Quote:
At some point, you notice a present nestled somewhere in your house that you've never seen before. Maybe it's somewhere obvious, maybe it's sitting on a window sill or hidden in the back of your closet. It's decorated very festively, with a cursive script letting you know that the present's owner is none other than yourself but there's no sender listed on the tag. Who in the world could have put it there?

Opening the present reveals an item that you've sorely wanted for some time now but haven't been able to afford or haven't allowed yourself the pleasure of buying. The trouble is that you've never told a soul about wanting it.

Who could have known? And how did it get there?

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Having the day to himself was actually pretty nice, Richard had to admit. No obligations, no family gatherings, no anything. He loved his family, he did, but there were a lot of them and holidays at the studio meant that he was getting people-d out very quickly and very easily. His family was boisterous, and that was both a blessing and a curse. So he walked through the house, humming quietly to himself with a mug of his favourite hot cocoa in his hands. Ignacio had bought it for him for the holidays, and it was quite possibly the best thing ever invented. Gingerbread, but a little more gingery than normal, with some sweet undertones that you might find in chocolate moreso than anything else. There was even a dollop of whipped cream melting into the hot liquid, not to mention some good, fat marshmallows.

Yes, amazing.

Richard continued to hum to himself as he made his way back to the room he shared with Ignacio. It also worked as a studio of a sort when needed, and he had a bunch of papers spread out on the floor from just that. Scribbles here, scribbles there, it was clear that he'd been spending a ridiculous amount of time developing this new routine. It was important, though, important enough that Richard had started losing sleep over it and stressing more than a little bit.

It was important. National competition season was coming up, and Campana relied on the awards to bolster and maintain its reputation as a good dance studio. There were some professionals he and his mother had trained, but word-of-mouth only went so far. Sometimes, you really just needed something shiny.

Something shiny in one of the side rooms caught his attention, and he went in to look at it. Wrapped in silvery paper, there was an object just sitting there. Curious, he picked it up and was surprised to see his name written there. How had he missed this one? How long had it been there? ... Was it okay if he went ahead and opened it? Well, it was addressed to him, wasn't it?

Bemused, he set his hot cocoa down--magical though it was--and picked up the object. Carefully tearing at the paper, he realized it was a book. Tearing more at the paper, he realised it was a very big book. A very big, heavy, hardbound book.

...The complete anthology of Sherlock Holmes.

In hardback.

Limited edition.

He stared at it in wonder. They were expensive and hard to obtain, and he'd really wanted one but couldn't justify paying the price tag on it. He already had most of the individual stories, but he'd been a Holmes fan his whole life, and a formal anthology of all of them, with illustrations, had been so incredibly tempting.

He'd waffled over it for days before finally deciding not to get it. It was a lot of money after all. His job paid well, but not that well.

Richard tucked the considerable tome under his arm, snagged his cocoa, and moved back for the bedroom again. ...The routine might have to wait. He had a book to read.

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