A very strange one to start the ball rolling! Prompt from Mrs Pencil: "Holmes is visited by Moriarty's brother, the Station Master".
Mrs Hudson was not pleased when Holmes set the carpet alight, following an accident with an experiment involving fluorine and caesium. She was even less pleased when, having left the window open for the horrid black smoke to dissipate, a tiny, drenched black kitten dragged itself over the ledge, one leg trailing behind it. Nevertheless, she delivered some ham and milk upstairs at Holmes's request, and the poor creature sat in my lap by the fire, shivering and mewling piteously.
"There goes our fine Christmas meal," I remarked, as we watched Mrs Hudson stalk away and slam the door, muttering curses about the cost of a new carpet.
Holmes said nothing. He was reading a geology periodical, eyebrows raised, eyelids hooded.
At that moment the room darkened, and a gigantic foot planted itself on the window ledge.
"Watson, your revolver," Holmes hissed. With soldierly speed I crossed the room and withdrew it from my desk, priming it as I returned to the window.
After much huffing and grunting, the owner of the gigantic foot squeezed through the window and stood, stooped over, in the middle of the living room. The effect reminded me of a chicken in a roasting dish, dominating the space while the chopped vegetables cowered around the edges.
"EXCUSE ME," he boomed, "HAVE YOU SEEN A KITTEN ANYWHERE? I'VE LOST IT."
Holmes stood up and picked the kitten out of my lap by the scruff of its neck, waving it in the general direction of the man in a placating sort of manner. He plucked it from Holmes's grasp, and held it gently, so that only its head poked out from between his gargantuan thumb and forefinger. Then he did something extraordinary. He began to cry. Fishbowl-tears dripped down his face and splashed on the carpet. I pulled the oilcloth off of the sideboard and laid it down to catch the forming puddle. The last thing I wanted to do was upset Mrs Hudson even more, or it would be nothing but gristle for Christmas dinner.
"Come, come, my man!" ejaculated Holmes, in genuine distress. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and offered it to the man, who took it and mopped his face. It was dwarfed by his forehead alone.
"IT'S…IT'S…IT'S JUST SO SAD!" he wept, "THE EIGHT-FORTY-TWO TO PADDINGTON ALMOST STOPPED IN TIME! AND NOW THE POOR DARLING LITTLE SCRAP HAS A BROKEN LEGGY-PIE! IT MAY NEVER WALK WITHOUT A LIMPY AFTER THIS, AND ALL ITS KITTY-CAT FRIENDS WILL TEASE IT ROTTEN! IT'S JUST TOO BA-A-A-A-AD!"
"Now look here," I said, severely, standing on a chair to get eye level and patting his arm in a conciliatory sort of way, "A broken leg is fixable is it not? And nobody meant to harm the thing. If I were you, I would get it to the nearest veterinary surgery and see what can be done. Crying won't change a thing, you know."
"I KNO-O-O-OW." The man drew a shuddering breath, and, with a great effort, stopped his mouth from wobbling. He mopped his face with his free hand, and I realised that it probably wasn't because of the weather outside that the kitten was bedraggled. At last he smiled.
"YOU'RE RIGHT. QUITE RIGHT. I SHALL DO THAT, OF COURSE. IT SHALL HAVE THE BEST TREATMENT THAT MONEY CAN BUY. CHICKEN IN THE MORNING…FISH IN THE AFTERNOON…POT ROAST IN THE EVENING, WITH CREAM THREE TIMES A DAY!"
He began to laugh and tickle the kitten's ears. The kitten batted at his fingers and pretended to bite him as he chortled merrily. In the middle of all this, Mrs Hudson walked in. She stopped on the threshold of the living room. All women love a sensitive man, up to a point, anyway, and this seemed to strike her personally-preferred balance, which admittedly fell a little on the soft-side for me to be able to personally see what it was that she saw in him. She stood there, a saccharine smile on her face, watching the scene unfold.
"WELL GOODBYE," the stranger said at length, "I HAVE TO GET BACK TO THE STATION. MY LABRADOR SALLY IS DUE ANY DAY NOW AND I DON'T THINK SHE SHOULD BE ON HER OWN. SHE'S ONLY TWO AND SHE GETS SO ANXIOUS WHEN I'M APART FROM HER TOO LONG. AND I NEED TO SORT OUT MY WILL. THERE ARE ORPHANS TO FEED, YOU KNOW..."
He put one leg out of the window and had just started to stoop down, when Holmes begged him to stop for a moment. "You're name, Sir?"
"OH. I DO BEG YOUR PARDON." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a crumpled calling-card. "DO DROP ROUND FOR A CUP OF FRUIT TEA AND A NICE CRUMPET ANY TIME. WE CAN LISTEN TO BRAHMS IF YOU LIKE! OR CHOPIN'S NOCTURNES. WHICHEVER YOU PREFER."
"It would be a pleasure," intoned Holmes, poker-faced.
"Well, wasn't he a nice gentleman!" remarked Mrs Hudson as soon as we had secured the window. "Quite worth the muddy footprints and ruined carpet. What was his name, by the way?"
"Cyril Mo…Moriarty…" there was more than a hint of disbelief in Holmes's voice as he strained to read the tiny writing on the calling-card.
"Well that just goes to show, you never judge a person by their family," she simpered.
"Quite," I murmured.
She was just about to leave, and I was just about to settle down for a relaxing doze, when the room turned suddenly dark again – far darker than the first time, and a clap of thunder rang out above us. The lightning flashed in the window, and Mrs Hudson screamed, covering her face with her arms.
"JOHN," a deep, growling voice bellowed down the chimney, "I'VE COME FOR MY WATCH. HAVE IT BY DAWN OR I'LL RIP YOUR DETECTIVE FRIEND'S GUTS OUT. IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS. I WILL WAIT NO LONGER. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING."