Sherlock sneaks his hand into Mycroft’s.

“Who are you?” asks Mycroft. His voice cracks slightly, but it’s not fear (or at least, not all fear); his voice is breaking. It’s a permanent embarrassment.

The – for want of a better word, man – in front of them is a strange vision. The main impression he gives is one of thinness. His trouserlegs, his boots, his sleeves – everywhere has an empty look about it, apart from his stomach, which is bulging rather lopsidedly over his belt.

That will be the pillow.

The face – the face – Mycroft feels his brain trying to shy away, to run from what it sees. He frowns and redoubles his fierce concentration. The hood is empty. From its depths wink two blue lights, pinprick remnants of collapsing supernovae.

The costume is red. Not the bright, comforting, postbox red of the jolly figure from the Christmas cards. This red is the dark, visceral splash of hot blood spilled on snow. The boots are worn, strapped, muddied. The boots of a hunter.

“You’re not Father Christmas,” says Sherlock.

“You see the eyes?” Mycroft asks him, never taking his own gaze from the man in front of them.

“Yes,” lisps Sherlock. “He doesn’t want us to see them though.”

Mycroft squeezes his hand. “Who are you?” he repeats.

I AM – the stranger looks at them for a moment. I AM THE HOGFATHER, he finishes.

“And what is that?” asks Sherlock, as a small creature, also dressed in the decidedly un-jolly red costume, jumps from the Hogfather’s boot to the floor. It scampers over to Redbeard and holds out a tiny, skeletal paw for him to sniff. It’s carrying a sack on its back. “Mycroft – Mycroft, it’s a rat skeleton!” Sherlock, alarmed, tightens his hand on Redbeard’s collar, ready to pull him back. Redbeard, however, sniffs the rat’s skeletal paw and then shoves his muzzle forward to lick its face. The rat falls onto its back, giggling in high-pitched squeaks.

Both Holmes boys look back to the Hogfather, eyes wide and sharp.

“What have you done with Father Christmas?” asks Sherlock, accusingly.

“We know he doesn’t exist,” says Mycroft, patronisingly. “So why are you here?”

HE DOES EXIST. DO NOT START THAT PLEASE, says the Hogfather. HE HAS HAD – for a moment there is a suspicion of shifty guilt about the body language of the tall, thin stranger – A BIT OF AN ACCIDENT. I AM COVERING HIS SHIFT THIS YEAR.

“So you’re bringing all the presents?” asks Sherlock, unable to keep a bit of eagerness out of his voice.

YES.

“You can’t. There isn’t time to deliver to everyone in the world in one night. We worked it out,” says Mycroft.

IT DEPENDS IF I WASTE TIME ANSWERING NOSY LITTLE BOYS’ QUESTIONS, says the Hogfather.

There is a crunch from the floor. “Oh,” says Sherlock. All three of them look down, fearing the worst has befallen the small walking rat skeleton. Instead, they see that it is stroking Redbeard’s ear and feeding him Bonio biscuits from the sack. Redbeard wuffs happily.

A DOG, says the Hogfather.

“My dog,” corrects Sherlock. “Redbeard. He’s mine,” he adds, just to make sure it’s clear.

I SEE. YOU DO NOT HAVE A CAT? asks the Hogfather, a little hopefully.

“No,” says Mycroft regretfully. “We had the choice, but Sherlock got the main vote because I’m away at school most of the time.”

OH. YOU HAD A CHOICE, AND YOU CHOSE A DOG. The Hogfather’s hood is very definitely focused on Sherlock now. HOW STRANGE.

“It’s not strange,” returns Sherlock crossly. “He’s the best dog in the world.”

I SEE, says the Hogfather again. SO HAVE YOU BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE THIS YEAR?

Sherlock and Mycroft look at one another. That voice really does sound like the clang of a mausoleum door at midnight.

“Nice,” they say in unison.

The Hogfather pulls two sheets of paper out of his pocket. NOW, I SEE THAT YOU – he points a finger of bone at Mycroft – WISHED FOR A LIBRARY THIS YEAR. AND THAT YOU – the terrible digit flicks to Sherlock – WANT A VIOLIN. WELL THEN.

There is a pause.

“Where are the presents?” asks Sherlock.

YOU WILL SEE. IN THE MORNING.

“It’s already the morning,” mutters Sherlock mutinously. Mycroft, watching the winking of those dead star eyes, squeezes his hand again.

The Hogfather sighs as he turns to look at the fireplace again. It sounds like the dry eddies of dust inside a crypt. RIGHT, TIME TO CLIMB BACK UP, he says.

“Don’t you want your mince pies and brandy?” asks Sherlock.

The soughing of a dry and terrible chuckle echoes through the room. I HAVE NOWHERE TO PUT THEM, BOY. AND ALBERT HAS HAD QUITE ENOUGH.

Sherlock does not know what to say.

“You know,” says Mycroft as the Hogfather sighs again, “we could just let you out of the front door. You can climb up to the roof using the drainpipe. It’s really easy. Much easier than the chimney.”

Slowly, the Hogfather turns to look at him. Then his extremely thin shoulders slump slightly. YES. THANK YOU.

At the front door, the Holmes brothers watch with wide eyes as an enormous sleigh pulled by snorting, stinking hogs descends to pick up the Hogfather.

“Where’s ther brandy then?” slurs the shrivelled man dressed in a terribly disreputable impression of an elf costume. “An’ me pies.”

NONE TO BE FOUND HERE, I AM AFRAID ALBERT, returns the Hogfather.

“Thash terr’ble that is,” says the little man, turning round to glare at Mycroft, Sherlock and Redbeard. “I ’ope you din’t give them any presents.”

WE SHALL SEE, says the Hogfather, turning in his seat to regard the boys. Mycroft could swear that one of the supernova pinpricks winks out, for just a second. AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT, shouts the Hogfather, as he snaps the reins. The sleigh rises high, silhouetted against the moon.

The Holmes boys stand hand in hand, in silence.

“Do you want a mince pie?” asks Mycroft.