Disclaimer: This story is for fan purposes only. All characters are property of their respective owners (not me!) and are used here without permission. Without Charles Dickens, Colin Dexter, and the powers that be in the televised Morseverse, this story would not be.

Author Note: Happy Holidays! I know that I am not the first one to adapt Dickens' timeless tale for the Morseverse, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. (Recommended reading: Princessozmaofoz's An Oxford Carol, filed under Inspector Morse.) There are five chapters to unfold over five days. Without further ado, I give you…

The miraculous and mysterious metaphysical misadventures of Inspector Morse, in which a misanthrope makes merry, mansucripted by Muffinzelda in the year MMXIV

Max de Bryn was dead. This was what Morse thought to himself as he left the mortuary of Thames Valley CID. How many years ago was it now that he had lost his partner in forensic pathology? Seven? No, surely not that long. There had been several replacements as medical examiner, but this current one seemed like she was going to stay for a while- Dr Laura Hobson. He had gone to the mortuary on this Christmas Eve to see Dr Hobson concerning an upcoming inquest where she was expected to give evidence. Hobson had treated him to an icy stare as cold as the freezer where she kept the corpses. No joking around like Max might have- no, Max de Bryn was dead and buried.

Maybe Dr Hobson was frosty because she resented what may have been construed as an attempt by Morse to guide her testimony. She would never tolerate anyone telling her what to think or say. But, just as likely, she was angry at Morse. She had, in a rare moment of vulnerability, once asked Morse to comfort her and have a drink. He had refused her sweet pleas, instead seeking refuge with Adele Cecil, a woman closer to his own age. Hobson was young- early thirties- comely and intelligent; surely she could find much better company than Morse himself, he thought.

As he returned to his office, Morse brushed back a garland of fake pine that had come loose from the threshold. "Get this out of here, Lewis!"

"Yes sir," Sergeant Lewis answered obediently, though he had no intention of actually removing the decorations that WPC Tracy Hundley had hung in all the door frames in the main corridor.

Hundley herself walked into the office just then, sporting a pair of reindeer antlers on her headband. Morse rolled his eyes in disapproval. "Morning, Inspector, Sergeant." She chirped.

"Happy Christmas, Tracy!" Lewis answered, offering her a candy cane.

"Same to you and yours, Sergeant. I'm here collecting on behalf of the police benevolent association. We're looking for donations to help the poor pay their heating bills this winter. Do either of you care to contribute?"

"Sure." Lewis smiled at Hundley and handed her a folded banknote, then looked at Morse.

Morse just glared.

Lewis opened his wallet again and offered a second donation. "This is from Inspector Morse; he's short on cash today." WPC Hundley thanked Lewis and went to the next office.

"You owe me a pint, sir. Or an orange juice, as the case may be." Lewis, in a mirthful mood, decided that he could tease his boss.

"I owe you nothing, Lewis. Back to work."

Lewis couldn't help but laugh at his boss' demeanour. "Right, sir." Morse and Lewis had caught a nefarious drugs dealer in the act earlier in the week, but Morse wasn't content to have merely stopped a criminal. He wanted to prove the extent of his drug sales, so he had assigned his sergeant to analyse the dealer's financial transactions. Morse busied himself cracking the passwords on the personal computer of one of the drug dealer's victims. Cracking codes and passwords was Morse's bailiwick, but when it came time for anything dealing with an actual computer, he needed the help of Sergeant Lewis.

"I was hoping I could bang out a bit early this afternoon, this being Christmas Eve and all. When I'm done combing through this series of accounts, I mean. Got to help Mrs Lewis with the preparations for the feast she's putting out tomorrow. I'm a lousy sous-chef, but someone's got to make sure there's enough brandy in the hard sauce for the figgy pudding, if you know what I mean."

"Damn, I'd forgotten that you're off tomorrow too, aren't you, Lewis?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know that crime doesn't take a vacation, Lewis."

"Sir, it's Christmas. Come over tomorrow. You are welcome to join us, anytime you're up for it."

Morse stared at him. "No thank you. Believe it or not, I have plans."

"Ah, going to see your sister? Or Miss Cecil?" Lewis asked hopefully, though he knew on instinct that Morse was deceiving him.

Morse stared again. "Miss Cecil has left the country."

"Ah." Lewis prayed silently that Morse would not spend the holiday alone.

Morse did go home alone, put on some Mozart, and sipped on egg nog with a potent dose of brandy. Shortly before midnight, he decided to retire for the evening. He snuffed out the candle he had lit in order to enjoy the music in a minimalist light. As Morse crawled beneath the blankets on his bed, he began to hear beeping. It started modestly, as if the battery from one of his appliances was announcing its imminent demise. But soon, every gadget in his home was chirping and Morse was powerless to stop it. Finally, the chimes on his grandfather clock peeled out midnight and silenced the rest of the din.

Morse sat up in bed, attention rapt. Suddenly, a figure floated through the bedroom door. I know that face! He thought. Max de Bryn! Can it be Max's ghost?

"Hello, Morse." The ghost in the transparent guise of Dr de Bryn greeted him mournfully. Clearly, the ghost's form was Max, though it had none of his jovial manner. The shade of his late friend wore a chain that seemed to be made of scalpels, scissors, surgical clamps, and microscope slides.

"I refuse to believe any of this. You are a figment of my imagination. And too much egg nog."

"I am here because you and I have something in common, Morse."

"Yes, quite the swinging bachelors, we were. What, pray tell, do you have to warn me of, venereal disease?"

"Don't be daft, Morse. It's heart disease!"

"Ah. So, you're going to tell me to diet and exercise, lay off the drink, or else I'll share your fate?"

"No, Morse, that die is cast I'm afraid. But I am here to tell you to enjoy your time on Earth, be compassionate, and don't be such a misanthrope! Also- you should consider organ donation."

"Organ donation? Speak comfort to me, Max."

"That is not my job, Morse. You will be haunted by three spirits when the clock strikes one. They are your hope for salvation."

The ghost of Max de Bryn faded into the mist and Morse trembled in his bed.