The Cabbie was dead. Of that there could be little doubt. Doctor John Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had seen to that.

He had shot the serial killer just as he had convinced his friend, Sherlock Holmes to participate in his sick little game of chance.

Sherlock could confirm absolutely that the cabbie was most definitely deceased, having observed him take his last painful breath.

For further details I would advise that you read the good doctor's blog on the case titled 'A Study in Pink' for further details.

The fact remained the Cabbie was dead. Dead as a doornail.

Christmas Eve

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective had just turned into Baker Street. Usually he preferred to travel by taxi to get around London. But it was Christmas Eve, taxis were few and far between, while the trains and buses he knew would be packed to capacity. So that left him with only one option, walk.

He had just finished up with Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard on a case concerning the theft of a valuable and rare blue jewel, called The Carbuncle no less. A jewel that somehow ended up in the gullet of a goose set to become someone's Christmas dinner.

Usually he wouldn't go out for anything less then a seven. This case had barely been a four, and even that was stretching the definition. But it was Christmas Eve and it seemed that even the criminal classes had decided to take a well-earned break from their illegal activities.

Damn them!

But that wasn't the only thing that had driven him to leave the comfort of 221B on such a bitterly cold day. He had had about all that he could take of everyone and their festive cheer.

Usually he could cope with it. But with the birth of the Watson's offspring, everyone seemed determined to ratchet up their normal irritating behaviours to a whole new level.

He felt suffocated by all the cloying affections that had begun since the birth of the baby. And these cloying affections seemed to be spreading and infecting everyone with whom she came into contact.

Except him.

All he saw when he looked at their daughter was someone who spent her days eating, sleeping and excreting at both ends. Not to mention having a very healthy pair of lungs that she made sure got a regular workout.

He was certain that he was not the only one to be taken by surprise when John and Mary had asked him to be her Godfather. He was after all a high-functioning sociopath. And he had been reliably informed, on more than one occasion, that he didn't possess a heart.

It was ridiculous, foolhardy. What they were asking of him definitely fell into the 'not my area' category.

But they had insisted. No one else would do.

Generally people viewed him as arrogant, rude, insensitive, and a freak.

And he was fine with that. Labels never bothered him.

He was about to enter 221B when he received a text. It was Lestrade. He read it, and rolled his eyes.

'The Red Headed League. Really! Was he serious?'

Clearly John's penchant for ridiculous titles was spreading.

He fired back a quick response.

Not worth my time.
SH

Upon entering 221B Sherlock knew instantly that something was amiss. He made his way up the stairs to his flat. By the time he reached his door he already knew what awaited him.

"What do you want Mycroft?" he demanded even before he'd passed the threshold.

"Christmas, Sherlock," the elder Holmes replied. "A time of good cheer."

Sherlock snorted.

"Who sent you? Was it Mary?" Sherlock paused, looking his brother up and down very carefully.

Mycroft detested Christmas even more than Sherlock, for reasons only he knew. So it must be something very particular to bring him to Baker St at this time.

Ah!

A small smile escaped Sherlock's lips. "Mummy."

Mycroft immediately tensed, his eyes, almost but not quite meeting his younger brothers.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. "For reasons that I will never understand," he said. "She feels that it is very important that you attend the Watson's little sware tonight."

Sherlock gave another snort. "If she really thought it important enough, she would have come and told me herself."

"She would have. But she and Daddy are seeing a play in the West End, something ghastly about three ghosts."

Both brothers shuddered at the thought.

"Then I'm sorry that you have had to waste so much of your valuable time," Sherlock responded. "Because I have no intentions of attending. Please send my apologies to John and Mary, I have another pressing case that needs my immediate attention."

"What case?"

"The rather intriguing case of the Red Headed League. It looks to be rather… informative."

Mycroft raised a sceptical eyebrow, but opted to keep his opinion to himself, knowing full well that Sherlock would be able to deduce them anyway.

Instead he tried another strategy.

"They'll all be disappointed," he pointed out. "Not to mention Mummy wont be pleased."

"I don't see why not," Sherlock objected. "I spent Christmas with everyone last year. Or don't you remember?"

Mycroft winced visibly. It was not a topic he wished to be reminded of. Which was precisely why Sherlock had mentioned it.

Seeing that Sherlock was resolute in his decision, he saw little point in pursuing the matter any further.

He made his way out the door. But before he left, he couldn't help adding. "You'll regret it brother mine."

"Is that a threat, blood?"

"Not a threat Sherlock. Just an observation."

With that Mycroft headed down the stairs and out the front door.

Sherlock followed him. He stood on the footpath watching Mycroft's chauffer driven car make its way down Baker St.

Sherlock turned, intent on retreating back to the sanctuary of his flat when he was accosted by a couple of well meaning charity workers.

Under normal circumstances he would have been more than happy to offer a generous donation.

But of late, whether real or imagined, Sherlock felt that his select number of friends and colleagues were all conspiring against him to drag him kicking and screaming into the all too irritating tradition that was Christmas.

And now apparently his own family had been recruited to imbue him with some Christmas Spirit.

Traitors!

But all their efforts were in vain. All they had done was to give him further incentive to reinforce his resolve to remain at a distance from such annoying trivialities.

When the said charity workers made to follow him as he walked through 221B's front door, he did not feel the least inclined to be giving like Old Saint Nick.

He felt more akin to the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge. And as such, he reacted accordingly. "Bah Humbug!" he roared before slamming the door in their shocked faces.

The flat was blissfully silent. Mrs Hudson had gone out to do some last minute Christmas shopping.

This was a relief to Sherlock, who now wished for the tranquillity of peace and quiet, with no irritating or unnecessary distractions.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and debated between starting an experiment on the toes he'd pilfered from St Bart's morgue earlier in the day. Molly would likely slap him for that, once she made the discovery, so something to look forward to. Or have the leftover Chinese from last night.

His stomach quickly made the decision for him.

Making his way back to his chair, he sat down and began eating his meal cold. Heating it up in the microwave would require him to get up again, and he frankly wasn't in the mood.

He'd only managed a couple of mouthfuls when he had the oddest sensation. If anyone had asked him to describe it, he would have said it was like someone had walked over his grave.

Which was ridiculous, because the dead do not feel. And he wasn't six feet under, yet.

But he couldn't suppress a shiver as the temperature in the room suddenly dropped by several degrees.

Putting the food down, Sherlock looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then he glanced over to the skull on the mantelpiece, only to be confronted with the face of the Cabbie.

"Why can't people think?" it asked.

Sherlock blinked, and the skull was back.

Sherlock was a rational man, and so he put down what he had just seen as one of several possibilities: hallucination, exhaustion or being high. He instantly discounted the latter. He hadn't taken drugs since the day Molly slapped him at Bart's eighteen months before.

Sighing he got up, and went into his bedroom to change into something more comfortable.

He returned to his seat in an old pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, and his blue dressing gown. He leaned back; steepled his fingers under his chin and attempted to enter his mind palace.

Except that there was a problem. Every room he entered contained the same thing.

The Cabbie.

"Doesn't it drive you mad?" it said.

Sherlock lowered his hands, he was clearly not going to get anywhere that way.

Without warning the TV, laptop and microwave turned themselves on.

Thirty seconds later they stopped.

All was silent.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. What was that?

He was certain he'd heard something.

Yes, there it was again.

Heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs to his flat. The steps were uneven, as though one leg weighed more than the other.

"Something wicked this way comes," he murmured.

Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed when the Cabbie's ghost materialised through the door to his flat. It was dragging a ball and chain.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. But it didn't help. Standing right there before him was the Cabbie.

Impossible though it was. There he stood, dressed as he had been in life, though with the added addition of the blood that had flowed due to John's well-aimed bullet.

Sherlock admitted, even if only to himself that he was a little unnerved. In his head he kept repeating to himself 'When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth,'

Deciding to take his own sound advice, he took a deep breath as he glared at the spectre before him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Ask me who I was?" came the unfazed response.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, already getting bored. Always the silly little games with this one. "Very well. Who were you?"

"You know who I was Mister Holmes. I'm the Cabbie from 'A Study in Pink'"

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, the whole thing was preposterous. The dead
coming to life. And to top it off, the dead enjoy reading John Watson's Blog. What next? There was only one way to find out.

"What do you want? Why are you here?"

"I'm here tonight to warn you," the Cabbie began.

"Warn me of what?"

The Cabbie looked down at the ball and chain that bound him. "You have a chance to escape my fate."

Sherlock snorted with disgust. "I am nothing like you."

"We're not as different as you'd like to believe," the Cabbie replied. "We've both killed for the sake of those we love."

Sherlock refused to dignify the statement with an answer.

The Cabbie continued. "You will be visited by three spirits."

"Tell them not to bother, I wont be in."

"Oh you'll want them to come Mister Holmes. In fact you'll need them to. Because without their visits," the Cabbie warned. "You will be doomed to suffer a fate worse than death."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Sherlock muttered.

"Do not take this warning lightly," the apparition said as it began to fade. "They are coming."

Sherlock remained seated, staring at where the ghost had stood for a moment or two. He then looked around him. All seemed normal.

Except for the clock, its second hand appeared stuck, unable to move forward. Like it was stuck in time.

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off it. "Interesting."