Stave II
The First
Holmes strove to purge the memory of his conversation with Moriarty from his mind. The dead did not walk the Earth. Moriarty would certainly not haunt Baker Street. It had all been a drug induced hallucination. He surely had mixed his seven percent solution stronger than usual. Eight or nine percent, perhaps. If that were the case, though, why did his arm show no sign of an injection? Holmes brushed that thought aside as well. It must have been something else. Too much tobacco and not enough sleep. Something of the sort. He would inquire of Watson when next they met.
Dressed in a nightshirt Holmes sank into his bed with an unsettled relief. The morning would bring clarity and all of this would be behind him. His mind would be ready to contend with the facts of the case when he awoke. He turned down the wick in the oil lamp on his bedside table and laid his head down for a long rest. A rest which eluded him. His ears easily discerned the ticking of the mantel clock as the minutes passed. On many a night, this noise had lulled Holmes into sleep, but not on this night. Each passing minute seemed as long as life's age. In spite of himself Holmes began to calculate how many more minutes it would be before the clock struck two. Time dragged and Holmes lay wakeful.
"Ding-DING, ding-DING," chimed the clock.
Holmes tensed, waiting.
Nothing. Nothing at all. No change. The flat stayed quite silent, save for the ticking of the clock. The darkness reigned, save for the glow of his little fire in the grate.
Holmes sighed and settled down more deeply into his covers. Foolishness. He would have chided Watson had the doctor reacted in the fashion he had this evening. Foolishness. He closed his eyes and was ready to surrender to sleep, when he realized the fire had grown slightly brighter. Holmes opened an eye and looked to the small grate in the corner of the room. The fire was no larger than it had been, yet the room was gradually filling with a soft light. Holmes peered into the dim shadows but perceived nothing that might provide such illumination. Soon a welling of light began to form at the foot of his bed. Holmes watched in fascination. It was not long before the outline of a small form was evident and then there was clearly a person of small stature amidst the light. No. Not in the light but rather emitting the light as a candle flame does.
"Sherlock Holmes," said a youthful but authoritative voice.
Squinting at the figure of light, Holmes could make out the face and figure. "Wiggins?"
"I am the one foretold to you by he who will not be named," said the figure of light.
"Wiggins, how are you doing this?" Holmes gestured to the glow surrounding the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars.
"I am not he," said the figure that looked like Wiggins.
"Then who?" demanded Holmes more intrigued than frightened.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Long past?" Holmes asked.
"Your past, Mr. Holmes."
"I see," said Holmes.
"You will," said the Spirit. "Rise. There is much for you to see and I have little time here. Others will follow."
"I was told that." Holmes shifted in his bed and sat up. "Before we begin, I would like to know what business brings you here."
"Your welfare."
"I should think that my welfare would be well served by a sound night's sleep."
"Your reclamation, then," the Spirit said giving the detective a level look.
Holmes rose from his bed and fitted on his house slippers then donned his dressing gown. "Very well, Wiggins, show me what you will."
The boyish spectre cocked his head and graced Holmes with a slight smile.
"Well, I can not go on calling you Ghost of Christmas Past," Holmes said intuiting the cause of the spectre's amusement. "It is rather a mouthful and calling you Ghost feels awkward somehow."
"Well enough," Wiggins said still amused. "Take my hand, Sherlock Holmes."
"Why?"
"So that you may see."
Holmes took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be drawn to his narrow window. Of its own accord, the drape moved aside and the sash rose in its frame. Over the old city there was a gentle snow falling illuminated by the many street lamps and a very few candlelit windows. Off in the far distance, Holmes saw a glow that did not originate from any earthbound source. He was studying this glow when suddenly he realized that the Spirit had drawn him through the window and they were now coursing through the air above the city. Holmes restrained a cry of alarm and forced his mind away from the panic natural to any who might find himself propelled thus through a London night.
"Fear not, guv," the Spirit said, now with Wiggins's customary Cockney accent.
"I will not, Wiggins, but I do wish to remind you that I am a man of flesh and blood, therefore ill accustomed to this manner of travel," said Holmes, in a voice that only the ungracious would have said trembled. "Tell me, though, Wiggins, what is that glow?"
"Your past," said Wiggins.
"And it is there we are bound?"
"Yeah, it is," Wiggins replied.
"And what shall we do there?"
"You'll see, guv. Oh, you'll see."
And with those words, they entered the glow, and through a shining void they shot. As suddenly as they had entered the void, they emerged above a landscape of snow covered rolling downs, bare trees and stone fences. In the distance was a village surrounded by farms and amongst them was a small Regency manor house. Instantly Holmes knew where he was. His home. Rather, the home of his youth.
The Spirit made some adjustment and they descended to the cobbled road some little distance outside of the village. Though the snow was ankle deep, Holmes felt no cold and the wind upon his cheek was not bitter. He felt it pass over him but did not feel its chill.
"Know this place, do ya, gov?" asked Wiggins.
"Know it?" Holmes snorted. "As well as any. This was my home. I walked this lane many times. I could walk it with my eyes closed."
At that moment they heard a ruckus of joyful laughter and the distinct smack and splat of snowballs. A troop of boys lurched and fumbled across a small clearing near the road. They stooped and packed the snow as fast as they could and, once so armed, they hurled their uncouth missiles at each other.
"Why! That's Thomas Riely!" cried Holmes. "And there is Joseph Blume and George Hench and Willy Miller! Hello, Willy!"
"They can't 'ear ya, Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins told him. "They ain't nothin' but reflections o' yer youth. Shadders given form, loike."
"Willy was my best friend for many years," Holmes said paying little heed to the Spirit. "Always was a crack shot with a snowball. Look at him!"
And true to what Holmes said, the boy launched yet another ball at a boy who had just stumbled into the clearing. It struck with great effect, checking the headlong rush of the new arrival and causing him to drop his own snowball. He was a gangling child with disproportionately long legs and almost painfully slim.
"You'll have to do better than that, Sherlock!" Willy called.
"Do ya recognize that lad?" asked Wiggins of Holmes.
Staring incredulously, Holmes breathed, "It is me."
"Ya seem to 'ave been a jemmy chavy in them days, guv," Wiggins observed. "Not so fly, though."
"Wiggins," Holmes said with some asperity. "You may look and sound like the real Wiggins but the accent does not suit your station."
"Very well," the Spirit said with a smile of genuine amusement. "You were game for the sport but ill suited to it, I think."
"Watch," replied Holmes knowingly.
As the rest of the boys stumbled to a stop the young Sherlock rubbed his eyes to clear them of the remnants of the snowball. As he continued to rub at them the other boys closed in around him with some concern as if they feared their friend had been injured. When they were only a few paces away Sherlock reached deftly into his half buttoned jacket drawing out a perfectly made snowball that he hurled at Willy. Before it had struck he repeated the movement and one after the other the surrounding boys were struck squarely. This provoked gales of laughter and all of them joined in in pummeling the young Holmes with their own snowballs. They capered and leaped about in mad dashes flinging snow at each other in clamorous, joyful war.
Holmes's usually stoic countenance was cast into a smile of pleasure as he and his guide watched the boys play. Soon, though, the play was interrupted by a harsh call.
"Sherlock!" barked a man from a dark carriage just up the lane from where Holmes and his guide stood.
As the rain of snowballs ended Holmes and the Spirit turned their eyes to the carriage.
"My father," said Holmes tonelessly.
"You look remarkably like him," commented Wiggins.
"I had not noticed before," said Holmes dryly. "It does stand to reason."
"Sherlock," the elder Holmes spoke from the carriage. "You are late. You have your studies to complete before dinner."
The younger Holmes dropped the snowball he had just packed and trod woodenly across the clearing looking as though he suddenly felt a greater chill than the weather would allow for. Once settled in the carriage beside his father the groom stirred up the reins and the horse drew the carriage away. Father and son sat stiffly next to each other as they disappeared around the curve in the lane.
"Your father disapproved of snowball fights?" the Spirit inquired.
"Father felt that such activities were of little use," Holmes explained. "They required too little of the mind. He saw no value in exercises that did not increase your knowledge."
"Come with me, Mr. Holmes." The Spirit led Holmes along the lane until they reached the manor house. It seemed to Holmes that they did not pass through the doors but materialized inside the large study of the home. Bookcases lined the walls with a large oaken desk occupying the middle of the room. At this sat the young Sherlock with his nose in a book.
"Where is your Christmas tree, Mr. Holmes?" asked Wiggins.
"After my mother's death we didn't have one." There was a note to Holmes's voice quite different from its usual tone. "Christmas dinner was only slightly more grand than any other we had."
"It made for a lonely holiday, I imagine," said the Spirit.
"I suppose it might have." Holmes shrugged as if it were of no importance. "I occupied myself well enough."
"With your studies? On Christmas Eve?"
Holmes said nothing but kept his eyes on the boy.
"You passed many Christmases thusly," the Spirit persisted. "Alone. Separated from your friends."
"Not entirely alone," said Holmes.
At that moment a tall figure entered the study.
"Mycroft," Holmes said softly. "Before he began over eating."
"Your older brother. He looks downcast," Wiggins commented.
"He made few visits home." Holmes shrugged. "He did not care to return here. Mycroft preferred to remain at school most holidays. Even in the summer."
"Did he enjoy studying so?"
"He and father did not get on well."
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft said to the boy at the desk.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried springing to his feet. "I didn't know you had arrived."
"Only a moment ago, brother," Mycroft said as he crossed to the desk. He picked up the book and read the title. "Robinson Crusoe? Father is allowing you to read this?"
Sherlock looked at his feet. "I am supposed to be reading Homer."
"Do not worry," Mycroft said gently. "He won't hear of this from me."
"I want to read Ivanhoe next but father will not give me the money for it."
Mycroft considered his younger brother a moment. "Perhaps Father Christmas will bring it to you."
"Father told me there is no Father Christmas, Mycroft."
"I had thought he would wait another year."
Young Sherlock shook his head. "He told me last year."
The brothers fell silent, standing alone together.
"Mycroft was a great help to me," Holmes mused. He walked across the carpeted floor to stand next to the shade of his elder brother. "We never touched after mother's death."
"Why not?" asked the Spirit.
"What purpose would it have served?"
"Come, Holmes," said the Spirit. "Time runs short for me."
With only a brief hesitation Holmes turned from the two figures in the study and followed the Spirit through the door to emerge into another place. Gazing around him Holmes's eyes widened slightly.
"Why, it's my old classroom!" he cried. "I studied here as a youth!"
A slim, pretty young woman entered and crossed to the only occupied table. Behind it stood a young man with his head bowed over a microscope.
"Alice?" Holmes said bemused. "Alice Howel."
"A pretty girl," Wiggins observed. "What is she doing in a boys school?"
"Pretty? You have a masterful gift for understatement, Wiggins," Holmes snorted derisively. "Alice was the daughter of Professor Howel. She was permitted to assist him in preparing his materials for lectures and the like. Not actually employed by the school, but she worked very hard. She studied in the evenings and attended lectures unobtrusively throughout the day. Quite the brilliant mind, had Alice."
"So it was her mind that interested you?"
Holmes shot the diminutive Spirit a hard look but it quickly softened in the light of truth.
"Obviously it was not her only virtue." Holmes looked back to the figure of the young woman. "She eventually applied to a women's university. She scored very well on the entrance exams."
"Are you still here, Sherlock?" Alice asked after she had stood unnoticed by the young man at his microscope. His reaction was nearly comic as his head snapped up and he turned red-rimmed eyes upon her. An engaging smile blossomed on the young woman's face and it was returned by a slightly awkward one from the young man. "I thought you would have been on a train home by now."
"I decided not to go home this year, Alice."
"Oh?" Alice smiled a little. "Have you some experiment that will not wait?"
"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I... My father does not celebrate Christmas. That's all."
Sadness flickered in the young woman's eyes and then she said, "You would be most welcome at my father's home. Our cook is quite good. And we have a larger goose than we could possibly eat."
"I wouldn't want to impose," Sherlock said politely.
"Impose?" Alice laughed softly. "Sherlock, you've just been invited and I will not take 'no' for an answer. You must come to Christmas dinner. Father will be very pleased as well. He truly enjoys your discussions."
Alice led the young Sherlock from the classroom by his hand not noticing, or at least pretending to not notice, that the youth looked at their clasped hands rather than where they were going.
"You two were fond of each other," said Wiggins.
"Fond?" Holmes mused. "I suppose we were. Alice was a very kind girl."
"But the fondness was not enough?" asked the Spirit.
"Enough for what?" Holmes queried.
"Look," said the Spirit.
The room changed. The scientific materials and books upon the tables shifted and the light through the windows changed to that of mid day. Sherlock, now a young man, stood at the same table with a test tube poised over a beaker, ready to drip its contents into some solution or other. Alice, also older than before, entered and watched as Holmes observed the reaction of the two chemicals before she crossed to him.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said when he finished making a note on his pad.
"Oh! Hello, Alice," replied the young man. "Merry Christmas."
"I wanted to tell you that my results arrived in the post yesterday," she said. "I've been accepted for the spring. They are placing me as second year."
"Very impressive. I had no doubt that you would do well."
"I've spoken with my father," she went on uncertainly. "He and I agree that I might wait until the fall term to begin. It would be after your graduation."
"So it would," Sherlock looked down at his notes. He was clearly agitated about something.
Stiffly the girl went on, "Father thinks he could find you a position with a firm not far from the university. It would be a London firm. Just the sort of work you are good at."
"That is very kind of him," Sherlock said non-committedly.
"I would be in school for another three years," Alice persisted. "By then you would have completed your apprenticeship. You would have a place in the firm. Enough money to live comfortably."
"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "You see, I'm not entirely sure I want to go to London just now. I was thinking I would travel a bit. See something of the world."
"Oh." Alice's eyes dropped to the table top. Her shoulders drooped a touch and she wrung her hands. "I... I understand. Well... Father's offer, I am sure, could be extended. That is, if you were to decide to go to London after your travels, he might still be able to secure you a position."
"I will keep it in mind." An awkward silence stretched for a moment before Alice turned away and quietly left the room.
"Fool," Holmes hissed. "Why did you show me this, Wiggins?"
"You did not travel very much after your graduation."
"I went to Ireland for a time." Holmes stared scornfully at the younger version of himself.
"She went on to university in the fall?"
"Alice left after the new year and entered school in the spring term." Holmes looked out of the window to watch the young woman cross the snow covered lawn. "She did very well. Eventually she became a teacher at a private school for young ladies. I understand that she is now the head mistress."
"Why did you not accept her father's offer and that which she implied?"
"I would have made an abominable husband," scoffed Holmes. "Can you imagine me married? What woman would have put up with me?"
For answer the Spirit looked out of the window at the girl as she brushed at her eyes before entering a small house on the far side of the commons.
"Show me no more of this, Wiggins," Holmes growled, standing near the young man he once was.
"It is time for me to return you to your rooms. Another comes for you soon."
A mist seemed to pass through the classroom and as it faded Holmes found himself in his bedroom at Baker Street standing before his fire. He sighed in a manner that suggested weariness. Throwing a scoop of coal on the low fire he settled into the small chair by the hearth, took a pipe from a box on the mantel and lit it.