Day 19: A Father’s Love

“I’ll take that, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, bless you, Davy.”

“Pardon me, gentlemen...”

“Careful now, Wig.”

“‘M all right!”

“This package is not labelled... Watson, you wrapped this?”

“Hmm? Oh, that is Colin’s.”

“Thank you.”

Watson sighed and threw himself down on the settee while Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and Davy Wiggins bustled around him. “This dinner grows larger and larger every year...”

“Because the Irregulars grow in number with each passing year,” Holmes said easily, finishing off the label for Colin’s gift and setting it with its fellows beneath the Christmas tree.

“At this rate, you shall have an organisation far exceeding what you or even Wiggins can handle,” Watson warned, massaging his bad shoulder.

Wiggins had been passing the settee with the goose, but he halted and bent down. “Then we’ll simply organise ourselves like the Yard,” he said in a stage whisper. Watson laughed, saw the obligatory scowl Holmes gave, and laughed even harder.

“Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, “how are we to fit thirty-seven boys in this room?”

“Obviously, we cannot,” Holmes replied airily. “We shall fit them all between the sitting room and my bedroom; that will do.”

“If you say so, sir.” Mrs. Hudson looked somewhat less than convinced.

“I do,” Holmes said firmly.

He was right. It ended up rather a tight fit, but they did manage.

Watson watched the boys eat and laugh, warm and able to fill their bellies for once. The Baker Street Irregulars were a diverse group in age, ethnicity, appearance, and personality. The Wiggins brothers were staunchly Anglo-Saxon, but Sean Youghal was purely Irish - and he was not the only Irish boy. Allen Rhys was one of the few Irregulars who were not street Arabs - more than that, he was actually the nephew of Lestrade’s wife. Mrs. Lestrade’s family was a rare blend of Welsh and Jewish. Jakez was Breton. Tommy was Italian. Nick was Russian.

Most of these boys were bound by poverty, and all by love. From the oldest to the youngest, they loved each other and they loved their father.

And their father loved them.

Watson saw it when he witnessed Holmes playing with the younger boys, boxing with the older ones, teaching them how to write, singing with the few songbirds of the group... He recalled the first time he’d seen Holmes embrace one of his Irregulars. Holmes was a man who cherished his privacy and his personal space, and Watson had expected his flat mate’s back to stiffen when that limping little scarecrow had thrown his arms around the detective. To Watson’s surprise, however, Holmes had returned the embrace fully.

Sherlock Holmes loved children, and they loved him. There was something timeless about his spirit, mature beyond his years and yet forever young, that endeared him to children, that allowed him to understand them, empathise with them. Watson had seen Holmes more at ease with children than with adults many times.

The gifts were practical, as they always were, but the boys were delighted. Watson laughed to see one of the recent recruits prance among his fellows, flinging his scarf this way and that. The doctor glanced up to see Holmes watching them all, his grey eyes soft and solemn. Wiggins rose from his position on the floor and stepped over one of the little ones to reach his mentor; he bent over and whispered something in Holmes’s ear. Holmes quirked a little smile, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. He navigated the moving sea of boys to reach his Stradivarius high on the bookcase, safe from grubby little hands.

The boys gamely tried to sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “Deck the Halls,” “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and “Silent Night.” Wiggins did his utmost to conduct them all with his strong tenor, but to no avail. The result was an amusing ramble of different accents and pitches, but Holmes never faltered, leading them through song after song.

Watson caught Holmes’s eye, and Holmes grinned. Watson smiled back at him.

The man who presented himself to the world as cold and unfeeling revealed himself to thirty-seven boys as a father who loved them deeply and thought the world of them. It was a legacy Watson knew would be remembered by the children of these children, and their children after them... And yet, Watson knew it was a legacy he could never publish.

Some things are too sacred to put into print.