Happy Christmas
Holmes was surprised at the girl's insight when he tore the paper off a leather-bound collection of Shakespeare.
"Dr. Watson told me," she admitted with a hesitant smile. "He said you spilled chemicals all over your old ones, and that they were getting worn anyway."
The doctor in question gave a grin at his friend's stiff, formal nod.
Holmes pushed the slightly askew box towards his sister-in-law with his foot. "Thank you. Happy Christmas. I hope it's adequate."
Ann Marie raised an eyebrow, slitting the paper carefully and then parting the cardboard. When she saw the carved mahogany cradle within the balled packing paper, however, her hands flew to her mouth, face beaming. "Sherlock... Thank you. It's beautiful."
He merely allowed a wry smile and raised his glass of cognac. "To my nephew."
"Or niece," put in Mycroft, somewhat indignant but pleased at the kind gesture.
"Hmm... Well, may they have their father's smarts and their mother's looks, and God help them if that's reversed."