Author's note: The same as always: Sorry for being late, thank you for reading. Here is something fluffy today. :-)
Somehow it has always been understood that Emmi alone will receive Christmas presents this year. My parents are still mourning the loss of their son (when they think I am not looking), and John is way too unstable for a blunt display of affection, and I am … well, myself, so I never really expect presents anyway.
But as things stubbornly continue being a tiny bit more perfect than before I decide to buy presents for all of them. Emmi will get a new book (because she loves making me read books to her and I will positively go crazy if I have to go over "The Hungry Caterpillar" one more time). For Mummy and Daddy I organise a Silvester trip to Hamburg on New Year's Eve, the town where they first met as teenagers under the most unbelievable circumstances.
And for John … My brain refuses to come up with anything for John. Normally I would go and compose a little tune just for him. But no matter how lovely it already sounds in my head I will not have anything to play it on. Besides, I am not sure if such a present is not still too much for him right now.
Well, I still have two weeks to come up with something. Right now, I am perfectly happy with sitting in the kitchen, surfing the online archives of different shipping nations, John sitting by my side, sipping his tea. He sometimes looks over my shoulder, grunts his approval and one time even murmurs something close to "brilliant". Then he starts working on his own laptop to help me with the virtual legwork. Occasionally he has an idea that is really helpful.
When we manage to identify Cheng Wong he smiles. Honestly. With bright eyes.
I would fall in love with him right now if I weren't in love with him already.
"What a shame that we can't order Chinese take-away on Amrum," he says (with a soft smile in his voice).
"That would be an appropriate dinner just now." I agree, and for a moment there is something between us again, something that is patiently waiting to fully bloom again soon. That moment I know what I have to give him for Christmas.
So that night, when Emmi is (finally) sleeping in her cot I do not go back into the kitchen to join the rest of my little family. Instead I sit down in my room, start my laptop and check John's blog. There (still) is my entry made during his honeymoon, then a short part on Moriarty being really dead and an announcement of Emmi's birth as well as a lovely description of our life as a family of three. (Hard to read without getting heavy-hearted once more.). The last entry was made a few days before Mycroft's death.
I stare at it for a while and allow myself to contemplate all that we have lost and are beginning to regain. Then I take a deep breath, hack into his blog, open a new document for drafts and start writing about our work on the unknown sailors.
###
Over the next days I work on the sailors' identities with John in the afternoon, write drafts for the blog about it at night, and try to teach Emmi how to walk and how to say Daddy and how to eat without polluting everything and everyone within a six feet radius every other minute of the day.
That way, Christmas time flies by and I am surprised to notice that there have been worse times of my life.
###
Mummy forces us to do womanly things she calls "Talking About Our Feelings" and "Sharing Our Emotions". Those are gruesome rituals and I deeply pity Daddy for being married to a woman. (The fact that all this talking and sharing helps to make me feel better is something I would never publicly admit.)
I wonder if I should mention that I will give them all Christmas presents. The advantage would be that I could make clear that I am not expecting some in return. That way, they will be able to concentrate on being happy with their presents on Christmas Day and won't have to wonder if I am feeling sad (which I won't but all three of them wonder about stuff like that.)
The disadvantage, on the other hand, is clear: I would not be able to back-pedal and hide my presents should things deteriorate until Christmas Day.
I enjoy the way things are slowly going back to normal but I do not trust that unstable peace enough to make my plans public. So instead, I talk about how happy Emmi makes me. A topic that never fails to make "Sharing Our Emotions" a success.
###
One week before Christmas Daddy declares that it is time for the men of the family to get a reasonable tree.
Then he leaves with John.
###
When Christmas comes, the blog entries are ready to be uploaded. I am a bit unsure if my writing is good enough but when I show the draft to my parents Mummy is tear-filled and Daddy does the shoulder clapping routine I have come to like.
On Christmas Eve Daddy explains to Emmi (who is way too young to understand most of what he says) that she has to sleep now so there will be presents underneath the tree tomorrow. Mummy (who always had the most practical approach to Christmas when I was young) explains to her that usually Father Christmas brings her presents but as we are in Germany the Christkind will take care of them this year.
The only thing Emmi understands is "sleep", a word that never fails to make her cry. When her tantrum is over I am way too tired to worry about the next day, which is a good thing.
###
On Christmas Day I am lying in my bed, wide awake long before Emmi even stirs. She will wake up soon, and then I will take her downstairs where the presents will be waiting for her. This thought makes my heart clench inside my chest, because if we are perfectly honest, it should be John who brings her downstairs.
Will he be there during the gift giving? I think back. Last year (only last year, how can it have been only a year?) we were at my parents, ready to fool Mary, not ready to kill Magnussen. The two years before I spent somewhere away from John. The year before that I was busy thinking about Irene.
Christmas does not have any romantic connotations for John and me. So why is it so hard not to have romantic hopes this year?
Emmi stops my heavy thoughts by waking up. She no longer cries when she opens her eyes in the morning. Instead, she searches for me, rolls over and hands me her cuddle doggy. For some reason it delights her to no end when I kiss it before I kiss her. So Doggy gets his kiss but before I can kiss her, too, the bedroom door opens (slowly).
I am sure John can see the surprise in my face. Emmi's head swings around and she starts to giggle. Then she snatches Doggy out of my hand and crawls to the other end of her (slightly too big) bed and hands it to him.
He kisses both the dog and the girl (and only hesitates slightly before and only trembles a little) and then says, "I think Papa is still waiting for his kiss."
Emmi (who now understands so much more that only one month ago) instantly comes crawling back to me and stretches her arms towards me.
Out of the corners of my eyes I watch him taking a deep breath while I pick up Emmi. This is hard for him, I know. But he is here. When we go downstairs he stays right behind us. I am not sure how much happy family he can stand today but right now he is here.
This is most likely the best Christmas present I …
Oh.
Something happened while I was sleeping. Something I did not deduce in advance. When I went to bed, there had been a handful of presents for Emmi. Now there are several new parcels, for John and my parents and me.
Both my parents must have sneaked downstairs at night to place them there. John too. (I instantly try to deduce the presents meant for me, but all of them are wrapped up with extra stuff to conceal their true form. Rude!)
"Looks like the Christkind has been busy tonight," John says softly and his hand gently brushes against my back for 1.7 seconds. I can only nod.
Emmi does not understand what is going on but the fact alone that things are different this morning makes her babble happily. While I am still considering returning the back-brushing my parents appear.
A round of Merry Christmases is held and then Mummy hands Emmi the first present (a wooden work bench whose sole purpose is to teach her how to hit things with a hammer. I doubt she needs a toy to learn that.) She soon picks up the principle and starts hitting everything within her reach with the hammer.
I use the small divergence to post the drafts on the blog and send John a link. Only seconds later I hear a pling on his mobile, and watch him opening the link. His face is unreadable (damn!) but he sits down, focused on the screen and for a few minutes he goes very very still.
(He does not miss much of the gift giving for Emmi is still crawling around with the hammer in her hand, looking for things to hit while Daddy tries to stop her and Mummy takes a hundred pictures of it.)
After a while John looks at me. His eyes are suspiciously watery but he is keeping his countenance (with some difficulties). He stands up and for a second I think he is going to hug me. But instead he picks up a present and brings it to me.
"I wish I could give you something equally meaningful," he whispers.
I need a moment to adjust my brain to the fact that he is giving me a present at all. That he thought about giving me a present and then sat down and ordered it or went to town and bought it and then wrapped it up and all that without stopping halfway in panic. (His hands have been trembling while wrapping it up but he made it through.)
When I am finally able to react I can feel him watching me. The present is a book (I deduce from holding it) but one he picked very thoughtfully (his eager face tells me). I open it (slowly). When I look at the title ("Amrum Yesterday") I cannot hide a frown. It is not a book I would buy myself. I do not care much about history (unless it involves crime mysteries) and have never wanted to own a photo book (besides those on anatomy).
But he has put lots of thought into buying it. It must mean something. How do you ask about it without being rude?
But I don't have to. "I know that you always imagine everything we read about the dead sailors," he explains. "But you don't know anything about Amrum's history. I am sure that most of the scenes you watch in your mind palace are filled with anachronisms."
He has a point there, and, what is more important, there is a warm glow in his eyes. He really thinks his present will make me happy. Well, then it surely will. Sometimes he knows me better than I know myself. Besides, no matter how interesting or not, there is a symbolic value I cannot ignore. Working on the sailors has become the one thing we do together without shadows of the past looming over us. A present referring to that means so much more than just "I thought you might like it."
I peek into it and instantly realise that I always forgot to include the Island railway in my mental images. And I got the old harbour wrong. And …
John was right, the photo book is fascinating.
I look at him (with a smile I could not hide even if I wanted to) and know that he knows how perfect his present turned out to be.
I would love to dwell on it but Emmi demands more presents (rightly so). Then the gift giving goes on. My parents are appropriately moved by their trip to Hamburg, then a few more presents are exchanged, and everybody is moved by one present or the other.
Yes, I have to admit that I am so absorbed by John that I miss most of the rest. But it is a pretty easy deduction that we all are generally moved.
Then there is only one present left. The one from my parents for me. They watch me so expectantly that I know it will be something meaningful.
When I was younger, I hated those kind of presents. They always came with obligations (showing the right amount of happiness, understanding the relevance giving it to me had for Mummy, and more). Now that I am more relaxed with my parents (when exactly did that happen?) I cannot help but look forward to opening it.
When I lift it up I instantly realise that there are several books inside the parcel that only serve to hide the object's true form and weight.
The parcel contains a box that contains a parcel that contains ...
A violin case.
The implications are nearly overwhelming.
I open it (with trembling hands) and my glance falls onto the most beautiful violin I have ever seen. Older than my old one, more delicate. A lot more expensive. The wood feels almost warm beneath my fingers, the bow is lying in my hand like it was made only for me.
I love my parents but it is absolutely impossible that this perfect instrument has been bought by amateurs.
I look up at them (which is hard because my eyes insist on staring at the perfection in my hands) and the words I would like to say stumble over each other inside my brain without making it to my mouth. (My mouth must be hanging open but I have no brain capacity left to check that.)
Mummy claps her hands in delight. "You like it, don't you?"
A most unnecessary statement. I nod anyway.
"Mycroft willed it to us," Daddy explains. "There was a letter attached, saying we should give it to you should you ever break your old one."
"But only ..." Mummy interrupts him and blushes. They exchange one of the looks they use to exchange whenever their sons were involved.
When she does not go on, Daddy continues, "But only if we feel that you are stable enough to appreciate it - and to keep it in one piece."
Mycroft. Even from his grave he finds a way to patronise me. For some strange reason that only makes me love him more.
"You think I am stable enough," I muse and Mummy has to giggle.
"Oh darn it. If we are wrong there are two more violins waiting for you. Just in case."
Of course there are. I have to smile (broadly). Then I focus on the instrument again. It needs to be tuned but my musical memory provides me with the correct frequencies. The strings are new. They fit perfectly and produce the most stunning sound when I adjust them.
I bring my fingers into position, the bow is ready to caress the strings - when I remember the last time I failed to play. And the time I failed before. And before. Time stops. All that exists is the most wonderful violin in the world and my failures.
Then a voice breaks through the wall I erected around me within seconds. It is warm and soft and not pressuring me at all. It makes my walls crumble to dust and pushes time so it passes again.
"I would love to hear you play," John says as if it was an easy thing to express.
He looks at me and I know that this sentence is the best Christmas present of all time.
I hesitate only for three seconds. Then I start to play.
Author's note: Thanks to GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzi. They beta faster than I can say "I love you".