Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sherlock presses his body flat against the wall and inches slowly towards the corner, making as little sound as possible. His knobby spine presses against the smooth surface and wrinkles his brand new suit jacket, but it’s just as well, he thinks, because it’s far too stuffy for the adventures he plans to have. It’s Christmas, after all, and what better time for an adventure?

He inches ever closer to the corner, then scrunches his face in determination. He knows the cook’s schedule intimately, and he has memorized the decoration schedule he saw in Mummy’s diary, so he knows the coast will be clear, but still, he carefully twists until he can look up and down the hallway. The coast is clear, and so he grins, turning towards the sweet smells coming from the kitchen and knowing he has his chance.

Just as he prepares to run, though, he jerks back abruptly when a hand grabs him by the shirt collar and tugs. He knows his plan is foiled, and worst of all, by his number one enemy. “Mycroft!” he complains, twisting his body to bat ineffectually at Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft, dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and without a hair on his head out of place, looks at him in dismay. “Sneaking off to the kitchens already, Sherlock?”

Finally freed from the confines of Mycroft’s fingers, Sherlock scowls. “Herbert’s making meringues,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighs, and then crouches down in front of Sherlock, tugging on his arms until Sherlock puts them at his side. “And that’s reason enough to ruin your jacket?”

“I didn’t ruin it,” Sherlock protests, but he lets Mycroft pull his jacket back into place and tug on the shoulders until it sits just right on his thin nine-year old frame.

“Mummy got you such a nice tie this year,” Mycroft says as he tightens the knot of the bright crimson tie embroidered with snowflakes.

“That’s too tight!” Sherlock protests, ignoring Mycroft’s words and shoving at his hands; he’s eager to go steal a snack.

“I’ve barely touched it,” Mycroft says, but he doesn’t tighten it any further, just tugs on Sherlock’s jacket once more while Sherlock fidgets.

“If you want to go to the kitchens, you don’t have to sneak there,” Mycroft continues. “Herbert will give you a meringue. I’m sure he’s already set some aside for you.”

“You’d know all about going to the kitchen,” Sherlock says. He reaches out and smacks Mycroft’s stomach and then twists out of his arms when Mycroft instinctually flinches back. Giggling all the while, Sherlock runs down the hallway, narrowly missing a collision with one of the decorators Mummy hired, who is carrying some last minute baubles up to the main party room.

Sherlock ignores the sounds of Mycroft apologizing for him and edges his way into the kitchen, hoping to go unseen. He sneaks into his favorite crevice between the refrigerator and the counter, a space so narrow he’s the only one who fits, while the warm, familiar scents of meat pies and cakes and biscuits make his stomach growl and his mouth water. Carefully, he peeks around the counter and does some reconnaissance, observes that his prediction had been correct and Herbert is nowhere in sight, and slithers out of his hiding spot to go straight to the counter, where sure enough, there is a small plate with three small meringues sitting atop it. He smiles and takes one, popping it into his mouth and savoring the flavor on his tongue, smiling around the sweet taste.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, his jaw freezes mid-chew, and he swivels around slowly, realizing he’s failed to account for one major factor. “Yes, Mummy?” he says around a mouthful of meringue.

“The state of you! The guests are arriving any minute and you’re covered in dust!” Mummy comes closer and reaches out for a clean dishtowel, which she dampens under the sink.

Sherlock hastily swallows his mouthful of meringue and lets Mummy turn him around, and dutifully holds his arms out to the sides as she aggressively rubs the dust and flour, souvenirs from his little hiding spot, off his back.

He reaches for another meringue while she cleans him up and pops it in his mouth, giggling when Mummy playfully smacks him on the arm. She turns him around and wipes at his mouth once, which makes him turn his head away in annoyance, then she kisses him on the cheek and he scowls as he chews.

“Too old for a kiss from your mummy now?” she asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and doesn’t say anything, just shoves the third meringue into his mouth and wonders if she’d notice if he snuck a pie.

“And look at you, so grown up. Nine years old!”   She tugs on his jacket and keeps her hands there for a moment, and Sherlock dutifully pretends to hate it when she pats his lapels and smooths down his jacket. “Such a handsome boy you are, even if you are constantly up to no good.”

Sherlock noisily swallows his meringue so he can talk. “At least I’m not boring like Mycroft,” he says heatedly, wrinkling his nose.

“Be nice to your brother; it’s Christmas,” Mummy chides.

“He should stop being boring for Christmas, too, then,” Sherlock says. “Just because he’s sixteen doesn’t mean he has to act like Great Uncle Alfred.”

Mummy laughs and pats Sherlock on the cheek. “Come on, love, and don’t you dare let on that you’re bored when you see Great Uncle Alfred,” she warns.

She adjusts her dress when she stands, twisting it at the waist a bit, letting the luxurious crimson fabric shift and resettle. “How do I look?” she asks Sherlock, holding her arms out to the side

“You look beautiful, Mummy,” Sherlock says, and then blushes. He loves to see Mummy when she dresses up; she’s always elegant and beautiful and statuesque.

Mummy smiles at him. “Even if you are a holy terror, you really can be sweet, can’t you?”

“Mummy!” Sherlock complains, and she laughs and lets the familiar weight of her arm curl around his shoulders, urging him out of the kitchen.

“Come on, now,” she tells him. “Let’s go to the party.”

--

Mummy gets distracted by the decorator, who is explaining the catastrophic disaster of the fairy lights that won’t light, and tells Sherlock to go straight to the foyer to greet the guests. Naturally, Sherlock goes to the side door of the ballroom instead. He stealthily pushes it open a crack and peers in, wrinkling his nose when he sees that Great Uncle Alfred has already arrived and is wearing the same suit he wears every year, the one that always smells like moth balls. He’s talking to Daddy, and Sherlock knows from the way Daddy’s eyes shift to the side now and again and his fingers twitch that he’s trying to find an excuse to get away. Sherlock giggles, then quickly shushes himself and observes the other guests instead.

He sees his gran, and observes that she has a pocketful of sweets, and thinks he will have to get to her before Mycroft. He looks around eagerly, enchanted by the warmth of the fairy lights on their tall Christmas tree and the many wreaths and sconces around the ballroom. The hors d’oeuvres are out already, and Sherlock eyes the display with excitement, eager to eat all of the special Christmas food. He continues scanning the room in search of one particular person, but his favorite guest, Uncle Augustus, has not yet arrived.

He hears footsteps coming down the hall, and he knows without looking that it’s Mycroft. He turns his head and gives him an accusing glare, then puts his finger over his lips in warning, which makes Mycroft roll his eyes.

“What are you doing over here?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock shushes him in annoyance, gesturing to the cracked door with his head.

“Honestly, Sherlock, no one can hear us, and you know you can’t hide here all night,” Mycroft says.

“Great Uncle Alfred,” Sherlock hisses meaningfully.

“Oh,” Mycroft says, making an expression of distaste. “I thought I smelled mothballs.”

Sherlock giggles, covering his hand with his mouth, and Mycroft smiles, then takes him by the shoulder and turns him away from the door.

“Come on, little brother, let’s go inside,” he says.

“Aunt Isabella is here,” Sherlock says as they walk. “She’s pregnant, but she hasn’t told anyone yet.”

“And how do you know that?” Mycroft asks approvingly.

“She’s drinking water instead of wine and she keeps touching her stomach but not like she’s ashamed,” he says, looking up at Mycroft for approval.

Mycroft nods, and Sherlock ignores the way his spine wants to straighten under the weight of Mycroft’s approval. “Not bad for an idiot,” Mycroft says.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, his moment of pleasure gone as quickly as it came. He pushes Mycroft’s hand off his shoulder and ineffectually shoves at his hip.

Mycroft rolls his eyes as they reach the foyer, and they walk inside the ballroom together. Though he’s already spied the decorations from the side door, Sherlock can’t help but look around, his mouth parted in awe at the splendor.

“Look, Mycroft, it’s my Santa!” Sherlock says, unerringly finding it first, pointing to a side table near the entrance upon which stands a wooden Santa his Uncle Augustus had carved for him when he was a baby. Sherlock only gets to see it once a year, and it’s one of his favorite parts of the holiday; he loves to see his rosy cheeks and feel the smooth texture of his beautifully carved red coat. Mycroft puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock leans into the touch for a moment, looking around and feeling a sense of giddiness bubble up inside his stomach as he finds all his favorite decorations and spies the piles of gifts under their very tall tree.

Daddy calls them over and Sherlock goes eagerly, especially when he notices that he’s moved on from Great Uncle Alfred to talk to Gran. Sherlock rushes forward ahead of Mycroft, and lets Gran kiss his cheeks, giving Mycroft a triumphant look when she does so because she takes the sweets out of her pocket and lets him choose first.

--

Christmas music is playing, and some of his tipsy relatives and family friends are singing along and ruining it. Sherlock scowls, morosely chewing on a biscuit and wondering why Uncle Augustus hasn’t arrived yet, annoyed that Mummy had told him he’s not allowed to tell people to stop singing.

Despite Great Uncle Alfred’s presence and the drunken caroling, though, Sherlock really does like his family’s annual Christmas party, even if he hates wearing a tie and being forced to stay clean and tidy. He loves the way the house is transformed with decorations, and since he’s the only child left besides Mycroft, who doesn’t count because he is the equivalent of an old troll, Sherlock gets nicely spoiled. However, most of the gifts he gets are boring: chocolates, books he’s read years ago, whatever toy is popular that year that he doesn’t care about. Not Uncle Augustus’ gift, though. Uncle Augustus has his own shop where he makes beautiful clocks and toys unlike anything else Sherlock has ever seen. Mummy doesn’t take him there often, but when she does, Sherlock loves to look at all the strange things his uncle makes. They’re beautiful and intricate and interesting.

Sherlock is watching one of Daddy’s coworkers smile at Mummy’s friend Miss Olivia in a way that makes Sherlock wrinkle his nose, but he’s curious about the way they’re acting and so he watches for a moment, when suddenly, he hears someone shout, “I made it!”

He looks up and smiles; it’s Uncle Augustus! He rushes forward, but he’s stopped when Mycroft pulls him back by the arm. “Hey!” he shouts in annoyance, trying to tug his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp.

“Don’t run inside,” Mycroft says, and Mummy is standing by his side with an arched eyebrow that makes Sherlock scowl.

“Let go of me,” he says angrily to Mycroft.

“Walk like a human,” Mycroft tells him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but when Mycroft lets go of him, he pointedly walks slowly, looking over his shoulder and glaring at Mycroft.

“Sherlock!” Uncle Augustus says. He sets his many packages down, crouches down, and holds his arms out, and Sherlock rushes forward, sure Mycroft and Mummy are having a coronary because he’s running again, but he doesn’t care. He lets Uncle Augustus hug him and ruffle his hair, and exclaim over how tall he’s gotten, and he finds he doesn’t really mind; Uncle Augustus is the only member of their family who isn’t dull, after all.

“Done any experiments lately?” Uncle Augustus asks him fondly.

Sherlock smiles at him. “I’ve been studying the soil from by the river.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it later!” Uncle Augustus says, and unlike the other members of his extended family, he’s not being sarcastic. Sherlock beams at him, and he ruffles his hair again and stands. “But first, your present.”

“Augustus!” Daddy says, coming up behind Sherlock, interrupting him and making frustration bubble in Sherlock’s stomach; he wants to see his gift. Daddy rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and shakes Uncle Augustus’ hand with the other.

“Good to see you,” Uncle Augustus says warmly. “I was just about to give Sherlock his present.”

“You don’t have to do that now,” Daddy says.

“Daddy!” Sherlock interrupts, aghast, but Daddy pointedly ignores him.

“Sherlock can wait; he should be a little mature by now, don't you think?”

“It’s Christmas,” Uncle Augustus says, and Sherlock nods eagerly, looking up at Daddy with imploring eyes. Mycroft and Mummy gather behind them, and so do many other relatives, and so Daddy relents, though the smile he gives Sherlock is the one that means Sherlock would have gotten his way anyway, and Sherlock smiles, excitement rushing through him.

“I have something very special for you this year,” Uncle Augustus tells Sherlock, crouching down again so they’re on eye level, and Sherlock listens intently, leaning forward so he can focus. “I confess, though, I didn’t make it from scratch. I found it, and I fixed it up for you, but I really think you’ll like it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen; he’s never had a gift his uncle didn’t make from scratch. Surely, it’s very special. He watches eagerly as Uncle Augustus pulls a long rectangular package from his bag, wrapped in shiny red paper and adorned with a glittery white bow. Sherlock’s eyes stay trained on the package; he is intrigued and very desperate to know what it is.

“Be careful, now,” Uncle Augustus says as he hands it over. “You don’t want to break it.”

Sherlock takes it reverently, shifting it back and forth a little bit to try and guess what it is. It’s definitely wooden, he confirms, but he can’t be sure exactly what the wood has been turned into. Hastily, he pulls the wrapping off and tosses it on the floor, much to Mummy’s dismay, and a brown box is revealed, like a shoebox but without any writing on it. Sherlock has never seen a box quite like this, and so he’s still not sure what will be inside. Grinning, he pulls the lid off the box, which Mummy takes before he can throw, and he stares in awe at the contents.

It’s a nutcracker. He’s seen them before, of course, but there’s something about this one that seems special. His eyes are blue and he wears the uniform of a soldier, gold buttons and red coat gleaming proudly in the warm light of the ballroom. Carefully, Sherlock takes him out of the box and hardly notices when Mummy takes it away from him because he’s so busy running his fingers over the smooth wood and cataloguing all the little details of his new friend. He’s a handsome nutcracker, Sherlock thinks, smiling when he pulls on the lever in the back that makes his mouth open.

“Very rare to find a nutcracker like this,” Uncle Augustus tells him. “It’s a heavy wood under that paint, and you can see all the details are carved in, not just painted. I fixed some of the carvings up because when I found him, he was a little beat up. But he’s special, isn’t he?”

Sherlock nods, eyes still trained on his new nutcracker. He doesn’t know why, but it is special, and he never wants to let it go. “Thank you,” he breathes, admiring the elaborate details on the buttons, running his fingers over the intricately carved details.

“You’re welcome,” Uncle Augustus says, patting him on the head. Sherlock barely pays attention when Uncle Augustus tells Mycroft it’s his turn, but he looks up when Mycroft opens his box and says, “Ah. Thank you,” in a tone that makes Sherlock want to shove him. Sherlock looks away from his nutcracker long enough to see that there are little toy soldiers inside Mycroft’s box, little wooden ones that Uncle Augustus clearly made.

“You’re welcome,” Uncle Augustus says brightly, heedless of Mycroft’s tone, and he winks at Sherlock, which makes Sherlock giggle. He hugs his nutcracker tightly to his chest, and when Uncle Augustus turns to greet Gran, Sherlock wanders away with his nutcracker, eager to examine it up close. He can’t say what it is that catches his attention, but there’s something about it that seems special. It’s not like some of the gifts Uncle Augustus has given him in the past; it’s not a clock with animated figures on its face, and neither is it anything particularly innovative, but there’s something about its understated strength and beauty that Sherlock likes. He sits on the couch by the Christmas tree and examines it, swinging his legs as he holds the nutcracker this way and that, wondering what kind of soldier it is, realizing he doesn’t know enough about the army and he should do some research.

“Don’t you think you’re too old for dolls?” Mycroft asks, sitting beside him.

“It’s not a doll,” Sherlock protests. “It’s a nutcracker.”

“Nonetheless,” Mycroft says. “There comes a point in life when you have to grow up, Sherlock.”

“I am grown up,” Sherlock protests, looking at Mycroft in annoyance.

“You’re really not,” Mycroft says. “You are constantly getting into trouble.”

“At least I’m not boring,” he says.

“This again?” Mycroft complains. “If you think I’m boring, that’s fine, but I’m getting an education and preparing to enter society. That’s important, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores him, idly pulling on the lever and making his nutcracker’s mouth open and close. “Do we have any nuts? I could open one,” he says.

“Doesn’t that sound riveting,” Mycroft says drily. “Sherlock, look at Uncle Augustus. Observe. Can’t you see he’s not all there?”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft sharply. “Shut up, Mycroft. Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’m sixteen years old and he gave me a box of toy soldiers for Christmas. I’m not five.”

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you to lighten up,” Sherlock says.

“And where would that get me?” Mycroft says. “Would it give me more time to play with dirt?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes in annoyance. “I’m not playing,” eh says. “My soil experiment is important.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course,” he says. “More important than studying for geography tests.”

“Geography is dull,” Sherlock complains, turning back to his nutcracker.

“And yet you only got 86 points on your test when you know very well that if you had studied for even three minutes, you would have got a perfect score.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who cares?” he says. He makes his nutcracker’s arm move forward and back, testing to see if the sword in his hand is really sharp. (It isn’t.)

“Would you stop playing for a minute and listen?” Mycroft asks, annoyed.

“You’re not Mummy or Daddy,” Sherlock says petulantly, his eyes trained on the nutcracker’s sparkling ones. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“But you should,” Mycroft says. “Mummy and Daddy are far too lenient with you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and holds his nutcracker up to face Mycroft. He pulls on the lever so its mouth opens and it can talk to Mycroft. “Mycroft is a boring ogre,” he makes it say, and Mycroft swats at it in annoyance, but Sherlock’s grip isn’t tight and before he realizes what happens, the nutcracker is sliding out of his hands and his eyes widen and he gasps when it crashes to the floor. He looks up at Mycroft in angry dismay and then crouches down, feeling his lip tremble when he notices that its left arm is no longer attached to his body.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouts, his vision blurring with tears. Mycroft crouches beside him.

“Sherlock,” he says placatingly, eyes widening when he sees that Sherlock is so upset. “I didn’t mean to – I’m sure Uncle Augustus can fix it –”

“What’s happened?”

Sherlock looks up and sniffs at his Uncle Augustus, picking up the pieces of his nutcracker and holding them out. “Mycroft broke it,” he says. He pretends his voice isn’t trembling.

“Oh don’t be a crybaby,” Mycroft says as Uncle Augustus takes the broken nutcracker from Sherlock. “If you hadn’t been taunting me, I wouldn't have –”

“That’s enough, Mycroft,” Mummy says, coming behind them and putting her hand consolingly on Sherlock’s shoulder, tugging him close so his back is pressed up against her front. He watches Uncle Augustus with wide eyes, who is tutting over the nutcracker and examining it from every which angle.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, I can fix it,” he says while Mummy rubs soothing circles on his shoulder.

“See?” Mummy says, and Sherlock sniffs again, nodding.

Uncle Augustus holds the nutcracker out to Sherlock, who takes it eagerly, and then Uncle Augustus reaches into his pocket, pulling out his white handkerchief.

“Hold the arm in place, Sherlock,” Uncle Augustus says. Carefully, Sherlock looks at the edges of the broken arm and lines them up with the socket on the nutcracker’s torso, sniffling all the while, his heart filled with heavy dismay, and then he looks up at Uncle Augustus to see if he’s done it correctly.

“Yes, that’s right,” Uncle Augustus says kindly. Carefully, he wraps his handkerchief around it, and ties it as tight as he can, then wraps it around again and ties it once more until the nutcracker’s arm is immobilized. “There,” he says. “That’ll do for now. Why don’t you set him under the tree, and I’ll take him back to fix him up when I come for Boxing Day?” He ruffles Sherlock’s hair again, then pats him on the shoulder. “I already fixed him once; it’s no trouble to do it again.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says quietly, holding the nutcracker close to his chest, letting Mummy hold him against her for a moment longer. “Thank you, Uncle Augustus,” he adds, voice nearly a whisper.

Uncle Augustus gives him one last pat. “You’re welcome. Now if you don’t mind, there are some mince pies calling my name,” he says, smiling at Sherlock. “Don’t you worry; he’ll be right as rain,” he adds before turning away.

“Mycroft, apologize to Sherlock,” Mummy says as soon as Uncle Augustus is gone.

“Mummy!” Mycroft complains. “You don’t even know what happened.”

“I can guess,” Mummy says. “He’s only a child; he’s allowed to play,” she adds. Sherlock holds his nutcracker tighter and leans into Mummy’s touch. He doesn’t like being called a child, but he knows it will get Mycroft into trouble if he goes along with it, so he allows it this time and glares at Mycroft, who sighs, which he’s been doing a lot ever since he became a teenager. Sherlock hates it.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft says dutifully.

“Go on, Sherlock,” Mummy says. “Put your nutcracker under the tree. He’ll need a rest, don’t you think?”

“He’s not real, Mummy; he doesn’t need a rest,” Sherlock says petulantly, but when Mummy steers him over to the tree, he puts him down tenderly, and strokes his broken arm. Mummy and Mycroft have left him alone now, so he leans close and whispers, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up soon.”

His heart suddenly skips a beat and his eyes widen for a moment because he swears the nutcracker’s painted mouth has just twitched up into a smile. He blinks, sure he must be seeing things, and looks around, but no one is watching and when he looks back at the nutcracker, his face is just the same as it had been when he opened the box. He swallows hard, assures himself he’s seeing things, and tucks his nutcracker a little further under the tree just to be safe, then stands to let Mummy fuss over him and give him biscuits.

--

Sherlock is lying in bed, long since having said goodnight to everyone, but he can’t sleep. He keeps thinking about his nutcracker, lying alone under the tree. He feels wracked with guilt that he’s already broken its arm, even if it was stupid Mycroft’s fault.

Silently, he slides out of bed, grateful for the light of the moon streaming in his window that helps him see enough to find his dressing gown. He ties it tight around his waist and silently creeps down the hallway; he mastered the art of sneaking about the house at night long ago.

The air still smells like the delicious food from the party, and the house feels different, warm and Christmassy and special. As he makes his way down the stairs, though, the decorations cast new and unusual shadows around him, and he finds himself staying closer to the bannister than usual. His eyes widen as he creeps along, unused to seeing so many dark and eerie shapes in the usually empty hallways. He goes to the ballroom and opens the door with a creak, and though the tree is still lit and it provides enough warm light for him to make his way over and find his nutcracker, the far corners of the room seem bleaker than usual, blanketed in darkness and strange shapes, and he hurries to the tree, where he can be by the side of his new friend.

Tenderly, he picks up his nutcracker, making sure the handkerchief is still fastened tight around his arm. He admires the nutcracker once more, running his fingers over his proud red coat, over his glimmering gold buttons and handsome black boots.

“I’m sorry Mycroft is a git,” he whispers to him, holding him tight against his chest. He lays down beside the tree, holding his nutcracker close and admiring the way the fairy lights reflect on the shiny ornaments, and before he knows it, his eyes grow heavy and he falls asleep thinking about all the adventures he can have with his new friend.

--

Sherlock sluggishly blinks his eyes when he hears the old grandfather clock in the ballroom striking loudly. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and sees that it’s midnight, but just as he looks away from the clock, he notices that the Christmas tree is getting very big – or maybe he is getting very small?

His heart starts beating fast and frantic in his chest and he looks around in alarm when he sees that there are mice coming out from the floorboards, and he feels himself start to tremble when he notices that he is only a tiny bit bigger than them, but suddenly, his nutcracker sits up all on his own. He holds his sword and grins at Sherlock with his strange painted-on mouth and expressionless eyes, and Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“You – you’re alive?” Sherlock manages, sure he’s dreaming.

The nutcracker nods in what looks like excitement, but then his painted eyebrows furrow when he notices the mice that are fast encroaching on where they’re sitting near the tree. In the center of the group of mice is what must be their king, a giant mutant mouse with seven heads and seven crowns. Sherlock’s eyes widen even further and he scuttles backwards in fear as the nutcracker stands up in front of him, holding his sword menacingly to hold off the mice. Sherlock is impressed by his bravery, but he feels paralyzed by fear and feels as if he can’t move when suddenly he hears a scurrying sound to his left. He turns, afraid more mice are coming, but instead, the little toy soldiers Uncle Augustus gave Mycroft start climbing out of their box, rushing over to stand behind the nutcracker.

“Get the mice, soldiers!” the nutcracker shouts. “I’ll get the king!”

And in a flurry of movement, the soldiers obey, running past Sherlock as if he’s not even there to attack the mice while the nutcracker fights his way through to get to the king. Sherlock watches, entranced, as the nutcracker’s black boots move in a flurry of graceful movements while he fights, but Sherlock frowns because he’s clearly weakened from what happened to his arm. Nonetheless, he’s a strong fighter, and it seems like he’s doing well – but Sherlock realizes in horror that the mouse king is beginning to defeat him, and though the nutcracker is fighting as hard as he can, he’s starting to flag, receiving more hits than he’s landing.

Sherlock blinks, realizing that this is no time to sit around and be useless. This is an adventure, and his new friend is in trouble. He looks around for a weapon, but sees nothing of use. Desperately, he stands, pulling his slipper off, and even though his heart is pounding in fear, he runs as fast as he can into the chaotic fight and throws it with all his might. It strikes the mouse king right in the chest and he falls over, then the nutcracker triumphantly finishes him off with his sword while the mutant mouse lets out an almighty screech and Sherlock can only stand beside the nutcracker and stare, his heart pounding.

Sherlock watches, pressing closer to the nutcracker in fear, as the mice scramble away from their fights to rush to their leader’s side and then scurry away, pulling his body into the darkness of the corners of the room, and presumably, back to wherever they all came from beneath the floorboards.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in on the shadows because for a moment, he swears he sees Uncle Augustus’ face there, but just as soon, it disappears, and his heart is still pounding in confusion when he turns back to the nutcracker. He feels a strange sort of dizziness wash over him, and he closes his eyes in alarm until it passes, and when he opens them, he’s no longer small; he’s back to his normal size. Sherlock’s eyes widen when he sees that across from him, the nutcracker has grown to human size, too, but he’s no longer made of wood; he has turned into a boy. He’s still wearing the nutcracker’s handsome uniform, but he’s a boy, just like Sherlock, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes and a smile that stretches all the way across his face.

“You – you’re the nutcracker?” Sherlock asks, his eyes wide. “How?”

“Yeah, I’m the nutcracker,” the boy says. “Thanks, by the way – that thing you did, with your shoe, it was really great!”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “You – you’re my nutcracker,” he repeats.

The boy giggles. “Yup. I’m John,” he says. “But I’m not really a nutcracker. I’m a boy!”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, taking in every detail of him, fascinated. “But you – how – “ He pauses, taking in data, his mind whirring, and he blinks. “You’re the same age as me,” he says. “But you’re a soldier, you’ve been training to be a soldier. But you – you were a nutcracker, but somehow you – you were made of wood, but you know how to fight and you’re talking – is this – is this a dream?”

John giggles again and shakes his head. “It’s not a dream,” he says.

“Then how are you – how is this –” Sherlock pauses, and thinks of something Mycroft told him once, that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. His eyes grow wide as he goes over the facts and comes to his conclusion. “Is this magic? Were you under a spell?”

John nods eagerly. “Yeah, I was!” he says. “You’re brilliant! How’d you know that?”

Sherlock shrugs, but can’t help but smile at the praise. “It’s obvious,” he says, feeling unaccountably shy. “I’m Sherlock,” he adds, his smile curling over his lips. Excitement bubbles through his veins; this has been the most incredible adventure he’s ever had, and the best part is that he thinks maybe he will have a friend! He can’t believe he’s met someone as interesting and cool as John – but then he freezes, and his eyes widen in panic. “I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “My stupid brother dropped you and your arm –”

John shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s all attached when I’m a human, see?” He rotates his arm, which is indeed attached, but he winces a little.

“It’s still hurt,” Sherlock says, worried.

“It’s just a little stiff,” John says. “Don't worry.”

Sherlock frowns, but he is too full of questions to focus on his arm any longer. “Where do you come from?” Sherlock asks eagerly. “How come you’re under a magic spell? Did you meet a witch? Do witches exist? Where do you find them?”

“I’ve never met a witch,” John says. “But I heard there are lots of them in the south woods near my castle.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “You live in a castle? Where is it?”

“Er,” John says. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock asks. “How do you – is that part of the spell?”

John shakes his head. “No, it’s just – this place is different. Where are we?”

“Kent,” Sherlock says.

“What’s that?” John asks.

Sherlock furrows his brow. “Er – it’s Kent,” he says. He wonders if he should have paid attention in geography after all because he wants to answer all of John’s questions.

“I’m from the Land of Sweets,” John tells him. “I live on Candy Mountain.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “You – where?”

“The Land of Sweets,” John says again. “Would you like to go there?”

Sherlock nods eagerly, and John grins.

“Alright. We’ll go,” John says. “But first, we have to celebrate our victory.”

“We do?” Sherlock asks. He’s very excited because he’s never celebrated a victory before, and certainly not in the company of someone else his very own age who smiles at him and laughs with him, and he finds himself drawn to John, eager to hear every word that comes out of his mouth.

“Yes,” John says. He leans down and carefully picks up one of the mouse’s seven crowns that rolled off his head when the mice carried him away. He stands and smiles as he places it on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock giggles, reaching up and feeling it, pushing it further on his head so it’s more secure.

“Perfect,” John says. “Now let’s go to my house.”

“How do we get there if you don’t know where it is?” Sherlock asks curiously. He’s never met someone like John before; he is entranced.

“Like this,” John says. He holds out his hand to Sherlock, and Sherlock takes it, and then his eyes widen when suddenly he is standing in the courtyard of a grand castle, snowflakes swirling around him.

“John?” he asks, frightened. “You – how did we –”

John smiles and keeps hold of his hand. “Magic,” he says. “Come on!”

And then John runs, pulling Sherlock along behind him, and Sherlock has no time to worry. Instead, he follows John, exhilaration and joy bubbling up inside him and quickly overtaking his fear. This is an adventure unlike any he’s ever had, after all!

He’s cold in just his nightclothes, but John’s hand is warm, and the running is just beginning to warm him up when John slows down and stops. They’re approaching the door, and Sherlock looks up at the big stone castle, his breath coming out in frosty puffs in front of his face. The castle is decorated with colorful flowers and wreaths and fairy lights, and most of the windows are lit. Sherlock can see shadows of people inside and it looks merry and beautiful and Sherlock wants nothing more than to memorize every detail.

“This is where I live,” John says. “Come inside!”

“Okay,” Sherlock says eagerly, letting John lead him. Nothing ever happens to him, he thinks, but here he is, in a magical castle with a magical boy who is inviting him into his house – Sherlock has never had a real friend before, but he thinks John is better than any friend he ever could have had.

John doesn’t let go of his hand, he just pulls him inside, and Sherlock smiles when he hears cheerful music echoing through the entryway. It’s unlike anything he’s ever heard before, and John cocks his head to listen, then smiles. “Oh, it’s tea time,” he says. “They always play that when they’re making tea.”

Sherlock looks around, taking in the brightly colored art on the walls and the high spacious windows, the big fireplace that heats the entryway, the sconces lining the walls. “Wow,” he murmurs, craning his head back to look up at the rafters in the high ceiling.

“I guess it’s kind of neat, isn’t it?” John asks.

“It’s brilliant,” Sherlock gushes. “Do you have your own room, too?”

John nods. “Yeah, wanna see? We should get snacks, though. Hungry?”

“Starving,” Sherlock says, and then they’re off, John leading them confidently through a maze of hallways, their footsteps echoing off the stone hallways until they finally enter a giant kitchen.

It’s warm and toasty inside, and Sherlock hums with pleasure as his limbs start to feel less frozen. He looks around with wide eyes at all the cakes and treats lining the counters. Merry chefs are diligently mixing dough and decorating and preparing cakes with many tiers and cookies and colorful things Sherlock has never seen before, all the while smiling and chatting away cheerfully.

“John! Welcome back! We didn’t think we’d be seeing you!” one of them says, and John heads over, pulling Sherlock behind him.

“Hi!” John says cheerfully. “This is Sherlock!”

“Hello,” Sherlock says, trying to be polite.

The chef’s eyes widen. “A prince!” he says, eyeing the crown on Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he’s about to reply when John elbows him.

“Yes, a prince,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Can we have some snacks?”

“Of course,” the chef says, and then Sherlock and John giggle and giggle while the chefs hurriedly assemble a basket heaping with treats, trying desperately to stop, but every time John and Sherlock look at each other, they can’t help but giggle again. Finally, though, the chefs hand them the basket, covered by a thin towel so they can’t see what’s inside. John takes it, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“I’ll take it,” he says. “Your arm –”

“It’s fine,” John says. “Don’t worry. Come on!”

--

John’s room is big and warm, and a fire roars merrily in the hearth. Sherlock sits on the floor in front of the fireplace with John, and together, they eat the sweets from inside the basket. Sherlock marvels at each new taste, at the marzipan and the biscuits and the most delicious chocolate he’s ever had in his life. All the while, he and John talk and giggle, keeping warm by the fire while the snow continues outside.

“Must be nice to have a brother,” John says after a while. “I don’t have a brother or a sister or parents or anything, and there aren’t too many kids around here. I haven’t even had a friend before.”

“I haven’t had a friend, either,” Sherlock says. He feels something blossom in his chest, something warm and pleasant.

“But you have your brother,” John says.

Sherlock shakes his head. “He’s a git,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “All he cares about is school. He’s so boring. He yells at me like he’s my mum.”

“He sounds awful,” John agrees. “’Specially since he broke my arm.”

Sherlock nods eagerly; John is amazing, he thinks. He knows magic and he lives in a castle and he even hates Mycroft!

“But now we’re friends!” John says after a minute.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his jaw drops a little bit, excitement flooding through him. He feels as light as air, incandescent and happy. He nods again, a smile curling on his lips, his cheeks flushing with warmth.

“Oh, I have an idea!” John says. “I gave you the crown, so now you have to give me something, too, and that seals our friendship.”

“Oh, good idea,” Sherlock says in approval. He thinks making their friendship official is just what they should do. He holds his arms out and looks down at himself, and frowns. “Er – oh! I know!” He unties the belt of his dressing gown, then slides it out of the loops and gives it to John, who takes it with a grin.

“Perfect!” John says, and Sherlock smiles in agreement, watching as John carefully folds the belt and slides it into his pocket. “It’s our pact,” John adds.

Sherlock nods, fascinated by the way John puts the belt in his pocket, by the way John smiles and sits and talks and exists. “Can I come live with you?” Sherlock asks suddenly. “I want to do magic, too.”

“I don’t have a family, so I don’t know how it works, but wouldn’t you miss your mum and dad?” John asks.

Sherlock frowns, thinking about it. He thinks Mummy and Daddy might miss him and get sad. His shoulders fall.   “But –”

“Don’t worry,” John says. “I can come visit anytime!”

“That’s true,” Sherlock says, brightening as he remembers how quickly John took them here. He wonders if he can bring John to school, if he could have someone to sit with during lessons and giggle with, if he and John could go to his house and team up against Mycroft. He thinks he’s never been happier.

--

John and Sherlock spend the whole night talking and eating sweets by the fire, giggling and learning about each other and having fun, but as the night wears on, they begin to yawn more and more until John suggests maybe it’s time to sleep.

“I don’t want to go home,” Sherlock says, despair washing over him.

“I know,” John says. “This has been the best night I’ve ever had.”

“I want to stay longer,” Sherlock says.

“I know,” John says again. “I want you to, too. But your mum and dad would worry, don’t you think? It’s really getting late.”

Sherlock frowns. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

“Come on,” John says. He holds out his hand, and Sherlock takes it, and just like before, he suddenly finds himself in the ballroom, standing near his family’s Christmas tree. His house feels the same, and yet entirely different because he’s no longer the same Sherlock who stood here a few hours before; he has a friend, and he went somewhere unbelievable, and his heart clenches in sadness when he realizes their night is coming to an end.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock says.

“Don’t worry,” John says. “I can come back tomorrow!”

Sherlock frowns. The night had been magical and beautiful and somehow, he still can’t believe it’s happened. “But what if something happens? What if you turn back into a nutcracker?”

John frowns, too. “I don’t think – I mean, I think the spell is broken! I’m not a nutcracker anymore now!”

“I’ve never broken a magic spell before,” Sherlock says gravely. “I don’t know if it’s permanent.”

“Me either,” John says.

They look at each other in the light of the Christmas tree, their eyes wide. “You’re my best friend,” John whispers. “Even if I turn back into a nutcracker, I’m glad you could come to my house.”

Sherlock’s heart floods with warmth and he reaches out and hugs John, holding him close. John hugs him back tightly and they stay there beside the tree, the fairy lights casting soft patterns on their skin, clutching each other with their small hands, until finally, they pull apart.

“I want to sleep down here,” Sherlock says. “Will you stay until I sleep?”

John nods, and he lies down beside Sherlock on the floor. Sherlock takes off his crown and sets it beside him, and curls up on his side facing John, who is watching him fondly.

They talk some more, whispering to each other and giggling in the warm light of the Christmas tree, heads close together, warm and happy and full of sweets, until finally, as the sun begins to rise, their eyelids grow heavy and close.

--

Sherlock wakes to Mummy’s laughter, loud in his ears, as she shakes him roughly by the shoulders.

“John?” Sherlock mumbles.

“John?” Mummy asks. “Who’s that, darling? Did you have a nice dream?”

Sherlock blinks a few times, then sits up frantically, his eyes widening in horror when he sees that he’s clutching the nutcracker, wooden once more, in his arms.

“What are you doing down here, love? Aren’t you sore, sleeping on the floor like that?”

Sherlock looks around him, and he sees the crown, suddenly tiny like a mouse’s head. He picks it up and clutches it in his hand.

“Sherlock?” Mummy asks. “Are you alright? Did you have a nightmare?”

Sherlock’s lip trembles, but he fights against it valiantly. “Mummy, he was – my nutcracker, his name is John, he’s a boy, and he knows magic! He took me to his house and we ate sweets, and we beat the mouse king, Mummy, he had seven heads–”

“Sounds like you had quite a dream,” Mummy says, smoothing his hair away from his face.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he looks down at the nutcracker. Sticking out of the nutcracker’s pocket is a little corner of something dark blue, a raised piece of wood that hadn’t been there the day before. Around Sherlock’s waist, his dressing gown is missing its belt.

“No, Mummy, it really happened!” he says frantically, the clues adding up and telling him what he knows is true.

“You just woke up, Sherlock; it was a dream.”

Sherlock shakes his head, pulling himself violently away from Mummy’s touch. “No, it was real!” he says. He feels his lip quiver. “He was my friend, Mummy! You don’t understand! I went to his house! It was real! See, he put my belt in his pocket because we traded because we’re friends!” He holds the nutcracker out and points to his pocket, where the little blue square peeks out of his white trousers

Mummy clears her throat and shakes her head. “I think you had a very nice dream, dear. Why don’t we have some breakfast?”

Sherlock shakes his head, feeling his eyes well with tears. “I don’t want breakfast! I want John back!”

“Sherlock,” she says gently. “Sweetheart. You had a dream. It’s not real.”

Sherlock shakes his head again, a sob welling in his throat, clutching his nutcracker close.

“I told you you let him play too much,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock swivels his head to glare at him; he hadn’t even noticed his presence in his distress. “He could be smart, but you let him run wild. Just look at him; he really believes this happened.”

“It did!” Sherlock shouts. “Look at him! He has my belt in his pocket!”

Daddy crouches beside him and looks at the nutcracker. He reaches out to touch Sherlock’s forehead as if to test for a fever, but Sherlock pulls away, sniffling loudly.

“I’m not sick, Daddy! It really happened!” He feels panic rising inside him, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Sherlock, it was just a dream. There’s no belt in his pocket.”

“There is,” Sherlock says desperately. “See the corner peeking out?”

Sherlock’s father takes it in his hand and looks closely at the pocket. “It’s just a piece of wood, Sherlock, not the belt to your dressing gown.”

“It turned into wood when he turned back into a nutcracker!” Sherlock says frantically, his words interrupted by hiccoughs.

Daddy eyes him, then stands, still holding the nutcracker.

“Give him back!” Sherlock screams, standing up and reaching for him. Mummy grabs him and holds him, trying to rock him and shush him like he’s a little baby, but he twists and pushes in her arms. “Daddy, give him back!” he pleads.

“I think we’ll put him away for a little while,” Daddy says. “Besides, Uncle Augustus needs to fix him up, doesn't he? We’ll put him away until then.”

“No, Daddy, please!” Sherlock says desperately. “He’s my friend!”

“Maybe we should –” Mummy begins, smoothing Sherlock’s hair back and addressing Daddy, but Mycroft interrupts.

“He’s clearly hysterical,” Mycroft says. “None of us want to see him upset like this, but don’t you think it’s unhealthy he’s so attached to it all of a sudden?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mummy says, and Sherlock twists in her arms, finally breaking free of them, and he lunges for Daddy, but Mummy grabs him back just in time, as Daddy heads to their room, where Sherlock knows he will lock away the nutcracker.

Sherlock starts to cry, anguish rising fast in his chest. He remembers everything that happened so clearly; it had just been a few hours ago, after all, that he’d felt chocolate melt on his tongue, sat beside John, watched the firelight flicker over his skin, talked and talked and talked, more than he’s ever talked before. He thinks of how excited John was about his experiments, and how excited he was, in turn, about John’s studies in learning to be a soldier for the Land of Sweets. He thinks about how clever John is, and how interesting and kind and funny he is, and how he doesn't like Mycroft, either. His chin wobbles and Mummy tries to comfort him, but he pushes her arms away and runs, runs as fast as he can to his room, still clutching the little crown in his hand. He slams his door, locks it, and crawls into his bed, pulling the covers over his head and crying himself into a fitful sleep.

--

Sherlock wakes to Mummy stroking his hair, and he sniffles, turning away from her touch even though he wants the comfort. She’s a traitor, he thinks, letting Daddy take the nutcracker away like that. He doesn’t reply to her questions, pulls the covers higher over his head, and stays like that until she leaves him alone. Once the warmth of her hand is no longer stroking his back, he tells himself he doesn’t wish she had stayed.

--

“I know you think I’m horrible,” Mycroft says. He’s sitting on Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock is curled away from him, trying to ignore him. “But I constantly worry about you, Sherlock, all alone here while I’m at school. I know you don’t get along with the kids at school; I never did, either, but now I’m not even here at home to be with you.”

“I don’t need you here,” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. He feels a tear rolling over his nose, dripping down to pool on his pillow. “Why don’t you go back to school now?”

“School’s not open, Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft sighs. “It didn’t happen,” he tells him. “What you think happened is impossible.”

Sherlock turns over abruptly, staring at Mycroft in accusation. “You’re the one who told me, Mycroft! When you eliminate the impossible, whatever’s left, even if it’s improbable, must be true.”

“What you’re saying is not improbable,” Mycroft says gently. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s not!” Sherlock says. His voice is rising, and his breath is getting faster. “It happened! I want John! I want my nutcracker! I want him now! Please, he’s my friend! I love him!” His face screws up and he feels a sob rise up in his throat and he clutches at his duvet desperately, wishing John were there, even if he looked like a nutcracker instead of a boy; he just wants his friend back, and he’ll love him no matter what he looks like.

“Do you want to go see him? We can just look at him in Mummy’s room,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock nods, his chin quivering, and Mycroft stands, holding his hand out for Sherlock to take. Sherlock ignores it and crawls out of bed, making his way down the hall until he gets to Mummy’s room. He quietly pushes the door open, Mycroft behind him, and he rushes over to the shelf where he knows the nutcracker will be, but his eyes widen when he sees that it isn’t there. He looks up at Mycroft, who frowns. “Maybe Daddy took him to Uncle Augustus,” Mycroft says.

Mummy comes into the room. “I thought I heard you up and about,” she says. “Oh, Sherlock, love, come downstairs and let me give you something to eat, please,” she says, going to him and reaching for him.

“Where’s John?” he asks, voice tremulous, avoiding her arms.

“Hmm?”

“My nutcracker!” Sherlock says, pointing at the shelf.

Mummy frowns. “He was right there,” she says. “I don’t – that’s odd. Daddy’s been downstairs reading all day; he didn’t take him out, either.”

Sherlock frowns, but then his eyes widen. “The spell,” he says. “It broke and he’s gone home, but he’s coming back, you’ll see!”

Mummy kneels down. “There’s no spell, Sherlock,” she says firmly.

Sherlock shakes his head. “There is, Mummy! How else did he get out of here?”

“Daddy must have come back in to get him,” she says.

Sherlock shakes his head. “John’s coming back,” he says stubbornly.

“Darling, it’s just impossible. It’s like saying two plus two is three. It’s just not true,” she says.

“He’ll come back,” Sherlock says.

“Alright,” Mummy says. “Alright. Come downstairs and eat something, love.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock says, but he lets her lead him downstairs nonetheless.

--

Sherlock waits for John for days, but he doesn’t return. Mummy calls Uncle Augustus, who says he hasn’t seen the nutcracker, and also says he can’t remember whether or not he’d had a bit of blue in one of his pockets when Sherlock begs Mummy to ask him. Days turn into weeks turn into months, but still, there is no sign of John. Mummy and Daddy keep talking about getting Sherlock tested, saying there must be something wrong, so he stops talking about it, but at night, he holds the little crown in his hands, and remembers what it was like to have his very own friend.

--

Sherlock gets older, and he thinks he might be insane. He thinks about John all the time, and remembers that night with startling clarity. He knows, deep down, that it really happened, and yet as time goes on and it becomes more distant of a memory, he can’t help but question his own judgment: is he actually crazy? Does he suffer from delusions? He goes on medication for a while, but it doesn’t help; just makes him unable to think.

Eventually, he turns to drugs instead. They don’t help, either, but he thinks if he can’t trust his own mind, he might as well let it relax once in a while.

--

Sherlock is just out of rehab, and he’s refused his parents’ invitation to come home for Christmas. He hates Christmas; he always has, ever since that night with John that torments him even now. He sits in his new flat on Baker Street, alone and just barely able to pay the rent, miserable and cold and desperate for something to take his mind off the fact that it’s Christmas. It’s dark save for the fairy lights Mrs. Hudson has put on his mantle, and he scowls at them, trying desperately not to think of sitting in a little room inside a giant castle, eating sweets beside a fire.

He goes to the mantle and roots around frantically for his spare cigarettes, upturning the skull in his search, and his eyes widen when a familiar little metal crown skitters across the mantle. He’d forgotten he stowed it away in there, and he picks it up, holding it between his fingers and feeling a sense of melancholy wash over him that quickly turns to anger, anger that this stupid piece of metal exists, that this stupid fucking piece of metal has caused him anguish and caused him to doubt his mind, his most important asset, for years.

He stows it away in his pocket with shaking hands, pulls his coat on, and leaves, desperate for a hit. He thinks maybe he’ll go find his dealer, but then again, even dealers might take Christmas off.

Instead, he finds himself walking the city, mind spinning, eager to get rid of the pent up frustrations and emotions inside of him and barely taking in his surroundings. He lets his mind drift, lets himself remember that cursed Christmas he’s put himself into rehab trying to forget about.

Eventually, he finds himself in Trafalgar Square, standing in front of a giant Christmas tree. He looks up at it and thinks about John, then closes his eyes, and thinks for the millionth time in his life that there must be something profoundly wrong with him, something defective that makes him have this strange false memory, something even more defective that makes it matter so much to him, but then he feels the crown in his pocket, and he feels the usual conflict rise inside him; perhaps it’s not a false memory after all. Perhaps it’s true.

He’s tired, tired of searching for someone everyone says doesn’t exist, tired of wondering if he’s crazy, tired of being so lonely. He thinks maybe it’s time to give up.

And then he hears it. Something familiar and yet foreign, something that makes his heart beat faster and his eyes fly open, though he doesn’t dare turn towards the sound.

And then it happens again. A voice, soft and yet strong, questioning and yet sure, familiar and yet changed. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head swivels and his heart pounds and his palms sweat and the name rises unbidden to his tongue.   “John,” he says.

His hands are shaking and he stands rooted to the spot, wondering if this is finally his psychotic break.

John is no longer a little boy, but he still has the same blue eyes, the same sandy blonde hair. John rushes forward, as fast as he can with the cane in his hands, and they stare at each other for a moment, and then John reaches out and grabs him by the forearms, cane forgotten, and stares at him, his eyes searching his face. “It’s really you,” John says, his eyes wide, the lights of the tree reflecting on them in a way that makes Sherlock’s own eyes burn, and John’s voice is awed and something clicks inside of Sherlock and he knows that this is really happening, this is John, and then John is hugging him and Sherlock is desperately hugging him back, barely able to breathe, his mind spinning, panic clawing at him and mixing with shock and a profound sense of relief he doesn’t understand.

They pull apart and just stare at each other, and suddenly Sherlock is struck by the absurdity of the fact that he is standing next to such a huge tree with John; it feels, for a moment, like it did when they stood beside the tree in his ballroom so many years ago, and he looks up at the tree for a moment, then back at John, and John seems to know exactly what he’s just thought because suddenly they’re both giggling, the surreal quality of the moment washing over them, and Sherlock feels a lightness in his heart he doesn’t think he has felt since that one night, so many years ago.

Their giggles fade, though, and Sherlock feels a strange buzz like panic washing over him in their wake. He lets his eyes flicker over this man again, blinking rapidly all the while. When he speaks, his voice is shaking. “You – you’re still military, but you’re a - doctor? And you were in Afghanistan? But you – am I – it really happened, right? Your house? The Land of Sweets? Am I crazy? How –”

“It really happened,” John assures him, voice steady and strong. “It did. I’m so sorry – I tried so hard to go back to you –”

Sherlock feels a strange sensation sweep over him, a dizziness that makes him sway. “Can we sit?” he asks.

“Of course, of course,” John says, leading him over to a bench. They sit, their knees pressed together, bodies turned toward each other. Sherlock can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe this is real.

“Tell me everything,” Sherlock says. “Please.”

“That night, the spell was broken for only one night,” John says.   “I don’t know how – I think you started to break the spell by taking care of me and promising to fix me and coming back for me after you went to sleep. But in order to permanently break the spell, someone needed to love me even though I looked like an ugly nutcracker. Then I could be human again.”

“You weren’t ugly,” Sherlock protests.

John smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sherlock swallows, his heart beating fast.

“You broke the spell the next day. You must have, anyway, because I changed back into a boy, and you were the only one who could have done it. You must have loved me, even though I was a nutcracker. When you freed me, I woke up, but I was in someone’s bedroom and there was no sign of you.”

“Mummy’s,” Sherlock interrupts, eyes widening. His heart is beating fast; he rarely allows himself to think of this night, let alone speak of it, and yet here he is, discussing it with someone who not only believes him, but was there. John.

“I thought so, later on,” John says. “But at the time I couldn’t figure out where I was. But why –”

“They took you away from me. I told them – I told them about what happened, and they thought I was crazy – they – they still do, I still do –”

John reaches out and he puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “You’re not crazy,” he says.

Though the words are simple, they make something in Sherlock’s heart break open, make something inside him come alive. He feels warmth in his sinuses and he closes his eyes under the weight of John’s statement, breathing deeply for a minute, the words hitting him like a brick. He forces himself to breathe deeply, to save this reaction for later, to focus on John. John. He opens his eyes a moment later, and nods. “Continue,” he says desperately, voice ragged. “Please.”

“I woke up and I wanted to see you, but I went home first. I wanted to get a few things, you know, some other clothes, but the king found me. He said I couldn’t just keep going between your world and ours, and that if I went back, that would be the last time.” John clears his throat, looking up at the tree for a moment, then back at Sherlock. “I didn’t care; I didn’t have anything in that world. I decided to go to you, but when I tried to come back without you, I ended up in the wrong place. I ended up all alone in London, and I didn’t know how to find you and I didn’t have any magic anymore. It was scary; I couldn't tell anyone the truth about me because they would think I was crazy, so the police and the doctors thought I had amnesia and eventually someone adopted me.”

Sherlock swallows. He thinks of all the years they spent apart, all the years he thought he was crazy, all the years John suffered. He is burning with the desire to know about every minute John spent without him, to re-learn everything about him, to never let him out of his sight.

“And then I just lived my life,” John continues.   “And I – wait, hang on, how’d you know about Afghanistan?” John says.

Sherlock blinks, remembering what he’d said in the beginning of the conversation, and distractedly rattles off his deductions, eager to get back to John’s story, but John looks at him with wide eyes, his lips parted. “Brilliant,” John says. “That’s – you’re extraordinary.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat, feels an incandescent smile bloom on his face. “Are you hungry? I know a good Chinese place that’s sure to be open.”

“Starving,” John says.

--

Sherlock spends all of dinner in a state of delirious happiness. He’s sure he must be dreaming, and yet, John’s knee is warm against his own, John’s eating the same food he’s eating, John is present and real and not at all a figment of his imagination. Dinner has been like a dream; they are talking and laughing and it’s as if no time has passed at all, as if they are still nine years old and sitting in front of a fireplace in a grand castle, and yet it’s entirely different because Sherlock’s fingers itch with the desire to touch, his stomach flutters every time John smiles at him, he can’t stop staring, can’t stop admiring the way John’s entire face lights up when he smiles, the way the light reflects in his eyes, the way his hands curl around his silverware, the way he sits so tall and proud. Sometimes he catches John staring, too, and it makes his stomach twist pleasantly.

All too soon, though, the restaurant is empty, and it’s only them left behind. “Come over?” Sherlock asks, his heart beating fast. “My flat is only a few minutes away.”

“God yes,” John says immediately, not looking away from him, and Sherlock smiles wide, pleased, and off they go, walking down the streets of London together, and it feels right in a way Sherlock never could have dreamed. He feels as if he is whole once more, as if a part of him, a very essential part he’s been missing, is finally returned.

They go inside, and Sherlock is grateful Mrs. Hudson had strung up the hateful fairy lights on his mantle, and that he hadn’t torn them down in a fit of pique, because it makes his dreary flat seem a little more pleasant, a little more fitting of someone extraordinary like John crossing its threshold.  

“It’s not much,” Sherlock says, gesturing towards his messy sitting room.

“It’s perfect,” John says, sitting on the couch when Sherlock gestures him over.

“Do you want something to drink?” Sherlock asks, unaccountably nervous.

John shakes his head. “Not yet, it’s alright, come sit.”

Sherlock goes to sit beside him, but something occurs to him, and he smiles, reaching into his pocket before he sits. He pulls out the little crown, holding it out in the palm of his hand, looking at it in the dim glow of the fairy lights. “I still have this,” he says, voice soft. “All these years, I knew it was real, I knew you were real, but sometimes it was so hard to let myself believe it, and then I’d hold this, and I’d know I wasn’t crazy,” he says, his eyes trained on the little crown in his hand. “I can’t believe you’re real,” he adds, voice soft, barely a whisper.

John’s touches his knee and Sherlock looks up questioningly, then his heart beats faster and he stares with wide eyes as John reach into his pocket and pull out the belt of his old dressing gown, folded into a tiny square.

“You have it,” Sherlock breathes, eyes flickering between the sash and John’s face, taking in how worn the fabric is, how John has clearly kept it in his pocket and worried his thumb over it constantly for years.

John nods. “Yes,” he says, voice hushed. “Yes, of course I do.”

Sherlock smiles, unable to look away from John. His heart is bursting; there is something bubbling up in his chest he never dreamed he would be able to feel, and he is struck by how handsome John is, by absurd thoughts like soul mates and fate and destiny. His smile grows and carefully, he reaches out and picks up the sash, while John takes the crown. He examines it, holding the old fabric in his hand, his heart pounding, blood rushing through his veins, imagining John’s thumb stroking over the very same fabric, and then he smiles wetly at John, unashamed of the tears that are brimming in his eyes, especially when John looks similarly overcome. John takes the belt from his hands and sets it on the coffee table, and carefully places the little crown on top.

“I’ve searched for you for so long,” John says after a moment. Sherlock’s heart beats faster, and he’s unaware of doing so, but his body shifts closer to john.

“So have I,” Sherlock says, his voice hushed. “Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you.”

“I can’t believe I’ve finally found you,” John says. His voice chokes, and he looks up for a moment, blinking rapidly, then heaves a deep breath and looks back at Sherlock. “And look at you,” he says. “You’re – Christ, you’re incredible.”

Without thinking, Sherlock feels himself reaching for John’s hand. He takes it, and John’s fingers automatically twine through his. He swallows shakily, shifting closer to John. “So are you,” he says earnestly. “You are – you are a marvel, John. Oh god, I missed you,” he says. His voice is hardly more than a rush of air, but John hears him and reaches up, cupping Sherlock’s face with his free hand, and Sherlock closes his eyes, his breath catching on a sob that he swallows down, leaning into the touch and relishing it. They stay that way for a moment, fingers entwined, heads a hair’s breadth apart, knees pressed together, their breath shaky and overcome.

After a moment, Sherlock rubs his cheek against John’s hand, and John leans forward, lets his nose ghost alongside Sherlock’s. Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s breath whisper over his lips, and he lets his eyes open, just a fraction, and he can see John’s lips, soft and warm in the glow of the fairy lights, and his eyes flicker between John’s lips and eyes, and then their eyes meet and he lets his eyes close and then it happens so naturally, as naturally as breathing, and their lips meet in a gentle, sweet kiss, soft and tender and perfect and Sherlock feels his heart swell, feels John’s fingers squeeze his own, feels John’s thumb stroke his cheekbone.

They pull apart, and their eyes meet, and they smile, lips curving, cheeks flushed, and then they’re kissing again. Sherlock lets his free hand curl around John’s waist, their lips gently chasing each other’s, parting and then coming together again, gentle and yet earth-shattering, beautiful and warm and magical.

When the kiss ends, they stay close, breathing heavily, noses brushing, and Sherlock takes his hand away from John’s to caress his cheek instead.

“Come live with me,” Sherlock breathes. “Please, John.”

“Yes, of course, yes,” John says.

“I want –” Sherlock swallows, lets the feeling of John’s cheek beneath his fingertips, of John’s knee against his, of John’s breath against his lips, ground him. “Stay. Forever. Promise me.”

“Forever,” John murmurs. “I promise. Of course I promise.” He kisses him again, soft, sweet. “Sherlock,” he says reverently, as if the name itself is a prayer. “Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock leans forward, buries his face into John’s neck, wraps his arms around John’s back and pulls him close in a hug, feels John’s hands tightening on him. “Happy Christmas,” he says, warm and surrounded by John and, for the first time since he’s been nine years old, incandescently happy.