It was a cold and dreary day in late December. The twenty-second, to be precise. Dark, and damp, and cold. That was outside. Inside the morgue at St. Bart's hospital it was even worse, the fairy lights scattered about in deference to the holiday doing little to dispel the encroaching chill. Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist, was standing over the open chest cavity of a recently deceased patient, her hands hovering over the gaping hole and her nose dripping into her face mask. Despite the frostiness of the facility, beads of sweat were forming behind the plastic face protector she wore, and her throat was dry and raspy.
Molly often found herself working multiple shifts during the holiday season, as she was without family with whom to spend the festive occasion, and was generous enough to offer her services so that colleagues who did could spend more time with them. More often than not, Molly would spend Christmas Eve with her makeshift family of friends, but this year her plans were not so settled. Sherlock Holmes was away on the continent somewhere on a case. John and Mary Watson were taking a winter holiday somewhere warm, baby Claire in tow. Mrs. Hudson was spending the holidays in Brighton with her sister. Even DI Greg Lestrade had plans to spend time with his estranged wife and their kids, which would inevitably lead to another unsuccessful reconciliation, or an even greater estrangement. Molly's other few friends all had plans with family, some out of town. So Molly was on her own. This was the time of year where it was brought very clearly home to Molly Hooper that, as much as she was liked, she was not loved. At least not in the way that was important. She missed being loved, being cherished. She missed her mother, who had passed away when she was a small child. She missed her father, who had raised her to be kind, and gentle, and caring, just as he had been. She missed the Christmases of her youth.
Molly looked up suddenly at the overhead lights, which seemed to have developed halos around them, and now seemed to be dimming at an alarming rate. She could feel her head starting to seemingly float independently of her body, and her shoulders swaying. Being a physician, Molly knew she was about to pass out. She hadn't been feeling well, but had firmly believed that she could make it through her shift. Actually, Dr. Nyad's shift, as she had volunteered to fill in. But now she realized that she had overestimated her strength and underestimated whatever microbe was currently wreaking havoc on her immune system. Molly realized that she didn't have much time, and that the only thing she had any control over whatsoever was the direction in which she would fall. Forward would mean a face plant into the open chest of Mr. Donald C. Mickle, recently deceased. Backward meant a hard landing on a cold floor. She opted for the cold floor.
Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, sat at a small table of an outdoor bar on the beach in Monte Carlo. This was hardly beach season on the Riviera, yet the weather was pleasant enough, being in the lower sixties with ample sunshine. But the detective wasn't here for the weather, or the view. He was finishing up a case concerning the illegal international transfer of funds connected to the trafficking in blood diamonds. All loose ends had been tied up quite nicely, with the exception of this Monte Carlo connection. He could have left this final step to Interpol, but he hated to leave a job uncompleted. As he studied the blue ocean in front of him, he thought of how unlike this setting was to London at Christmas.
Sherlock Holmes was not a sentimental man, everyone would agree. But this was not entirely true. Sherlock did, at times, allow himself to escape into thoughts of the Christmases of his childhood. He and his brother Mycroft had been born and raised in London, as far as he was concerned, the most vibrant city of the face of the earth. And London at Christmas was one of his favorite memories. Lights, carols, pantos! Mummy and Papa would take their two sons all over town during the holidays. Obviously, this was before they became the "Iceman" and the "Virgin", the British government and the consulting detective. Before his parents had made their misadvised move to the countryside. Whatever were they thinking? Who in their right mind would ever leave London? But, even more than the city at Christmas, Sherlock remembered fondly, to his embarrassment, the annual Holiday photograph. Mummy would make everyone dress in the most outlandishly festive pajamas and pose around the gaudiest Christmas tree they could decorate. The pictures were then sent out proudly to all and sundry. Violet and her boys preserved for all time. Thus were the earliest years of the Holmes boys childhoods recorded, ending only when Sherlock went away to school.
Sherlock was smiling at the memory when he was disturbed by an incoming call on his mobile, surprisingly from Mike Stamford at St. Bart's.
"Stamford? Is there a problem?"
"Sherlock, I don't know where you are, but I couldn't think of anyone else to call. You are her emergency contact, after all…"
"Molly? Has something happened to Molly?" The detective's voice remained calm, but he was far from that.
"Nothing serious. She passed out in the morgue. Dehydration. Fever. She has the flu. I just hated to send her home all alone, with no one to take care…."
"Where is she now, Mike?"
"I've got her on a IV drip in A and E, but she'll be ready to leave in about an hour. She insists she'll be fine on her own but…"
"I'll take care of it, Mike." Sherlock took a deep breath, and said sincerely, "Thank you for calling. I appreciate it." And with that, he signed off.
Molly Hooper was slowly dressing herself when the elderly woman appeared next to her cot in the A and E at St. Bart's hospital. She had been struggling to shove her seemingly oversized head through her usual oversized sweater, and getting her arms tangled almost around each other, when she realized someone on the outside was helping.
"There, there, Dr. Hooper. Try not to fuss so much. It makes it much harder, you see," the older woman said in a gentle voice. "I'm here to take care of you now."
Molly's head finally popped through the proper hole, and she stared at the older woman, as if she had imagined her and was now faced with the reality. "Who are you?"
"I've come to take you home, dear. You shouldn't be on your own, you know. My name is Violet, by the way. Do you have all your things?"
"Do I know you? Where did you come from?" Molly knew she sounded confused, but really didn't care. Yet, as much as the thought of being tucked into bed with a concerned mother figure looking after her appealed to her, she wasn't about to be lead away by a complete stranger.
"Oh, you must forgive me, my dear. I've heard so much about you, that I sometimes forget we've never met. I tend to be a bit scatterbrained at times. You know my son Will, of course. He's asked me to take care of you in his absence…"
Will? Now Molly know there was some kind of mistake, and visions of warm toddies and warmer cuddles rapidly melted away before her eyes.
"Oh, I mean Sherlock! Sherlock! I'll never forgive his father for giving him that name…"
"Sherlock sent you?"
"Yes, love. He'll be home as soon as he can get here, But I'm taking you to Myk's house. My husband and I are spending the holidays in town this year. We can never get the boys to come to us, so we decided to come to them. Myk's got plenty of room. One guest room is all in yellow. Will tells me that's your favorite, right? We'll put you in there, feed you hot chocolate and pharmaceuticals, and make you all better for Christmas. How's that sound?"
"Lovely, but I don't want to be a bother…"
"No bother at all, my dear. Do you how long it's been since I've had anybody who would let me fuss over them? Husbands don't count. They always want to be fussed over!"
"Oh, but my cat…"
"Anthea has already seen to him. And packed you a bag, too. So, off we go!" And with that, Mrs. Violet Holmes, mother of two of the most brilliant men in Britain, genius mathematician, doting wife, and frustrated mother, took on her latest project.
Molly had been bundled into the back seat of the waiting car, wrapped in a downy comforter, and transported to a lovely home in St. John's Wood. Mrs. Holmes drew her a warm bath, scrubbing her back and massaging her aching neck muscles. Then she had been dressed in her warmest pajamas and laid gently in a bed that felt more like a fluffy cloud that any mattress she had ever experienced. She spent most of the rest of the day sleeping, waking only when her returning cough signalled the need for another dose of whatever miracle drug they were giving her. Often, when she woke, Molly would find Violet Holmes sitting by her bed, a look of concern on her face. The older woman would then sit next to her and wrap her arm around her shoulder, massaging gently until Molly once again drifted off. The pathologist couldn't help but smile as she remembered her thoughts about Christmases past, with her parents. and Violet couldn't help it either when she heard the sleeping woman murmur, "Mummy."
I was in the wee hours of the morning when the cough returned, and like clockwork, the bedroom door opened. But the figure standing in the light was not that of an older woman, but of a tall man with wild curls.
"Sherlock?"
"Shhh, Molly, rest. Take your medicine. You want to be better for Christmas, don't you?" Sherlock dosed her up, and, to her surprise, slid himself into the bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her, and holding her while she coughed. She would have liked to remain lucid for a bit longer to savor the experience, but her cough was subsiding and her eyes were growing heavy. As she dozed off once again, she considered the possibility that she was already asleep, and the experience had been a dream. Wanting to test this theory on some level, she opened her mouth and bit the thumb of Sherlock's left hand as it rested on the pillow in front of her.
"I'm going to attribute that that to some sort of dementia brought on by the assortment of pharmaceuticals in which you have been indulging, Molly. Otherwise I might be tempted to retaliate."
"You taste good, Sherlock," Molly found herself saying, and then burst out into giggles.
"In that case, I would invite you to partake anytime you feel the urge, Dr. Hooper. But there are much more appropriate areas…" Sherlock stopped when he realized that his audience was no longer conscious.
The next time Molly Hooper awoke she was surprised to find that it was not to the sound of her own barking cough, and disappointed that the detective, with his delicious thumbs, was no longer lying next to her. The sunlight streaming through the window indicated that it was rather late in the morning, and the small woman realized that for the first time in days she was ravenously hungry. Perhaps she was getting better. Maybe they would ship her off to her own small flat, with only Toby for company. But the cat couldn't make decent hot chocolate, or give massages without scratching. And she certainly preferred cuddling with Sherlock to sharing a pillow with an orange tabby. She was going over all this in her mind when the door opened, and Violet Holmes entered, carrying a tray.
"Good morning, Molly. I hope you have an appetite this morning. Dr. Stamford said you should be feeling much better after your fever broke. And that you should eat!"
"Good morning, Mrs. Holmes. Yes, I'm starving. But you shouldn't be going to all this trouble." Molly looked hungrily at the tray. "Is Sherlock still here?"
"He'll be back this afternoon, he says. Some mysterious errand, or something. He took his father with him, which is quite unusual. Always a mystery with that boy," the woman replied, setting the tray on Molly's lap.
"I hope he gets back before I leave."
"Whatever do you mean, my dear? You're spending Christmas with us. I had Anthea bring you some clothes, and you can get out of bed today, if you're feeling up to it. I was thinking we could watch holiday movies all afternoon. Popcorn, red wine, and 'A Christmas Carol'. What more could one ask for?"
"Which version?"
"The Allistair Sim one, of course. The best one!"
"I agree!" Molly said with a laugh, looking forward to the day ahead.
It was late afternoon before Sherlock and Siger Holmes returned from their mysterious errand, Sherlock carrying two plastic crates, and his father with a live tree. The were met at the door by Mycroft. "Good lord, Papa, I hope that's kindling for the fireplace. We already have an excellent holiday tree, after all."
Sherlock shoved past his brother, muttering, "You mean that's interior decorator's monstrosity, with the evenly spaced, uniformly sized, and color-coordinated thingamajigs. That's no Christmas tree, brother mine. That an abomination of nature!" And with that, he and his father disappeared into the downstairs sitting room, only to find Molly and Violet weeping over the last few minutes of the standby Dickens Christmas tale. Violet was sitting upright on the couch, with Molly stretched out with her head on her lap, wrapped in a comforter.
"Sherlock!" Molly cried out as she tried to rise.
"Please stay down, Molly. Mike Stamford tells me he had quite a time lifting you from the floor in the morgue. I'm sure that between Mycroft, my father, and myself, we could manage to get you up again, but better safe than sorry, eh?"
"Will, that was quite rude!" his mother said disapprovingly.
"Please, Mummy, do be quiet or I shall have to recount the story of Papa trying to get you up the stairs after your last New Year's party!" Mummy Holmes shut up, but Papa Holmes snickered loudly.
So Molly and Mrs. Holmes watched as the two men, shortly joined by Mycroft, placed the live tree, well over seven feet tall, into its stand, and started to go through the items contained in the two crates. Soon there were all sorts of fairy lights and ornaments scattered about on the sitting room floor, as the men, now down to their shirtsleeves, argued over light placement, and the pros and cons of tinsel use. Each ornament that came from the crates seemed to evoke memories. Some were beautifully made, delicate glass objects. Some were obviously cheap mass produced items. But the most precious were ones made by childish hands from years past. There seemed to be in inordinate amount of pirate-themes objects, from skulls, and cutlasses, to model ships.
"Do you remember the year when Will insisted that we replace the star on top with a skull and crossbones, Vi?" the elder Mr. Holmes asked with a smile.
"Of course I do, love. That was the same year he insisted we hang dog bisquits from the branches, because they were shaped like bones. And Redbeard knocked the whole bloody tree over trying to get at them!"
"Yes, but my little brother tried to tell everyone that Father Christmas had done it, because he didn't like pirates. Bloody wanker!" Mycroft rolled his eyes at the memory.
The family had eaten a light supper in the sitting room while work progressed on the tree, and Molly, worn out, had once again fallen asleep on the couch. She barely woke as Sherlock gathered her up in his arms to carry her upstairs, followed attentively by his mother. After dosing her up with her prescriptions, and helping her dress for bed, Mrs. Holmes kissed her lightly on the forehead and wished her a good night.
"It must run in the family," Molly murmurred.
"What dear? I didn't quite hear that."
"I said, 'It must run in the family,' because that's where Sherlock always kisses me," Molly said sleepily. "On the forehead. Or the cheek. Same difference."
"Don't give up yet, dear. I'm sure his aim will improve eventually," Mrs Holmes said softly at the already sleepy young woman, then turned to find her younger son hovering closely behind her. "It better!"
Molly was awake bright and early on Christmas Eve, and joined the family downstairs for breakfast. Mycroft Holmes had a full staff, of course, but his mother had insisted on cooking the meal, a full English breakfast. They were eating in the kitchen, and had been joined by Anthea, Mycroft's PA and so much more. Conversations were going on willy-nilly, plans being made, calendars adjusted. Mycroft and Anthea were heading to Whitehall. It seems the business of the British government did not stop for the yuletide. Violet was giving her husband his marching orders for the day. Sherlock announced that he had some last minute shopping to do, which came as a surprise to everyone. Sherlock Holmes did not shop, last minute or otherwise. Siger was the first to take his leave, bending to give his wife a kiss on the cheek. Molly was surprised to hear the older woman mutter, "Now I know where will gets it from!" Mycroft left shortly thereafter, Anthea following in his wake, her fingers dancing over the keys of her mobile.
"Well, Mummy, what's on the books for today?"
"I'm giving the cook some time off so I can take over the kitchen. I'm going to bake!"
"Mummy…"
"Don't worry, dear. I've perfected the recipe this year. No problems. Molly can keep me company, if she will. It'll be fine!"
"I'm sure it will be Mummy, but I'll pick up some ipecac at the chemist just in case, shall I?" As his mother let out a snort, Sherlock leaned in to give her a kiss on the forehead, and repeated the action on his pathologist. "Your aim is still atrocious, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" was the last thing he heard from his mother as he walked out the door.
By late in the afternoon everyone had returned to the house. A cold buffet had been set up in the kitchen for everybody to help themselves as they saw fit. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and, to Molly's surprise, there was a multitude of gifts spread out under the tree, with six additional packages piled next to Sherlock's chair in the corner. Molly was feeling much better, although she almost hated to admit it. She knew that the more she recovered, the closer she was to leaving, and she had been enjoying this holiday more that she had in years. She had missed family, and even though this one wasn't hers, it was a family. More of a family than she ever imagined Sherlock Holmes to have.
When they had adjourned to the sitting room to drink punch, or a good Scotch, in some cases, Sherlock surprised everyone by presenting them with wrapped packages.
"Where's Anthea?" he asked, looking around.
"Sherlock," Mycroft began sternly, "Anthea does not live here, after all. We are not joined at the hip. She has a life of her own, as I have mine…"
"Sorry I'm late, Mycroft. Traffic. I've forwarded your messages, your dry cleaning is in your room, said to tell you…" Anthea now noticed that everyone was looking at her. "What, do I have something in my teeth, or something?" Molly giggled as Sherlock snorted, and handed her a package.
"Well, what's everybody waiting for? Open them!"
So open them they did, only to find six pairs of the most garishly festive Christmas pajamas available in London. The kind that toddlers may be embarrassed to wear. Some had footies and trapdoors. Some had reindeer and elves. Others had wreaths and Santas. All came with the same red velvet fur-trimmed hat. And jingle bells!
"You each have five minutes to 'don you now your gay apparel' and rejoin me for a photograph!"
"Brother mine, have you lost your mind?" Mycroft was the first to speak. But he was also the first to leave the room, pajamas in hand, when his brother leaned in to whisper in his ear, "Did Mummy ever figure out what happened to that Ming vase, brother?" Everyone else quickly followed suit.
When they had re-grouped in the room, Mrs. Holmes took great delight in lining them up for a photograph. She and Siger in the middle, Mycroft to their right and Sherlock to their left. Molly tried to demur, explaining this was for family only, but Sherlock pulled her into the photo, and into his arms. His brother, sensing the inevitable, motioned for Anthea to join him, which she did, a very un-Anthea like smile on her face. Mycroft than rang for his butler, who, having catered to foreign dignitaries and superspies alike, refused to be taken aback by the bizarre spectacle before his eyes. He snapped a number of shots before handing the camera to his employer and discretely leaving the room.
"I'm sure the family will enjoy this latest update, Mummy. Violet and her boys, indeed. We look like a comedy troop from the Outer Hebrides!" Mycroft took a good belt of very good Scotch.
"It's Violet and her boys and girls now, it seems. And that's about time," Siger put in.
"An announcement in the Times would have been more appropriate, don't you think, Mummy." Mycroft sighed.
"An excellent idea, Mycroft. The photo can accompany the announcement!" Sherlock snickered, and pulled Molly even closer, to whisper in her ear. "I have another box upstairs, Molly, with more adult-toned sleepwear." And she felt his lips moving from her ear down her jaw until they finally reached her own. When they broke for air, she whispered, with some concern, "I may still be contagious, Sherlock."
"I've had my flu shot, love. And Mummy has informed me I must practice my aim!" And he closed the small gap again, and Molly could only be grateful that his aim was definitely improving.