A.N. - So, you know how it's June? Yeah. I've written a Christmas Fic.

That's Logic.

In my defence, I recently watched the Granada Blue Carbuncle and thought it was lovely, and also really liked the idea that Sherlock Holmes actually really rather likes Christmas, and gets into the Christmassy Spirit. And, come on - who doesn't like the Christmas Party scene in Scandal?

SO. I'm doing Blue Carbuncle in BBC Sherlock world. It's set after Empty House, so there are some Post Reichenbach Feels, but hopefully they should just be bubbling under all the Christmas Fluff and not In Your Face Angst. It's my usual style - little bit of plot but mainly FRIENDSHIP BANTER BANTER FRIENDSHIP JOKES ETC ETC. Enjoy!

THE BAUBLE

Chapter 1

-x-

23/12 10.35
Last Christmas
I gave you my phone
But the very next breath,
I faked my own death.
(faked my own death)
This year, to save me from tears
Please keep my phone somewhere special
(special)

23/12 11.13
Although technically, that wasn't last year, was it.
Three years, now! See – I'm keeping count.
Good to see in the news you're back.
Faking your death to escape – where DID you get that idea?

23/12 11.45
That was your now traditional annual address, BTW.
In case you were wondering.
Merry Christmas, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

23/12 11.49
And also to you.
SH

-x-

John returned from the Big Christmas Tesco Run From Hell just after noon to discover several curious things about his flat.

1, The tree was up, and dressed.
2, As was his flatmate.
3, His flatmate was balancing a pair of too-big spectacles on his nose, like a small child set loose in Vision Express.
4, The sofa was almost completely filled with a large West Indian man in his 50s.
5, The bits of sofa not taken up by said gentleman were occupied by an 18lb goose, its head flopping lifelessly on the armrest and gazing glassily out in his general direction.

He gave the occupants of his living room the cheeriest smile that he could, being weighed down with several days worth of indulgent groceries.

'Afternoon.'

'John!' Sherlock whipped the glasses from his nose. 'You remember Clarence Peterson – the Security Guard from the Hilton case?'

'Of course.' John hefted the first armfuls of shopping over towards the kitchen. 'How's things, Clarence? And isn't anybody going to introduce me to your friend?'

'I'm well,' said Clarence, 'which is more than I can say for Mister Goose.'

'What is it, then,' said John, 'is Sherlock going to find out who murdered the goose?' He put the kettle on. 'Would you like a cuppa, Clarence?'

'Sherlock already made me a cup of tea,' Clarence told him, lifting his mug.

John frowned, and blinked.

'Clarence was just explaining to me why he called round,' added Sherlock, taking a sip from his own cup. 'Clarence, would you mind summing things up for John, so he can get up to speed – if that's at all possible?'

'Last night,' explained Clarence, 'at about 10.30, I was walking home from my shift and I heard raised voices outside the Albion on Wimpole St. I turned the corner and I saw a gang of kids surrounding an elderly gentleman.'

'A mugging?' asked John.

Clarence shook his head. 'They weren't armed, they were just being little monsters. The old man was drunk. And he was carrying this.' He indicated to the goose. 'They were trying to get it off him. He pushed one of them – the kid took out a car's wing mirror by accident on the way down, and, that must have panicked him because when I shouted at the kids to stop it, he ran away as well. Dropped the goose and his spectacles.'

Sherlock helpfully held up the glasses he'd been wearing when John had come in.

'So…' John added milk to his tea. 'Sorry, where do we come in to this?' He met eyes with Sherlock. 'Is this linked to a murder, or a kidnapping…? Jewel theft, bank heist…?'

Clarence frowned, uncomfortably. 'Um. Well… the old man wasn't doing anything wrong. Just attacked by those bloody kids. And the goose would have cost him a lot of money… they're expensive spectacles too, and he'll be needing them. So…'

'Clarence has asked me to reunite the mystery victim's lost property with their rightful owner,' said Sherlock, 'and I have accepted the case.'

'I only asked if Sherlock might have an idea of how to find him,' added Clarence. 'I would have thought that giving an old man back his glasses and Christmas Dinner would be far beneath such a famous…'

Sherlock waved his hands, dismissively. 'Any favour, that's what we said. Any favour in return for the information you gave us. Without it, the Hilton case might have fallen through.'

'You really don't need to sort out lost property, Sherlock,' argued Clarence. 'And at Christmas and everything…'

'Exactly! It's Christmas. Other people amuse themselves with trifling little puzzles at Christmas – why not me? These glasses are my Festive Bumper Crossword Book.' He inspected them again as John started fitting the frozen goods into the freezer. 'You're right about them being expensive, Clarence – must have set him back a fair amount, but that was around ten years ago. They're in a poor state of repair, too. He fixed one of the arms himself last year – clumsily at that. Didn't replace them. Once wealthy, fallen on hard times of late, then. Possibly down to the booze. He's an academic. His head's huge!'

Sherlock put the ill-fitting glasses on again. They immediately slipped down to the end of his nose.

'Uses Head & Shoulders,' added Sherlock. 'I can smell it on the arms. 'Doesn't have a dandruff problem, though. Likely, his wife does and he shares her shampoo.'

'How do you know it's his wife?' asked John.

'Oh,' sighed Sherlock, dismissively, 'it's on the tag.'

'The tag?'

'On the goose's leg. "For Mr & Mrs Baker".'

John shook his head, faintly. 'All that about shampoo and his name's written on the bloody goose.'

'Oh, yes, of course, John. Let's phone up the only Mr & Mrs Baker in London and tell them that we've got their Christmas dinner. Case solved.'

'Or,' said John, 'you could do what normal people do when they come across lost property – put a small ad in the Chronicle.'

Sherlock deflated. 'Boring.'

'Practical, Sherlock. Much more so than stalking the nearby pubs for a giant headed academic alcoholic who's down on his luck, smells of dandruff shampoo and keeps bumping into things.'

'Oh, fine.' Sherlock took the glasses off again, sharply. 'Have no fear, Clarence, I'll see to it that Mr Baker gets his glasses back.'

Clarence beamed. 'Thank you, Sherlock! Er. And what about the goose…?'

'Oh, that thing'll never keep. You take it.'

'Really?'

'The two of us are hardly going to be able to eat it, now are we? You've got all those children and grandchildren. A Christmas feast! Besides.' Sherlock leaned forward and gave the bird a sniff. 'If it stays out of a fridge for much longer, nobody will be able to eat it at all, and wasted food in this day and age is such a crime. We'll never fit it in ours.'

'Sherlock Holmes,' shouted John from the fridge in question, 'if you must keep your testicles in the fridge, would you at least put them on your own shelf?'

'But the bottom shelf is where you're supposed to put raw meat,' called Sherlock, before turning to Clarence and conspiratorially adding 'see what I mean?'

John pulled out the offending body parts in question. 'I'm not keeping our mince next to these. And this is my Tupperware box! You owe me new Tupperware.'

Clarence got to his feet, lugging the massive bird with him. 'I'll, er. Leave you two to it. Thank you again, Sherlock.'

Clarence left 221b Baker St as the detective and his flatmate quibbled over the fridge contents and why John Watson had bought shop brand cornflakes instead of Kellogg's. He thought about the old man's relief at getting his expensive glasses back, and his own family's delight at the lavish Christmas dinner they'd be getting this year. What very nice things of Sherlock Holmes to do.

And there people were saying he'd come back out of hiding all strange. What did they know? He seemed just fine to Clarence.

-x-

LOST AND FOUND:

MR BAKER I HAVE YOUR SPECTACLES
Retrieved the night of 22nd Dec outside Albion Inn
Please collect from 221b Baker St W1
S Holmes (not dead, in case you haven't caught up with the news of late)

-x-

'Hurmm,' said John, at his laptop.

'Hmm?' said Sherlock, at his.

'How do you fancy making us half a million quid?'

'Oh, what would I even want with half a million quid?'

John looked up. 'Sherlock, for the last time, take those glasses off. And what you'd want with half a million quid would be the prestige of earning half a million quid in one go just for being incredibly clever. High profile case, too – be just the thing to finally quieten the naysayers.'

Sherlock groaned. 'If demolishing the Moriarty Syndicate and very publically putting Moran behind bars isn't going to quieten them, what will?'

'Oh, I dunno. Finding Duchess' stolen Morcar Blue Diamond and getting the million pound reward, perhaps?'

'Who on Earth is "Duchess"?'

'Oh, you must know who she is, Sherlock. Even you can't be so dense about popular culture.'

Sherlock switched to Google. 'Oh,' he said in distaste. 'Pop singer. Love of awful men, little yappy dogs and gaudy jewellery. One of which went missing the day before yesterday. Well, serves her right for leaving it lying around. So – I'm terribly clever, find milady's bling and, if most of Scotland Yard have anything to do with it, probably get arrested for stealing it in the first place… oh, wait.'

'They've already arrested someone,' said John, pleased to be ahead of Sherlock for once, even if it was just in reading the same article, 'but he's denying all knowledge. Not saying where it is.'

'Because he doesn't know,' said Sherlock with a frown. 'No, no, no, this is all wrong.' He took out his phone and started texting. 'Let's see what Greg has to say about this.'

'Finally calling him Greg?'

'Spent nearly three years dead to spare him a bullet to the brain. Think that probably puts us on first name terms, now.' Sherlock sent the message and went back to searching for other articles on the stolen jewel story.

John looked across at his friend, who still had the big glasses perched ridiculously at the end of his nose. John could see no reason for Sherlock to do this other than to try to make him laugh. He fought off a smile. He still hadn't officially forgiven Sherlock for the bollocks in the Tupperware.

'Mrs Hudson surpassed herself with the tree,' he said, conversationally.

'No, she didn't.'

'I like it!'

'I should think so, too. But she didn't have anything to do with it.'

John did smile, now. Incredulously. 'You put the tree up.'

Sherlock caught his eye. 'Stranger things have happened, you know.'

'No, no. It's fine.' John shook his head. 'You put up a Christmas tree.'

'What?'

'Just… mental images. You weren't wearing a Val Doonican jumper at the time, were you?'

'No, John, I was not wearing one of your jumpers.'

'How do you know who Val Doonican is, but not one of the most famous pop singers on the planet?'

Before Sherlock could answer, Clarence Peterson burst back into the flat.

Both inhabitants of 221b were swiftly on their feet.

'Clarence,' said Sherlock. 'What's wrong?'

'The goose,' gasped Clarence. 'The goose I found…'

'What was wrong with it?' asked John. 'Are you all right?'

'Oh, I'm alright,' Clarence replied. 'And the goose, well… it's just… Hope decided to pluck and prepare it straight away, so it would fit in the fridge. Asked me to cut off its head and feet.' He rubbed his face. 'Not every day you take a butcher's knife to a bird and it spits out a bloody sapphire the size of a baby's fist at you.'