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The year that Iris turned four years old was the third Christmas they spent at her Grandmama and Grandfather’s home in the Scottish Lowlands. She couldn’t fully remember Christmases past, but she knew that it meant presents and Father Christmas and their house in the country that may as well have been a palace in her eyes when compared to their London flat. The decorations and displays that gradually built up around London Town added to her mounting excitement in the days leading up to the main event.
Having a child in the home once more enlivened the holiday spirit for them all. They had reason again to bring out the heirloom decorations, to visit the village green for carols and mulled wine, to attend the Christmas pageant at the old church.
Come bedtime on Christmas Eve, Iris was implacable in ways her guardian hadn’t known her to be since she finished teething. After a stimulating day helping in the kitchen with their housekeeper Mary and the cook, a deferred bedtime was hardly needed—and yet, in obstinate four-year-old fashion, Iris refused to admit when she was tired.
As he did so often in those days, Sherlock relied on his keen powers of observation to detect the precise moment Iris reached that pivot point which, should she be allowed to tip over, would invariably slide headlong into a tantrum. With a deftness earned from nightly practice, he coaxed her through the steps of their bedtime routine whilst keeping her distracted playing one of their favourite games: the never ending “why?”
“But why?” Iris asked around a yawn. She had her head leaning sleepily on her guardian’s shoulder as he carried her into the old nursery room Mrs. Holmes had revived for Iris’s use.
“You know how fond I am of this particular pastime, my dear,” said Sherlock, “but we must bring it to a close for tonight. Besides, your Uncle Mycroft could regale you with the thrilling state of traffic law in ever so much more detail than I could stand to.”
He attempted to lower her into bed, but she clung on like a life vest. “But why?”
“For one, such matters are—ah ha!” He pressed his thumbs into the ticklish sides of her knees and she released him in surprise, falling giggling into the bedding with a fwoomp and a cloud of rosy hair. “No more diversions! Come along, into bed with you now.” He pulled back the blankets for her to climb in. “Father Christmas does not visit children who are not fast asleep, after all.”
Iris sat up, looking at him solemnly. “Hurley,” she said, with such gravity he had to fight to keep back a grin. “You know…Father Christmas doesn’t really visit.”
Sherlock bit his tongue. “Is that so? Then how do you explain how your presents arrive, I wonder?”
“Obviously Grandmama and Grandfather put them there. Father Christmas told them that I was good all year and then they make it a surprise for me.”
“…That is quite the brilliant hypothesis.” No investigative work in his life had tried his skill in acting like being parent did.
“Oh, but don’t tell!” Iris urged him, clinging to the blankets.
“No?”
“I won’t get surprise presents if you tell! I’ll only get presents the normal way like when it’s my birthday.”
“Ah, yes, I see your point,” Sherlock said with conviction. “You have my word, no one shall hear a whisper of this from me. But all the same, you must try to sleep.” He pulled the blankets up to her chin and stood to extinguish the light.
“Wait!” Iris called out. “I need Bun and Bear!” She pointed to the end of the bed where her two dearest companions lay: the long-limbed felt rabbit and the pink bear with flowered ears.
Sherlock retrieved them dutifully. “How remiss of me. I do apologize.” He tucked one animal in on either side of her like bookends. Iris insisted on sleeping no other way. “Better now?”
Iris nodded with heavy eyelids. “Good night, Hurley.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Christmas morning came in a rush. Iris was the only one of the household who truly received gifts in traditional fashion, but even so, her enthusiasm drew the family into the sitting room before they could even sit for breakfast. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft took their places on the armchairs and sofa whilst Sherlock was dragged along to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the tree.
Iris’s first presents were amusing, thoughtful ones. She opened and appreciated each of them as they came: a pair of gloves, a building block set with picture postcard, a box of pastels. Three presents was typically the extent of her Christmas bounty; however, this year, her grandmama produced a fourth box from deep below the boughs of the tree.
“It seems you must have been a remarkably good girl this year!” Mrs. Holmes said, passing Iris the last present.
Eyes shining, Iris tugged the ribbon off the gift box and opened it. Her excitement doubled at what she found within. “Hurley, look, look!” She held up a doll-sized facsimile of a familiar tan coat. It was an obvious replica of Sherlock’s own, right down to the pockets and trimmings. “Oh, oh! And a hat, too! Wait, I’ll get Bun—‘scuse me!” With that, she flew out of the room.
Mrs. Holmes called after her, “Please don’t run in the house, Iris!”
“I’m running safely!” She assured them, shouting back.
Mrs. Holmes looked to her youngest son. “Sherlock,” she chided, though not unkindly.
“An impossible rule to enforce, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said. “There are, after all, certain circumstances where running indoors is necessary.”
“Such as?” His father inquired.
“Ah, that was not my argument—it was hers. I’m sure she would be altogether too happy to enumerate the possibilities again, if you asked.”
Just then, Iris then rushed back into the sitting room with her teal-blue stuffed rabbit under one arm. “Hurley! Put them on, put them on!” She all but crashed into his lap, pulling the gift box closer and pushing the toy and the clothing into his hands.
“Yes, yes, alright, let me—” Sherlock attempted to dress the doll as he was bid. “Iris, dear, this will require the use of both of my hands, so would you—ow, fine, but be aware blinding me shall not hasten the process.”
“You did the hat backwards, Hurley!”
“I think I ought to know which way round my own hat—”
“Let me fix it!”
“Oh, well, if you do insist.” He readily relinquished the toy to her ministrations and shifted her weight to be more comfortably and securely balanced on his lap.
Sherlock watched Iris tug on the rabbit’s ears to get the miniature copy of his deerstalker situated on the felt head to her liking. He looked up briefly and saw his family smiling, each in their own way, at the little scene. He ignored them. Any redness there might be in his cheeks he could put down as the light reflecting off Iris’s untamed hair.
Once she was satisfied, Iris embraced the toy tightly and exclaimed, “I love it! Thank you, Grandmama!”
From the sofa, Mrs. Holmes’s eyes softened, then widened in surprise, then sharpened accusingly in her youngest’s direction.
Sherlock, caught out, quickly defaulted to his most charming smile.
Iris adored her Sherly-Bun’s new costume and kept him at her side constantly for the remaining days of their stay in Dewsberry. On the return train to London (first-class tickets courtesy of dear Uncle Mycroft’s government position), both her Bun and Bear were tucked away into her carpetbag for safe keeping.
They made it back to Baker Street with enough time to spare for a slightly late dinner, though they’d hardly cleared their plates when a telegram was delivered on behalf of Scotland Yard summoning Sherlock to an address in Chelsea. The Yard seldom called on him in such fashion these days. Inspector Gregson and his colleagues knew of Iris and his obligations, so more often than not Sherlock would be visited at home and have the details recounted to him. A direct summons was reserved for only the more pressing and puzzling of problems.
Sherlock could confidently say that he had struggled very little with bouts of boredom since acquiring Iris who was daily posing new and unique challenges. Even so, he could not find it in himself to pass up the rare opportunity for fieldwork.
The problem then became that Iris insisted on coming along with him, which left Sherlock with two options: first, he could tell Iris she had to stay behind and beg a favour from his landlady to watch her, but that almost definitely meant condemning Mrs. Hudson to face a tantrum alone on top of all the work of enforcing bedtime.
Or…he could give in, bring Iris, and hope to solve the case before she yawned even once.
In the end, it was no decision at all.
Sherlock entered the unassuming townhouse carrying Iris on his hip. She in turn was holding her toy rabbit, excited for him to have a go at a spot of detective work now that he was appropriately kitted out for the occasion.
“Why, if it isn’t the good Bobby Bobby!” Sherlock said with intention. Once Iris turned to look, he pointed to a young officer standing by in the corridor.
Constable Roberts blushed. “Hullo again, Mr. Holmes, Miss Iris.”
“I’m certain he would love to hear all about what Father Christmas brought you this year,” Sherlock said to Iris as he set her down. Before he let her go, he whispered, “Try to get him to show you where they’re keeping the family cat.”
Iris eagerly bounded off on her mission, and Sherlock turned his attention to the scene in the parlor where Inspector Gregson was waiting. The man was already scowling.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Holmes, my boys ain’t paid to be nannies.”
“Ah, Inspector! I haven’t the faintest idea who it is that insists you say such things, but it certainly is not me. Besides, young Roberts is newly engaged, is he not? Iris is merely providing invaluable on-the-job training for his future.”
“Just how could you know—?”
But Holmes had already turned to the window and was absorbed in flicking the drapes open and shut with no immediately discernible effect. Gregson had been in the business long enough to recognize the cue for what it was and left him to it, making a mental note to pass his congratulations on to Roberts later.
The investigation kept them in Chelsea longer than Sherlock had anticipated. It was closing in on 10 o’clock when he at last felt he’d examined every necessary cranny and spoken to every relevant witness. On the endless list of reasons why he mourned the loss of his dear partner was the fact that interviewing witnesses always seemed to go more smoothly—and quickly—when Mikotoba was on hand to remember his niceties for him and to keep him on track.
Gratefully, Iris was always so well behaved at crime scenes. She kept herself entertained with the house cat, and when Sherlock at last went to collect her, he found her asleep on the window seat in the dining room, the cat purring beside her and Constable Roberts dozing off at the table.
Sherlock took up Iris’s coat from where it had been draped over a chair back and wrapped it around her as he lifted her into his arms. She awoke long enough to register it was Sherlock carrying her, giving him a half-successful smile, then dropped back to sleep.
Iris slept the entirety of the short journey by carriage back to Baker Street while Sherlock sifted through the results of the night’s investigation in his mind. He cleared out the bulk of it, only holding onto a few stray threads that may be of use at some later date.
He carried Iris up the stairs to their flat, waking her once they were inside to tell her to wash up before bed which she did obediently, being on this occasion too tired to protest. Sherlock hung up their coats and prepared her nightclothes while he waited, then he helped her dress and settle into bed.
She was half-asleep already, and her head was inches away from hitting the pillow, when all at once she sat back up and looked around.
“Where’s Bun and Bear?” Iris asked.
Nearly had her, Sherlock thought. Aloud, he said, “We haven’t had the chance to unpack them yet. Lie back down for now, and we can worry about the luggage in the morning.”
Iris yawned but wouldn’t relent. “I don’t sleep without them,” she argued. “I know where they are. In my bag. Please, Hurley?”
Even on his best, most rested days, Sherlock struggled to deny any of Iris’s requests. He left her bedside to search through her carpetbag by the dim light of the lamp. He lifted out her pink Flower-Bear which she accepted happily.
Its companion, however, eluded him.
Unseeing, his hand swiped around books and assorted little trinkets. He felt spare woolen mittens, some extra pairs of stockings, but not the solid softness of the toy animal. Sherlock brought the bag closer to the light to confirm visually what his stomach was beginning to dread.
The rabbit was missing.
“Hurley?” Iris watched him. He normally loved when she did that; she was so good at it, at seeing things.
Sherlock held onto his calm facade with white knuckles. “Ah, I believe Bun was resting in the sitting room. Just a moment, if you please—”
“Oh!” Iris gasped. She darted out a hand to catch his sleeve. “No, no, we brought him when we went out!”
“So we did,” he said carefully. “…Let us check over the sitting room together, then.”
They did so, thoroughly, but to no avail. Iris had her eyes on him all the while, following close at his heels everywhere he went, from table to bookshelf to armchair and back again, under and inside every place he could think to search. On the fourth failed inspection of each of his coat pockets, Sherlock made the mistake of catching her eye.
One look at his unguarded expression sent Iris crashing; the storm brewing as they had searched at last coming to a head in an instant. She dropped to the floor, bawling with more howls than real tears. She was scared and sad and exhausted from the long day and all of it was coming out at once in a terrible, inconsolable outburst.
Sherlock felt very much the same, if he was honest, and it took all his willpower not to boil over right along with her. As much as it broke his heart, experience had taught him to let her scream her fill first before making his approach. He tried to reign in his own panic while he rifled though his shoddy memory for the last time he’d seen the blue rabbit. Most definitely with them on the train. But after? Yes! At dinner, and then—the telegram, then coats, boots, mittens—Promise to keep a close eye on him, won’t you? So it had been at the scene in Chelsea with them, that was right, she’d proudly shown it off—but what then? He recalled nothing of the journey home, couldn’t even say for certain that he’d paid the fare. They’d arrived, he carried her upstairs, sent her off—no rabbit appeared in his mind’s eye, as much as that could be trusted. Allowing for the small chance that it was forgotten in the cab, really the most likely solution was—
“We must have left him behind at the scene,” Sherlock said decisively. Now that she had bellowed out the strongest of her emotions, he bundled Iris up into his arms and petted her loose curls. “And what wonderful luck that is! He will be safeguarded by the watchful eyes of Scotland Yard, and we may even rely upon him to report back to us the findings of his impromptu stakeout. Imagine that he’s only away doing very important work. How’s that, then? Isn’t it just thrilling?”
Iris shuddered. “But—but—he’s all alone! I don’t want him to be away! I want him here!” Her sobs renewed, making her anguish known. She curled her fists into his shirt and cried against his chest. “We—we have to—to go get him! Bring him back, Hurley, please!”
Sherlock fought off tears of his own. He knew the very feeling so intimately. “I’m afraid it’s much too late in the evening, dearest. There won’t be anyone left who can let us in. We’d best wait and return in the morning.”
“No!” Iris wailed and coughed. “Now, now!”
In the dark firelight of their suite, it was all he could do to hold her tighter and whisper, “I know, dearest, I know. I cannot say how terribly sorry I am. I know you miss him. I know it’s not easy.” He stroked up and down her spine. Tiredness was gradually taking over, winding down the loudest cries. “You’ll have him back tomorrow, though, I promise you. First thing tomorrow morning. And after, we can all go to the park and then stop at the confectionary. We’ll restock our supply of taffies, and maybe some fudge as well, if there is any. Doesn’t that sound splendid?”
“Yes,” she sniffed miserably.
“I think so, too.” He brushed her hair back from her damp cheeks. “Now, let’s get you tucked into bed. The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner the morning will come.”
He carried her back to her bedroom, pulled the blankets back and let her crawl into place among the pillows.
She clutched her Bear in a vice grip, her bottom lip still quivering. “Will—will Bun be sad tha—that we forgot him?”
“Oh, no, not in the least,” Sherlock soothed. “On the contrary, I’d wager he finds it very exciting. I know that I would, were I in his paws.”
Iris turned on her side with her pink bear held to her chest. “Flower-Bear misses him, too.”
“Then you tell Flower-Bear all the things I’ve told you, and I trust that will help put her mind at ease.” Sherlock brought the covers up to her chin and tucked them in around her back, making sure they settled just the way she liked. He smoothed her hair one final time and said, “No more worries. All will be well in the morning, I promise you.”
Her eyes shined up at him, trusting his word. “All right. Good night, Hurley.”
“Good night, my dearest.”
It wouldn’t take Iris long to fall back to sleep, Sherlock told himself. He toed silently back into his boots and threw his coat over one arm. It was the only thing to do. He had slipped up, and now he had to go and put it right again. He was halfway through turning the doorknob to go and attempt to wake Mrs. Hudson and persuade her to stay up in their flat until he returned, when a familiar tug of his heart stopped him short.
And what exactly is your plan? It asked in a heartrendingly singular tone. You’re going to break into an active crime scene, are you? Have you thought about what would become of her if anything should go wrong? If you were found and arrested? Or injured?
He was frozen in place. This was a voice he couldn’t argue with, and every attempt made on principle evaporated before it even condensed. There was no one to tell where he’d gone—at least, no one who would come looking. And he no longer had a doctor waiting at home for him. Iris had been getting night terrors sporadically; if she had one tonight, she would doubtless go looking to curl up in his bed beside him, and if he wasn’t there—
Sherlock fumbled through his desk for the cigarettes he rarely smoked these days. He got one lit and began pacing, trying to think of some solution, anything, but nothing he played out in his imagination worked. He hated the feeling of powerlessness. He kept testing scenarios anyways, throwing his mind against the wall as he smoked agitatedly, knowing he couldn’t get to sleep now, not like this, not when Iris could need him, not when his chest, his hands, the room, their flat was so suffocatingly empty. His breathing was coming heavy. Trying to quiet his gasping breath, he pressed his free hand to the side of his throat, feeling hard for the beat, and counted the measures until he lost track.
Sherlock was numbly contemplating whether or not to light a third cigarette when he heard a knock at the front door. An irregular occurrence this time of night, but not all that unusual. Knowing it was more likely to be a visitor calling for him than for Mrs. Hudson at such a late hour, he went out and down the stairs to answer it. He wasn’t in any mood or fit state to engage with company, but it wouldn’t do to allow further knocking to awaken anyone else at 221B.
He opened the door to find Inspector Gregson there standing awkwardly with a newspaper-wrapped package under one arm.
“Inspector Gregson!” Sherlock exclaimed in delighted relief. “Do forgive me for saying so, my good man, but truthfully it has never been a greater pleasure to see you—”
“I don’t recall authorisin’ your presence on a stakeout, Holmes,” Gregson said in a diluted take on his usual gruffness.
Sherlock had but a moment to wrack his riddled memory for any applicable misdemeanors he may have committed recently before Gregson was shoving the parcel into his hands.
“Reckoned you and the sprout might not be wantin’ to wait until morning for ‘im.”
From within the folds of the makeshift wrappings, Sherlock caught a glimpse of teal-blue felt. A weight dropped at once from his shoulders. So great was the lifted burden that he felt tears come to his eyes. “Inspector, I cannot even begin to thank you enough—”
“Don’t mention it, sunshine,” Gregson said, tipping his hat to obscure his face. “One less thing I have worry about you pesterin’ me over, anyhow. And if it keeps you from tampering with my crime scene after hours, then I consider it a public service. I’ll be off—I’ve a cab waiting.”
“Enjoy your evening, Inspector!” Sherlock called out as Gregson strode away. A brusque jerk of his head was the only acknowledgment he received.
Sherlock shut the door and unwrapped the wayward stuffed animal. After checking that all its accessories were accounted for, he buried his face in the soft fur of his leporine counterpart and chuckled madly to himself in the dark of their entryway.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” he told the hare, “knowing that you have caused me only a fraction of the strife I have…” He trailed off, then held the toy to his chest for a few moments, just breathing, wishing, somehow, that it could project his steadying heartbeat half the world away.
When Iris woke in the morning, it was to a soft voice at the foot of her bed.
“…is that so? Ah, yes, I see…very astute of you.”
She recognised Hurley’s voice, but there was no other to answer it.
“Why, there’s no need for such modesty! You have performed admirably in the field, my furry fellow.”
Rubbing at her bleary eyes, blinking in the soft light of mid-morning, she peered down and shot fully awake at the sight.
“Bun!”
There he was, pristine in his costume, sitting propped up on Sherlock’s knee. Iris launched herself towards Sherlock who only just caught her in time to keep her from rolling head-first off the bed.
“He came back! He came back!” She swept the stuffed rabbit out of Sherlock’s hands and squeezed it tightly in her arms.
“He was personally escorted back home by a top agent of Scotland Yard,” he told her.
Whether she heard him or not, he was unable to say. Iris was too preoccupied getting reacquainted with her lost toy. Sherlock watched her as she turned it over in her small hands, inspecting every inch of felt and straightening the hat and coat.
If only all her troubles could forever be so easily solved as in this instance, Sherlock thought. He called to mind the heavy weight of so many secrets he was storing away for her, and how one day he would have to drag them out and pass them along. He hoped to have uncovered more answers for her by the time that day came. He hoped as well that, when at last he had to tell all, he would not be doing so alone. There was one other yet living who was inextricable from her story, in Sherlock’s eyes. To recount those events without him would be an unconscionable disservice to the truth.
“Hurley?” Iris pulled his focus back the present moment. Her wide eyes were verging on the same shade of brilliant sky-blue as her rabbit’s fur.
“What is it, my dear girl?”
“We can go get sweets today, yes?”
Sherlock looked at her sideways. “Why do you ask, I wonder?”
“Because you said we could,” Iris prodded, melting his heart with a tilt of her head. “Last night. You promised it. Taffy and fudge and the park!”
In all matters to do with Iris, it was not difficult for him to concede. It would be his undoing one day, he was certain.
“Oh?” he said with a grin. “Well, if I promised it, as you say, then I suppose we must.”
Her bright smile was all the reassurance he could need.