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John picked up the package that Mrs. Hudson had laid on the table. It was a small, oblong box, wrapped in brown paper. His name and address were marked in thick, black marker. The top of the box was festooned with many, many United States stamps. He frowned, thoughtfully, and looked closer at the return address and the shipping label. It was addressed to 3 Continents Watson and the return address was somewhere in Nevada.
He didn’t know anyone in Nevada. At least he didn’t think so. There had been a lot of US GIs in Camp Bastion. And he had been friends with a few, enough to drink and play cards with.
He turned the package over in his hands. According to the label, which had been properly purchased at a post office, it weighed less than a pound. The stamps that had to easily be worth 10 pounds were apparently just stuck on to make the package colorful. Who did he know who would do that? Who did he know that referred to him by that nickname. The one that a few of the men gave him after going to (name of town) on leave that one time. Bill, maybe.
Using the keys still in his pocket as a sharp edge he slit the packing tape and opened the box. Inside was a holiday card and a twisted mass of cloth. He put the box down on the table and opened the card envelope. The card was a reproduction of a still from a holiday movie he remembered watching when he was a child (look up British holiday movies from the 1970s). A messy scrawl that started with his name filled much of the inside card. ‘Johnny, I read on the blog that you are doing well. You have readers over here in the States, my Allison loves to read about you and the mad detective. Enclosed is our elf, Allison made it. I hope you can use it to drive your mad detective even crazier, and of course, write about it on the blog. I have a bet going with Allison that you will, she thinks you won’t. Merry Christmas, Bill.’
John smiled at the card. He was right, it was Bill. Bill the one who had pulled him out of danger when he’d been shot. His wife had been named Allison; he’d spoken to her once when Bill had taken too big a bite just as the phone rang. But what was meant by elf?
A folded piece of paper was still in the envelope. Unfolding it he read, ‘Hello, I am the Elf on the Shelf and I am Santa’s secret weapon. I move secretly at night and get into all sorts of trouble. Do you have a little boy or girl that I could play with? It could be a Christmas game!’ Turning it over he read, in Bill’s messy handwriting, ‘I will need a name. And some clothes.’
He cocked a skeptical eye at the bundle of cloth still in the box. Lifting it out carefully he gave it a little shake. An arm and a leg shook free. As advertised, they were naked. He opened up the rest of the cloth. There, wrapped in the rest of the cloth, not unlike swaddling clothes, was a pale doll.
It had dark yarn that was twisted into curls for hair, a thin face, pointed chin and a scowl. Its eyes were blue/gray/green and its limbs were thin and naked. He took a moment and gave thanks that the doll was not anatomically correct. Who knew what the Americans were up to.
Wrapping the doll back up in the cloth, John picked up the discarded box and the card. It would not do to leave clues around for Sherlock, whenever he got home. Putting it on the stair for now he took the doll downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. She could sew, he knew, or may know where to get dolly clothes.
John and Mrs. Hudson had a fantastic time outfitting the little elf. They gave it a long dark coat with a red buttonhole, a dark outfit not unlike a suit, and a blue scarf around its neck. The crowning part was the deerstalker they placed on its head.
A small bet was placed between the two of them as they were posing it for its first night in the flat. They bet dish duty on how long it would take Sherlock to realize there was simulacrum of him in the flat and that it moved. Still giggling, John dimmed the lights and took the packaging up to his bedroom on the way to bed. This was going to be fun; he would have to write Bill and Allison and thank them.
Sherlock was in rare form four days later. He raged in the kitchen, while glaring at his brother who was seated in John’s chair. He banged down a stack of petri dishes as he ranted at his brother. “And where did the money go?”
Mycroft gazed at him, a sardonic twist to his mouth as something caught his eye from across the room. “Hmm?” he replied, tilting his head to get a better look at the small doll.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Ahem, forgive me, brother mine. I was just contemplating something else.”
Sherlock peered at his brother suspiciously and then followed his gaze to the mantelpiece. There, arrayed against the knife caught mail, was a small black haired figure.
In a black coat.
With a purple shirt.
In a few steps Sherlock was at the mantel. He stared at the doll in his likeness, tilting his head not unlike his brother. He hissed, “What is that?”
Mycroft stood and, smoothing out the imaginary creases on his trousers, stepped closer to his brother. He peered at the doll and huffed out a breath, a slight smile playing on his lips. “I believe that is what is called an elf on the shelf in America. A way to keep children amused prior to Father Christmas coming. Ghastly thing.” He turned his head and looked at his brother. “Of course, since it’s you, I think it should be called the Grumpy Elf.”
Sherlock stared in silence, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“Speechless, brother mine?”