Despite the obstacles that February's family presented, this Christmas, when compared to ones before, had been wonderful. There was a variety of factors, one being his recent marriage to February Lynch, and the other being that office heads had the privilege of holidays off—but that was beside the point.

Snow didn't fall on the Isle of Sheppey, so instead of a white Christmas they'd been presented with a frosty morning and a sky full of stars the previous night. It was silent. It was peaceful. It was private. There was none of the London bustle; no hoofbeats disturbing him as he tried to sleep, and no festive children dashing through the streets singing carols. That, combined with the absent feeling of loneliness he often felt every Christmas morning, meant he was much, much happier.

(Apart from Mrs. Harding who lived nearby and showered both him and his wife with far too many crisp cookies in the days leading up to Christmas morning. Not that he was complaining.)

The movement at his side stirred him from his sleep, but he didn't open his eyes. He pulled her closer, one hand finding the familiar blue ribbon that held her waves during her slumber, and he let out soft hum. "Merry Christmas, Febs," he murmured.

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