A/N: Happy Christmas, everyone! It's been busy, so I'm a day behind. But God willing, the next chapter will be up sometime later today! Thanks again for all your reviews! I hope this chapter is up to your expectations!
Disclaimer: I own nothing except Gabriel.
Gabriel Holmes had enough flour on his person to make another batch of biscuits. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his idea to let a person with a broken arm add the flour. "Oh Gabe," Molly giggled. "You have it all over." She was right. The white powder had settled on his face, in his hair, on his pants and in large handprints all over his hoodie.
"So do you," he replied, pointing at her. "You have marshmallow fluff all over your shirt." Molly looked down to see that she had streaks of white, sticky marshmallow all over the front of the teeshirt she'd "borrowed" from Sherlock's cupboard. It was all right, though. Her Gram had always said that you couldn't make good food without wearing a little of it. Her and Gabriel had gotten up early to begin the process of baking all manner of Christmasy treats for the gathering that evening. Molly smiled, thinking of how it was a 'gathering' and not a party. Sherlock insisted that they didn't have parties. Parties were loud and full of drunken idiots having the same stupid conversations. A gathering was more like what they did on Tuesdays with dinner. A group of friends having casual conversations with wine and food. It was nothing like a party. She had asked Sherlock once what the difference was and he had, of course, changed the subject. At any rate, her and Gabriel had make quick work of the mince pies, Christmas biscuits, gingerbread and fudge. "Can we eat the fudge now?"
"No, silly! We have to wait until tonight."
"Do we get to open presents tonight?" Gabriel looked toward the tree that only had a few items wrapped underneath. Mary and John had been pretty diligent in their wrapping, but Sherlock just kept piling things into 221C in the faint hope that the wrapping fairies would come take care of it.
"When I was a little girl, we always got to open one on Christmas Eve and the rest on Christmas morning. You know that Father Christmas won't come until tonight."
"I know."
"What did you do for Christmas at St. Christopher's?" Molly asked. She'd been wondering about the things that had happened at the convent since she heard him talking to the hair stylist the other night. Sherlock had told her a little of what he knew, but it wasn't much. She wondered if perhaps he was afraid to know more.
"Just churchy stuff," he replied with a shrug. "I liked some of it. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was always nice because it was the only time when there were lots of people around. Sometimes there were even kids who would come with their parents."
"Oh? Did you get to play with them?"
"No. I wasn't supposed to. This girl talked to me once and gave me a candy cane. And then of course the caretaker gave me my fairy tale book last year. He brought me Christmas biscuits that his wife made too." He stood on the step stool beside the counter and helped Molly roll dough into little balls. "But I liked the singing and the Nativity scene on the altar. And there were candles and all these red flowers. It was really pretty." He paused, chewing on his lower lip in a way that was so much like Sherlock. "Doctor Molly?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you believe all that stuff about God and Jesus?"
"Absolutely," she replied. "Don't you?"
"Well, I used to think so. I mean, I do, I guess. But my dad always says that you shouldn't believe something unless you can prove it." He began smashing the dough balls into flat circles. "And I can't prove that there's a God. So I guess there isn't one."
Molly stopped and wiped her hands clean on a cloth. She knelt down in front of him. "You know, Gabriel, faith is believing in something you can't always see. Like Father Christmas. You believe in Father Christmas don't you?"
"Yeah. You know I do."
"Well then… have you ever seen the real Father Christmas? His reindeer? That big sack of toys?"
Gabriel giggled and shook his head. "Of course not."
"So see there, you do believe in something you can't see or touch." She winked and went back to the Christmas biscuits.
An hour later, the table was covered with trays full of Christmasy treats. Mrs. Hudson was in charge of all the savories and once she got her stuff added to the mix, they would have more food than they knew what to do with. There was only one more thing. The perfect Christmas fruitcake. Molly smiled at her own industriousness. She had everything arranged and measured perfectly so that all she had to do was throw everything together, stick the cake in the oven and then she could help Gabe get ready for his doctor appointment.
"What is this stuff?" Gabe asked, picking up the wooden spoon and watching the gloopy batter plop back into the bowl. "It looks like dog poo."
Molly wrinkled her nose. "Gross, Gabriel. It's fruitcake batter. It's going to have candied cherries and pineapple and nuts… it's delicious."
"I'll take your word for it." He watched as she chopped up the fruit into smaller pieces and rolled it in flour before tossing it into the mixture. "That knife is pretty sharp, Doctor Molly. You better be careful."
"Oh, don't worry. This is my Gram's recipe. I've made it a hundred times. I won't…" Famous last words are always spoken too late. Molly's finger immediately began to bleed. The cut wasn't deep, but it stung pretty bad and she had to rush to the sink to keep from bleeding in the fruitcake batter.
"Oh no! Are you okay?" Gabe asked.
"I'm fine," she replied, holding her hand under the cold water. "Why don't you go get me a plaster." A few minutes later, he returned with the bandage and helped her wrap up her finger. "So much for my manicure," she sighed, staring at the ugly bit of plastic and gauze wrapped around her fingertip.
"It's okay, Doctor Molly. At least you don't have a cast."
OoOoOo
Sherlock looked down at his watch and sighed. Time was slipping away faster and faster. What kind of doctors' office schedules a child's appointment on Christmas Eve? The kid's arm was broken. He didn't think that was going to change in the three days since it had happened. He had forty –five minutes to get Gabriel and get all the way across town in shopping traffic. They weren't going to make it. Maybe he should just call now. Surely a follow-up wasn't all that necessary.
He took the front stairs at 221 two at a time, offering a short wave to Mrs. Hudson as he passed before she could say more than hello. Suddenly, he realized that the entire place smelled… amazing. Sherlock had never been much for food, but this was otherworldly. It actually made him almost… hungry. He was never hungry. Well, except for that post-coital hunger that he'd only recently discovered. That was just physiology.
As he arrived at the top of the stairs, following the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon, he detected something else. A sound that was soft like a whimper. He turned round the corner and spotted Gabriel, standing over Molly and patting her shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay, Doctor Molly… don't cry." Upon closer inspection he could see that the kitchen was splattered with sticky brown batter. It was even on the ceiling. There was smoke pouring out of the top of the oven and both Gabe and Molly were so covered in cake batter and flour that they looked like living gingerbread men. "Are you ok?" He couldn't help it. His voice trailed off in peals of laughter.
"It isn't funny, Dad," Gabriel grumbled.
"No… it is. It is," Molly sobbed, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face and managing to swipe more batter across her nose. "It's high-fucking-larious!"
"Oh Molly… I'm sorry…" Sherlock chuckled, walking toward them and carefully avoiding the huge puddle of fruit scooge on the floor. "What happened?"
"Well… first I cut my finger, then I burned a batch of biscuits that I forgot was in the oven, then I dropped the bowl full of fruitcake batter and in the process of cleaning it up, I slipped and fell on my ass!" After spitting out this confession, she started crying again with renewed vigor. "I just suck at this domestic thing, I guess."
Sherlock knelt down and put an arm around Molly's waist, helping her to a standing position. "Come on, my darling. Let's get you in the bath. Gabe and I will clean up this mess."
"And all these people coming over… and I haven't finished wrapping… and…"
"Shush," he whispered, kissing her temple. "It will get done. And if it doesn't who cares?"
"I care!"
"Why?" he asked, walking her toward his bathroom.
"Because… everything has to be perfect!" she exclaimed. "The last Christmas we spent together was… horrible. I don't want that to be the precedent for every Christmas hereafter!"
Sherlock stopped, holding her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "One day we will laugh about all of our little mishaps. And this is not a disaster. It's a… ruined fruitcake and a mess. By tonight everything will be just as perfect as you want it. And then after…." He pulled her in for a kiss. "You can help me wrap. Play Father Christmas…"
Molly smiled and rubbed her cheek against his. "I'm not wrapping your presents for you."
OoOoOo
Gabriel stood in awe, watching his father play. He'd watched him play many times, of course, but he was amazed every time. The others seemed to barely notice, still talking amongst themselves as they sipped wine and nibbled at the food left on their plates. But like most things Sherlock did, it seemed superhuman to Gabriel.
"The last Christmas we all spent together was odd, to say the least," Greg said, refilling his wine glass. "If anyone had seen us then, they'd hardly believe we're the same people."
"Why? What happened?" Mary asked.
"We don't need to go into it," Sherlock said, his song trailing off with a dissonant screech.
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Once more Sherlock was an infuriating sod. The fact that Molly is here now is a testament to her patience and good nature."
Molly giggled and began gathering plates. "I'm a sucker to his charms, I suppose." Gabriel ambled over to the table and took his cup, then wrinkling his nose as he realized that there was nothing in it. Molly took it and refilled it with juice. "Besides, we all know that Sherlock doesn't mean to be an idiot. His mouth just gets ahead of his brain sometimes."
"This is why I never go to parties," Sherlock grumbled, going back to his violin.
OoOoOo
"I thought we'd never get done," Molly sighed, sitting back on the couch. "I wouldn't want to say that you're spoiling Gabriel a little." She looked around, surveying the haul of gifts that were sprawled under the tree.
"All of this isn't for him, you know." He shoved the remnants of wrapping paper and ribbon down into the storage bag. "Some of it is for you and John and the others."
Molly smiled, seeing the boyish expression of guilt on his face. He didn't like for anyone to know, but she knew that he was enjoying every minute. And that he could hardly wait to see the look on Gabriel's face when he woke up and saw everything. They had assembled Gabe's easel and art set, the gigantic fire-breathing dragon that would eventually lay waste to the Lego castle and set up the violin so that it would appear that Father Christmas had come. "He's going to be amazed."
"I hope so," Sherlock said. "I don't mean to spoil him, Molly, but I wanted him to have a Christmas that would make up for all the horrible ones he's had so far."
"Well I think that achievement has been unlocked," Molly giggled. She snuggled against him, laying her head on his shoulder and yawning sleepily.
"Yeah, I thought so. Then all of my efforts will be thwarted when John and Mary get over here in the morning with that stupid dog. I wonder if I could convince him to let the dog stay at a kennel all the time and then we could just go visit on weekends."
"Oh don't be such a Grinch. He'll love it. And dogs are great. You'll get used to it."
"I still can't believe Mrs. Hudson agreed to let this happen. She was my last hope." Sherlock shook his head sleepily. "Let's go to bed. Gabe will be up in another hour or so…"
Molly laughed. "We'll probably have to wake him up. He was unconscious by the time you got him upstairs." He nodded, his eyelids heavy. "Sherlock… you know, I had something that I wanted to give you when we were alone."
He opened one eye and peered out at her questioningly. "Molly… as much as I'd love to, I'm really tired…"
She blushed. "No, silly." She leaned over, grabbing her purse from behind the couch and searching through it until she came up with a rumpled looking red package. "Here."
Sherlock took the red package and shook it gently. "It's a little…"
"I know, it looks old," she stammered. "That's because it is. Don't you recognize it?" She watched as he examined the box carefully, turning it over in his hands and running his fingertips over every crease. "I tried to give it to you a few years ago."
Suddenly, she could see the realization dawning in his eyes. "Oh yes… the last Christmas party… you never gave it to me."
"Well… I would have but… you sort of... humiliated me and then bolted out of the room. I was so embarrassed that I grabbed the box and rushed out. I kept it all this time, hoping that the right moment would arrive, but well…. I'm apparently I can't ever find the right time. So here. Open it." His eyes were focused as he pulled at the cellotape on the package. It was obvious that she'd kept it put up somewhere for a while. The paper was wrinkled a little and faded. "I'm sorry… the wrap looks a little… slapdash." She raised her eyebrow mischievously and giggled when he rolled his eyes. He pulled out the box and opened it carefully. Inside was a small trinket with a dial and hands like a watch. "It's a chronometer. It belonged to my dad. He was in the navy and he used to collect all this antique nautical stuff. This is the only piece that was left when he died."
"Molly… I… I can't take this."
"Of course you can. It's just a little reminder… You see, in the past, sailors would use these to help calculate the time and their position according to the stars. It's in case you ever lose your way again. I wanted to give it to you a long time ago, but it just never seemed the right time." She blushed again, the memories of that Christmas Eve before burning vividly behind her eyes. "If you don't want it."
Sherlock embraced her tightly. "Of course I want it." He kissed her softly and nuzzled her cheek. "Thank you, Molly. Not just for this, but for… giving me another chance."
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
