Author's Notes : I'd like to thank my first five reviewers; icebluehost, Kaizoku Shojo, Foggyknight, Slightly Obssessive and KCS. I would particularly like to thank KCS, as I never believed the veteran of so many amazing SH stories would be the first to review this piece. :)

I'm very out of breath at the moment. I've been chasing 'Jemima' around, trying to get an accurate mental description of her for this chapter. :)


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture is now on my profile, if you're curious. :)

Despite my misgivings, on Christmas Eve I set off for Holmes' rooms, bearing under one arm a sizeable chunk of firewood which I was determined would fulfil the tradition of the Yuletide Log. Cheery lights flared from the houses along the way, and here and there I encountered a group of carolers, bundled up warmly against the frosty air. The sharp, crisp smell of snow permeated the streets, and the entire scene was so peaceful and homely that my spirits could not help being lifted.

They died a quick death, however, upon my speaking to Mrs Hudson upon my arrival. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen into the entrance hall, but apparently Holmes was having none of it.

"He told me to take it away, Doctor. He is in a most foul mood this evening! And of all evenings as well…"

I left the hard-pressed landlady to fume, and ascended to the sitting room. I paused before the door, unnerved by the silence from within, and heeding Mrs Hudson's words, concealed the wood piece behind my back, meaning to first ascertain my friend's mood before forcing merriment upon him.

Upon my entering the room, the first thing that caught my eye was the blur of papers stirring across the desk and over the floor, blown thus by the wide open windows. It was a frosty evening, and the temperature of the room made me give a surprised shiver. The gas was not lit, so it took a moment for me to perceive the dark figure sprawled in Holmes' chair, and another to realise that it was indeed my friend that reclined there. The grotesque haphazard nature of his long limbs, played over indistinctly by the guttering flames of the fire, gave me quite a turn, knowing as I did the constant danger which his chosen profession placed him in, and I turned up the gas seeking to extinguish my writer's vivid imagination.

My friend's head was sunk forward onto his shoulders, and a pipe smouldered as though forgotten in his slack fingers, but as light filled the room his head snapped up with the same swiftness that characterised all his movements, however small.

"Ah, Watson", he said. "I suppose season's greetings are in order."

I sat opposite him, wedging the wood between me and the chair, seeing with a sinking heart the familiar far-away look in his normally sharp gaze that, when coupled with his lackluster appearance, invariably bespoke of the use of narcotics. However, as I did not wish for our night to commence with an argument, I endeavored to ignore it.

"And to you. How have you been, my dear fellow?"

In truth, I was most disturbed by his appearance. With the solving of the Lady Charlotte's case, he appeared to have fallen into the blackest of reactions in the few days I had not seen him.

"I fear that the reaction has come upon me. Certainly the season does nothing to improve my mood."

As he spoke, he moved to the sideboard to fetch us a drink, knocking out his pipe upon the table in the process and leaving it there. His mouse-coloured dressing gown hung loose about him, intercepting my attempt to ascertain his health, although his face had looked both pale and gaunt in the light of the gas-jet.

"So no interesting criminal news then?" I inquired hopefully as he returned to his seat, taking the glass he gave me, still attempting to judge his present soundness whilst not rousing his suspicions. Holmes had always been quite intolerant of my attempts to advise him in my professional capacity as a physician, in some cases retreating fully into his rooms and barring the doors against me when I would not be swayed.

"It seems that even crime is not immune to the disgusting romanticism which taints this time of year. The papers now are printing useless and emotional articles which no doubt you have perused with great interest, Watson, but which are of no practical importance to me."

I attempted not to allow his tone to affect me, but the conversation nevertheless dwindled into silence, as Holmes glared at the fire and I shifted uncomfortably as the wood dug sharply into my back. Through the window drifted thin strains of song as the carolers moved closer.

My gaze wandered across the room, and surprise jolted me from my silence.

"Is that a Christmas tree?"

A sad, wilted branch of pine lay abandoned under the breakfast table, sagging in its pot.

Holmes propped his head on one of his thin hands, and followed my gaze.

"Short of throwing it from the window, and inciting one of Mrs Hudson's rants, I could not think of a place for it where the sight would not annoy me."

I could not help bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation. I rose, pulled out the wood from its hiding place and showed it to Holmes, splinters raining onto the carpet as my hand shook from the force of my amusement. Holmes sat back in his chair, staring from me to the wood in surprise, and the sight of his confusion only made me laugh harder.

I tossed the log into the fire, and raised my glass to my friend.

"You are, without a doubt, the most infuriating man I have ever met."

Despite his eyebrows still being raised to his hairline, he returned the gesture, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I drained my glass, and was warmed by the alcohol as much as by the change of mood in the room.

The carolers were quite loud now as they passed beneath the windows, and Holmes rose and looked out at them in annoyance.

"They are a tenacious lot, these carolers. No doubt they will continue until every man in London has lost his goodwill towards his fellow man, and focused instead on murder."

I chuckled, standing near the fire as it grew more pleasantly warm, the flames devouring my Yuletide Log.

"I think Lestrade would be quite put out to have to work on Christmas Day."

My friend snorted, and closed the window, muffling the sound.

There was a knock upon the door, and Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a laden tray. She smiled at me as Holmes made no complaint, and I knew the excellent woman had used both her faith in my abilities as a friend, and her knowledge of her lodger's moods, to know when to bring up the meal. It was an excellent repast, and we were both sitting in a comfortable silence afterwards smoking when a singular interruption occurred.

A package had been delivered to Holmes, and it was set on the cleared table. In curiosity I walked over to examine it, while Holmes remained in his chair, lazily sending smoke curling into the air. The package was in the form of a large box, with, I noticed with some surprise, numerous holes punched into the lid and sides.

"Who is it from?"

I read the tag attached.

"It's from the Lady Dupont. But it seems someone in the post office has been at this, Holmes. It's riddled with holes."

This captured my friend's attention, and he joined me at the table, examining the package with particular attention. As he opened it, I took a few steps away, working out the stiffness in my bad leg, not wanting to seem intrusive by seeing whatever the contents were. I turned back quickly, however, as he heard my friend's sharp intake of breath.

Limping over, I lent over and looked in, and saw, with no little shock, two glowing eyes staring back.

Holmes made no attempt to move, so I reached in and lifted out the contents.

It was a tabby kitten, all striped and patterned with a muddle of colours. The soft fur was tinted a gentle grey, overlaid with patches of tan and black. The pricked ears had tufts of black fur, and its belly was a bright gold, covered in dark spots, contrasting sharply to the dark, thick stripes on its head and back. The tiny tail switched, and it let out a piteous mew.

I was attempting to understand Lady Dupont's reasoning for this strange, and judging by Holmes' astonished expression, unwelcome gift, when a thought struck me. Lifting the tail, I observed the kitten was female.

I recalled my and the lady's conversation, and had to smile.

"A feminine influence, indeed."

With a broad grin, I thrust the kitten into my friend's frozen arms, and with a yelp he grabbed at it, nearly dropping her.

My tone was positively mischievous, as I thought on how this would affect my friend's solitary and set habits.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

I'm pretty sure these chapters will get shorter now, in accordance with my drabble/scene layout.

Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed.

Thanks, Taluliaka