I have spent all night alternating between watching Sherlock sleep and watching the snowflakes fall outside the window. He is sleeping for most of the night now, once he eventually settles, that is. There are extra blankets covering us now that it's winter and the weather's colder and I'm trying my best to keep Sherlock warm too. He's so much bigger now, it's frightening, especially when he rolls over and ends up on top of me – and since he's bigger now and the cot is relatively smaller there is little room for me.
The alarm clock begins to beep and Sherlock is quicker to wake than Mummy is. He clumsily gets to his feet and calls over the edge of the cot, "Money up!" which is what he calls Mummy, since he's struggling to grasp the concept of the word.
She groans in bed and slams the palm of her hand down on the top of the alarm clock to make it stop. She doesn't get up. Sherlock frowns, an expression which I don't think fits on his face, and in a move which I am reluctant to partake in, he throws me across the room. I land short, coming to a stop a little way away from Mummy's slippers. "Money up!" he says again. He begins to jump up and down. "Teddy up!" He wants me to come back to him but I'm feeling stubborn so don't move.
With no ammunition left he is forced to wait until Mummy feels like getting up. As he's waiting his gaze lands on the window and the now white world beyond. "Sugar," he announces excitedly. "Sugar outside!" He's jumping up and down again.
Mummy finally throws her covers back. "Time to get up, Rodger," she says, nudging Father's shoulder. He sighs but opens his eyes. Mummy throws her legs over the edge of the bed. She aims for her slippers but one foot lands on me. "Oh!" she exclaims, before looking down and seeing me. She moves her foot and picks me up, brushes me down. "Sherlock, what is Teddy doing over here?"
"Up," he explains and apparently that's enough.
"We don't need an alarm clock at this rate," Father moans, now up and walking over to the on-suite bathroom in his pyjamas.
"Hm," Mummy agrees, "he's a good time-keeper – I will give him that."
She puts her feet into her slippers and brings me over to the cot. Sherlock takes me into his arms and gives me a brief hug before setting me down again on the blanket. He points with a chubby finger at the window. "Sugar," he tells Mummy.
She turns to look. "Ah…" she says. "That's not sugar, Sherlock."
He tilts his head. "No?" he asks.
"That, outside," explains she, waving a hand, "is snow."
Sherlock repeats incorrectly, "Isnow."
Mummy chuckles. "Snow," she says again slowly, careful to pronounce the word correctly. Sherlock, I find, is constantly absorbing information, which is only natural I suppose. One way he has of gathering information is poking things – Mummy had to spend an entire afternoon Sherlock-proofing every room in the house.
"Snow!" Father echoes, emerging from the bathroom. "Speaking of, I'm sure Martha won't be able to make it in today. I'd better go and wake Mycroft." He leaves to do just that.
Meanwhile, Sherlock has been thinking, listening to and absorbing every word his parents have been saying. "Snow," he declares, determined to be right this time.
Mummy claps her hands together and grins. "That's it, sweetheart!"
"Snow!"
"Yes."
"Mycroot!" Sherlock tries, before: "Mycroft!" He can hear Mycroft running along the corridor and so can I. Mummy looks up at the door in time to see the older boy run through.
"Mummy, I—" he begins, but is cut off by Father entering the room.
"Let me have a guess, Mycroft," he says. "It is a few days until Christmas, nothing urgent has happened recently which is causing a concern for the British nation and there's a blanket of snow outside. You want to… hoover the sitting room?"
"No!" Mycroft says quickly. "I was suggesting that maybe we could… play in the snow? A bit."
"Oh, well I'm afraid that I've still got work to do," his father replies and Mycroft's face minutely falls, "…but, I haven't spent much time with you all lately so I suppose I owe you all a morning." Mycroft fails to hide his grin. "So, breakfast or snow first?"
"Snow!"
"Snow!" agrees Sherlock.
"Rosalie?" Father asks.
Mummy bites her lip in mock thought. Eventually she nods and says, "Snow sounds good to me."
Father is what I would call a traditionalist – he lets Mummy and the other women he employs deal with things like cooking and housework and looking after children while he does long hours of work in an unidentified job with long hours and excellent pay – but if he's in the right mood, then he can manage being the family man (though he still can't cook).
This morning as he makes sure Mycroft's hat is fixed securely on his head, I can see in his eyes the love that he has for his family, whatever way he happens to show it. I also think that if he had to look after us all on his own he may begin to struggle. He is only the family man when he wants to be, and he especially wants to be when it's been snowing.
He ties Mycroft's tie around his neck neatly and says, "You're ready to go." He pulls his own woollen hat down further onto his head and pulls on some gloves. "Actually, Mycroft – gloves?"
"I can't make a snowman with gloves on, Father, it'll be all messy."
Father picks up a pair of gloves from the kitchen table and hands them to Mycroft anyway. "Stick those into your coat's pockets, OK?"
"OK."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the kitchen…
"Sherlock, stop that!" Mummy says again. She's put a scarf around Sherlock's neck but he's having none of it and insists that I have it instead.
"But Teddy cold," he insists stubbornly.
"You'll be cold in a minute so you need a scarf to keep your neck warm…" She trails off as Sherlock pulls off his woolly hat and places it awkwardly on my head. The hat is too big and only covers one ear properly. She sighs, giving in. "Rodger, do we have a spare hat and scarf for Sherlock?" she calls across the room.
"Erm…" is the reply. "Oh no, wait – we do. Why?"
Mummy explains, matter-of-factly, "Sherlock doesn't want Teddy to get a cold." Mycroft's gaze flicks to me in my hat and scarf and he grins.
There is a pause from Father, who knows the least about Sherlock's antics. "The… the bear?"
"Yes, the bear!"
"Alright," Father says, nodding. "Give me a minute." He leaves and we hear some banging and crashing before he comes back into the kitchen carrying a red hat and matching scarf. Mummy takes them from him and left with no bears to put them on, Sherlock doesn't fiddle with them.
We go out via the kitchen door. Because it is the first time he's seen snow, Sherlock is led out first by Mummy. Sherlock has me by the paw and I'm hanging by his side while his other arm is being held by Mummy since his walking can be wobbly sometimes.
Father and Mycroft are waiting just behind us since we're blocking the doorway and Sherlock turns and says to them, "Snow!"
"Is there, Sherlock?" asks Father. "I didn't notice." He spots me in Sherlock's hand and says, "Maybe you should leave the bear inside. He's not waterproof and you don't want him ruined."
Sherlock ponders this. "You," he orders, "Teddy." He hands me to father who looks a little surprised.
"Can we not leave him on the table?" Father tries.
"No," he emphasizes. Mummy and Father exchange looks; Mummy shrugs.
With me safely tucked under Father's armpit, Sherlock seems satisfied. He turns his attention back to the snow. It's about two inches deep and covers almost everything, but now as the warm winter sun is rising it will soon begin to melt.
Sherlock stomps his feet in his little boots. He makes a little splodge-like footprint where all of his prints have merged together. He stares at it. He takes a step forwards and turns around to marvel at the shape. True to form, he pokes it. In a sudden burst of energy he starts to run and Mycroft pretends that it's a race and runs out after him, soon overtaking. The pair giggle and come to a stop.
Mycroft claps his hands together and Sherlock automatically copies him. "Snowman time," Mycroft announces.
I am transferred from Father to Mummy. Mummy holds me by the paw and we watch as gradually a pile of snow begins to form in the snow. Mycroft is trying to make snowballs, but the snow isn't sticky enough so the plan is falling flat. Father is also trying to make snowballs by compacting snow in his hands. But the snow just turns to a ball of slush and he has to drop it.
Sherlock has climbed onto their pile of snow. It isn't very high and he's just sitting there, making shapes with his finger. Father spies him and he watches for a few moments. Sherlock pokes holes into the snow. "That gives me an idea," Father says.
Mycroft looks up from his snowball-turned-slush ball, raising an eyebrow in question.
"Why don't we make a snow Sherlock? I mean, we could carve into the pile that we've managed to make… Sherlock as a baby, maybe?"
Mycroft nods, "Sounds good to me." He shoos Sherlock off the snow pile and the toddler seems perfectly content to thoroughly examine the snow around the pile rather than on it.