Prelude: Mycroft's Ghost

Mycroft was dead, but surprisingly to some, Britain rolled on regardless. Nature abhors a vacuum, and a power vacuum in particular. A new Prime Minister was elected, a new head of MI6 appointed and world continued to turn.

In Baker Street, life continued much as it ever had. There was less surveillance and fewer callers at the door of the consulting detective, but the clients still came brought by a potent combination of notoriety and desperation. Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead to a brief flurry of fame, but the nine days of wonder had passed years ago, and the routine work at New Scotland Yard was supplemented now by only occasional private cases. They found him mostly from Superintendent Lestrade's referrals, but rarely some brave soul would contact Sherlock via his website The Science of Deduction. The days of John's sensational and populist blog were long gone, along with John himself, and Sherlock would never have admitted to anyone that he missed either.

When Mycroft died, only Sherlock was sent for, to formally identify the body. Neither of them had a relative, friend or even enemy left in the world, apart from the other - and that seemed to have been how both preferred it to remain. Sherlock left the lawyers to arrange a quick cremation, while he returned to his rooms at 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson shed a tear and murmured, "Appearances, Sherlock! How are people to pay their respects?"

Sherlock did not care, had never cared and disdained the facade of caring. As for his attitude to "respects", the less said the better. On the day that Mycroft's earthly remains were turned into ashes he was embroiled in a case that was "at least a six, maybe a six and a half."

Some people had expected Sherlock to use Mycroft's money and country estate to improve his style of living - but only those who had never met him. Sherlock continued at Baker Street with no visible change whatever, which was how he liked it.

John visited semi-regularly at first, and condoled with Mrs Hudson at least, but as the years went by and the visits were never welcomed or returned, they gradually tapered off to an annual duty call only. Mrs Hudson herself visited the upstairs flat less and less often. It grew darker, more cluttered and dustier, apparently without the notice of its only inhabitant.

But what would a sociopath care for any of these trifles which the rest of us call "daily life"? A sociopath sneers at manners and spurns society. With cases to solve and a Stradivarius as an aid to thought, Sherlock's life was complete.

And so it came to Christmas Eve, 2029. Mrs Hudson giggled over the number and predicted a lot of celebrating come New Year. Sherlock sniffed, and informed her, "The new decade starts with the beginning of 2031, and only imbeciles with no numerical ability will be celebrating next week. Which is most of them." As usual, Mrs Hudson pretended not to hear.

They were having their usual debate about whether or not Sherlock would join Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner for their Christmas Eve party (he never had so far, but Mrs Hudson was nothing if not an optimist) when a voice called up from the front door, "Sherlock? Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs Hudson's face lit up. "John!" she exclaimed, and hurried down the stairs to let him in and usher him up into 221B.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock!" proclaimed John on entering the flat. "Oh, I know you have cases and experiments to do, but I'm arranging a special little get-together and housewarming at my new place in Upminster. Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner, Molly and her little boy and all the old crowd will be there, including Lestrade if he can get away for a few hours. What do you say? It's a cold time of year to be in your flat alone."

Sherlock turned his back in a show of indifference, and picked up his violin. Idly running through the fingering for Paganini's Caprice No. 1, he retorted, "Sentiment. Call it Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa or Festivus - I despise them all the same. You know I can't abide sentiment. What reason have you to celebrate? Your barren wife is dead and your PTSD is so bad you had to move out of the family home into new bachelor digs."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson face was pale with pain and shock. "How can you talk so to John, your oldest friend? Have a thought for his feelings! This is his first Christmas without Mary. John dear," she fluttered, "Mrs Turner and I will come, of course we will. Your house will be properly warmed with a fire and music, and good cheer for Christmas! Of course it will. You'll be so busy and happy you won't miss Mary a bit!"

John winced at the faux pas, but pressed on doggedly, "Molly is bringing her little boy - he's almost three now, isn't that amazing? Because, after all, what is Christmas without children?"

They all left a moment of silence as the elephant in the room was not mentioned. Then, spitefully, Sherlock went ahead and mentioned it. "Of course, Christmas celebrations with plenty of your own children would have been much better, wouldn't it? One little boy with speech delay and a bunch of adults with nothing in common (and not even Mycroft to bring the good liquor) doesn't make for a very merry Christmas, does it?"

John's lips tightened, but he raised his chin defiantly. "Christmas may not bring my wife back, and God knows I'll never play Santa to a bunch of my own children now, but Christmas is still a time of year for harmony and reconciliation. Therefore I won't have any more arguments about sentiment or sociopaths." John pulled a card from his pocket and placed in on the coffee table, facing Sherlock.

"Here's my new address. We'll all be there on Christmas Day and you are welcome to come. Don't feel you need to bring any gifts. As you've said, I have no children but seeing you would be…" He didn't say "close enough" but they all heard it anyway. "… celebration enough for me," he finished. Turning to Mrs Hudson he added, "I'll keep my Christmas amicability to the end and wish you a very Merry Christmas!" He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"And a Happy New Year to you, John dear," she returned.

"See yourself out, I'm sure you know the way," murmured Sherlock, turning back to the window and starting to play. He changed his mind on the Paganini and instead began his favourite Ysaye Sonata, but was not even well begun on the first theme when Mrs Hudson returned, escorting a shabby, obviously homeless man of indeterminate age, but who appeared to be in his late thirties and was therefore probably around twenty-five.

"Sherlock," prompted Mrs Hudson when he showed no sign of turning around. "Wiggins is here."

"Got anything for me?" Sherlock returned, still facing the window and continuing to play.

"Well, no." Wiggins shuffled his feet on the bare boards of the floor. His shoes were mismatched, the sound was very distinct even over wailing of the violin. "The Homeless Network has fallen on rather hard times since the Second Great Global Financial Crisis, you know. It's a cold time of year and spontaneous donations are not what they used to be. I wondered if you might care to…?" he trailed off hopefully.

"You know my rules," said Sherlock, in a bored tone, "and you know how I hate repeating myself. I pay you for information. If you need food or clothing or whatever else," the scornful stress on the words indicated to them all that he was referring to drugs, "refer to the Salvation Army, the Red Cross or the other charitable institutions set up for those purposes. I'm a consulting detective, not a charity. I'm not sentimental myself, and I see no reason why I should provide means for others to indulge when they are not doing me any favours. I solve mysteries and catch criminals, that's my business and if you are not going to assist me in it, I'll thank Mrs Hudson to assist you out of doors."

Both Wiggins and Mrs Hudson left the flat after that, and Sherlock played on as the room grew darker and colder. Sherlock was not bothered either by the cold or the solitude. Alone was good for thinking and Sherlock liked it.

Finally, even Sherlock's arms and fingers grew weary. He returned the violin to its case and stretched out his fingers. A change of activity would be pleasant. He seated himself at the table and logged in to his computer, effortlessly recalling the 16 digit randomly generated alphanumeric password which he changed every week. Not that there was anyone else in the flat likely to want to use his laptop.

The laptop failed to open. He scowled at his failing transport for committing a typing error and rubbed his hands together to warm his stiff fingers before re-entering the password again more carefully: k4fynYETRHvNXgMr.

ACCESS DENIED

Losing patience, he bypassed the security settings and cracked into the laptop manually. He then reversed the encryption to get the password - always worth a double check to see if there was a problem in the Mind Palace…

He sat back in surprise. Obviously as some kind of ridiculous holiday joke the password had been reset to MerryChristmasMH. He changed it to a new randomly generated code, this time using a new system to generate the password and increasing the difficulty to 18 digits: LtS5Lmq2EabcCjzCX8. There. That would stop any more pranking.

He logged into his website and was surprised to see 1 new comment.

He clicked on the appropriate link:

Merry Christmas, Brother Mine.

See you soon.

MH.

Sherlock looked surreptitiously around the room. This had to be a joke, or possibly a threat? Mycroft was dead, burned and even the ashes buried, over a decade ago. Moriarty was gone, even the blackmailer whose name… Magnussen, that was it. Anyway, he was gone too. He had been shot in the head by Sherlock himself and with him died all the colour and challenge in the world. There had been no really inventive criminals ever since then. Even the Mafia wasn't what it had been, and kept its activities in London very circumspect these days. Who would be sending him death threats?

He was just starting to burrow into the origin of the mysterious email, when a hollow voice in the room repeated the greeting, "Merry Christmas to you, Sherlock. Little brother," it added, when Sherlock merely gaped at the apparition before him with open-mouthed shock.

Sitting directly across the table from him was Mycroft. As Sherlock sat frozen in terror, his apparent brother reached across and slowly closed the laptop as it lay between them.

Sherlock had never before been speechless in the presence of his brother, but there is a first time for everything. Admittedly, the sudden appearance (through a locked door) of a brother dead, burned and buried years before would be enough to give even the most rational mind serious pause.

As Sherlock's faculties gradually came back online after their shock, he noticed several unusual things about Mycroft - if indeed it was Mycroft, which he was not willing to admit just yet. The apparition looked like Mycroft, but that did not necessarily mean anything. He must proceed with caution.

"What do you want, then?"

The ghost raised his (its?) eyebrows sardonically, "Many things."

Sherlock could not resist giving his trademark eye roll. "I believe it is traditional to ask you who you are…"

"Who I was," interrupted the spirit.

"Well, if I had any remaining doubts, that just dispelled them. You were my most annoying, interfering, supercilious and grammatically correct older brother Mycroft."

Mycroft adjusted his cuffs delicately, "Indeed, during my life I answered to that name more frequently than to any other." He sat back reflectively for a moment, "Can't say it was ever my favourite though. I always fancied myself as a Charles or perhaps an Oliver."

"Oh God, not this again. All right, I'm convinced that you are not just a figment of my imagination, digestion or drug habit. That being the case, why are you here, Mycroft? I presume you did not make your way back from beyond the veil just to trade old speculations as to what our parents would have named us if they had been sane?"

Mycroft leaned forward, causing Sherlock to involuntarily lean back. "Ah," murmured the ghost, "Now we come to it. Please, observe me. It's what you do best, so let's play to your strengths for now. What do you see?"

Sherlock looked, observed and analysed, speaking aloud as he did so. "You look pale, even for a ginger who spent all his life working indoors and shunning leg work. Your hair is moving slightly, as if you were outdoors in a breeze despite the fact that you are sitting here in my living room. You seem to have some small icicles hanging from your left earlobe - truly the ice-man now, I see. Also, I'm not quite sure how to put this, but did you know I can see right through you? Clearly enough to make out the knife on my mantlepiece through your waistcoat."

Mycroft stood up without comment.

"Ah yes, and you are wrapped all around your body with a giant chain, which is made of melted iPads, laptops and the remains of what was once a rather nice fountain pen."

"Yes," replied Mycroft seriously. "You see the chain I forged for myself during my lifetime. These are the choices I made, to hide behind computers, to distance myself from everyone, to look down on and disdain as mere goldfish the real people whose lives I could have touched for the better. I sent men to their deaths with texted instructions and wrote condolence letters to their families with that pen on the same day. I used my intellect and power to play games of self-aggrandisement rather than working for the good of anyone in particular, not even for myself. Does any of this sound familiar?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away.

"You have hidden behind a diagnosis of 'sociopath' and used it like a weapon to drive people away. Beware! We are all required to go out among our fellow men, to make connections and do good work. What you call 'The Work' is nothing of the kind - you hide behind the puzzles and care nothing for the people whose lives you play with. Your chain was longer and heavier than mine when I died all those years ago, and you have been working on it most diligently ever since. Did you even give Mrs Hudson a simple greeting when she came to issue her invitation? I thought not."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "You do not know how many times I have sat beside you at your computer, wishing I could tell you how to make a genuine connection with a person. Wishing you would look up, reach out and touch John, Molly, Mrs Hudson or anyone around you."

"Mycroft, I never enjoyed your presence in my flat when you were alive, and clearly your death has not changed anything in that area. You may be a ghost, but do you have to wail? Do you have anything constructive to say, or should I once again take to my violin to drive you away?"

"I have a little more to say, and then I must go. Sherlock, I have bought a second chance for you. My last gift to you as one brother to another. I can no longer watch over you or protect you, but I have arranged for three other spirits to visit you. They will help you, show you how to change, how to turn from your little experiments and puzzles and address yourself to the real Work of your life - which is the good of all mankind. Patience, compassion, generosity and love - you and I never suffered fools gladly, but for you there is a second chance to learn. Take it, listen to the three spirits I will send and remember me, for you will see me no more…"

Sherlock squinted at Mycroft, who was either growing smaller or more distant than the confines of the room could possibly allow on an earthly plane. He shrank into a tiny dot of light, which appeared to be blown out the window (which had apparently opened itself) and vanish in a streak of light out towards the horizon. Sherlock rushed over to the window to look after it one last time. Looking down on Baker Street, he was overcome with horror to see that his eyes had been fully opened to the supernatural world. Everywhere he could see the transparent ghosts walking among the solid people.

Directly below his window, Wiggins was sitting despairing on his doorstep, shivering in the biting London wind of late December. Two well-dressed ghosts were trying to urge him up, to lead him to a soup station down the street, but they were unable to make themselves heard.

Further up the road a lost toddler was crying while a ghostly lady in heels and with a briefcase chained to her hip was trying to dry her eyes and take her hand.

Up and down the road, as far as he could see, were miserable spirits who were racked with grief and guilt over the human anguish right in front of them, which they had ignored in life. Now, in death, they could no longer close their eyes and disclaim responsibility, yet they had lost for ever the power of doing good.

Sherlock closed the window and turned away. He went back and checked the door of the flat, which was locked just as it had been.

He tried to log into his computer again, but the new 18 digit code would not let him in. He finally choked out of the machine the new code: AndAHappyNewYearMH.