Sherlock Babies Christmas!
Sherlock Babies Christmas!
by Pasadena Pycroft
“Wunth doo hab beliminated dee bimpobbable, butevah bemains, bust be buh bruth!” asserted Baby Sherlock.
“Dabbooo!” exclaimed Baby Watson.
All the Sherlock Babies were gathered around the towering tree that was actually glowing from the number of presents beneath it.
“Danta Baws ib BREALLLL!” Baby Sherlock cooed.
“You’ve done it again, Baby Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, scooping the toddler up with both hands to check his diaper. “Let’s just make sure you didn’t doo-doo it again.”
“DOO-DOO!” shouted Baby Moriarty. “DOO-DOO!”
Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “Nope, you’re good.”
She then put Baby Sherlock down, and picked up Baby Moriarty.
“Now this one . . . definitely some dark rumors gathering around you. I don’t think Santa put the coal in your stocking this year.”
Mrs. Hudson carried Baby Moriarty away to be changed.
“Dub air ub Lunbun be sweetub fob dat!” Baby Sherlock said as they watched Baby Moriarty disappear from the room.
“Oh, Babeeee Sherrrrlockkkk,” a girl voice called from the hall. But there was nobody there but a boy baby in a big coat, standing about three feet tall.
Baby Sherlock ignored her and went back to looking at the presents.
“You not fooling us!” Baby Mycroft shouted at the tall baby. “You play dress up e’ry day, Baby ‘rene!”
Baby Lestrade puckered his face and looked at the tall baby, then back to Baby Mycroft, then back to the tall baby again. He didn’t understand anything that was going on.
“You so dumb, Baby Lestrade,” Baby Mycroft told him.
“Bah-wah,” Baby Lestrade replied.
The wind outside howled like a child in the chimney.
No, that was actually a child in the chimney.
A glowing radiant child.
“I am the ghost of little Lucy Ferrier,” the ghost said, holding out her arms grandly as she floated out of the chimney. “I appear at Christmas in the form I first appeared, to bring buckwheat cakes, toasted on both sides, to all the children who read my tale and don’t just skip it to get back to the Sherlock Holmes parts.”
“Dab best barts,” Baby Sherlock added.
“I have brought you, Baby Mycroft, the buckwheat cakes,” ghost Lucy announced, “as you have read my tale, and can now tell the world.”
“I dub only one of us bat reads,” Baby Mycroft said.
A tall plate of buckwheat cakes, with melting butter and American maple syrup was placed before the always-hungry baby.
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Babies,” the ghost of Lucy Ferrier said, as she faded from view.
“Bancakes?” Baby Watson asked Baby Mycroft, eyes large and hopeful.
“Bancakes?” Baby Mary sidled up next to him Baby Watson and asked.
“Bancakes?” Baby Violet sidled up on the other side of Baby Watson and asked.
Baby Mycroft looked at the trio, then looked at his stack of buckwheat cakes. Then he looked at the three other babies, then he looked at the buckwheat cakes again.
“I wanna club with no talking,” Baby Mycroft sighed and handed each of them a single buckwheat cake.
“Mirable of Brissmuss!” Baby Sherlock announced. “Bubba bsharing food!”
“What have you babies gotten yourselves into now?!?” Mrs. Hudson shrieked from the doorway, Moriarty in a fresh diaper dangling from her hip.
Babies froze with buckwheat cakes drooping out of their syrup-smeared faces.
“MEBBY CRIBSMESS!” Baby Sherlock shouted.
And indeed it was. Indeed it was.
