The Gift of Christmas
Part One: Christmas 1881
The problem with Mycroft is that he always believes he is right.
I grant that he may my superior in the art of observation and deduction, but in the art of common sense, I fear he is somewhat lacking. Because a thing is thus in theory does not make it so in practice. Cold logic at times can be no substitute for a warm heart, especially on those occasions when we find ourselves at odds with the multitude of the population. I refer, of course, in this respect to our attitudes to the celebration of Christmas.
Left to my own inclination, I should take to my bed on Christmas Eve and stay there until the midnight bells have chimed away Boxing Day. Good King Wenceslas may have looked out on the Feast of Stephen, but the weather tends to be inclement at this time of year and those foolhardy enough to be throwing open their windows risk a lungful of freezing fog followed by rampant bronchitis. Pull down the blinds, throw the coals on the fire and bask in sub-tropical temperatures. Failing that, a copious supply of tobacco and a blanket never fails to satisfy.
Had we been blessed with a father who was as solicitous of his pounds as he was his comforts, I should have been able to pass a tolerable Christmas alone. However, finding the kitty empty, I was forced in the early part of this year to seek alternative accommodation. Baker Street, whilst being neither wholly unrespectable nor entirely fashionable, had one redeeming feature: cheapness of rent.
I am told that Mr William Pitt the Younger and that doyenne of the stage, Mrs Sarah Siddons, once lived somewhere in this same street – although I have my doubts that they ever set foot in this house. If they had, I am certain the rent would have been doubled and the landlady would have plied us with tales about 'that being her chair, you know' or 'he died in that bed, he did', as if sleeping on a dead man's mattress is something to be recommended.
I say 'us' because I found myself in the embarrassing situation of needing assistance with the rent, meagre though it was. I am told this is the popular thing to do in these modern times of rising prices and overcrowding. In truth, I had my misgivings. I cherish my privacy and my space. I have never had to share anything, not even with my brother, who being my elder was grown up and gone before I ever understood what being underfoot meant.
As it happened, I consider myself fortunate. Watson has proved to an amiable fellow, who has showed a pleasing interest in my work. There was even talk of his making my merits known to the public, an effort which I suppose I should find complimentary, but which rather fills me with a sense of dread.
One hears these tales of fellows who were misfortunate enough to get their names in the papers plagued for the rest of their lives by fawning women and admiring gentlemen, wishing by association to acquire that glow of fame as if it were some sort of exotic disease, sought by many and caught by a rare few in their lifetimes and even more in their deaths.
Well, we shall see. I predict limited interest, which would suit me well enough, for there is danger in over-exposure. I am even told now that Shakespeare has become too famous for his own good, so that his very existence is questioned. It is to be expected, for it is the nature of mankind to doubt genius. Should my fame spread too far and wide, I suspect the same fate shall befall me.
I mention this because it is part and parcel of the same problem. We rub along so comfortably, me with my work and Watson with his rumblings, that I am loath to disturb the equilibrium. Could I find another so tolerable and tolerant? I doubt it. We have adjusted to each other's 'eccentricities' well enough, although for my part I am heartily glad that dog of his with its infernal barking had the good grace to get itself run over and thus ended all of our misery.
For myself, this has meant that I have been forced to think beyond my own limited horizons. There was a time when I would have happily whiled away the small hours with some sweet or sorrowful melody, but now I am mindful that others are trying to sleep. I keep the smells to a minimum and my vices to myself. Overall, I fear I have become domesticated.
From here, it can only lead to thoughts of one's own hearth and the accoutrements of wife and children that goes with it. This condition I am determined to resist with every ounce of my being. To keep the bedevilment from my door, I surround myself with mess and every now and then allow my darker moods to get the better of me. As rebellions go, it is small but significant, keeping the spectre of eligibility from my door without driving a wedge between myself and my fellow lodger.
For this reason, I never expected so minor an inconvenience as Christmas to cause such ripples in our otherwise harmonious existence. I noticed the warning signs at the beginning of December, when there came talk of how well dressed a home always appears with evergreens. I was slow to dismiss such notions at the time, but now it seems, I did so at my peril.
Unbeknownst to me, my apathy was taken as tacit approval. Before I knew what was happening, I was knee-deep in holly, ivy, rosemary and pine. A large piece of berry-decked mistletoe appeared above the sitting room door, and there was talk of Christmas cards and presents and the merits of turkey over goose. My reluctance to cause offence had unknowingly unleashed a Christmas fiend.
This then was the reason for my flight to the Diogenes Club on a chill Christmas Eve in 1881 to consult my brother over this unexpected development. I needed advice, and, delicate matter that it was, I reasoned that it was best kept within the family. In any case, it had to be Mycroft; after all, who else would either sympathise or understand my particular problem?
Brotherly advice to follow in Part Two!