BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 1
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19 December 2021
The man lifted his child so she could reach the askew, brass doorknocker under the number 221B. Her mittened hand rapped it four times before her father put her back on the step and handed her a small gift box. She fidgeted excitedly, balancing the parcel topped by a green-and-red bow between her open palms.
Quick footsteps grew louder as they approached the heavy black-lacquered door. The lock clicked, the bolt shuttled back, and the door swung open, releasing a warm puff of sugar and cinnamon into the cold December air.
"Oh, precious!" an aproned Martha Hudson exclaimed, delight dancing in her eyes above a floral-print facial mask.
"Surprise!" Rosie Watson held the gift before her face, giggling behind it and her candy-cane patterned mask.
"Whot's this?" Mrs. Hudson feigned mild shock. "For me?"
"Happy Christmas! Well, almost Christmas…" Rosie shouted. "Yes! Yes! It's for you! Surprise, surprise!"
The petite old woman bent forward and stretched out her arms in welcome. "Surprise, indeed," her voice wobbled with sentiment. "But you, my darling, are the best ever gift."
Still clutching the gift, Rosie snuggled into the embrace of her godmother, her grandmother-of-choice. As they hugged and exchanged forehead kisses, Dr. John Watson smiled behind his Christmas-tartan mask, warmed by their affection.
Masks were back. The balancing act of going maskless during the spring and summer months had been offset by the pandemic's dramatic uptick in new cases in the past week. The variants—Omicron being the lastest mutation beginning a winter surge—were causing breakthrough cases, even among the inoculated millions. Yesterday, the Mayor had declared a major incident due to it's rapid spread and impact on emergency health services. Making masks "compulsory in shops and on public transport..." and putting the booster programme on overdrive to provide many more people with the third vaccine shot were the latest measures to stop the spread.
It was still to be determined whether the Omicron variant was any more severe than other COVID strains, but John would take no chances with Mrs. Hudson. The woman was in a higher-risk category due to her age. When the boosters first became available, he made sure she received her third shot. And as a doctor and foremost her friend, John felt compelled to wear his mask around her, especially when they were indoors. His daughter, as young children were wont to do, had got used to the practice as ordinary.
"Motored in to pop by," John began by way of explanation, "to wish you a happy Christmas—"
"—Come through out of the chill!" John's one-time landlady urged them, guiding them inside. As John shut the door behind them, Mrs. Hudson shivered in the draught. "Brrrrr! It's a bit nippy out, isn't it?" she said whilst helping the six-year-old Rosie shed her cobalt blue coat and handmade knitted scarf that matched her blue mittens and hat. "I'll just switch the kettle on, shall I? You'll stay a while, yes?"
"Quite." John affirmed. "Sorry we're unannounced, Mrs. Hudson." He felt a twinge of guilt for the lapse since their last visit. "Meant to ring ahead of time to see when might be convenient. This's really spur of the moment…." He unbuttoned his jacket and shoved his gloves in his pockets. "If you're not too busy…?"
"Look, Nana!" Rosie beamed happily. "It's cold enough to wear everything you made for me last Christmas." She pointed to the worsted wool ensemble Mrs. Hudson was stuffing into the arms of her little coat for easy retrieval. "And my Christmas jumper!" she puffed out her chest to show the prancing white reindeers on a red background.
"Ah yes. A difficult Christmas that was," Mrs. Hudson sighed, "but every stitch was a loving thought of my little Rosie." She touched the girl's concealed nose with a playful finger. "Now, let me have a look at you. My! You're a sight for sore eyes." With the child's coat tucked under her arm, she gave the little girl another squeeze.
"We're here to bring you your gift and to show you my new front tooth!" Rosie slid down her mask and smiled proudly then patted down her static-charged golden wisps of fringe. "It's almost grown in…see?" She bared her teeth in a wide forced grin to show the marginal progress of the second tooth filling the gap. Immediately she sniffed. "It smells good in here, Nana…like biscuits—" Rosie inhaled one deep appreciative breath then pulled her mask back in place.
"—Do I hear the voices of my favorite Watsons?" A baritone boomed from the top of the stairs, interrupting the conversation.
All attention was drawn toward Sherlock. With his blue scarf wrapped about his neck, he slipped up his face covering of matching color, leaving his bright eyes peeping over the top. He shrugged into his greatcoat as he loped down the stairs.
Rosie squealed at the sight of her favorite uncle and rushed to the foot of the stairs to greet him.
"Young Watson!" His voice was genuinely pleased as he returned her greeting. Had his face been unmasked there might have been more evidence to prove it, but instead, he leant over the child and patted the top of her head with dignity and decorum befitting a Holmes.
Whilst accustomed to his reserve, Rosie disregarded his overture of aloof disinterest and shared her affection openly. She clung to the leaning figure of her uncle and hugged him about the neck, knowing he would not push her away. Then she kissed his cheek above the mask before letting him go. When he had straightened, he peered down at her, his one eyebrow shot up as if in surprise—just as it always did when she pulled the same stunt—and she erupted into a fit of giggles.
The little girl's laughter mingled with Mrs. Hudson's, but John's reaction was silence. The playful affection between his friend and daughter brought a lump to his throat. Mary would be pleased. The thought came and went in a blink, followed by a smile of heartfelt gratitude hidden by his mask.
Sherlock's eyes twinkled and he gave John a nod in silent greeting before turning toward his landlady, tilting his head back and sniffing theatrically. "Mrs. Hudson! That scent… Is that your latest cologne, eau du sables I smell?" He looked down and winked at Rosie.
"Oh, Uncle Sherlock! Isn't it obvious?" the girl mimicked him amid her giggles at his silliness. "You smell biscuits! Nana's baking!"
"You see, John!" Sherlock cheered whilst pulling on his gloves. "Your daughter will make a great detective one day, mark my words."
"Like you?" Rosie teased, her blue eyes smiling at the slender man towering above her.
"Better, my dear Watson." Sherlock knelt before her and gently chucked her chin. "You will have the added bonus of woman's intuition! An endowment I learnt to respect from your mother." He paused before rising and cupped his hand around his own mouth to whisper in a conspiratorial aside, "I deduce there will be a plate of homemade biscuits in my sitting room upon my return." Then he straightened up to make a general announcement. "Well, best be off," he clapped his gloved hands together decisively.
"Where to?" John felt compelled to ask since Sherlock clearly had staged his departure to elicit his question.
"Out," Sherlock replied with a mysterious air. He was about to pull open the door when he swiveled back around and pinned John with a mischievous look. "Care to join me?"
Behind his mask, John's jaw dropped. He swallowed to fight the old compulsion to say yes. He shook his head and centered his sights on his daughter. His slight hesitation was obvious to Mrs. Hudson.
"I could do with some help in the kitchen," she chirped. "I've only begun my Christmas baking. What do you think, Rosie? I had planned on making you a batch. When we're done, you can take them home."
"Can I, Daddy?" Rosie jumped gleefully before her father, clapping her hands. "Can I? Can I please stay?" she wheedled.
"John, how can you resist the logic of such an appeal?" Sherlock drawled in his most persuasive voice.
"You're sure, Mrs. Hudson?" John's brow arched in concern. "It won't be too much trouble?"
"Rosie—trouble? Of course not, John! I've dealt with far worse..." She winked at the men, adding, "It'll be more fun to have a helper. Now, shoo. Get on with you. We girls have work to do."
"Yay!" Rosie circled her arms around Mrs. Hudson again before pulling back. "Do I get a lab coat like yours?" she queried, eyeing her godmother's holiday apron. "Uncle Sherlock says …" Rosie imitated her uncle's baritone by dropping her voice, "we must always wear a lab coat when we work with ingredients and heat."
"I have a perfect 'lab coat' for my little Rosie," Mrs. Hudson assured her and with a guiding hand on Rosie's back, they disappeared into her flat.
"Coming, John?" Sherlock stood on the threshold, letting in the December chill.
"Rosie, you be good for your godmother," John called after his daughter. "Mind what she says—" he added softly to no one in particular. He had an unsettling feeling that he had been manipulated as he followed Sherlock out the door.
"Sherlock." John put on his gloves and traded looks with his friend. "It feels as though you arranged all that…this…outing…."
Despite Sherlock's rush to depart, there was no urgency in his manner. Rather, he stood on the stoop assessing the fog and overcast sky, but cocked an amused brow at John's statement. "Interesting. You didn't used to be so suspicious, John." He slipped his mask down under his chin, liberating a smile. "Why would you think that?"
John undid one side of his mask, let it drop and reciprocated with a grin. "The timing…the opportunity… contrived, if you ask me..."
"How can that be, John?" Sherlock eyes glimmered in amusement. "Didn't I just hear you tell Mrs. Hudson you were popping in unannounced? In light of that, I fail to see how I could've planned this."
"Wouldn't put it past you, all the same," John muttered, his mask dangling behind one ear. "So, are you 'out' to see a client?"
Sherlock shook his head and gave a graceful hop off the step. "Need to think, although I do have a destination in mind. Outdoor activity hones my thought processes." He inhaled, adding, "However, nothing clears up the details so much as stating it to another. How fortunate my friend, John Watson, happened by. A fortuitous coincidence..."
"You don't believe in coincidences...," John returned, looking askance at his friend. After months apart, John welcomed his friend's company, but the way Sherlock stressed the word happened blew on the embers of his suspicions. So did Sherlock's deliberateness, avoiding John's eye. The detective peered north, then south, then north again, and then, without a word of explanation, headed south.
Sherlock's obvious pretense kindled John's determination to prove his point. "Hmmm. Unplanned," he posited, following Sherlock down Baker Street, "doesn't mean unanticipated…. Christmas is less than a week away. We couldn't visit last year, for obvious reasons, but in previous years we'd made rounds and spent time helping Mrs. Hudson on her holiday baking days. Always a week before Christmas, as I recall, and usually on a Sunday. She's like clockwork—Mrs. Hudson—predictable."
"So, John, your 'surprise' as you claimed your visit was today—the Sunday before Christmas—is not actually unplanned, after all…"
"Yeah, well, I forgot about it until I smelled her baking when she opened the door."
"Ahhh," Sherlock stopped and gripped John's upper arm to halt him. "So, it was a subconscious maneuver….And as I've come to learn, your subconscious is remarkably reliable, Doctor! And at times, astute."
"So you were anticipating our visit…." John searched his friend's face for confirmation.
"And you did not disappoint," Sherlock chuckled and released John's arm.
"Yes, of course. That's it," John continued piecing the puzzle with more certainty. "Rosie's six, old enough this year to help Mrs. Hudson without my assistance…. You figured I could leave her with Mrs. Hudson and so you coincided this jaunt of yours with our anticipated arrival…"
"An…opportunity presented itself..." Sherlock turned his head to hide his smile but the delight in his voice gave him away. Pleased that John had deciphered his methods, Sherlock chuckled and resumed walking.
"I'm that predictable!" John huffed in mock resignation. "As usual."
"You and Rosie and Mrs. Hudson are that predictable..." Sherlock stated smugly. "It should come as no surprise that I've studied the three of you, John… It might interest you that I have another prediction: the culinary arts will not long appease your Rosie's curiosity. She's inherited your appetite for adventure."
"Nothing astonishing there, Sherlock. Of course, she'll expand her horizons..."
"Agreed. And whatever she chooses to do, she will master it."
"That's because she's 'beautiful, perfect, unprecedented in the history of children?'" John quoted softly with pride.
"A scientific fact..." Sherlock asserted, catching their reflections in the storefront window of the Pret-A-Manager. "But mostly because she's John and Mary Watson's daughter."
John gave his friend an appreciative smile. "So…" he rubbed his gloved hands in anticipation. "This destination of yours. Can't imagine it's aimless, then?"
"Not aimless. A case awaits."
"Seriously? What kind of case can wait until Mrs. Hudson starts her holiday baking?"
"A cold case," Sherlock said with dramatic flair and started across the road just as the signal changed. "Shall we get a move on?"
John shot after him. A familiar shiver went down his spine but not from the cold, from excitement.
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