From Wordwielder: Secret Santa

A/N: A prequel of sorts to another of my responses from a different December Challenge [Chapter 24. A Return, 'A Winter's Tale or Two'].

"Wiggins!" Mr Holmes's face - he would always be Mr Holmes to me, no matter how old I became - lit up when he opened the door. "Was I expecting you?"

"I was in the area, thought I'd pop by."

He squinted at my uniform and patted his pockets until he found a pair of wire-framed glasses. Once they were on, he looked me up and down properly. "Good heavens Wiggins, you're proposing? To Miss Butterworth?"

I laughed and clapped my hands together in amazement. It was as though I were that young boy again, back in London, and he had just revealed the thrilling conclusion of a case.

"That's right, Mr Holmes. Elsa's dad lives not too far from here, you see."

"Well you must come in and tell me all about it," he shuffled inside, through to the living room, and his housekeeper brought us some tea. "Not as good as Mrs Hudson's," he said, once Mrs Morgan had left us. "But I suspect it's better than what they've been serving you on the front line."

I suppressed a shudder, preferring to think of the war as little as possible when I was home. Mr Holmes noticed, of course, but was kind enough not to say anything.

"I was thinking of Mrs Hudson the other day, in fact," he continued, laying his cup aside. "Do you remember around this time of year she would make mince pies?"

"Best pies in London," I grinned. "Those Christmases were some of my best memories, you know. Even when things were hard, you could always look forward to Christmas time at Baker Street."

Mr Holmes nodded solemnly. "Things were very hard, for so many of you. It was Watson who really changed those Christmases." He looked to the Doctor's empty armchair - they must have brought their furniture with them from Baker Street - then back to me. "You've heard he's missing?"

Although the Irregulars were all disbanded, we still kept in touch, and news travelled fast when it pertained to either Mr Holmes or Doctor Watson. "I have. Kept an eye out for him, in France like, once I'd heard."

His eyes glimmered, I liked to think, with pride. "A Baker Street Irregular to the end, eh?"

"Wouldn't dream of anything else," I laughed, then sobered as my thoughts returned to the Doctor. "They say it'll finish soon, Mr Holmes. The war that is. Perhaps that'll make it easier to find him?"

"Hmm." His eyes were back on Doctor Watson's chair, and I was suddenly struck by how old he looked. "We have to hope so."

"I realised something the other week, about Doctor Watson."

"Oh? And what was that?"

"It was him that dressed up as Santa every year, wasn't it?"

Mr Holmes threw back his head with a bark of laughter, the exact reaction I had hoped for. "You have only just realised?"

"I never thought about it before!" I exclaimed, with mock-indignance. "And he did it so well. What was that accent he used to do?"

"Inverness, or so he told me. You know he is Scottish by birth?"

"I didn't," I admitted. "I reckon there's plenty I never learnt about either of you. But I do remember Santa bringing us gifts."

"Baker Street's best kept secret, clearly." His keen grey eyes glinted again with humour. "And there was I telling Watson that none of you would ever believe such a thing."

"Oh we believed it alright. Still got that old toy train somewhere."

"Still? Whatever for?"

I shrugged, a little bashful now. "I know it sounds strange, Mr Holmes, but for a lot of us lot you two - well, you two and Mrs Hudson - were the closest thing to family we had. I suppose I always kept it because I hoped I might give it to my child one day, if me and Elsa are ever so blessed."

Mr Holmes always had a very particular manner, so I could see why so many believed what Doctor Watson wrote about him not having any feelings. I had never believed that for one moment, but if ever I needed proof of his heart I had it now. He blinked forcefully, cleared his throat, and for a few moments was unable to speak. Eventually he stood to pour us both drinks, and I thought to myself it that it was so he could take a minute to gather himself.

"Thank you, Wiggins," he spoke eventually, voice soft, and handed me a glass of whisky. "I am sure, were Watson here, he would be just as touched as I am."

"Then here's to his safe return." I clinked my glass against Mr Holmes's. "And to your good health."

"And yours."

We drank, and I prayed fervently we would both get what we wished for.