BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 6
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25 December2021
"Daddy, daddy!" Rosie called gleefully, pushing into her father's room. She hopped onto his bed, and jumped up and down, chanting with each bounce, "Today is Christmas! Today is Christmas! Today is Christmas! Today is Christmas!"
"Geeze, Rosie," John rolled to his side and groaned wearily, peeking under heavy eyelids at the jubilant jumping-bean creating the seismic disturbance. It felt early—too early. He glanced toward the clock—5.32—and mumbled in protest, "A proper gift to you old Da would be a bit more sleep…" Fatigued from his late night of gift-wrapping, John shut his eyes and pulled the duvet over his head. "I know it's Christmas morning," he whinged, his voice muffled by the thick fabric, "but can you gimme a few minutes more…?" He heard her alight gracefully to the floor with a soft thud.
"Please, oh, please, Daddy?" she implored, leaning on his bed with her hands clasped in prayer. "Pull-eeeese?"
He uncovered his head and opened one eye. Whilst too dark to distinguish her face, he could hear her smiling. "Right," he acquiesced, "Not going to win this one, am I?"
She giggled in agreement and petted his tousled hair. "Don't worry. I'll help you up."
John let his daughter pull—more like yank—him playfully by the hands. Once on his feet, he yawned and stretched and scratched his bristly chin. Attired only in his white t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, he shivered, missing the warmth of the duvet.
"Here!" She had retrieved his tartan dressing gown, faded with age, from the chair near his bed. "Hurry! Hurry, Daddy."
"You know, dearest girl," he reminded her, attempting to use reason; although how does one reason with a determined six-year-old on Christmas morning? "The Christmas presents aren't going anywhere—that is, of course, if you were well-behaved enough for Father Christmas to leave some—" he teased, massaging the old ache in his shoulder before pulling on his dressing gown.
No sooner had one hand appeared past the cuff when Rosie tugged on his fingers. "C'mon, Daddy," she urged in breathy eagerness.
"All right, all right." John barely managed to get the second hand free as he barefooted behind his impatient daughter toward the staircase.
Rosie was the first to descend, pausing when she was halfway down. "Yes! Daddy, look!" she leant over the banister and pointed toward the presents underneath the Christmas tree, radiant with twinkling multicolor lights. "See! There are presents," the enchanted child declared in awe and clapped her hands. "Oooooh, it's so beautiful!"
Both were riveted by the glowing sight. It was an iconic vision—every child's dream—of a Christmas morning. The illumination bathed the gifts in a magical aura. The majestic tree was massive by their usual standards. John had been overtaken by the holiday spirit when he and Rosie had picked the full and round Nordmann Fir. While it was not as fragrant a species as other varieties, he had bought it for its excellent needle retention. It was only when he got it home and set it up was that he realized how large it was. Its girth practically blocked the threshold between the kitchen and the sitting room, plus it obstructed a clear view into the kitchen.
It was not the stunning sight, but the electric fairy lights that made John give a little gasp, however. He suspected his curious daughter had peeped at the tree—despite her convincing reaction otherwise—and switched them on before rousing him. In past years, he had warned her about the dangers of fairy lights on a live evergreen and insisted he be the one to switch them on. Although Rosie was older and more responsible now—she'd be seven in a few months—John hadn't yet relaxed his parental authority on the matter. Rather than start off Christmas with a reprimand, he remarked in his most neutral voice, "I wonder who switched the lights on…?"
"Father Christmas was here!" Rosie exclaimed, hopping down the remaining steps, where she remained hopping in place. "Father Christmas left presents! Father Christmas put on the lights, Daddy!" she proclaimed exasperated that her father was overlooking the focal point of the morning—the gifts.
"Seriously?" John followed her to the bottom of the stairs.
Rosie was overcome with excitement and danced around her father who remained mystifyingly motionless at foot of the stairs. "Daddy! Let's go!" She hugged him around the waist, and tried pushing him toward the pile of gifts.
Still puzzled about the lights, John eyed his daughter's upturned face and peered into the deep blue pools of pure belief in Father Christmas. He wasn't going to dispel her faith nor challenge his Christmas-stimulated child. He looked once more at the illumined tree in doubt. I'm pretty sure I switched them off…. He had been exhausted when he finally tumbled into bed in the wee hours. Did I forget? What a cock up!
"Fine. It's all fine, Rosie," he reassured himself and gave his daughter a pat on the head. "And… thank you for waking me this year, as we agreed." The previous year, five-year-old Rosie had attacked her gifts with wild abandon as John slept. He had woken to find his daughter contentedly playing with her new toys amidst piles of wrapping paper beneath an unlit tree.
John sighed at the memory. That had been a lonely Christmas. The pandemic had made it the worst since …since…that first Christmas after Mary had died. He shook the negative thoughts away. He had wanted this year to be merrier….
"Daddy, I promised you I'd wait. I waited." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the tree. "But I can't wait anymore. Can I start now…please?"
John gave his ready-to-burst daughter a go-ahead smile. "Yes, yes, of course. Let's have a look, shall we?"
Rosie plopped herself on the floor within arms' reach of the bright and shiny packages. Lost in the Twinkle-light Zone of euphoria, she squealed with joy. John settled cross-legged on the edge of the rug, his back to the kitchen and handed her one gift at a time. Rosie paid no mind to the decorative wrappings—the effort he had made to wrap them was all for naught—but tugged at the bows and plucked off the ribbons, anticipating the gifts within as she freed each captive surprise from its garish trappings. First she liberated a karaoke microphone. "I love it!" She hugged the box; instantly she snatched the next box he handed her. "Oh," she crowed at the Stained-Glass Arts Kit. "Just like Sidney has!" Shoving that away, she spotted a third gift with her name tag. Before John could hand it over, she reached around him, grabbed it, and clawed the paper off a jewelry-making set, giving another delighted shriek.
"Hold on, Rosie!" John stopped her as she tossed it aside for another. "You're going too fast! Let's enjoy this moment… slowly… Let's make it last longer, okay, sweetheart? We've got all morning—"
His words snuffed the twinkling fairy lights in her eyes.
"Listen," John rested a comforting hand on her little shoulder, "I know it's hard to be patient, especially on Christmas." John reached over and hugged her trying not to cave to her quivering lower lip. "Some hot chocolate before we continue would be just the ticket. Shall I? That will help you slow down…? "
Her eyes scanned the unopened gifts and her head bobbed as if she were counting how many were left. The discovery that the number was finite rather than infinite may have persuaded her. She tilted her head and nodded.
"I could use some coffee, too." John's craving now was so strong, he could smell it brewing, an impossibility since he had forgotten to preset his coffee maker. "But hold on! How about you open one more…" He raised his forefinger for emphasis. "One more! Before I head to the kitchen, okay?"
Rosie nodded more vigorously and her dimples returned to her cheeks. "Okay," she agreed, her eyes regaining their happy gleam.
He kissed the top of her head, grateful for her malleable nature. Whilst not inclined to overindulge his daughter with material things, John had uncharacteristically overdone it this year to compensate for the previous year's isolation and this year's threat of supply shortages. Many of the gifts were impulse-buys in the previous months, but now he was seeing his mistake: this abundance had whipped Rosie into a frenzy.
"Let's see," he drummed his fingers against his lips, surveying the assorted gifts. "Which one should I pick—?" He was jolted by the sight of one he did not recognize. Unlike his own presents, this gift was not wrapped in child-themed foil to attract her. It was a distinctive purple box bound by a deeper purple satin ribbon with the unmistakable word Liberty.—in the brand's typeface—printed in gold.
John picked up the parcel, curiosity piqued. The unsigned card was addressed to Rosie; the handwriting was Sherlock's. He puzzled over it before handing it to Rosie.
His much calmer daughter slowly unwound the satin ribbon and opened the lid. With ooohs and aaahs, she pulled from the box a pyjama set from the Liberty London collection.
The soft Minako cornflower fabric delighted the six-year old's senses, but John was baffled, speculating how and when his friend had snuck in and placed it amongst the other presents. He tried not to be disappointed that instead of popping by in the morning, Sherlock had visited while he slept. When "the game was on," Sherlock never had had qualms about waking John. Guess those days are long gone, John rued, his thoughts returning to the commercial deep-cleaners they had visited the weekend before and Sherlock's suspicions about attempted murder. Obviously, Sherlock doesn't need any more help with the Hobbs case.
"So, Rosie!" He rubbed his palms enthusiastically together, and channeled his perkiest voice. "Would you like to help me in the kitchen, then? We can make your hot chocolate together…?
She clutched the pyjamas and jumped to her feet. "No, Daddy. I want to put these on! …And… I oh….. um, I forgot your—," she hesitated, looking toward the staircase "—uh, something…I… I left in my… room."
"Sure. But promise me you won't open any other presents when you come back down until I'm with you. Can you do that for me?" He pushed himself up and chucked her under the chin.
"I promise," she said with a beaming smile.
As she ran upstairs, John skirted the wide Christmas tree through to the kitchen. The aroma of coffee—not imagined—met him as he entered. So did a tall lean figure, tucked back in the shadows, wearing a great coat and holding two coffee mugs.
"Happy Christmas…John," Sherlock greeted him nonchalantly.
"Geez! Sherlock!" Startled, John clutched his heart before switching on a light.
They squinted at each other in the sudden brightness. John did not ask, nor did Sherlock explain, what he was doing there…and why in the dark. Sherlock merely handed John a mug of the fresh brew. John accepted it and sipped; of course, made just the way he liked it.
Sherlock twitched a half grin at John's satisfied eye-roll. With his own mug at his mouth, he paused, answering John's unasked questions in quick succession. "Not planning to stay long. Especially not interested, you know… in the ridiculous traditions of Christmas morning." He shook his head. "Equating one's worth and level of good behavior by whether there would be presents…delivered by a mythic character? Utter nonsense."
"Some think you're a mythic character…" John teased, his eyes merry above his steaming mug.
Sherlock ignored him. "Besides, I could always guess what was inside the wrappings. Boring."
"So, getting coal every year wasn't what turned you off, then?"
Sherlock sized John up with a frown. Their shared gift for mocking humor often took him a moment to grasp, especially when John's had turned on him. Though he was certain his friend had only meant to take the piss out of him, John had unwittingly hit a sore spot. Too many Christmases past in the Holmes' household had been troubled—the pretense of merry making always undercut by an unspoken melancholy. Never had Sherlock expressed to anyone, least of all to John, the domestic hypocrisy he had felt as a child at Yuletide. Only since learning about Eurus had Sherlock understood the reason.
John's grin faded at the expression on his friend's face. He suddenly realized the Holmes family dynamic had to have been traumatized by the mental illness of their youngest. "Um…," he fumbled, uncertain how to make up for his, sleep-deprived faux pas.
"—Anyway… " Sherlock glossed over the moment with a gesture toward the coffee maker. "Put myself to good use in here. Best to stay out of the way ... you know, not crush the mood…" He took another sip. "Oh, yes. The kettle's on for Rosie's hot chocolate…almost ready."
"Hmmmm. Coffee and kettle…two instances of present-worthy behavior, if you ask me," John grinned with gratitude.
Overhead sounds of lively and rhythmic hopping made them look toward the ceiling. John had got accustomed to his spirited child expending her energy, jumping and leaping. As long as it was not off her bed—which she knew he forbade—John granted his daughter her personal expression of excitement
Sherlock's curiosity about the noise appeared in his raised eyebrows.
"Yeah." John explained, "She's dancing… for joy. I suppose she's personalizing her own Christmas-morning routine. She's creative like that."
"Indeed," Sherlock remarked nodding in understanding. "Children start off with such extraordinary gifts. Shame for most, adulthood dulls them." He savored another sip thoughtfully, adding, "Present company excepted, of course."
"Of course," John acknowledged, amused by his friend's extra effort to play nice, especially on Christmas. "Look, Sherlock. You're welcome to join our 'ridiculous tradition'—if you behave. Besides, you don't have to sneak in like this. A text would work…or ring me—"
"—Tried," Sherlock interrupted, picking up John's mobile from the worktop and handing it over to John. "You left this here, clearly. Tough night, was it?"
John frowned at his negligence and eyed the device. Texts from Sherlock were waiting to be read. "Still," he persisted, "use the bloody doorbell, then, like ordinary people—" realizing as he said it that half five in the morning was not a reasonable hour for ordinary people, either.
Sherlock smirked and John conceded, "Right. Ordinary—not a word that applies to you…?"
"Yes, well, I had intended to wake you, but your daughter beat me to it. From the sounds of it, she was quite effective," Sherlock admitted placing his cup down to shrug off his coat. He had decided to accept John's invitation. He folded the heavy garment and scarf over a chair back and plucked a few stray specks of lint from his dark navy blazer. "Never thought to jump up and down on the bed, shouting, It's Christmas! It's Christmas!… however…Might try that some time."
"That's not what she said," John corrected before breaking into an amused snicker at the mental picture.
"Today is Christmas!…It's Christmas!… Same difference," Sherlock quipped, retrieving his cup and sipping to hide his growing grin.
When the water in electric kettle had reached temperature, John set down his half-emptied caffeine fix to prepare Rosie's hot chocolate. After he stirred the cocoa and hot water, he topped off his coffee when the evidence hit him. "Of course! I was doubting myself, but I hadn't left the tree lit. You switched them on."
"Lit tree. Gift delivered. Aroma of brewing coffee...Thought the clues were obvious, John." Sherlock raised his cup in a toasting gesture. "Call me Father Christmas! Guilty as charged."
Upstairs sounds of the flushing toilet and the water running as his daughter washed her hands, John knew they had only a bit longer for their kitchen conversation. More alert now, he looked sideways at his friend, his voice thick with skepticism and hope. "Can't believe you snuck in for no other reason than to drop off a gift and light our Christmas tree?"
"Of course not, John." Sherlock scoffed. "Like the angels to the shepherds, I bring tidings…Aspects of the Hobbs case, you might like to hear. Thought to come early, as I have places to be today, but I miscalculated the mind of a child, I'm afraid. Imagined it would be before Rosie woke. She's a clever one…" He nodded toward the sitting room and the sound of footfalls descending the stairs. "Rosie's returned. Shall we bring your patient daughter her hot chocolate? I promise to behave."
Holding the mugs of the cocoa and coffee in each hand, John grunted with pleasure at his unexpected Christmas surprise and preceded Sherlock into the sitting room.
"Uncle Sherlock!" Rosie, dressed in her new pyjamas and clutching a wrapped parcel for her dad, gasped with delight. "Is Father Christmas with you?"
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