Tidings of Comfort and Joy?

Tuesday, 25th December 1888 – We Wish You A Merry Christmas?

London at Christmas is a most dreary place. Dawn comes, but not with that usual bustle that accompanies the birth of a new day. One forgets how used one becomes to the noise, the clatter of hooves, the rattle of wheels, the cries of the flower girl, and the ever-present murmur and rumble of the populace going about their business. Silence hangs over the city on Christmas morn, broken eventually by the toiling of church bells, calling the faithful to prayer.

Until then, one is very aware of the absence of sound. To awake to such a morning is to believe, before one's brain meshes with one's senses, that some great catastrophe has occurred during the night, denuding the city of people and life.

For myself, I awoke with a start, thinking I had gone quite deaf in the night. It took me a good five minutes before I heard the patter of footsteps in the streets outside and I could pull the blankets back over my head, reassured that all was well.

For, summoned by the bells, the people were abroad, parents muffled against the cold, clutching firmly the hands of their little ones, whose faces were aglow with the wonder of the thing and the presents they had found in their stockings. Merrily they went, tripping across the carpet of hoar-frost that made Christmas Day white this year, albeit not with snow. The rooftops sparkled and even the crystallised filth of the streets had been given a dusting of white that gave to the otherwise muted streets of grey and brown a touch of whimsy.

This is the London of many a Christmas card, clean, bright and fresh-faced – and a positive peril to anyone who has to venture out of doors.

I will never understand why people enthuse about the beauty of winter. They will describe in great detail the frosted majesty of a winter morn, and wax poetical about how greater are the comforts of a roaring fire when the snow lies thick upon the ground. I do not harbour such illusions. On such mornings the wind is chill enough to slice the ears from one's head. Hidden dangers lie in the streets – the frozen puddle of horse urine, the snow that turns to slush and slops into one's boots, and the sleet that stings the eyes.

I am seized by no great yearning to rush into the countryside and stare at snow-capped hills or to throw on a pair of skates and hurl myself onto the ice. No, I am quite to content to leave that to other people, or failing that to observe at a safe distance from a cosy interior with a glass of whisky in my hand.

But then perhaps I am a trifle set in my ways. I abhor change – order and method rule my days and I find any deviation from the settled running of things is liable to upset my digestion, not to mention setting me in a foul temper.

Thus, today, Christmas Day, I endeavoured to treat no differently from the average Sunday. Accordingly, I dressed in good time, took myself over to the club and took refuge in a little pre-lunch work in the room I had commandeered some years before in order to have some inner sanctum where I might retreat even further from the other members. I had said at the time that a secure place was needed for the storing of the club's accounts; in actual fact, over the years, I had succeeded in making it my own private domain.

I had all I needed to hand – a magnificent view over Pall Mall, a fireplace and a good supply of spirits. If need be, I could remain here until Christmas was over, untroubled by the upheaval of the season. Not that this space was entirely immune – someone had had the impertinence to put a swag of ivy on my desk. I removed it to a place out of my direct line of sight, and settled down to tackle the club's accounts for the last quarter.

Sherlock wafted in at a little past ten – I say 'wafted' for I noted a decided lack of purpose about him, and that, in my brother, is cause for concern – both for him and the people who have to endure his company. In such a state, he has a tendency to seek out situations to provide him with amusement. Some of these he confines to the privacy of his own rooms, which is deplorable enough. Should this fail, he will turn to the harassment of others, which today I suspected would be the club's long-suffering chef. I had every certainty that lunch was going to be interesting.

Added to which he refused to behave like a normal human being and take a seat. Nothing is less conducive to work when you are aware of a lingering presence at your back, nothing more irritating than having another person in the room who refuses to settle.

I managed to hold my temper until there came a clatter from behind me as several books fell to the floor, dislodged through his clumsy inquisitiveness.

"Will you sit down, Sherlock?" said I. "You're wandering about like a lost soul."

"Where would you have me sit?" said he. "The only serviceable chair is draped with ivy."

"Then move it. Gracious me, it doesn't take a genius to solve that mystery."

"Very well, then I shall sit. And what then am I to do, Mycroft? Watch you work for the rest of the day?"

I threw down my pen. Sherlock in disputatious mood was best tackled with a mind free of the complexities of the balance sheet. Besides, I had something to say to him that would solve all our problems – and free the Diogenes' chef from the worst critic in London.

"Why don't you go?" I suggested.

"Go?" From his tone, he was feigning ignorance. "Where?"

"You know perfectly well – to the Watsons. You have been invited to Christmas lunch."

He made a pretence of brushing lint from his collar to avoid having to answer. "What has led you to that conclusion?"

"For a start, I met Dr Watson yesterday."

"You did?" he asked, showing far too much interest for me to believe he was wholly set against the idea. "What did he say?"

"He told me that you were expected, but had yet to confirm. That, and the fact that I see you in the grip of turmoil, suggests to me that want to go and yet do not."

"I am not in the grip of anything," said he stubbornly.

"Just the results of an indulgence in those occasional indiscretions of yours." The manner in which he glared at me told me my diagnosis of the cause of his erratic behaviour had been correct. "If you circle this room another time, you will be well on your way to making a significant hole in the carpet. As to your social obligations, it is obvious to me that having had such a generous invitation, something is holding you back. So, Sherlock, I ask again, why aren't you going?"

His capitulation was akin to a defeated emperor abasing himself before a victor in battle, and delivered with equal grace. As much as Sherlock dislikes admitting that I am right more times than not, he does sometimes acknowledge that further struggle is futile.

"How can I?" said he. "They are married not yet a year. I refuse to be one of those friends who does not know when they have worn out their welcome and becomes an intrusion. No, it is unconscionable that I should go. I shall have to stay here. If my presence doesn't offend you, that is."

"Your presence does offend me, Sherlock," said I, "because you are skulking here when you have other things you should be doing. You may conduct yourself as you will in private, but there are still the social niceties to observe, which include not disappointing a thoroughly nice young couple – one of them your friend, I might add – when they have gone to the time and trouble of inviting you to Christmas lunch. It is intolerable, and unforgivably ill-mannered. As for being in the way, has it ever occurred to you that they might appreciate the extra company at this fraught time of year?"

He gave me a blank look. Sherlock understands nothing about the practical workings of married life.

"Why do you think Father always took us out for walk on Christmas morning? Nothing is more vexatious to a woman than having a man underfoot when trying to organise an occasion like this. If you go, and go you shall, you will be doing your friend a great service – by keeping him occupied and allowing Mrs Watson the freedom to work uninterrupted."

"You do not know that for certain," said he. "As for social niceties as you call them, does it not occur to you that he only made this invitation to be polite? And Watson is, whatever his other failings, polite to a fault."

"Not at all, Sherlock, and I shall tell you why. Because he knows how to be a friend, not just assume to the mantle of one when it suits him. No, hear me out," I said firmly when he tried to speak. "If a member of our sorry clan made such an invitation, you can be sure that it was because they knew the offer would be declined or because they thought there might be money in it for them. For years, Cousin Bertram only tolerated Great Uncle Siegfried's noxious presence at the dinner table because he was living in expectation of a legacy. Serves him right that all he was left in the will was a collection of twelve antique shoe buckles."

Give Sherlock the most obtuse problem, and he will have the answer in the time it takes most men to tie their shoes. Give him something where his heart has to rule over his head, and he is hopelessly lost in a sea of confusion. His consideration was admirable, but woefully misplaced.

I told him to waste no more time, but to leave without delay. I further added that he should go bearing gifts, to which he replied that he had already made provision for such a contingency. Finally, before he left, I gave him one last piece of brotherly advice.

"Do you know what the art is to being a good guest?" I said.

"Not wiping one's mouth on the tablecloth?"

I hoped he was jesting. "Knowing when to leave. I shall see you back here later."

Assuring me that he would, he left, and I, at greater ease of mind and soul, settled down to finish the accounts. Lunch went a good deal smoother for Sherlock's absence, and we were able to pay the chef our compliments without his smouldering resentment at having his culinary skills called into question. I only hoped that Sherlock was remembering to behave himself at the Watsons, although I fancied that in a more intimate setting he would fare better and adopt the utmost civility. Socially inept and disagreeable we Holmeses may be, but when the occasion demands we are never found wanting.

I fear a hearty lunch of asparagus soup, turkey stuffed with oysters and a liberal helping of cranberry sauce, French green beans and white plumed celery, finally followed by plum pudding and brandy dip and as many mince pies, fancies and choice slices of cheese as I could manage, caused the most profound sense of exhaustion to creep over me. I slept soundly until seven, when I was roused by my brother's hand on my shoulder, shaking me into wakefulness.

He draped himself across the chair opposite, lit a cigarette and appeared ineffably pleased with himself.

"The day went well, I take it?" I inquired gently.

He shook his head. "On the contrary, it was a disaster. When I arrived, the household was in something of a turmoil, for the maid had forgotten to put the plum pudding on to boil that morning, so that it was quite unready for the lunch. As a consequence, there was much crying and unnecessary noise, so that I was obliged to remove Watson from the household for his own good and my sanity."

He sniffed and cast a glance in my direction. This, if I understood him correctly, was to be the only acknowledgement I would receive as to my perspicacity of the situation.

"By the time we returned, the goose had been sent round from the local baker, who was doing a better trade in cooking people's Christmas lunch than he does making bread. As geese go, it was a fine specimen." He paused and smiled at the fire. "However, appearances can be deceptive. It transpired that it had been overcooked and was a trifle dry. I have scarce seen so little meat on a bird."

"I trust you did not make a fuss?" I said with some alarm.

"I am not so ungallant to complain, Mycroft, especially when I am a guest in someone else's house. In the end, the lunch consisted of cold tongue and boiled cabbage. A neighbour came to the rescue with a plum pudding, which Watson then decided to cremate. He was, I fear, a little overgenerous with the brandy. As a consequence, we had to throw it out into the street before the house went up in flames."

He laughed in that hearty, noiseless fashion which I find most irritating.

"It was an experience, to be sure," he went on. "I would go so far as to say that it is one of the better Christmases of my remembrance." And then even more irritatingly, he added: "I am glad I made the decision to take up their invitation."

I did not pursue the thankless task of reminding my brother that he did, in no small part, owe the success of his day to me. Instead, feeling rather mellowed by the wine and dulled by the progress of an unfeasibly large meal through my digestive system, I bowed to that convention practised at this time of year, by giving him the gift I had purchased yesterday for him at Leadbetter and Sons.

His response was entirely as I had suspected.

"Mycroft, whatever is the meaning of this?" said he, eyeing the small parcel suspiciously.

"I believe the appropriate response is 'thank you'."

"But what is this?"

"I don't know," I said. "What do you think it is?"

"Well, given the date, I would say it is a Christmas present." He held the parcel up to his nose and sniffed. "And unless I am much mistaken, and I am not, because the smell is quite distinctive, then contained within are Indian cigars."

It was common practice in our family to play 'guess the contents'. The number of glasses broken in this way over the years must have been in double figures. We were encouraged to shake, squeeze, poke and prod our gifts, and were not allowed to open them until we had correctly identified the contents. Frustrating it was at times, but it had the advantage of working both ways. Since Aunt Effie always sent us handmade vests and knitted gloves three sizes too big, we would feign ignorance when we saw her handwriting on the parcel to escape the onerous burden of having to express gratitude and excitement we did not feel.

This had some charm when we were young; for a grown man to continue in this way, however, is quite annoying.

At my urging, he opened the parcel and smiled when he saw that his deduction as to the contents had been accurate.

"Now what on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" said he. "We have not exchanged gifts at Christmas for many a long year. Best guard yourself, brother. This new-found streak of sentimentality could be the first glimmers of burgeoning senility."

I believe that this is not the spirit in which one should receive gifts, when the giver has gone out of his way to purchase something both thoughtful and useful for the receiver. It also reminds me why I stopped this absurd yearly ritual long ago.

"Well, this has not entirely come as a surprise to me," Sherlock continued. "I had an inkling all was not well when you went on the other day about wanting nephews. Quite unlike you, Mycroft. And then, when I saw earlier that monstrosity you have allowed to be set up in the Stranger's Room bedecked with candles, I was certain that you were suffering some sort of seasonal malaise. Is it curable, do you think?"

He said all this with a most disagreeable smirk upon his face that I fear brought out the worst in me. "I have heard that ridding oneself of irksome younger siblings is most efficacious in such cases," I retorted, regarding him sternly. "And that tree was not my doing. I'll have you know I fought it to the last."

"In any case," said he, "I had prepared for such an eventuality. I went so far as to purchase a little something for you, just in case." He took a small parcel from his inner pocket and passed it across to me. "One never likes to be bested in the question of good manners."

"As it happens," said I, opening the paper to find a packet of my usual brand of snuff within, "I was merely following your lead, Sherlock. Young Mr Leadbetter told me that you had been buying gifts, so naturally, I felt compelled to—"

"He told you that?" he interjected. "Why, he told me the exact same story about you!"

It did not take a genius to see that we had been the subject of a clever piece of salesmanship, and we were able to laugh at the trick played upon us.

"I dare say we should be very angry with Young Mr Leadbetter," said I, "but it is the season of forgiveness. And snuff is always most welcome."

"As are these cigars," said he, rising to go to the side table, from where he eventually returning with two glasses of sherry. "Well, another Christmas comes to an end. Overall, it has been interesting. I have acquired a reputation and you a nephew. I have discovered that a good meal is not to be had at the Watsons, and we have revived the custom of exchanging gifts."

"Far too interesting for me. I, for one, am heartily glad it is at an end."

"You won't be emulating the example of Good King Wenceslas then, and looking out on the Feast of Stephen?"

"Those foolhardy enough to be throwing open their windows at this time of year risk a lungful of freezing fog followed by rampant bronchitis. Since I am in no haste to away to my grave, I shall be here tomorrow, basking in sub-tropical temperatures and avoiding the tradesmen who come asking for their Christmas Box. I shall leave a bag of sixpences in the charge of the steward and leave them to decide the thing between them."

I caught Sherlock looking at me, a wry smile softening the lines of his face. "Now that is more like the brother I know," said he. "Good health, Mycroft."

I raised my glass in similar salutation. "The same to you, Sherlock. Here's hoping for a much quieter New Year!"

The End!


Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All characters and events mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only and has not been created for profit.