Chapter One: The Case of the Unwanted Gifts

December 26 2012, 221B Baker Street

It was the day after Christmas, and Dr John Watson was getting ready to go out. With a strained smile, he pulled on his new gloves. Green, knitted gloves - adorned with an army of dementedly cheerful snowmen.

'You're wearing the gloves then, John.' Mrs Hudson said approvingly, setting down a mug of tea for Sherlock. The elderly landlady gave the doctor an affectionate smile, as he pulled the matching bobble hat over his light brown hair.

The residents of Baker Street were enjoying a quiet winter's evening together. In the warmth of a roaring fire, the freezing December darkness seemed a long way away.

Actually, John Watson and Mrs Hudson were enjoying a quiet winter's evening. Sherlock Holmes - Britain's only consulting detective - was feverishly attempting to replicate a prison assassination. Using the remains of their Christmas turkey.

'Of course he's wearing them.' said Sherlock, squinting at a thigh bone. 'His brown gloves are waiting to be washed - he last wore them when he and Cassandra walked her dog in Regent's Park.' Whilst speaking, the tall, straight-backed detective's attention remained fixed on the bone beneath his microscope.

Holmes continued, 'John foolishly wished to impress Cassandra, leading him to over-affectionately pet her Labrador, despite its eczema. Hence the fact that -,' he finally paused for breath, ' - he's wearing the cheap gloves you originally intended for your nephew.'

In the silence that followed, the ticking of the clock, and the whistling of the icy wind outside could be heard.

Oblivious to the sudden quiet, Holmes sipped his tea whilst scrutinising a small dent where his knife had grazed a bone. Light from the fire played across his face, highlighting his cheekbones.

'No, no, no.' the detective excitedly exclaimed. 'The perpetrator couldn't have used a folding blade! Look at the evidence.' he indicated the tableau of dismembered bird, and enough shiny, pointy things to earn him a five-year stretch in Pentonville Prison. Holmes was breathing rapidly, miniature tibia clutched triumphantly between his thumb and forefinger.

Watson and Mrs Hudson exchanged a long glance. The tick-tock of the clock could be heard once more. A log in the fireplace made a crackling, popping sound. Outside the warm living room, a gust of wind rattled the windowpanes.

'Why don't you take him with you love? It'll do him good to get out of the flat.' the landlady said, smiling encouragingly.

'Absolutely impossible, Mrs Hudson. I still have the switch-blades and all of the shivs to test,' Holmes answered, sitting down purposefully at his desk, 'and all my warm jumpers are in the wash,' he added, in a slightly sheepish tone of voice.

'That's no problem love,' Mrs Hudson replied, 'you can wear the one I gave you for Christmas. Here it is! It must have fallen into the bin by accident. I'll just take off the tags for you.'

Sherlock watched helplessly as his landlady bustled off towards the kitchen, cheerfully humming to herself.

'You did tell Mycroft you had plans tonight.' John challenged Sherlock.

'Yes, and I do. These are genuine prison shivs - it took my network three days to obtain them.' the detective surveyed the contraptions of melted toothbrush and razor blade with immense satisfaction.

'There we are. Lovely.' Mrs Hudson had returned, and was holding the red tartan garment up for inspection. Across the chest, two fluffy cats nuzzled in front of sign labelled: 'The North Pole'.

'Imogen will be there.' said Watson desperately, as he buttoned up his coat.

'Imogen?' Sherlock's head spun in his friend's direction. He locked his icy blue gaze onto the doctor.

'Imogen-the-psychiatric-nurse-who-claims-to-have-been-burgled-and-the-perpetrator-only-took-one-diamond-earring-of-a-pair?' Holmes asked in a single breath, with the gleam of intense curiosity shining in his face.

'The very same,' said Watson, without looking back, as he headed out the door.

Within a minute, Sherlock followed his friend out of the flat, hastily throwing his dark, heavy coat on, over the love-struck felines (who were, in his opinion, risking hypothermia).

Behind him, the door to 221B Baker Street slammed shut, leaving Mrs Hudson to sigh, as she began the washing up.

If you had been listening very carefully, you might have heard her muttering something to herself, above the clinking of the dishes: 'Landlady, not housekeeper, Sherlock ...'

Thirty seconds later, the detective appeared in the frozen street below, pulling up his coat collar to defend himself from the icy wind.

"Couldn't resist a mystery, then?" Watson asked, stepping out from the shadows beneath the awning of the shop next door. Strangely enough, Mrs Hudson's bobble hat had found its way into his coat pocket.

"There are no mysteries, John!" exclaimed Sherlock happily.

Side by side, in fluorescent glow of the street lights, the two men hurried towards Baker Street Station.

. . .

By the time Holmes and Watson arrived at St. John's Wood Station, a fine, powdery snow had coated the streets of London.

Warm light and laughter spilled from restaurants and bars as the two men passed, icy flakes falling gently into their hair.

If it weren't for the litter and the drunken club-goers, the scene would have resembled a Christmas card.

Suddenly a blur of white was hurtling through the air, eliciting an enraged shout from Dr Watson: 'Oi! Who threw that?' John span around, looking for his assailant.

A large snowball had bounced off his shoulder, rebounded off Sherlock, and was now lying at their feet amidst discarded cigarette butts and plastic pint glasses.

'Bloody kids.' said the doctor with annoyance, as he rubbed his shoulder. 'That really hurt, you know.'

With a last glance around him, Watson continued on towards the Three Gables Public House, nodding to the grumpy-looking bouncer who was attempting to warm his hands by blowing into them. Where he'd exhaled, a cloud of steam briefly hung in the cold night air. Before entering the pub, John looked around for Sherlock.

Holmes stood glued to the spot where the attack had occurred. His hands moved rapidly through the air in bizarre patterns, as he mumbled quietly to himself, eyes flickering to the windows above them and then back to the ground.

'Impact force. The impact force of a snowball thirteen centimetres in diameter propelled from a first floor window shouldn't have been enough to make you shout like that John - even though you have a low tolerance for pain.'

Sherlock dropped to the ground and picked up the projectile of packed snow, hastily brushing away its outer layers.

In the street, taxis beeped their horns. A motorcycle sped by with a roar of its engine. Women giggled, as they walked by tipsily, arm-in-arm. A number 82 bus set down its cargo of passengers with the hissing of hydraulics.

City life continued all around the tall, wild-eyed detective scratching away in the dirty snow.

Watson anxiously glanced at his watch, and then gave the bouncer an apologetic, and slightly embarrassed, look. 'I said we'd be there at seven, Sherlock. Can this wait until -'

'Yes! Oh yes, this is interesting.' Holmes sprang up from the ground, clutching the perfect, small sphere of ice that he'd extracted from the centre of the snowball. Frozen inside the glass-like sphere was a small square of paper, bearing a printed message. Sherlock's gaze moved rapidly across the looping script.

Then, without a backwards glance, the detective tossed the object to Watson and strolled into the pub.

'Well don't just stand there,' Holmes called over his shoulder, 'I want to see if Imogen's brought along her florist sister.'

'How did you know - ' began the doctor, feeling the cold from the ice penetrating his woollen gloves.

'Why else would only one earring be taken?' answered Sherlock, as the door closed behind him.

Standing in the street, freezing water soaking into Mrs Hudson's gloves, John read the square of paper:

I am always hungry,

I must always be fed,

The finger I touch,

Will soon turn red'

Shivering, he dropped the melting sphere into the gutter, and followed his friend into the noisy pub.

. . .

At the other end of Wellington Road from the Three Gables Pub, a hooded man stopped to catch his breath in a dark alleyway. He was wearing a leather jacket over a baggy sweatshirt, and a scarf covered most of his face. Bending over, he gulped in huge lung-fulls of cold air, and waited for the stitch in his side to subside.

Then he pulled out a phone, removed the leather glove from his right hand, and punched out a text message. When he'd finished, the screen of the cheap pay-as-you-go displayed only two words: 'It's done.'

With a last, nervous glance over his shoulder, the hooded man pressed 'Send'.

Then he walked back to the main road, and was soon lost in the London crowds.