That's His Funeral

An Oliver Twist (with Oliver! References) and A Christmas Carol Crossover

A/N: At last, this idea has come to fruition! Huzzah for long boring car journeys only relieved by listening to ones multiple musical soundtracks and thinking up fanfiction ideas (yes, I am that sad).

This is a one-shot for now but who knows; if future ideas present themselves (or are suggested by readers) I'll be sure to add more small stories or chapters. Until then, here's hoping you enjoy this. =)

Sorry it's a tad Christmassy before Christmas…-pokes title of latter novel- Can I help it? XD

Also, I changed poor Marley's death date to a year earlier to inkeep with the events of Oliver Twist (1835 instead of 1836). Sorry Jacob, please forgive me. D: And another thing; I made up the Sowerberry's address. I hope they forgive me too. Yes I do realize I'm asking forgiveness from fictional characters…I do this frequently. XD

As bitter and chilling a winter's evening as could be expected in London, with fog oozing its way into the office at every chink and keyhole. The shabby room was lit only by two candles, one resting precariously on the desk of Ebenezer Scrooge, the other on the desk of his clerk.

Scrooge looked up from his ledger and regarded the street outside with disgust. The fog was so dense that the buildings opposite appeared to have vanished and yet he could clearly see the gaily clad holiday revelers strolling up and down outside his window, chattering and laughing, smiling despite the cold that gnawed their bones.

With a dismissive shake of his head, Scrooge returned to his work, the bold black print on the yellowing paper in stark contrast to the vibrant reds and greens festooned at all corners outside. He had no idea what they were all getting so worked up about; it was several days till Christmas! No need to be so cheerful at this time, surely.

The clock knelled in the gruff old steeple close by the office, indicating that it was closing time. Scrooge dismissed Cratchit, his clerk, with a growl before returning to his desk and beginning to rummage in one of the drawers for this morning's newspaper which, he decided, he now had time to read. Jacob could wait an hour for him to visit.

Jacob Marley, Scrooge's partner, was at Death's door. Scrooge didn't want to open it for him, but he did want to save money and make a bargain in terms of the funeral. It had to be cheap, for Scrooge was certain there'd be no-one to attend it, save for himself. He'd been scouring the town for the past day or two in search of a good mortician, but thus far had found none to his particularly stingy needs.

It surprised him, therefore, to find the perfect funeral parlour in the day's newspaper.

Sowerberry's Funeral Parlour – Appropriate Reverence at Affordable Prices

– Seeking Undertaker's Apprentice &/or mute (for children's practice)

No timewasters or workhouse charges please

Apply at 13 Avarice Avenue, Workhouse District, Northampton

Applicants must not be allergic to dogs

To Scrooge, this place looked too good to be true. It would be a couple of days travel by coach, but he could afford that luxury now.

He decided, as an afterthought, not to inform his old partner of his avaricious plan. No doubt he wouldn't be best pleased.

The journey had taken its toll, and Scrooge arrived outside the Sowerberry's Funeral Parlour two days later in a more disgruntled mood than was usual with him. He knocked on the door and wiped the new fallen snow from his boots while he waited. The door was opened by a small, balding man in faded black, a pair of glasses perched on his long nose.

"G-good day , my good sir," he said, in a slightly tremulous voice. "I take it you aren't here to apply for the position of apprentice?" He gave Scrooge a weak smile.

Scrooge shook his head. "I'm here on behalf of my business partner, Jacob Marley. His doctor informs me he's likely to die within the week; I thought I should make a headstart on the funeral preperations."

The smaller man blinked, as if in confusion. "That is somewhat unorthodox, my good man, but if you say s-"

"MR. SOWERBERRY!"

A furious voice, like the screech of a particularly angry bird, suddenly accosted both men's ears. The man in question shot Scrooge an apologetic look before replying over his shoulder.

"Yes, my love?"

"Would you be so kind as to shut the blasted door? It's freezing in here, although, of course, you don't care…you care for nothing but coffins and bargains, you do!"

Mr. Sowerberry sighed forlornly and ushered Scrooge inside.