OK, folks, I ran into a story that was so funny that I had no choice but to pound it, make it unrecognizable, and then make it my own. I also just want a flimsy excuse to play with a Victorian Christmas.
Christmas was coming. The goose was getting fat—or however that song was supposed to go. After so many years of hearing it sung wrong, badly, and mostly hummed, Inspector Bradstreet wasn't certain what the original version was now. Some wag with more humour than sense had stuck male and female hollies all over the building, and donations from the grateful public were trickling in, pastry by pastry.
He was circling a pot of rosemary festooned with an improbably red bow on top, when Inspector Gregson popped his pale, square face from around the corner. He met Bradstreet's eye and shook his head vigorously.
"He did it." Gregson announced. "There's no doubt about it."
Bradstreet groaned. "Even Sherlock Holmes can't be that callous." He met Gregson's expression belatedly. "Well, perhaps."
"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have family," Gregson pointed out. "Why would he think of family?"
"Oh, Lord." Bradstreet paused to lean his head back, pressing his still-gloved hands to his face. "Bad enough he doesn't recognize holidays on any calendar printed in English! Why did he ask for Lestrade anyway?" He wanted to know. "Lestrade hates the countryside!" If that wasn't too simple a word for the feelings engendered in their little comrade whenever the concept of wide open spaces came up.
Gregson shrugged. "Something to do with the fact that this bloke has been arrested before, by Lestrade, numerous times in the past. I suppose he thought Lestrade would like to be present when they got him?" Even as he said that, he winced. "Well, perhaps because Lestrade knows how the scum thinks. After fifteen years of arresting him, how could he not?"
"And all he has to do is miss out on half of Christmas with his family." Bradstreet said darkly. "That just makes all the sense in the world."
"Shh, here he comes." Gregson nonchalantly whirled to his tea-pot.
Lestrade whisked in with his usual energy, shedding grey London snow from the brim of his bowler and shoulders. Someone had waylaid him before the station; he tossed a parcel of baked goods at Bradstreet. "Happy Holiday, Roger." He said in passing, and added over his shoulder: "I think it's poppyseed puffs."
Bradstreet peered gingerly into the paper sack. "Could be," he said doubtfully. "It has a bit of a lemony smell, doesn't it?"
"Roger, you moron, either Lestrade missed the telegram last night or—"
Gregson snapped his jaws shut, click, as a string of words normally heard just down-stream from Billingsgate flowed out of Lestrade's office. Caught between the pincers of horror and bald-faced admiration, everyone within the large, audible radius paused to give a rare art form the attention it deserved. The telegram, crumpled to a mass, went sailing out the doorway.
"Oh, my god." Gregson's pale face had turned prawn-pink. He blinked feverishly. "I know what some of those words mean."
"So you did work with the Gipsies in the past, I thought you were lying about that too..." Bradstreet sighed, and bent over to pick up the offending telegram. A new hand entered his line of vision; a hand with a handsome onyx ring and a matching cuff-link. Heart sinking, Bradstreet slowly straightened to look into the face of the Yard's new Commissioner.