Omigod omigod omigod! Finally! It's done! (cue victory fanfare) And right before valentines day, too *wink wink nudge nudge*

Title: We Wish You a Merry Christmas

Pairing: Sybil/Tom;Edith/Michael;Mary/Matthew

Rating: T for brief strong language

Tom's first words to Sybil after he drove up to the garage at Downton were, "Would you care to explain this to me?" He held up his phone for her to see.

Text from: Sybil Crawley 06:14

Get your arse over here.

Sybil glanced sheepishly at the phone. "Well, it was important – and you came, so …"

Tom chuckled. "Really Sybil, I understand, but do you have to send me a text at six in the morning that sounds like something my old history teacher would say."

"Your old history teacher said stuff like 'get your arse over here?'' Sybil asked.

Tom shrugged. "I was always late to class, and he'd see me sprinting through the halls towards the classroom. He liked to shout at students."

"Bully for that," Sybil said sardonically.

"Anyway, why did you call me out here early in the morning? Is your family even up yet?"

Sybil waved a hand dismissively. "I doubt they'll be up soon. They never start to wake up until after eight. But I didn't want to be interrupted during the day when there'll probably be last minute stuff, because I have something to show you."

She pulled the automatic garage door-opener out of her jacket pocket and pushed it. The garage was far enough from the main house that hardly anyone would hear the doors open, even if it did sound like the inner workings of a motorbike factory. She turned on the light and motioned for Tom to come inside.

"Whew! I think it's colder in here than outside," observed Tom. He sidestepped around the tightly packed automobiles as if they were models displayed at an exhibition.

"Relax Tom, I doubt you'll set off the alarms," Sybil said, moving further down the garage.

"No, but I imagine your parents will catch my scent," Tom remarked.

"You aren't a dog," scolded Sybil. "They're getting used to you."

"They tolerate me," Tom corrected.

Sybil let out a short, high whistle. "That might change soon."

"How do you mean?"

Sybil was ahead of Tom, so he could not see her face that disclosed a playful secret. "You'll see," she said in a sing-song voice.

At the very end of the garage, Sybil stopped in front of the last of the cars. It was one of the cheaper ones, though still pricey on a normal person's budget, but anyone could drive it about without being taken for a rich someone-or-other. She patted the bonnet, and the metal ringing resonated throughout the cave-like garage like a timpani.

"Well ... here it is!" Sybil said proudly, spreading her arms like a game-show host revealing a grand prize. "Merry Christmas!"

"Wait – what?" Tom asked.

Sybil growled, pretending to be huffy. "No, Tom, 'wait,what?' is not how you're supposed to react to your Christmas present."

Tom was baffled. "You don't mean –," he pointed to the car, "that this is my Christmas gift?"

"Yes!" Sybil nodded enthusiastically.

Tom was, in the lightest sense, amazed. "How is that – how – ?"

Sybil giggled at Tom's sudden bewilderment. "We almost never use this car anymore; my sisters and I drove it mostly when we were learning how to drive. But since it just sits here so lonely, I asked Papa if I could give it to you. I don't think he minds."

"Sybil, I –"

"And listen, your old car is going to collapse if you drive it another month. Might as well forget taking it in for repairs and have this one instead."

Tom took one more gleeful look at the car before throwing his arms around Sybil. He was positively beaming.

"Sybil, thank you so much." He sounded very close to tears.

"That's not the only thing I have to show you," Sybil said. "There's more."

"Huh?" Tom said, releasing her. "Sybil, how many gifts do you think you can give me?"

"It's not exactly a gift per se, but I thought I might show these to you all at once," Sybil said. She unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it wide. Tom walked the long way around the car, inspecting it (it was in better condition than any car he had ever owned) and looked inside, where Sybil was pointing.

It was a shoebox that was sitting on the leather seats. Taking Sybil's cue, he took out the box, hearing something shift inside. He slid his fingers underneath the lid and lifted it..

There were several miniscule, mismatched splinters of a rosy flesh colouring surrounding a larger chunk of red and white that shaped a recognizable fur suit. There was also a small, inwardly bent fragment of a golden metal. It was quite damaged, as there was no paper or bubble wrap in the box, but Tom could still make out what the various pieces were meant to form.

"So, the demon Santa Claus has met his end," Tom said, laughing.

"It was a valiant battle," Sybil proclaimed.

"I wish I could have seen it," Tom said. "I bet you were quite the warrior."

"I sure was. But was I supposed to call you in the middle of the night while you were miles away?" Sybil asked. "Speaking of, why did you go off like that without telling me?"

"Oh! I suppose I should show you now." Tom placed the shoebox back in the car – his car – and grabbed Sybil's hand, leading her back outside to his old car. He opened the boot and rummaged through the many articles, mostly boxes of various objects. Sybil believed he used his car as a storage space, considering his flat was lacking in considerable room. When he pulled his head out he was holding a compact box, big enough for a small piece of jewelry.

"Open it, if you like." Tom offered the box to Sybil, and she took it, her fingers rushing to open the box. Her head was filled with such crazy ideas as to what was in the box, but her expectations were not confirmed until she had managed to unclasp the lid and reveal the treasure inside.

"Golly, Tom," she gasped. "You went all the way to Manchester for this?"

"It's called a Claddagh ring. One of my cousins directed me to a place – in Manchester – that makes custom ones. So I went there to see some for myself, and pick one out for you," Tom explained.

Sybil fingered the small band. It was a rose-gold hue, cast in the form of two hands clasping a heart capped with a crown. It was not ostentatious, as many other rings that Sybil came across in her own home, and it did not look extremely costly, but Sybil felt as if she were holding something of the utmost value. Perhaps because Tom had given it to her.

Tom pointed to each of the small icons on the band. "The hands represent friendship, the crown means loyalty, and the heart means –"

"Love," Sybil finished. "Tom, this is so wonderful of you." She could not remember a single moment in her life when she had been given a present with as much meaning and sincerity behind it.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before why I left all of a sudden," Tom said apologetically.

"It doesn't matter now," Sybil said. "I just can't believe this." She felt like crying and smiling all at once. She pulled off one of her gloves and slid the ring onto her finger. "It's absolutely gorgeous."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you like it. I wasn't sure if it was right for you."

"There's nothing more right for me than your love, Tom," Sybil said. "If that's all I got for Christmas, I'd be happy for the rest of my life."

The two of them shared a long kiss as the frigid air blew about and the sun finally began to reveal itself behind the slate-grey clouds. When Sybil's parents finally awoke, they wouldn't see their daughter for hours. She was too busy sitting alongside Tom as he drove her up and down the country roads, each without a care in the world, but with each other's love and loyalty. And the remains of a demon Santa in the back seat.

"We're fortunate that that thing is dead," Tom commented, jerking his head to the shoebox sliding about as he made a turn. "I wouldn't want it to kill us while I'm driving."

"Just as well I flung a knife at it," Sybil said. "But I think I'll burn it, just to be safe."

"It's easier to dump it in the lake, I think," Tom said.

"Then let's go do that now," Sybil said eagerly. "C'mon, it's only a little ways off. We'll break the ice and send the little bugger down to its watery grave."

Why does Sybil get so macabre when she's talking about the Santa statue? Tom thought. He knew the roads around Downton well, and there was a dock very close to where they were now. He took a sharp left and stopped the car on the frozen ground.

"You take the box out while I try and break the ice," Tom said. He and Sybil got out of the car, and Tom took the ice pick out of the boot to serve as the ice-breaker tool. He had just made a hole the size of a saucer when Sybil came running with the shoebox. She was breathing so hard that there was a small cloud in front of her face.

"Careful, Sybil, you don't want to trip —"

"Tom!" Sybil practically shouted. She thrust the shoebox towards him. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Santa! He's not in the box! Look!"

Tom took the shoebox, but even before he opened it, he knew it wasn't in there: the box was too light, and he didn't hear the contents shifting.

"No, no, no," Sybil was muttering under her breath. "I was sure it was dead! I was absolutely certain! Who can survive having their face crushed into a thousand tiny pieces?"

"Sybil, just calm down," Tom said. To be honest, he himself was feeling a little panicked. He had seen the broken statue in the box, and he knew he hadn't taken them out when he had moved the shoebox. Unless Sybil was executing some sort of prank, there was no way that the broken statue could have gone missing, and judging from Sybil's panic, this was no joke.

"Let's just go back to the house," Tom suggested. "We should figure this out someplace warmer."

Sybil nodded rapidly, shivering. "God, I really should have burned it when I had the chance."

"Aye, that probably would have been a good move," Tom said.

Once they were in the car, Tom started up the heater; Sybil's teeth were chattering like a rattle. The combined noises inside the vehicle disguised the silvery, musical tinkling of small bell.

London seemed as jittery as a child waiting for Christmas day – the shopping centres were packed with all sorts of people, scrambling with their last minute purchases. Edith, luckily, had finished her shopping several days prior, but she could still be found amongst the masses of young and old, all of various classes and livelihoods. She loved to observe the brief moments of time when the only worry that the entire city held was the concern of the coming holiday. She had gone out during the afternoon, and was basking in the warm air of a coffee house, simultaneously watching passerby dragging heavy paper bags and small children behind them and thinking about when to start making her and Michael's Christmas eve dinner.

The sound of her mobile ringing interrupted her idyllic tranquility. At first, Edith believed it was her parents, wishing her happy Christmas and the like, but it was number at Michael's office. That morning, Michael had told her he was 'stepping into his office for a short time,' but he would rejoin her in the afternoon. Edith had been slightly vexed at Michael going to work when she wanted as much of him as she could get in the short time they had together, but she would not appear selfish or cling to him like film.

"Michael? Hello? Is everything alright?" she asked, hoping the matter was not a call of distress.

"Edith, are you busy right now?"

"No, but what's the matter?"

"Nothing's wrong, it's just that I'd like you to come to my office when you weren't occupied with anything."

"I'm not busy with anything. Would you like me to come now?"

"If you can. I'll wait for you."

"Michael, what do you need me for?"

"I just – I want to show you something, and I don't think I could bear putting it off until tomorrow." To Edith, Michael sounded almost giddy, even though she herself was puzzled.

"I'm on my way," she said, before hanging up and leaving the coffee house.

She arrived at Michael's publishing group by cab twenty minutes later. She knew the place well, having been there most times she went to London to see Michael. It would be possible for her to retrace the path to Michael's office, on the first floor, with her eyes closed. When she opened the door, however, he wasn't behind his desk, as she had expected.

Edith's perplexion increased, and she poked her head back outside.

"Excuse me," she tentatively asked a man, who was typing rapidly at his desk two paces away. "Did you see where Mr Gregson went?" It was unusual for her to pronounce his name as 'Mr Gregson,' and she was well aware it made her sound like a stranger.

The typing man shrugged. "He stepped out just a few minutes ago. I think you can wait inside," he answered, cocking his head toward the office door.

Edith nodded a thank you and went back inside, shutting the door behind her. The busy sounds of keyboards being typed, the ringing of phones, and the incessant chatter of employees were effectively muted. When would Michael be back? More importantly, what was he up to? Much as she hated admitting it, Edith was aware she did not know enough about Michael to calculate his moves or know what he was thinking. Her own mother could read her husband's mind even before he got out of bed, but Edith hadn't even lived a full month with Michael waking up beside her every day. It was not to say that she didn't love him, but she wished she had more time to spend with him, for even now she knew that time was fleeting quickly, and who could say when the day would be when she'd have him by her side without the end in sight?

Edith was pushed out of her moody absorption by the sound of the door swinging open. Michael entered, a smile spread from ear to ear. He was holding a large yellow envelope, which he handed to Edith before sitting down.

"What is this?" Edith asked. "Is this the great matter of which you couldn't tell me?"

"It is," Michael replied, still grinning. Edith could not help but laugh at Michael's giddiness. He seemed more anxious to see her open it than she was.

"I just got it this morning, and I was having it verified, double-checking it to make sure it was all correct," Michael said. "I thought I should wait until tomorrow since this is – well, one of – my Christmas gift to you."

"Really?" Edith asked.

She tore open the envelope and pulled out the set of papers inside. "You're going to have to explain this all to me. I don't have time to read all of the fine print."

"In short," Michael began, tapping the front leaf, "when you sign here, on this line, I give you power of attorney. When you sign the dotted line on – the fifth page, I think – you will legally own half of this publishing company."

The envelope in Edith's hands slid to her lap with a resounding flap.

"I want you to do great things with this company, with me or without me, and I believe you deserve every bit of this. I absolutely trust your judgement," Michael continued, ignoring the evident shock on Edith's face.

"Michael, I – I don't – know anything about being power of attorney or whatever it is," Edith said, in spite of her utmost exhilaration.

"I'll help you learn, but I'm sure you'll figure it all out quickly," Michael said.

Michael had just given her something that not even Edith had dreamed she would ever receive: the power to shape her own livelihood. Before, she had imagined a perpetual existence at home, commanded over by her father, cursed never to find someone who answered her deepest wishes. Even if Papa never wholly approved of Michael, he could not deny her the faculty she would hold once she put her name on the papers. Sitting in Michael's office, with her new life just a pen scribble away, seemed too surreal for even her to envision as reality.

"Does it seem like too much?" Michael asked. "I probably should have asked –"

"Why would you need to ask?" Edith answered. "This what I've wanted for a long time. Not specifically this, of course, but, deep down, you're giving me more than what this paper gives me. I could have dreamed of nothing better."

Michael was nothing short of overjoyed, but Edith was downright ecstatic, almost to the point of tears. She tossed the papers back to Michael, who caught them just before she planted a buoyant kiss on his lips.

"Give me the pen," Edith said, and, with Michael's fountain pen between her fingers, signed her name with the flourish on each of the dotted lines.

"Now," Michael said, clapping his hands together. "I hope you weren't planning a too-delicious dinner for tonight. Not that I have anything against your cooking abilities, which I greatly appreciate."

"Now that you say it, no," Edith said. "What do you have in store for us?"

"A table at the Criterion with a full bottle of champagne for celebration purposes," Michael said. "Another one of my Christmas gifts to you, although the rest of them will have to come tomorrow."

"You really are too much," Edith remarked. "No wonder my father doesn't approve of you; you spoil me."

"If you call being spoiled, I call it taking you out for a good time," Michael said, kissing her hand.

"You'll have to let me go, so I have enough time to find something nice to wear," Edith said.

"Then I'll let you run home," Michael said. He could not wait to see her again this evening, blindingly beautiful and now, legally, a part of his world.

Edith felt like dancing in the street. For once in her life she did feel physically bound to anything any member of her family said to her, not solely about her love life, but about every aspect of her daily being. Michael had given her opportunity. She did not have any set-in-stone plans for the future, but that did not matter, as there were so many paths laying in front of her now, wide and pure like the banks of snow lining the road.

The sky above was as black as tar, but the streets of New York remained as bright as a galaxy and as busy as the final day for shopping could ever be. Matthew, Mary, and her grandmother were standing close to the entrance of the Apple store, recently exited from the church service. Martha had insisted that they take one last Christmas eve stroll down Fifth avenue, much to Mary's chagrin (her stockinged legs felt like ice lollies).

"You two realize that this is a first for the both of you?" Martha quipped.

"How do you mean?" Mary and Matthew said simultaneously.

Martha scoffed. "Are you both really as boneheaded as you're acting?"

"I'm not," Mary was quick to say. "I'm not so sure about Matthew."

"Mary!"

"I am not being serious," Mary said jokingly.

"What I was going to say," Martha interjected, "is that, and correct me if I'm wrong, is that this is the first Christmas away from home for either of you."

"I think that's pretty true," Matthew said. "I'm not so sure about Mary."

Mary glared at Matthew while adding, "No, no one in the family was very partial to spending Christmas away from home."

"Edith's in London with Michael Gregson," Matthew pointed out. "So it's not a completely outlandish idea."

"However she managed to convince Papa on that, I can't even hazard a guess," Mary said. "I wonder how she's doing."

"Let's hope everybody's having a lovely Christmas Eve," Matthew said, before Mary could add anything smug.

"I know I'm having a marvelous time," Martha said, "even over the sound of your bickering."

"We're not bickering!" Mary pretty well shouted.

"Mary, I was married for longer than you have walked this earth, trust me in my knowledge of the act," Martha said pointedly.

Matthew cleared his throat. "May I suggest we hurry back home? We can continue our arguments somewhere warmer."

"That's something I agree on," Mary said, who had been shivering noticeably due to her near-bare legs. She frequently claimed to have a frozen heart, but she could not stand being out in the frigid air without proper garments, no matter if she was in England or America. Until she found herself back at the penthouse, wrapped up in a thick blanket and clutching a steaming mug of tea, she wasn't sure if she was ever going to feel her legs again.

The room where the Christmas tree was situated was bathed in a glow like a halo. Mary and Matthew were sitting together on the sofa, turned towards the tree, while Martha was lounging in an armchair close to the tree with her feet propped up on the coffee table (Mary could not help but wonder if her grandmother was purposefully situating herself apart from her and Matthew, or if she was just being oversuspicious).

"If I say so myself, you two did a fantastic job decorating the tree," Martha said proudly. "I did not think it could be so well trimmed, especially since it was causing a lot of trouble when the men were trying to set it up."

Mary sniggered at the memory. Matthew raised an eyebrow. "What happened, exactly?"

Martha casually shrugged. "Oh, it did not want to stay upright. It fell over a few times, I think because the stand was broken."

"I still think it's a bit crooked," observed Mary. "You might want to be careful, Grandmama, or it'll fall over on a vase that you actually like."

"Yes, and speaking of that," Martha said, looking pointedly at Matthew, "Mary mentioned that you broke a vase when you got into a fight once. When did that happen?"

Matthew suddenly appeared very sheepish. "That's an – odd story."

"I won't be too shocked by anything you say," Martha assured him.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Grandmama, it wasn't anything terribly juicy –"

"Oh? So you were there?" Martha said, looking like a journalist about to dive into something front-page worthy.

"As a matter of fact, it was in the library at Downton, maybe a half a year ago," Matthew said. "And yes, Mary saw everything."

"Please don't tell me you were fighting," Martha joked, feigning disturbance.

"No, our fights are purely verbal," Matthew ascertained. ("I'm not sure, sometimes I feel as if I ought to smack you," Mary said under her breath.)

"Mary was in the library with Richard Carlisle, and I heard shouting, so I thought I might investigate," Matthew began. "I was afraid he was threatening you," he said to Mary.

"He was, in a way," Mary said. "But it was just more of the usual, 'do as I say because I said so,' 'I'll print you as a whore,' and shit."

"Oh God," breathed Martha. "What a bastard."

"So, I came in, and for some reason Carlisle says to me some crap about Lavinia Swire. I could tell he was just trying to get me angry, though I can't say why. He enjoys ruining people's lives, though, so perhaps he was just engaging in some sadistic amusement."

"Lavinia was the sweetheart that passed last year, wasn't she?" Martha asked. "She sounded like a thoughtful girl, according to Mary."

"She was quite lovely. She got pretty sick right before last Christmas, and of course that was around the same time that Carlisle started blackmailing Mary."

All three were silent, with Mary and Matthew remembering the pain of the previous winter. Martha allowed them the few seconds of quiet before asking, "So, back to the fight, what ticked you off?"

"You know, I don't even remember what exactly he said that pulled the pin, but maybe it was just the notion that he was standing around intimidating Mary that I couldn't stand," Matthew said. "But I suppose I threw the first punch, and it turned out into an outright brawl."

"And in the middle of it all, you broke a vase," Martha said.

"Luckily, we fell on a rather ugly one, so there wasn't too much trouble with that," Matthew responded with a grin.

"It's amazing the two of you stopped eventually," Mary remarked. "You were at each other like a pair of wolves."

"Well, when boys fight, they go at it with full energy, so they're huffing and puffing after two minutes. Maybe less," Martha declared. "Girls can last much longer, believe me."

"Grandmama, how do you know that?" Mary said teasingly. "Is there something you want to share with the group?"

"No, as matter of fact, there is nothing I want to share with the rest of the group," Martha said ironically, swinging her feet off of the coffee table. "And before you try and force me to spill the beans, I'll say goodnight."

Mary got up from the sofa to kiss her grandmother goodnight. As soon as Martha left the room, Mary and Matthew shared a look or relief.

"Alone at last," Matthew said. "I didn't think we were going to have another moment to ourselves."

"Believe me, tomorrow will be chaos," Mary said, flopping back down on the sofa beside Matthew. "Grandmama gets more excited for these things than a herd of five-year-olds."

"But I hope it will be a good kind of chaos," Matthew said. "After all, tomorrow is Christmas day."

Mary sighed. "It's just so weird for me," she confessed. "I've never spent Christmas day away from home. I'm so used to waking up in my own bed and seeing the tree where it usually is and eating the same food that I'm afraid it won't feel real to me."

"That might not be true," Matthew said, in his attempt to console her. "Perhaps, when you wake up tomorrow, it'll feel like Christmas, only in a different setting."

"I don't know," Mary sighed. "I've always associated Christmas with what happens at home: all those garish ornaments, the snowy fields, even that little old figurine that Sybil is scared to death of. It's what I see each and every year, so when I don't see them, my brain doesn't seem to make any connections."

"Hmm," Matthew murmured.

"But it helps that you're here," Mary continued. "Reminds me that I'm not in a completely different world."

Matthew chuckled softly. "I'm glad my extended sentence here hasn't made anything too wretched for you. After all, you did come here of your own accord."

"Don't say that; I never would have dreamed of living here, had the circumstances been different," Mary said. "I'm only here because Carlisle was threatening to my name and the word 'slut' in the same article just because I rejected him."

"That being said, I'm not sure he'll keep his word," Matthew pointed out. "If he did so, there would be another article published containing his name and the word 'misogynist.'"

"I think it has more to do with what you did," said Mary, with a shine in her eye.

She gave Matthew a light, modest kiss on his cheek, and he returned it with a longer kiss on her lips. Mary did not feeling even the slightest twinge of embarrassment, even though she normally would at this display of affection. She did not pull away until the clock began to chime, ringing out eleven times.

"I think it's time that both of us went to bed," Mary said. "Tomorrow is Christmas, after all."

Matthew nodded in agreement, failing to suppress a yawn. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Of course," Mary said, her voice growing quiet, as if she were about to divulge a secret. "I want to be the first one to wish you a happy Christmas."

"Well, that's odd. I thought I would do the same with you," Matthew said.

"You'll have to wake up early, if you're to beat Grandmama to it," Mary said.

"I'll be sure to do so," Matthew promised.

The two of them separated to their respective bedrooms. Outside, the snow began to fall again, and the city began to quiet down. At the same moment in time, they lay down to sleep, and their thoughts rested on each other, almost mirroring each other. Mary was saying to herself that, no matter what she would find under the tree from Matthew, his greatest gift to her was his presence in her life, to come back to her when she had most missed him. Unbeknownst to her, Matthew was lost in that same thought: fate had seemed tricky to him previously, but it had truly been the most lucky thing he would ever experience.

That was the Christmas that would be remembered for years to come, when hearts were broken and repaired, love was confessed and made true. The greatest gifts given and received were ones of hope for an auspicious future as well as reminders of memories of happier days. Love was as constant as the blankets of snow falling over the countryside of Yorkshire, the streets of London, and the skyscrapers of New York.

I do not believe I will ever attempt something like this again. It was so much trouble not having time when I thought I would have it, and then getting ill so I couldn't think to write. But for all of you who still kept up with this story long after Christmas was over, the kudos to you. The support you give kept me going. So, thank you all!

Honestly, though, I will be brokenhearted to stop writing about Sybil's Demon Santa, because right now I do feel as if he's a part of the DA fandom. Perhaps a spin-off is in order?