sweat, still thinking he was standing on the roof at Bart's.
"Don't send me back," Gabriel whined. "I want to stay here."
"Gabriel, nobody's sending you anywhere."
"That's not what you said! You said you didn't know me. And I kept calling and calling and you couldn't hear me… and when I ran after you, you pushed me away and kicked me… and the nuns dragged me away again… and… and…" His words trailed off in another wave of tears that left him breathless and coughing until he was gagging on his own tears.
"Gabriel, you have to calm down before you make yourself sick," Sherlock said. He didn't want to be harsh, but babying the child would just drag the memory out longer so that he would relive the trauma over and over. He tucked Gabriel's head under his chin and rocked him gently. He looked up to see John and Mary peering around the doorframe.
"Everything okay?" John asked.
"He's fine. Just a nightmare," Sherlock replied, brushing Gabriel's hair, stringy and soaked with sweat, back from his forehead. The apples of his cheeks glowed crimson and salty streaks still glistened. His eyes were puffy and red. He looked a mess, but for the first time Sherlock could see the shade of Irene lurking.
"Gabe, I was just going down to make some tea," Mary said. "Would you like some?" Gabriel nodded. "Come on, then," she continued, reaching for him, but he wasn't having it. He turned away and held onto Sherlock tighter.
"It's all right, Mary. We'll come down," Sherlock said, standing up with Gabriel wrapped around his torso. He pulled Gabriel's thumb from his mouth and shifted him to his hip. "Don't suck your thumb," he whispered in the small boy's ear as they walked carefully down the stairs. "You're too big for that."
Sherlock and Gabriel sat down at the table with John as Mary filled the kettle with water. Gabriel still sniffled, but seemed to be interested as Sherlock shifted the microscope so that he could look inside. "I hope my staying is all right, Sherlock," Mary started. "John didn't think you'd mind. It was just so late and with the rain, getting a cab over here is almost impossible."
"Its fine," Sherlock replied, reaching around to show Gabriel how to change the magnification. Redirection was the best way to handle trauma. "Just don't hang from the chandeliers. Mrs. Hudson would be mortified in her time of life." Mary giggled and searched for the loose tea container. She and John had been dating for the last few weeks since they'd met and she began tutoring Gabriel. She was the first one of John's girlfriends that Sherlock hadn't found infinitely annoying. He supposed that was because Gabriel liked her so much. He'd progressed so far in such a little amount of time that soon they would have to decide if and where to send him to school. Mycroft seemed to be in favor of setting Gabe up to go off to some privileged boarding school as soon as possible, but Sherlock knew he wasn't going to let that happen. At least not until he was much older and could decide for himself. He'd spent far too much of his short life already being shoved off on others.
"Can Gabe have sugar in his tea so late?" Mary asked, setting a cup in front of him.
"Lots of honey and milk, please," Gabriel replied, not waiting for Sherlock to respond. Mary smirked and arched an eyebrow, looking to Sherlock. He nodded in agreement.
She winked and set the honey in front of him. "There. Put in as much as you like."
Gabriel upended the bottle, pouring the sticky liquid into his tea until Sherlock grabbed his hand, guiding it away. "You don't want to chew it, Gabe."
"I like a lot," he whined.
"Yes, but we do want you to blink again in life," Sherlock said.
"Hey, John," Gabriel started, slurping his tea. "Dad said we could get a Christmas tree."
"Excellent. We'll have to go look for one. Maybe on the weekend."
"I don't understand why all you people insist on bringing things meant for outside into the house. Remember the pumpkin carving incident?"
"Pumpkin carving incident?" Mary asked, sitting on John's lap with her teacup.
"Don't ask," John muttered.
"Let's put it this way," Sherlock began. "We're still finding pumpkin seeds behind the couch… in the fireplace… on the ceiling…"
"Not on the ceiling."
"Oh pardon me, on the crown molding."
"Oh don't be such an arse," John snarled. "Gabe, we'll get the biggest Christmas tree in London."
"Hooray!" Gabriel exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and knocking over his teacup, spilling the contents all over the table. "Oops…" Luckily there was a kitchen towel within easy reach. "I'm sorry, Dad…"
"Its fine," he grumbled, using the towel to dry himself and the table off. "If we haven't thrown Molly Hooper out yet, I think you're safe." Molly spilled something every time she came over. "I think that's our cue to get back to bed."
"Nooo… can't we just stay up?" Gabriel whimpered. "I don't want to go back to sleep. I might have that dream again."
Sherlock sighed. He was tired and starting to lose patience. "The possibility of your slipping back into the same bad dreams are remote at best."
"It could happen," Gabe retorted, folding his arms over his chest.
"Tell you what. You can sleep in my room." He lowered Gabriel to the floor and stood up. "Good night you two. Gabriel, give hugs to John and Mary." Gabriel hugged them both, even going so far as to blow a raspberry on Mary's cheek. Both men looked puzzled, but Mary giggled and returned it.
OoOoOo
Sherlock pulled the duvet back and gestured for Gabriel to climb into bed. Gabriel dove in and snuggled down under the covers. "Wow… your bed is big, Dad."
"I need lots of room," Sherlock replied, sliding in beside him.
"Well… you do got long legs. And big feet."
"Thanks, I think," he said, yawning and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.
The light coming in from the streetlamps outside was just enough for Gabriel to make out the outlines of some of the things in the room. On the far side of the bed closest to Gabriel, there was a small photograph on the bedside table. It was unframed and unobtrusive. Gabriel picked it up and brought it close to his face so he could see it better. It was a picture of a woman with dark hair and round eyes. Her lips were so red that they looked almost black in the moonlight. "Dad…"
"Uh huh?" Sherlock replied, almost asleep.
"Is this my mom?"
Sherlock turned over fast, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. "What?"
"This picture. Is it my mom?"
Sherlock took the picture from Gabriel, not really sure what to say. Of course he couldn't deny it. What if he asked questions? "It is," he replied simply, handing the picture back to him.
Gabriel stared at the picture for a long time. Finally he said, "She was pretty."
"Yes she was."
"Can I have this?"
Sherlock nodded and lay back down.
"Thanks, Dad," Gabriel said and snuggled up to his father, clutching the picture of Irene close to his chest. Before long, both were sleeping.
