Sherlock bounced his leg in agitation, the hard wood of the bench he was seated on making his arse ache. The last time he'd been seated in a hallway like the one he was currently in, he had been fourteen years old and holding a rag to his bloodied nose, awaiting punishment from the headmaster. The teachers hadn't bothered sending him to the office after that incident, simply sending him home with a note for his parents to sign and to be added to his record of insolence and rule breaking.

Molly would be the first to point out that he had never let go of the indignities he felt he'd suffered at school. He liked to think he had moved beyond the reaction of being in an academic institution, attending parents' night for Clara's class and watching the fall play where she had been Flower #3 and looked like an angel, even if she had complained endlessly that her teacher refused to make the costume botanically accurate. Too smart for her own good at six years old, just like her father.

Which was why they were sitting outside of the head teacher's office.

He risked a glance over at Molly, who was bouncing five-month-old Elliott in her arms. The boy was the spitting image of his father, with dark curls already adorning his head and bright blue-green eyes peering out at the world with constant curiosity. At the moment, he was reaching for Molly's ponytail, his body bobbing up and down as he flexed his leg muscles.

For her part, Molly looked more nervous than upset. They'd never had any issues with Clara in school and she had been mortified to get the call.

The door to the office opened and the head teacher greeted them, beckoning them inside. When they were settled in the chairs in front of his desk, Elliott seated in his mother's lap and facing forward, head teacher Gordon looked at them empathetically.

"You have no idea why you're here, do you?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock said tetchily. "But I'm guessing you're about to tell us."

Gordon smiled and folded his hands on the desk.

"It's always easy to spot the parents who are first timers, the ones whose child never causes a ruckus," he said kindly. "In a way, I like these meetings the best. Usually means I won't have to see you again."

"What did she do?" Sherlock snapped, causing both Molly and Elliott to look at him.

"Sherlock," she scolded.

"Well," Gordon started with a bit of an amused smile. "It seems that Clara was informing the other students in her class that…Santa Claus does not exist."

Sherlock froze in his seat, his heart beat speeding up. He blinked, looking towards Molly and seeing her mouth agape, looking at the head teacher with barely contained horror. And anger.

"She did what?" Molly asked for clarification.

"Some of the children were writing up their Christmas lists and it seems she took it upon herself to educate her classmates on the historical myth of the jolly man with the beard," Gordon continued, clearly amused now. "And the pagan origins of the holiday."

Slowly, Molly's head turned and her piercing gaze settled on Sherlock. He looked away quickly, finding a small imperfection in the arm of his chair to rub at with his finger.

"Now, I know that all children find out eventually…some sooner than others. And I also know that Clara is an exceptional child and not one I worry about," Gordon told them. "So. I think we can come to the agreement that a few words will be spoken to her about discretion and sparing people's feelings and we'll call it forgotten. Yes?"

If it hadn't been for the daggers being sent his way from Molly's seat, Sherlock would have had a word or two to say to the head teacher about the fruitlessness of lying to children and "sparing feelings." But he was genuinely fearful that Molly would hand Elliott to Gordon and pummel him into the ground right there in the office. Instead, he put on his best make-nice smile and nodded.

"Of course," he said. "We'll have a little chat with her today."

"Excellent!" Gordon beamed. "Well then, I believe we are done. I do hope you have an enjoyable holiday. Mr. Holmes, Doctor Hooper."

He shook their hands as they stood and Sherlock escorted Molly out of the office. They walked down the hall towards Clara's classroom, passing shouting children and teachers as they ended classes for the day. Sherlock placed a hand at the small of Molly's back, leaning in close and opening his mouth to speak.

"Not one word," she ground out, adjusting Elliott in her arms. "Not a single, bloody word."

"Dad! Mum!"

Clara's distraught little voice greeted them when they reached her classroom. She bounded towards them, launching herself into Sherlock's arms.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice quavering as she buried her head in his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make them cry. I didn't, really."

"It's all right," Sherlock soothed, patting his daughter's back as he held her.

"I would go easy on her," Mrs. Sutherland advised, handing Clara's bookbag to Sherlock. "She's been hard enough on herself about it."

"Thank you, we will," Molly said with a smile, running a hand through Clara's curls.

"And she's quite the little historical expert," Mrs. Sutherland smiled. "It's nice to see, really."

Sherlock smiled back grimly, hitching his daughter onto his hip and leading his family out of the room.

By the time they reached their house, Clara's distress had been reduced but she was still hiccupping and wiping away lingering tears. Sherlock felt his heart tearing in two at the sight of his child so upset. He could remember many days in such a state when he was young, feeling betrayed by the world. For Clara, it was a first. She'd never seen a lick of trouble or dissatisfaction at school. Her behavior had been exemplary up until that day. He'd never expected the rush of empathy and protectiveness that fatherhood would bring and was still somewhat blindsided by the feelings when they surged. Watching his daughter learn such a harsh lesson from the world destroyed him in a way he never saw coming.

Molly led them all into the living room when they arrived home, placing Elliott into his rocker before joining Sherlock and Clara on the sofa. She looked expectantly at him.

He cleared his throat and met his daughter's eyes.

"Now, Clara, you're not in trouble," he said gently. "But…well, when I told you all of that about Saint Nicholas and the Christmas holidays, what I should have mentioned is that not every family tells their children the same thing."

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, her little brow turning down exactly as Molly's did when she was cross.

"Some families," he started, gritting his teeth a bit, "like to let their children believe that Santa Claus is real. Well, you've seen the movies."

"But that's lying," Clara said solemnly, turning to look up at Molly. "Lying's not good."

"No, it's not," Molly agreed. "But sometimes, darling, the good thing to do is to let people enjoy something that makes them happy. That's just being kind." She gave Sherlock a look when he huffed at her words. "Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock, that sometimes it's kinder to remain silent?"

"Sometimes," he said begrudgingly. "You can try that tomorrow at school, can't you?"

"I'm not going," Clara said, her bottom lip starting to quiver again. "They hate me."

Sherlock swallowed against the rush of memories those words evoked. Despite her annoyance at him, he felt Molly reach a hand behind Clara and rest it on his arm.

"I'm sure they don't," she said. "What if…what if you were to tell them that you're sorry for making them sad and that your family just does Christmas a little differently. And wish them a Happy Christmas. That's not lying, now, is it? And it's being kind."

Clara's face scrunched as she considered the option.

"Why don't you go into the playroom and think on it," Sherlock said, nodding towards the hall. "We'll bring you some cocoa and tea in a little while."

Seeming to accept this offer, Clara scooted off of the sofa and scurried from the room.

Tired of being ignored, Elliott started up a fuss from his rocker. Sherlock stood up and retrieved him, resting the baby's head against his shoulder and rubbing his back. When he looked at Molly, she seemed lost in thought, her gaze concentrated on the path Clara had taken out of the room.

"I should have told her how to handle things at school," he said apologetically. "I hadn't thought…it didn't occur to me."

"I know I agreed to telling her how Christmas really works, but Christ, Sherlock, did you need to give her such a superiority complex about it?"

"She didn't sound superior to me, Molly, she sounded like a little girl who wants to be told the truth. I never believed in Santa Claus when I was a child, I don't see what the problem is."

"You were schooled at home until you were ten!" Molly exclaimed, standing up to look at him. "There was no one to ruin the fun for!"

"My mother didn't lie to me and I don't intend to lie to my children either," he said firmly, holding Elliott closer. "It's not my fault other parents don't seem capable of the same."

Molly sighed, closing her eyes briefly and planting her hands on her hips.

"I know how you feel about it," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "We've both been lied to and lied more than either of us care for. And I love that you want to be so honest with her about the world. But…Sherlock, there's a lot of responsibility that comes with that choice."

He let her words roll around in his mind, knowing that she had a point but wanting to grasp it properly. So much of him wanted Clara to continue learning and growing as she had been, understanding a great deal beyond her years. Another part of him knew that she deserved a better childhood than he had experienced, one filled with a little wonder and ease in friendships. She had the warmth and charm to do better than he had.

He realized he'd been drifting when he looked down and saw Molly directly in front of him, her hands on his arms.

"You're a good dad, Sherlock," she told him, leaning up to place a kiss on his mouth and laughing when Elliott reached out to grab at her cheeks. She nuzzled the baby and settled against Sherlock's chest as he brought his free arm around her. "We're doing fine."

Molly balanced two trays of Christmas cookies in her hands and swept into the living room of the Watsons' home, gingerly stepping around the new set of building blocks Clara had scattered on the carpet. She smiled down at her daughter, who was busily creating some sort of horse drawn carriage, and set the cookies on the coffee table.

"Oh, thank you, Molly," Mary said gratefully from her place on the sofa, pushing against the cushions to be able to sit up and scoot closer to the table; not an easy feat considering her due date was only days away. John placed a hand on her back, helping her up. "God, I feel useless."

"I've been there," Molly sympathized, leaning down to give Elliott a big kiss on his cheek before sitting down next to Sherlock. "This handsome lad weighed in at eight and a half pounds, I thought I'd never see my feet again."

"We'd have been happy to have you to our house," Sherlock chimed in, reaching for his coffee and a sugar cookie slathered in frosting.

"Don't think I'd make it out the door, to be honest," Mary laughed. "I'd rather host."

"Looks like Miss Clara is enjoying her new toys," John said, plating a few cookies and handing them to his wife.

"Yeah," Clara said with a big grin. "Thank you! I love them."

"And what did Santa bring to your house this year?" Mary asked as she bit into a ginger snap.

Molly pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and waited, watching her daughter stop and look over her shoulder at her parents. Molly raised her eyebrow slightly, allowing the wheels to turn on their own. Clara looked back at Mary, her curls bouncing lightly with the movement.

"Um, a book on Egypt, a new jumper, a doll, and a chemistry set," she said politely, going back to her building as soon as she'd listed the items.

"You must have been a very good girl this year," John said amiably.

It wasn't until later in the evening when they were walking back to their home, Elliott bundled against Sherlock's chest and Clara riding piggyback on Molly, that the little girl spoke up.

"Mummy," she began slowly. "Is it okay?"

"Is what okay, my girl?"

"That Uncle Johnny and Aunt Mary don't know the truth about Santa Claus," Clara explained. "I mean, aren't they a little old? Should I have told them?"

Sherlock snorted uncontrollably and Molly reached out a hand to smack him, assuring Clara that he wasn't laughing at her and that she had behaved wonderfully at Christmas dinner. She seemed doubtful, but an extra cookie before bedtime smoothed the ruffled feathers between her and her father easily enough.

Molly took a bit more convincing, but once their children were sound asleep in their beds, Sherlock's kisses had her warming up to the idea of forgiving him. It was Christmas, after all.