Hello all! I would like to take a brief moment of introduction. I am new to writing Sherlock Holmes fiction. Being that is the case, I welcome very much welcome reviews and constructive criticism. Much of the mannerisms depicted here are inspired by the Granada series from 1984. I absolutely love Jeremy Brett and David Burke/Edward Hardwicke as Holmes and Watson. It's hard for me to imagine anyone else anymore despite the fact I grew up with Basil Rathbone as my go to iteration.

For this particular story, I'd like for this to be an annual thing where I post to a new chapter each Christmas going forward. As the title suggests, the theme is being at or dreaming of home for the holiday. The following chapter is set after the events of The Blue Carbuncle episode.

I also want to give a salute to KCS, Protector of the Grey Fortress, trustingHim17, and Riandra. Their works really stirred up my desire to write again. If you have not read of their magnificent stories, go do it! Now! These talented writers are my writing goals. I can only hope to do justice for these two legendary literary characters as I venture forth on this endeavor. Thank you for reading and have a very Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year.

"Merry Christmas Holmes."

"And to you my dear friend."

Church bells could be heard throughout all of Londontown. Christmas Eve. had given way to Christmas Day. Our bird from earlier had flown the coupe courtesy of the goodwill of my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. While I did not feel comfortable myself taking the law into my own hands, I was in some ways grateful for Holmes' lack of such reserve. He was correct that a man's life was spared. Pondering this, I remembered there was still an innocent man that was yet in need of sparing.

We had just sat down to our own Christmas feast. Holmes poured me a lovely vintage from a freshly corked bottle of sherry. I was about to savor the flavor but stopped myself abruptly at the last moment.

"Holmes, just a minute. I cannot contemplate eating while John Horner is still in custody. Do you suppose Bradstreet or one of his colleagues might still be at their desks?"

I implored him as he sipped from his glass. My friend stuttered slightly as he lifted the silver lid from the dish. He took a brief minute to consider my plea. My words had reached him for he placed the lid back down and with a clap of his hands tossed his napkin on the table.

"You're quite right Watson. Come, let's go."

Hours later we returned to the warmth of 221B Baker Street after ensuring the innocent Horner was indeed released. We saw to it personally that the man was reunited with his loving family before heading to our own docile comfort. By this time the goose prepared by our dear Mrs. Hudson had become cold and needed reheating. Our glasses of sherry, still full, had rings crusted on the inside from sitting so long. That was perfectly fine though. Neither of us minded. We still wore our respective smiles from a job well done.

Holmes had disappeared into his room without a word. I began to wonder if he was retiring after our long night. Just when I was about to relinquish myself to the arms of my own blankets and bed as well, Holmes reemerged. In his hands was a small box, elegantly wrapped in gold paper with a silken red bow. With a graceful flourish, he bowed before me and presented to me a Christmas gift.

"My dear fellow, it is now morning. It is only fitting, would you not agree, to open one's presents?"

It was more of a statement than a question. I held the gift in my hands, observing the beautifully written tag in a most handsome scrawl. No doubt it belonged to my companion. My fingers traced the letterings of my name and his. I, being the recipient, and him the sender. I felt my smile return fuller than before.

"Oh Holmes. Thank you! That reminds me!"

I placed the gift down carefully and rose from my place on the settee. Holmes watched curiously as I headed to my desk. A moment later I walked back toward him.

"Merry Christmas my dear Holmes."

Holmes' lips curled into his own small, quick grin. Without even a thought, he tore into the red foil that encased the medium sized box I handed him. The burgundy silken ribbon with gold trim flew lightly on the air, landing in a flutter on my head.

"Thank you my dear fellow!"

I couldn't help chuckling at his excitement. Gently I pulled the ribbon off of my head, tenderly holding it as I took in the marvelous sight before me. His eyes were alight with a childlike glow. When Holmes had succeeded in throwing aside all of the stuffing in the box, he held gingerly in his hands a shining new Powell/Nelson Jubilee Portable Microscope. The great detective consultant was speechless. He had been wanting one of these magnificent devices from the moment he discovered they were released for purchase by the general public. His greenish grey eyes scanned the beautiful device he held, mesmerized that he now had in his hands the very tool he desired.

"My dear Watson. I simply do not know what to say. This is a genuinely thoughtful gift. Why this must have cost a king's ransom! You shouldn't have my boy. Nevertheless, either your powers of observation are growing or you simply have an innate knack for knowing exactly what is in a person's heart. Though I would offer the conjecture that it is both possibilities."

I could feel the flush of red staining my cheeks at Holmes' sincere compliment. It was rare for him to give such praise, even to me -especially to me. So when such sentiment was so freely given, I gladly accepted it with my own grateful heart. He continued to marvel at his gift, scanning the microscope's craftsmanship. It was then his eyes fell upon the box to see the optional brass base that was included. Lifting it, he read the engraving I had commissioned.

SH-

For eyes that always seek truth.

May they ever be firm in their resolve.

Ever vigilant and observant sleuth.

Let this assist you with cases to solve.

-JW

For a moment, I could have sworn I saw a glistening in my dear friend's ordinarily cold orbs. Whatever I did see just as quickly vanished; Holmes dabbed his eyes with the back of his index finger. I said nothing for the sake of the stoic gentleman's pride. It was enough to have caught a glimpse of the welling in that clear gaze. Knowing it was my gift to my dearest companion that had moved him to the brink was my greatest reward.

"My dear Watson… thank you. I shall forever treasure this." Holmes finally spoke, his voice not above a whisper. It was evident that he was attempting to keep his voice steady as emotion, which was normally abhorrent to his nature, knotted in his throat.

"Good Heavens Watson! It seems in my own glee of wonderment, we neglected your present! Come my dear fellow, open it!"

Holmes practically rushed me to sit once more on the settee. My friend sat beside me, handing his gift to me for a second time. This time he watched intently, I dare say even somewhat impatiently, as I slowly undid the ribbon. Perhaps I was being a bit mischievous, but the more Holmes' stirred with anticipation for me to open my gift, the slower I paced myself as I unwrapped it. I bit back my grin when Holmes' grew even fussier. His fingers were drumming the back of the settee. A deep giggle rumbled in my throat. Whatever this present was, Holmes was exceedingly excited to see my reaction. Without further ado, I at last opened the box.

Nestled in soft white tissue paper at the very top sat a lovely new gold fountain pen with detailed design engraved with my initials, a matching base that too sported my initials, and a full inkwell. Beneath more of the snowy white paper sat a gorgeous chestnut brown leather journal. It was rather thick, indicating numerous pages. My hazel blue eyes lit up. I was running out of pages in my current journal. The need to purchase another was inevitable. The ever keen and observant consulting detective clearly deduced as much, hence the token I then held.

Holmes seemed to retain some suspense in his posture. I concluded there must have been more to see. Carefully I lifted the items out of the box searching for anything I may have missed. Seeing there was nothing left, I glanced back to my dear Holmes. His gaze was upon the journal I had set aside. Taking the hint, I lifted the book and opened it. The pages were lined with feathery gold trimming. The page color was an exquisite shade of crème. Only after I surveyed the intricate build and binding did I see on the inner cover an inscription.

To My Dearest Watson,

I must confess, my dear friend, it is you who is the man of letters.

I doubt I should ever have the patience nor discipline.

No matter how many times I have and will continue to chide.

Please know, this comes from the depths of my heart.

You have my sincerest gratitude for your floridly romantic tales.

I truly hope you continue to work with me by my side for years to come.

Forever believe me to be very sincerely yours,

S. Holmes

I am not certain how long I stared at the writing. This was most definitely the handwriting of my colleague. My eyes were stinging. I could not tell if it was from the fact I did not so much as blink or if it was the burning moisture rimming my lacrimal canal. Droplets hit the inner cover, thankfully missing the ink. It would pain me if I were to smudge the beautiful message with the very result the endearment brought about from me.

Holmes became pensive the longer I sat there in silence. Perhaps he had mistaken my lack of speech for disapproval. He tried to speak, yet stumbled over his words, making out what sounded to be vowels. Before he could further doubt himself I found my voice to speak instead.

"Holmes… this… this is… I can't even begin to… my dear Holmes…"

He watched me closely as I turned to meet his gaze. It did not take the world's greatest detective to see that I was deeply moved by this sentiment he dared to share in written words. The realization made him relax. His smile returned as he looked upon me with a singular softness I had never seen him display. I in turn, regaled him with my own sincere appreciation.

"I trust then that this will suffice as a suitable restocking of supplies?"

Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to be as professional as possible even in the face of an emotional moment. He fidgeted nervously, clearing his throat. This was most assuredly uncharted territory for him. He had never been a man to be so open with his feelings. Matters of the heart were my department by his own admission.

"It will indeed, my dear fellow. It will indeed." I could not help sighing contentedly. The lump in my throat loosened enough for me to continue. "I shall cherish this immensely my dearest Holmes. Truly I shall."

Another warm smile graced my beloved friend's lips. He too, overwhelmed by what transpired, attempted to brush aside the unusual feelings that forced their way to the surface. Holmes stood with another regal flourish and gestured toward the table. "My dear Watson, shall we resume our festivities? A long night though it has been, I would venture to guess if we retire now we may deprive ourselves of the day."

"Let's my dear chap." I replied with exuberant warmth despite my yawn.

It turned out to be one of the most memorable of Christmases I should ever recall. It still astounds me how we had the energy to make such merriment. We retired well into the evening after a day full of cheerful music from Sherlock Holmes' masterful playing of his violin, a delightful feast, fresh wine in our glasses, and the pleasure of each other's company that we both wholeheartedly adored.

FIN

Author's Notes:

1.) Powell and Lealand Nelson Jubilee Portable Microscope - Invented by British Microsopist Edward Milles Nelson in 1887.

2.) Lacrimal Gland - Place that secrete the aqueous layer of the tear film.