The days until Christmas were counted down with that precision that is particular to children. Harry had, of course, come home from school too, and been delighted to see her brother again; the two had become once again inseparable. And in the absence of Mycroft, they had seen it as their duty to take Sherlock on as a third sibling. Sherlock was at first reluctant, but, as the Christmas spirit began to penetrate him, despite his efforts to fend it off, he became almost normal, playing outside with them, and, when the weather was bad, playing cards inside, or sometimes retreating to read on his own.
It began to snow a short while before Christmas Day; this exhilarated John and Harry, who did not see snow as often in London as the Holmeses saw it out in the countryside. Mrs Holmes insisted on swathing them in Mycroft and Sherlock's old coats, mittens and woollen hats (which Mrs Holmes had knitted herself, and which were in a startlingly odd combination of green and purple); Sherlock refused this attention, and went out in just his coat and thin scarf, but didn't seem to notice the cold.
The high street of the village was already filled with snow, printed here and there by a footprint, and rutted all the way down by a single tyre track from a bicycle; but other than that the snow was pristine, and the street for now quiet. There were of course other evacuee children in the village, but evidently they didn't get up very early.
'It's so pretty!' cried Harry, dancing down the street and scooping snow off windowledges. 'Look at the icicles!' and she indicated with a gloved hand a threatening line of icy daggers that hung from one roof.
And when John looked up to inspect these icicles, Harry threw a snowball towards him that struck him on the shoulder, sending a spray of cold water down his neck.
'Hey!' cried John, and began to bundle up his own missile. He had scarcely finished it when Harry threw another snowball at him; he managed to duck just in time, and this one landed at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock, who was suddenly lost in thought, didn't notice.
The pair began to run up and down the street, throwing bigger and bigger snowballs at each other, and shrieking with delighted laughter; it was unclear who was winning this fight, and when it came to an end, or rather when they were both exhausted, they shook hands and called it a draw.
Then John turned to Sherlock, who was staring at his reflexion in the window of one of the shops.
'C'mon, Sherlock, let's have a three-person fight,' he said.
Sherlock started, and turned, and, almost automatically, began to craft his own snowball, very delicately, so that it was perfectly round. John suddenly caught the expression on his face, and said: 'What's wrong?'
'Mycroft used to like snowball fights,' Sherlock said vaguely; and then his expression changed dramatically, and, as if he had forgotten his words and thoughts already, he threw his snowball at John, and they dissolved happily into another fight.
They were wet and cold and tired when they turned back to go home, but immensely overjoyed, and still beaming from the excitement of the morning. The snow was beginning to melt beneath their feet, but a fresh fall was on the horizon, and they did not doubt that they would be able to go out again that afternoon.
Harry and John were talking animatedly; Sherlock scarcely took part in this conversation, but it was plain that he was not quite so detached as before. They were still chatting when they came to the door of the Holmeses' house, and so did not, perhaps, notice the conversation that came from within, and which stopped as they entered.
Redbeard came to greet them as they took their wet things off in the hallway, and Sherlock stroked him lovingly – he never showed so much love and care to anyone else as he did to Redbeard – and, furrowing his brow, inspected the dog and the hallway and said: 'I think we have a visitor.'
John and Harry followed his gaze. There beside all of the other shoes was a scruffy pair of brogues that John and Harry thought was familiar.
At first, John thought they might be Mycroft's: but he immediately dismissed the hypothesis, as Mycroft would never wear such battered shoes, and anyway, Sherlock would have noticed if they were Mycroft's. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him whose they were, and without saying a word, merely letting out an excited sort of noise, he ran into the next room, closely followed by Harry.
When Sherlock went after them, he found them in one of the armchairs embracing a middle-aged man with greying hair and a wan but kind smile. Sherlock guessed, correctly, that he was an engineer who worked for the railways, but he did not need this particular piece of information to guess that this man was Mr Watson, the evacuees' father.
'You must be John and Harry's father,' he said, without waiting to be introduced.
'And I presume that you are the famous Sherlock Holmes,' replied Mr Watson, grinning.
They shook hands cordially, and Sherlock looked questioningly towards his parents.
'This is Mr Watson's Christmas present to his children,' Mrs Holmes said. 'I invited him, actually, not expecting him to be able to come for very long, but he said he could afford to be here for a week or so over Christmas. It's nice to be able to reunite a family, and it's been very nice speaking to Mr Watson.'
She smiled over at the other man, who returned this smile.
'Thank you, Mrs Holmes,' said John at once.
'Oh, no, it's nothing, dear,' Mrs Holmes replied. 'Mr Watson, I was telling you about my son, of course…'
'I've heard a lot of good things about you,' Mr Watson said to Sherlock. Sherlock looked astonished. 'You're a talented young man, I hear. And a good friend for my John.'
Perhaps both Sherlock and John were surprised by this revelation, but both of them blushed and smiled and did not try to deny it.
'It's so good to see you, Father,' John said at last, and snuggled up to his father as if he was going to sleep in his arms. The image was rather beautiful, and Mrs Holmes sniffed a little. Sherlock felt a small pang somewhere around his heart, but could not place it.
The conversation moved on to something else, and continued until the fire began to burn low and the grandfather clock chimed five o'clock, at which point Mrs Holmes got up to make dinner, and Sherlock showed Mr Watson to the guest bedroom.
'How do you find John?' Mr Watson said when they were out of earshot of the others.
Surprised by this question, Sherlock did not reply for more than a moment. After a bit he said, rather generically: 'He's nice. He's popular at school and doing well. I presume he told you about the cricket victory?' Mr Watson nodded proudly. 'He's… well, he's normal,' he finished, and smiled a little humourlessly.
'Good. Good,' said Mr Watson. 'And are you and John indeed friends, as your mother has informed me?'
Sherlock looked perplexed. He closed his eyes a moment, as if that would allow him to better see his thoughts; then he said: 'I suppose we are, sir… Ah, this is the guest bedroom. Do make yourself at home.'
And even as Mr Watson did this, Sherlock made himself scarce, and had to retreat to his room to think on the question that had been asked of him, and which he wasn't sure he would ever be able to answer.
