Christmas Morning Yet to Come

Genre: Family, Humour

Pairings: All pairings

Main characters: Ensemble

"Oh no. I'm too bloody skinny to be Father Christmas. Anyway they're all too smart for their own good. Even Danny would know better and he's not even a year old."

It was December 23, and the finer details of Christmas plans were being finalized over festive drinks, and the glowing warmth of a blazing Baker Street fireplace.

"You're the oldest though, Greg, and you're the only one with silvering hair and… well. I suppose the argument's just petered out, hasn't it," John admitted with a silly smile. He'd forgotten how tasty Molly's mulled wine was.

"Greg's right, and it doesn't even pain me to admit it," Sherlock said, swirling his eggnog – set up with a healthy shot of rum by Mrs. Hudson and a generous sprinkling of nutmeg. At least, the first one had been like that. Sherlock wasn't sure of the exact proportions this time. Only that, like the first, this one also tasted like another one.

"All of our children are far too clever," he continued, in his own unmistakable baritone. "They'll know it's Greg the moment he speaks. Nobody else sounds like him. He can't disguise it in the least. Gregory," he said, leaning forward, beginning to feel the effects of Mrs. Hudson's measurements, "your voice has three distinct levels, and though none of them sound as though they come from the same man, when you know better, all of them are unmistakably yours." Sherlock sat back, satisfied thusfar with his argument in Greg's favour.

"Besides," he concluded definitively towards John this time, "Sherla especially is bound to figure it out almost immediately. She adores Greg, so she obviously knows her own father backwards and forwards, no matter how he speaks."

"Ciana Jane would know as well," Greg pointed out. His hot buttered rum – an old family recipe passed down from his mother's side for several generations now - was settling nicely, breeding festive warm and fuzzies in his belly and his mind. "God knows why, but she seems fond of my voice. I daresay she might know before Greer even figures it out."

Greg gave John a look of smug "told you so" victory as he took a healthy pull of his aforementioned hot buttered rum. It was only his first one, but Mrs. Hudson, entrusted with his also aforementioned old family recipe, had altered it somewhat, putting it in an extra-large mug. As with Sherlock's cup of eggnog, she had fixed Greg's beverage up with an extra splash (or two, or three) of spirits, thinking her boys didn't need the trouble of getting up for refills while such important matters as Christmas traditions were being discussed.

"I think we should dispense with the charade and simply hand out the gifts on Christmas morning," Greg opined. "There's enough to do with everything else we've planned."

John sighed, sitting back in his Christmas jumper and contemplating his warm drink. "Well, alright then," he said, shrugging with a self-deprecating grin. "I didn't say it was a GOOD idea. I'm going to blame Mrs. Lestrade's mulled wine and leave it at that, hey? So who's on Christmas morning breakfast duty with Greg?"

"All of us," Sherlock replied, with a signature grin. "And we draw straws at that time to decide who gets to stuff their hand up the bird's arse. Greg is exempt as he's making the dressing and leading the charge in the kitchen."

"I vote John be exempt as well," Greg said. "He's doing all the baking, after all, I think he has enough to do, don't you?" At this, Sherlock nodded in agreement, thinking in particular of John's ginger biscuits and his mince pies.

"And Sherlock knows nothing about cooking. I'd rather he not go near that bird with a ten foot pole, if we don't all want to spend Boxing Day fighting for a spot in front of the loo." John gave a sardonic grin towards Sherlock, who feigned offence at the lack of confidence in his abilities to ram seasoned bread inside a hollow bird carcass.

"Well then," Sherlock said with raised eyebrows. "That leaves Kieran and Anderson, who aren't here to defend themselves. I say THEY draw straws and we leave it at that."

John nodded at this with a snort and a chuckle, then confirmed, "Speaking of, the Baileys will be here around 11:00 by the way. Rosie and Julian have a special project in mind to keep the children occupied. Somehow they managed to convince me to make them gingerbread cottage pieces to build into a centrepiece."

Briefly, Sherlock wondered if they'd notice if parts of the pre-fabricated structure went "missing", unaware that John had already anticipated a cottage caper, making sure there were "spare" pieces on hand to keep everyone happy.

"Anderson texted earlier today. He and Jackie will be here with Ciana around that time as well," Greg said. "Apparently Jackie is also bringing a few treats for the children. We've the billets figured out, as well. Ciana will bunk with Greer of course, Julian will sleep on an inflatable mattress on the floor in Rosie's room, and of course Gareth will share Danny's cot." He shook his head with amazement that everyone was actually going to fit. "Baker Street is going to be stuffed tighter than the bird itself on Christmas Eve, but it's going to be a grand time," he smiled, his eyes lit up with anticipation.

"Indeed," John said with a sigh, still unsure of how he felt about the men taking over Christmas dinner duties. It had not been one of his finer moments, he had thought back with regret. That would teach him to talk big with a bit too much of the seasonal drinkies settling in the old bread basket.

John was just grateful to have Greg taking charge, and for himself to be designated with the baking duties. That, at least, he knew he could handle with ease and confidence. Much like cooking did for Greg, John found baking for his loved ones and extended loved ones to be therapeutic and satisfying.

It was Sherlock he was concerned about, who could neither cook, nor bake, his way out of a bloody paper bag. He supposed Sherlock might be trusted with a knife to chop vegetables, but even that seemed a bit dodgy, given how slaphappy he could be with a pistol. John wasn't certain what he might do with a knife if he began to consider the assigned tasks as "boring."

John wasn't sure about Kieran's abilities, though he suspected they were marginally better than Sherlock's skills. As for Anderson, John truly had no idea, but given the years he'd spent as a divorcé before he'd met Jackie, he assumed that Anderson had, at the very least, learned how to boil an egg and make a bit of toast.

And so it came to pass, that Christmas Eve arrived at Baker Street. The old tradition of Phillip singing his Christmas lullaby to "Lady Greer" had remained, but a new one had also begun the year before, one that had gone over so well that the women and children had requested it continue.

After a brief consultation with each other that first year, the parts had been decided, and Greg, Sherlock, John, Kieran, and Phillip, with supporting roles from their wives and Mrs. Hudson, took turns reading "A Christmas Carol". This year, they had decided that for the sake of remaining true to the tradition, they would keep the roles assigned previously.

Greg, not surprisingly and with a brief glare at both Kieran and Phillip, had accepted the lead role of the grumpy, curmudgeonly, miserly boss, Ebenezer Scrooge. Sherlock had pointed out then as well, that as Greg had more than one "voice" which could range from miles deep, to gravelly, to velvety posh, and as such he would be able to handle easily and authentically the various stages of Scrooge's age and character evolution.

It was decided that to maintain authenticity, Kieran would take on the role of his long suffering clerk, Bob Cratchit, as well as The Ghost of Christmas Present.

Tiny Tim had been assigned to John, after it had been pointed out that everyone else's voice was too deep, and as such, it would be also be appropriate for him to read the part of The Ghost of Christmas Past.

Jacob Marley and The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come both belonged to Sherlock, who reveled in the notion of speaking as darkly ominous spectres.

Anderson gladly accepted the parts of Scrooge's nephew Fred, and the narrator.

Not surprisingly, the wives took on roles which corresponded with the ladies associated with the men in the story - Emma as Mrs. Cratchit, Jackie as Fred's wife, Molly as Belle – Scrooge's former betrothed. Sally, Alex, and Mrs. Hudson took on the various other parts.

With everyone gathered around the fireplace, the children already in their pyjamas, Ciana contentedly curled up cozily on Greg's lap, and Greer on Phillip's, Phillip Anderson commenced the tale.

**"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that." Phillip started. He glanced up. Ciana, snuggled down with Greg - who held his own copy of the book waiting his turn to read - was instantly entranced with the sound of her daddy's voice reading to her, and the others were already enthralled by the tale they had grown to love. Smiling, he continued, **"The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail."

As the beloved tale was read in the hours before bedtime, and the promises of Father Christmas had settled in firmly, it was only the soothing sound of their fathers' voices that the children needed now, to complete the evening and make them more than ready to slumber peacefully, and dream sweetly of Christmas morning yet to come.

**Text in italics from "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, 1843. No copyright infringement is intended.