A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter, just because Sybil goes batshit crazy because *spoiler*. I love writing Downton characters doing stuff that they wouldn't ever do in the show. That's why I like AUs. But Sybil – she's absolutely nuts in this fiction, going on about a demon Santa. But ... perhaps she isn't all that crazy.

BTWs, I now have a Tumblr. Just search for my fan fiction name. I've created some photosets for Advent. ;)

December 22: Here Comes Santa Claus

Pairing: Sybil/Tom

Rating: T for strong language (from Sybil) and some intensity.

"Sybil, how late did you stay up wrapping gifts?" Cora asked, seeing Sybil's tonsils as the young girl yawned.

"Erm … just until twelve," Sybil answered. Her mother raised a sharp eyebrow. Sybil grimaced.

"Alright – one in the morning," she confessed.

"Heavens, couldn't you have saved some to do later?" Cora said. "There's no reason to do it all at once."

"Don't worry, I still have some left to do," Sybil said. Cora shook her head mock-disapprovingly.

Hidden in Sybil's closet was a bountiful array of boxes wrapped in red and gold paper, on which Sybil had worked late into the night. She made considerable effort to avoid any evident gaffes and causing any package to look home-wrapped, as opposed to the professional gift wrappers at department stores. This year, she had chosen not to pay money to make her presents look presentable, though, to be honest, wrapping gifts neatly was harder than it looked. The rectangular boxes she had managed to conceal by the end of the night were ready to be put underneath the tree, but the irregularly shaped ones had given her more trouble than it was worth, and most likely would need to be rewrapped when she had spare time.

Only one present she planned to give couldn't be found in her bedroom. Frankly, anyone could see it, but no one – save she and one other person – would know it was a gift to a special someone.

Christmas was so close now; Sybil could close her eyes and smell the delicious treats being baked downstairs, smothered in mint and spice. The great tree was fully lit and decorated, and even now cast a soft golden glow that warmed anyone who gazed upon it. Every bannister and wall had been draped with garlands of green, red, and silver, and Sybil likened the appearance of Downton to the mansion in the Nutcracker. Nearly every decoration that she and Tom had approved was displayed, and no one could look in any direction without viewing something that spread the Christmas spirit. She could hardly wait for the Christmas party tonight, so people could admire the décor and she'd get some praise for something at last.

Her only wish was that Tom would show up for the party, for she was planning to show him his gift then.

Tom was never a party person — especially at ones held by people with money to toss about. But that being said, neither was Sybil, since there were hardly any girls her age, and those that did attend were never interested in what Sybil liked. She often wished she was little again, when she wasn't forced to stay downstairs and 'socialize' with dullards. She imagined the parties held by students in the city, with colourful lights and electronic music and exciting, original people. If she ever had the chance to steal away to one of those shindigs, she was sure she'd have the time of her life.

For now, unfortunately, she was slated to appear at tonight's party in a constricting evening dress and a fabricated smile. If Tom wasn't going to turn up, then she wouldn't even bother plastering a fake smile on her face. Hell, she might feign illness and not even show up. Her parents and the guests would hardly miss her; she could afford to avoid respectable people for one night.

Tom had expressed nothing but apprehension when Sybil had approached him about the party, but it was imperative that she get a final answer. To settle this once and for all, she pulled out her mobile, sat down on the staircase, and dialed Tom's mobile number. She waited until the robot woman prompted her to leave a voice message before hanging up, then trying again. She had to do it twice over before she got through to him; she was not going to put it off.

"Sybil? Can you hear me?" Tom's voice sounded scratchy, like he was trying to talk over a broken television. There must be some interference coming from somewhere.

"Tom? What are you doing?" Sybil said, raising her voice a tone.

"I'm – never mind that now, what do you need?" he asked.

"I just need to know if you're coming tonight, for the party," Sybil informed him.

"Ah, Sybil … I can't make it tonight," Tom confessed, sounding far away.

Sybil whinged. "But Tom … I know you aren't comfortable at these sort of parties, but all you have to do if put on your good jacket and stick next to me —"

"It's not that, I'd come if I could," Tom explained. "I'm on the train to Manchester."

The phone nearly slid from Sybil's fingers. "What did you say?"

"I'm going to Manchester," Tom said clearly.

"I heard that! But - but why?" Sybil stammered. "You didn't tell me you were going. Why are you –?"

"It's a lot to explain, Sybil, and the connection is bad. But I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

"It's just that I was convinced you'd be there with me for the party," Sybil said. "You said you'd try and make it. What's so important that you have to be in Manchester for?"

"It's just family business," Tom said quickly.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, absolutely."

Sybil grumbled, throwing a little spittle onto her mobile. "Thanks to you, I'm going to be a lifeless stocking tonight. And there was going to be a surprise for you, too."

"Huh? What do you mean, a surprise?"

"Well, you won't be able to find out until you come back," Sybil said.

"The suspense may kill me first," Tom answered.

Sybil tutted aloud, and she heard Tom chuckle on the other end.

"Sybil? Do you forgive me?"

"Just this once. And you better tell me why you've left all of a sudden, like some thief in the night. You haven't stolen anything, have you?"

"Ha, don't worry. I told you before, I'm coming back tomorrow."

"Promise you won't get stranded like Matthew?"

"I promise. I'll walk back to you if I have to."

After the usual exchange of affections, Sybil ended the call. There was still much to do before the party, and with Edith now absent, it was up to her to do it all.

The party went, for the most part, smoothly, albeit rather dully for Sybil. There were few people whom she regarded as friends, the term 'friend' being used to refer to people she spoke to amicably. She only engaged in trivial conversation with the guests, feigning delight and amusement at what they chattered on about. Primarily, they asked Sybil about other people; how was Mary? What was Edith up to? Wasn't she still with Larry Grey?

She did garner applause for her extravagant decorating endeavors, though she blushed and shook it off: after all, Tom had done so much as well, but he wasn't here to receive any recognition. This certainly was not a gathering which he would fit in – he'd stick out like a sore thumb – but with Sybil by his side, she was sure the other guests would speak to him civilly.

She had worn her favorite midnight-blue evening gown, delicately trimmed with silver strands that resembled spun sugar. The diamond drop earrings she was wearing weighed heavily down on her earlobes, but she liked the necklace shaped vaguely like a snowflake. Sybil hardly dressed excessively, but, on occasion, she enjoyed dressing up like a princess. Tom rarely saw her in such exorbitant finery, and she wondered how did he view her in diamond and dresses? Was she the same in his eyes, or was she someone else, a resemblance of the wealthy who reveled in silks and shimmering jewels?

Sybil felt alleviation from her boredom as the number of party-goers dwindled, and she was finally allowed to sneak off to bed. It was late and dark, and she hurried in stripping her dress and jewelry, buttoning her pyjamas afterwards so she would not feel too much of the cold air. Grunting with relief, she fell back on her pillow and tugged the hefty blanket close to her chin. She was asleep within minutes.

Ting-ting.

Sybil stirred in her slumber, her ears discerning soft sound before she was conscious.

Ting-ting.

Grudgingly, she came to her senses. At first, she was unable to understand why she had been drawn out of sleep, but, just then, before she could collapse back onto her pillow, she heard something.

Ting-ting.

She twisted a finger in her ear, half-believing that she was hearing things. It was much too early to be hearing sleigh bells — though –

Ting-ting.

No, that wasn't the sound of sleigh bells. It was too singular, like the ring of only one small bell.

Sybil lifted herself up and leaned back on her elbows. She rubbed her sleep-caked face, the remnants of her makeup coming off on her palm. She never washed the stuff off properly. Looking around her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of the time on the clock. Nearly three in the morning.

"What the hell?" she blurted out. Who in the name of Rudolph was ringing a bell about at this time in — her eyes widened.

Oh no.

Adrenaline from an unknown source suddenly coursed through her. Sybil, completely disregarding the chilly air, slid out of bed and padded lightly to the door. She pressed her ear against the keyhole, clamping her hand on her mouth to stifle her loud breaths.

Why couldn't she hear anything now?

She turned the knob on her door with purposive slowness, waiting until it swung open before readying her ears to catch the bell-like tinkling again. The atmosphere outside her bedroom was still and cold, and it chilled the parts of her skin that were uncovered. Where is it? Has it finally decided to reveal itself? Sybil knew, with the aura of foreboding that filled the corridors, that it was somewhere, waiting for her to come looking.

There was no way that she would venture out without some form of a weapon. Creeping along on her toes, she snuck towards her vanity table, hoping that inspiration for a suitable weapon would strike quickly. The problem was, if there was anything to utilize, she could hardly see through the dark, and she did not want to risk making a lot of noise searching about. Frantically, she struggled to remember what was on the table: a brush, a plethora of makeup containers and tubes, a few hair bands strung about. She was going to lose her bloody mind if she did not come up with something in time.

If only there was a torch somewhere, Sybil thought, panic growing in her stomach. Was there a torch she could find quickly? She rubbed her temples as if it would stimulate her brain cells.

Her iPhone, her brain seemed to scream at her. It was no weapon, but it had a built in light, and for now it was all she had. Searching for it beside her bed, she ripped it out of the charger, turned it on, and enabled the small light.

Once more, Sybil resumed her search in the hallway. She realized she had not heard the slight tingling of Santa's small handbell, but she wasn't going to assume that it wasn't there. Moving as carefully as an animal avoiding a predator, she made her way down the corridor, past the empty bedrooms of Mary and Edith. She did not breath as she crept, quieter than a mouse, past the door to her parents' bedroom (though the two of them probably could not be awakened by a chemical blast). Every few steps she would stop and listen for that accursed bell, which, on a night like this, had ensnared her before. Only this time, she knew what she was up against, and she was now prepared.

She was at the top of the staircase now. Her heart was racing like never before as she waved her phone around, the light hitting the corners and the floor below her, but the fiendish statue was nowhere to be seen. Was it hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump onto her and slit her throat? How Sybil hated the suspense, feeling an impulse to run screaming back to her parents just as she did all those years ago.

Stop being a baby, Sybil, she scolded herself, you must fight this demon! You can't have it terrorizing this house any longer.

Ting-ting.

It was downstairs. It wanted her to come down the stairs, or rather, it wanted her to come partially down before she lost her step and came tumbling down where it would smite her.

"I know what you're planning," Sybil whispered to the statue. "You can't fool me. I'm a grown woman now."

Gripping the bannister like a lifeline with her free hand, she took her first step downwards, ensuring both feet were flat before descending to the next stair. Steadily yet inexorably, she climbed down, closer to where the statue was loitering, expecting her to stumble and crack open her head. But she continued her downward descent, and as the lower level came closer, she became less afraid that she would meet her fate with a faceful of carpet. Even if she did not destroy it once and for all tonight, at least she would not die by its bell.

She made it. Sybil had to slap her hand to her mouth to prevent a burst of laughter from bubbling out. She had succeeded, she was still alive! The demon Santa must have been stamping his boots in annoyance at Sybil's small victory dance.

"Where are you, little bastard?" Sybil whispered, stunned at her own vicious mouth. "You see? You can't scare me anymore!"

She walked easier now that there was less risk of waking anybody up. The lower level smelled of the good food that had been consumed earlier, but Sybil would not let such wonderful scents distract her from her task. Her torch-phone flashed around each piece of musky furniture, into the corners and beyond, and she was ready to lunge for the statue and rip its tiny head from its body. Perhaps there was a cheese knife still lying abandoned on a table, or a lost fork. There was more chance of grabbing ahold of a weapon down here, though Sybil could not dismiss the possibility that Santa had nicked one as well.

"Aha!" she cried out, almost too loudly. There – some careless server had left a small knife on a sofa cushion. She scooped it up in her free hand and held it in a defensive position. That demon Santa better be well scared now. It was only a matter of time before it would reveal itself, perhaps to challenge her to a duel – which Sybil was a shoo-in to be the victor. She was much bigger, of course.

"What the fuck – !" she suddenly shrieked.

There it was, on the mantelpiece, standing with its bell raised. It was a foot above her head, and it stared down with pink eyes that seemingly glowed in the light of her phone. It was as angry as ever, leering at her, its sole intention apparent in its grimace.

"Hello again," she said to it. She held up the small but sharp knife. "I see you came early this year."

It did not move, but Sybil continued staring at it, trying not to be put off by those glowing eyes. It was testing her: surely it was confident that her courage would fail and she'd faint, thereby giving it a chance to do its evil. But Sybil was unyielding.

"You nearly killed Tom," she hissed. "Believe me, if you had killed him, you'd already be dead."

Its eyes seemed to be mocking her. In Sybil's eyes, its arm shifted a bit, the bell being positioned for assassination.

Sybil's arm snapped back, then thrust forward. The knife flew from her hand, tearing through the air towards that red, furrowed forehead. The blade did not stick in the demon's head; it bounced off, and for a nanosecond she despaired, but the force of the object was enough to send the figurine rocking back and forth. It tilted forward too far, and it tumbled over the edge of the mantelpiece, plummeting down to the floor far below, taking what seemed like seconds to Sybil. Santa toppled to the floor, head first, and it lay stunned before Sybil jumped forward, snatching the knife that had fallen to the ground, and smashing the blade against Santa's cherry-red nose. The entire face fractured, splintering off to fall into its empty head.

Sybil panted, kneeling stock-still as she inspected the statue for any lingering signs of life. But it was motionless, lying on the carpet like a dead animal. Its glowing eyes did not shine anymore.

"Well, you've given me a lot of trouble," Sybil said to the statue's corpse. "And to think that Tom did not believe you existed."

For good measure, she pushed the knife against the tiny bell, flattening it so it could no longer sound the single, deathly note.

What do you think? Was the statue ever possessed, or was it just Sybil's imagination? More importantly, is it really the end of demon Santa?