Work Text:
Snow fell gently as young Sherlock Holmes sat at the dining room table, dangling his legs over the edge of the chair. His stationery was sat in front of him, and he was determined to let it remain untouched. His mother had told him to write a letter to Father Christmas, and he found the idea so revoltingly childish he refused to acquiesce. That was when Mycroft sat him down at the table and said he couldn’t leave until he’d written one thing he wanted for Christmas. Mycroft had also said that if he left before he’d written his list that he wouldn’t get the chemistry set Sherlock had been asking for since he was 5. Sherlock really wanted that chemistry set, and the possibility of getting it after two years was quite exciting. He could tell by the tiny rumble in his tiny tummy that he wouldn’t last much longer anyway, so he begrudgingly picked up the pen and dipped it in his favourite red ink. His small hands wrote out the short letter that read:
Father Christmas,
My mother and brother have insisted upon my writing you a letter. I doubt you are real, given that many explorers have travelled to the north pole, and none have written up statements about your existence, or the science behind how you manage to be all those places in one night. But on the off chance you are real, I only have one thing that cannot be bought, that I would like for Christmas. I don’t suppose you could find me a friend? Most times I enjoy solitude, but I need someone to help me with my experiments. And please make them go to the same school as me, because then I can brag to all the kids that call me a freak that I have a friend. I know this is an odd request, especially when it is written to a man that most likely doesn’t exist, but people are always talking about Christmas miracles. I would consider my getting a friend a true miracle...
- Sherlock Holmes
He left the note on the table as he went into the study to ask Mycroft for an envelope and some stamps. He opened the door and padded over to the large chair which usually held the elder brother. Sherlock peeked around the side of the large chair to see Mycroft with his legs folded under him and a book in his lap.
“Sherlock, I told you, you have to write the letter. I will not let you negotiate your way out of this one.” He didn’t look up from the book.
“I know, which is why I wrote the stupid thing. I’m simply here for an envelope and some stamps.” At this, Mycroft looked up. He looked into the bright eyes of his younger brother, wondering what he could possibly want that hadn’t already been promised to him.
“Very well.” He sat the book on the ground and stood up, adjusting his jumper as he stood. He walked over to the large desk that was really meant to be their father’s but had slowly become Mycroft’s. He opened the top middle drawer and stepped back. “Choose whichever you wish. I have more than I could ever use.” Sherlock brushed his brother’s leg, going on his tiptoes to look at his options. In the end he had chosen a maroon envelope, and an entire roll of stamps with an image of mistletoe on it. He trotted out of the room, ignoring Mycroft as he told him that he only needed to use one stamp.
Going back into the dining room he inspected the letter, making sure it was the same as he’d left it. He folded his letter once he was sure the ink was dry, and placed it carefully in the envelope. The only address he could think to put was The North Pole, so that is all he wrote on the letter. He then put seven stamps along the edges of the envelope. Seven years, seven stamps. That seemed fair.
He found his mother in the living room, drinking wine by the fire.
“Maman, I wrote the letter. I don’t suppose we have to get it to the North Pole ourselves do we?” He slid as much arrogance into his young voice as he could while he tossed the envelope onto the table to her right.
Sherlock’s mother sighed. “No, mon cher, we do not. I will drop it off at the post office tomorrow. That should give them plenty of time to get it all the way up there.” She paused, looking at down at the tousled-haired boy who was growing up right before her eyes. “Sherlock, may I ask what you told Father Christmas you wanted?”
Sherlock debated whether or not he should tell his mother of such a silly request. She would no doubt find a way to get someone over for a “playdate”, as she called it, but they would soon realize that Sherlock was not an average child. Then there would be one more name-caller, one more person to “accidentally” shove him.
“I told him I wanted a chemistry set.”
***
John shook the sting from his finger, and hissed at the pain from the slice. It was the third papercut he’d gotten that day, but he loved the work. He’d already gotten off of school, and his dad had offered him a small job at the post office. John sorted through all the mail from the post boxes, separating out all of the letters addressed to Father Christmas. To most little boys it would have been tedious and stuffy, but John loved the order and process of it. There was also the perk of getting to open the letters. Sometimes he would recognize a name from school, sometimes he would be surprised by how heavy the envelope was. In these cases, he would carefully open the letter and peek. It felt a bit odd, reading letters to Father Christmas. They all were written as though they assumed Father Christmas would be reading them himself, and then he would send word to the elves. Or however they thought it went. For a moment John imagined being Father Christmas, having the power to make all of these children's dreams come true. It would be nice, to see the look on a child's face as they got exactly what they asked for.
While he was sorting, he came across a funny looking letter. There were stamps all over it, but they were nice. The handwriting was very legible, especially if a child had written it. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes left of work today, and he was almost done with the pile. John decided to read it; he could slack off a bit.
Opening the letter was an event in and of its own. There was a stamp over the flap, and the high quality stamps did not want to tear. When he finally opened the envelope, he pulled out an expensive looking stationery. An expensive looking monogrammed stationery. SH. John racked his mind for anyone he knew with those initials, and came up blank. Unfolding the stationery he began to read. The handwriting was beautiful, his speech patterns eloquent, his vocabulary full. John didn't know this kid, but he was impressed. As he read his small smile faded, the corners of his mouth being pulled down.
"- Sherlock Holmes". John knew that name. Very, very vaguely, but he recognized it. It was a very odd name, thus one that might easily be remembered. A plan started forming in the back of his mind, and he was very quiet on the way home.
***
December 24 was ending, and Sherlock couldn't be more unexcited by the idea of spending a day with his family. He tossed and turned in his bed, convincing himself that if he did not say goodbye to the moon, the sun would not say hello. He watched the clock tick, every minute passing too quickly. He could feel his eyelids droop, and his head get heavy.
He smelled cinnamon and pine as he walked downstairs. Mycroft was on the ground next to the tree, looking at all the presents underneath. His mother was in the kitchen humming to herself and drinking tea.
"Maman, is father here this year?" Sherlock reluctantly asked.
"I'm afraid not, mon cher."
Suddenly Sherlock was at dinner, and Uncle Claude was drunk. Drunk and yelling. Drunk and yelling at Sherlock. No, about Sherlock."The little freak can't keep his mouth shut! I know Siger is gone, and I'm sure Sherlock has figured it out by now, too! Just because he knows his father is having an affair doesn't mean he can just go around talking about them. Tiny brat!" He threw the crystal champagne glass onto the ground, shattering the fragile glass. His grandmother sat in quiet shame, and Mycroft was leaning on the wall staring at his shoes.
Then he was in his room, Mycroft staring at him. "Sherlock, why can't you ever act your own age? Why must you always be the one to cause trouble? You're the reason Father didn't come home this year!"
He woke up sweating and panting, a ball of misery in his stomach. Wiping sweat from his forehead Sherlock checked the clock. Just past four AM, fantastic. He concentrated on his breathing, feeling the pounding in his chest slow gradually. His fear waned, and he thought of his nightmare. His mind had conjured up the worst scenarios it could manage and played them one by one. How wonderfully self destructive of him.
Then Sherlock realized something. It was Christmas. Sure, early Christmas, but Father Christmas (if he were in fact real) may have already stopped by. He trotted down the stairs, jogging to the living room. He didn’t know exactly what he expected. A child to be sitting there waiting, someone wrapped up and trying to get out, a package that said ‘just add water’? No matter what he had hoped for, none of it was there. The tree had many presents under it, one of them was probably even the chemistry set, but Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but disappointment.
Slowly walking back upstairs Sherlock hung his head, reprimanding his subconscious for daring to hope. To believe in something that could not be proven. To wish for something impossible.
Sliding back under the covers Sherlock tried to empty his mind. It would be a few hours before anyone else in his family was awake, so he thought it best not to lay awake and mope. He attempted to switch mindsets, tell himself that he would be getting the chemistry set. Surely that wouldn’t be all he would receive, but it was most likely the only one he actually wanted. Maman had gotten into the habit of giving him a new dressing gown every year, but he hardly needed any more. Drifting off to sleep all Sherlock hoped for was something dreamless and benign.
“Sherlock, Sherlock wake up,” Mycroft gently pushed his arm. “There’s a big surprise for you downstairs.” It took a moment for the words to process, but when he did Sherlock pried his eyes open one at a time, fixing them on Mycroft.
“What?” he mumbled.
“Just come downstairs!”
“Fine, fine,” Sherlock sighed, sliding out of bed. He walked downstairs shaking the sleep from his eyes. As he descended the grand staircase a familiar musk hit his senses. His eyes scanned the room until they found the suit covered man he’d been looking for.
“Papa!” Sherlock flew down the rest of the staircase, running into the extended arms of his towering father.
“Sherlock! I told you I would return for Christmas. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” He had gone down on one knee and was embracing his son. “Now, your mother was just about to finish making breakfast. I don’t suppose you would like to eat with us?” In response Sherlock laughed and ran into the kitchen.
***
“You what?!” John’s father yelled.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I was bored, and I just got curious.” John scuffed his shoes at the floor.
“Yes, well, your curiosity could get me fired! Anything submitted to the post is meant to be opened by only the intended recipient.” He repeated the rules back out at John.
“I know, I know. But Dad, you should have read it. He was so sad. Please. Consider this your Christmas present to me,” John implored.
“I... I really don’t know. Do you even know his name?”
“Yes sir, Sherlock Holmes.” John repeated the name that had been bouncing through his mind eagerly, grasping the small window of opportunity his father’s tone offered.
Mr. Watson looked down at his son. He weighed the pros and cons. Pro, it could make a young boy’s Christmas. Cons, he could get fired. Something tugged at his gut, maybe the thought of a small boy all alone, maybe the wide eyes of his innocent son.
“Yes, alright, I’ll find out where he is.”
***
“What do you say we go check out what Father Christmas brought,” Mr. Holmes said with a bright smile. At that comment Sherlock felt a tiny twinge of misery crawl back into his stomach, but he refused to let it get to him. They started to move over to the tree when there was a knock.
“One minute, I’ll check the door. You all find your first present.” Mr. Holmes walked to the door, checking the peephole. He opened the door, not recognizing the man and his son.
***
“Hello, Mr. Holmes I presume?” John piped up.
Mr. Holmes leant down so he was eye to eye with the young boy. “Well, you presume correctly young sir, what can I do for you?”
“I’m here for Sherlock Holmes. He sent a letter to Father Christmas, and I’m the one he sent,” John said with a big smile. He winked at Mr. Holmes, thinking he knew what this was all about.
Hearing his name, Sherlock’s ears perked up. Out of curiosity he made his way to the foyer. When he turned the corner he saw his father talking to a boy a bit older than he was and his, presumably, father. With no fear Sherlock walked straight up to them.
“Who are you?” He asked, puffing his chest out a bit. Behind him his father made a small motion towards him, which John picked up on.
“John Watson,” the boy said, sticking out his hand. “I’m the one Father Christmas sent. I know I’m a bit late, I had to get my dad to give me a ride.”
Sherlock just looked at the boys hand. Slowly he looked at his father, who wore a warm smile.
He never did shake hands with John Watson that day, instead he rushed forward and gave the boy a hug. He then pinched a bit of the boys jumper and dragged him to Mycroft and Maman, getting ready to brag. Though this level of affection was out of character for Sherlock, he made up for it by asking at least a thousand questions. Everything from how old he was to his favourite type of rock.
They grew up together, going through rough patches and coming out the other end stronger. John never saw the glances, the smirks, but every once and a while Sherlock would still look at him and see only one thing. His Christmas miracle.