My Full Confession

Two Peas In A Pod

The next morning did not offer any of the expected Christmas joy, in fact it seemed as though it was just like every other morning in the Holmes household. I crept downstairs in my pajamas, finding that the house was very cold, and that daddy was passed out on the kitchen table with his head fallen against a large mug of beer, the foam not yet having faded down into the rest of the glass. It was poured recently, then. The hearth was cold, yet I was too young to play with fire, and so I merely crept back upstairs, having hoped to find that Santa Clause had not forgotten our house again. Mother said it was because we were so far away from all of the other houses, that Santa didn't know where we lived. Mycroft said that she was being silly, and that it was because father had written a letter to Santa many years back, forbidding him from coming to the house. I felt as though the second option was much more believable, as most all of the other children at school had talked very highly of Santa Clause. When I arrived at the top of the stairs I didn't go to my bedroom, instead I went towards Mycroft's room to see if the door was unlocked. It was, thankfully, and when I slipped inside I found him awake, and sitting up on the edge of the bed with his head hung miserably between his hands. I was quiet, hanging on the door long enough until the hinges squeaked in protest, and it was then that he finally raised his head with something of surprise.
"William! I didn't hear you come in." he said hastily, rubbing his eyes so as to hide the tears that must've been falling. "Come here then." He insisted, holding out a hand. I closed the door quietly and scrambled up onto his lap, sitting with my head resting against his shoulder and feeling his chest inflate with heavy breaths.
"Why are you crying, Mycroft?" I asked nervously.
"Oh I'm not crying." He said, forcing out a little chuckle. "There's nothing to cry about."
"Are you sad that Santa didn't come again?" I whispered.
"Oh who needs Santa anyway, William? Look here, I bought you something." he said, reaching over to his bedside table and pulling out a little something wrapped in brown paper. I rearranged myself so as to take the gift, feeling a bit upset that I had not thought to get my brother anything. Then again, I hadn't any money to buy him something anyway. Surely he would understand that. And so I unwrapped the thing carefully, undoing the paper and letting a little locket fall out into my hand.
"I found that at the market, thought it might be something you would like. You've never remembered to be very sentimental, so I thought this might change that." Mycroft said with a teasing little poke, setting me down on the bed and fastening the locket around my neck.
"Thank you Mycroft!" I said excitedly, admiring the silver thing where it sat on my chest. I opened it to see there was a very tiny picture of Mycroft, something he must have done specially, and across was an empty space. Perhaps he had forgotten to put another picture inside.
"I thought you might want to ask your friend John for a picture." Mycroft suggested. "To fill it up." I nodded excitedly, snapping the locket shut and smiling widely at him.
"That's a good idea, Mycroft. Thank you." I said again, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing him very tightly, just so that I could show my appreciation. "I didn't get you anything." I added glumly, falling away from him and sitting quietly on the bed.
"Oh that's quite alright. I know you're a little low on funds." Mycroft said with a little chuckle.
"I have no money." I corrected, my brow flattening in concern, as if I thought he might have forgotten.
"Money is a precious thing, William. But family is much more important, friends too. The richest man in the world may be very poor, if he lives alone." Mycroft reminded me, to which I nodded quickly.
"So we really are rich, aren't we?" I decided.
"We are very rich, you and I. And mother too. We are all very fortunate to have each other, and to love each other." Mycroft assured. I nodded, leaning back upon his arm and thinking for a moment what my life would be like if I was rich. I would live in a nice house, perhaps I wouldn't be a farmer at all. We could live like Victor Trevor, the son of the Sherriff. We could have a large fancy house, with white pillars. We wouldn't own any livestock; instead we'd have housemaids and butlers. We would have a large Christmas tree every year, over flowing with wonderful presents. We would dress in style, and have a leather backpack like he did, and everyone would tip their hats when they walked by. I sighed heavily, trying not to let a frown overtake my face. It seemed as though the richest man in the world may be very rich in all sense of the word, considering the richest man I could think of never frowned. That Victor Trevor, he was always so irritatingly happy. The whole of Christmas day was spent in our rooms, other than when our mother called us down for meals. She had prepared a nice Christmas meal, yet with a very small ham in the middle, as the larger ones were much too expensive for our means. My father was sick again, as he wore his hat low over his eyes and growled whenever someone talked a little bit too loudly. Mycroft sat in front of me, keeping his posture perfect as he tried to engage our mother in casual conversation. None of us wanted to say the world Christmas, none of us wanted to acknowledge the fact that we should be having a wonderful day, instead of sitting miserably at our table under the reign of our drunkard father. Mother's eyes were very red, as if she too had been crying, and she slouched over the table with a very defeated look to her. I thanked her for the food she had made, and she gave me a little nod of thanks, yet our father said nothing. He remained quiet, eating tiny bites of food before pushing it away and falling back into his chair miserably. I never pitied him when he fell into this state, I knew enough to know that the beer was the problem, and that when he drank too much of it he fell into this sort of sickness. He always did it to himself, and it was refreshing to watch him suffer. It was refreshing, so long as he kept his pain to himself and didn't deal it out to us as well. And yet no matter the state we had all fallen to that day, there was still hope on the horizon. There was a glimmer of light, one which came for me with a fierce knocking on the door. We had set to doing the dishes and watching the snow as it fell onto the mounds which had been around since our first snow in early November. The wind howled dangerously, and the trees which had lost all of their leaves were being blown this way and that by the horrible gale. The fields were barren, and you could see for miles. I was standing next to Mycroft with a dish rag, receiving the dishes that he washed and drying them off for my mother to put away in the cabinets. Father had fallen asleep on the couch, listening to the radio. Every time that happens I think he is dead, for he hardly ever breaths when he's sick like this. When I was very little it used to frighten me. Now I hope for it, I hope that he takes his last breath and leaves us to enjoy our lives as we were supposed to. It was just when Mycroft had handed me the last plate that the knocking came, a hurried little patter against the door. At first I was afraid, for no one ever came to our door, and no one ever left their houses in a storm such as this. Perhaps it was just the wind, blowing something against the wood, or an animal who had escaped? My mother hurried towards the door, so as to open it and admit any visitor who might have been waiting. She opened the door and I was able to peer out, seeing none other than John Watson standing there. I was so excited I almost cried out, yet the memory of my father's nap dulled my squeal down to a little whimper, and I rushed to the door in excitement. John was looking very small compared to my mother, and especially wide as he was wrapped in just about every coat he could get his hands on. His face was covered with a scarf, and his head was covered with a nice woolen hat, yet I could see his eyes well enough to know that it was him. Without any hesitation I ran and gave him a great big hug, to which I could hear my mother chuckling.
"Merry Christmas Sherlock!" John said excitedly, hugging me back with just as much enthusiasm.
"Sherlock? Since when were you called Sherlock?" Mycroft wondered, walking over to join the little party at the door. My mother closed the door so as to keep all of the cold air outside, yet I hadn't noticed the cold, not in the slightest.
"We decided that William was too boring a name." I admitted finally.
"Did you now?" My mother chuckled. "Well I suppose that's a matter of opinion. You're named after your grandfather, and he certainly wasn't a boring man."
"If you don't like it I could always change back, we just..."
"It's fine, William. So long as we're still allowed to call you that." Mycroft assured, stepping in so as to protect my fragile little heart. I nodded, leaning into John happily and letting his hand find mine.
"And this is your friend, yes? John?" Mycroft presumed. I nodded again, letting John take off his hat and scarf so as to reveal his face, red with the cold yet smiling very widely.
"Yes sir!" he agreed happily.
"I've heard a lot about you, John. You seemed to be a very nice young man." Mycroft said, holding out a hand for the boy to shake.
"I'd like to think so, sir." He agreed, to which my mother couldn't help but laugh.
"That's Mycroft, my brother. And this is my mother." I said, pointing around to my family members so that he could meet them properly.
"Do you live in the farm house across the fields?" My mother asked, obviously recognizing him. Over the summer months she occasionally visited our neighbors, sometimes to sell them milk (as they had no cows of their own) and other times to borrow things which she could not get to the store to buy. Their farm was equally poor; however they seemed to be much happier than we were.
"Yes ma'am. I walked here." John announced proudly.
"Surely not in this storm? Oh you must be freezing! Come inside and warm up, yet be very quiet, as my husband is sleeping in the other room." Mrs. Holmes suggested, ushering John inside. He nodded, removing all of his coats and hanging each one of them on a separate hook, taking up the entire coat rack all by himself. He then walked inside and very thankfully received a mug of tea, sitting down at the table and waving his feet through the air. I sat next to him, watching him as he drank his tea with mesmerized eyes, wondering if it was really him or if boredom had overcome my concept of reality. It was the best Christmas to date, that was for sure.
"Why'd you come over?" I asked, feeling as though I should question his motives. Then again, he seemed to be here just because he was my friend. That may actually be what friends do these days.
"Because I wanted to give you a present, of course." He said with a little laugh, as if my questions were actually entertaining to him. I blinked with some surprise, not having expected him to have gotten me anything.
"John I haven't gotten you anything." I said worriedly.
"That's alright; it's nothing special." John assured. "Actually, I made it myself." From his pocket he unearthed two little stick figures, created this time permanently. They were stuck together with glue, and they were very obviously the same sort of concept he had been going for on the playground. They were small, with their hands overlapping. I took it gently, smiling at him and glowing with something I had never felt before. It was something very close to happiness, yet something much more breathtaking than that. Something much more overwhelming.
"It's beautiful." I said quietly. "Thank you!"
"How sweet is that?" My mother commented, leaning against the kitchen counter and watching as we exchanged another hug.
"They're two peas in a pod." Mycroft agreed, looking down upon us with something of a hint of jealousy. Almost as if he wished that he could have found a friend like I had, one who was sweeter than Victor Trevor. Someone who was genuine, one who was very close to being a soulmate.