"By all that is holy," Dr. Watson breathed out with a pleasure that surprised himself as he dropped his luggage to the side and sank to his usual place at the fireplace settee. His slippers had been carelessly left underneath the furniture for some reason; as Holmes tossed his own bags into his bedroom, he had his cold, damp shoes off and his slippers on.

"Just in time for Christmas, eh, Watson?" Holmes asked cheerfully as he rubbed his hands briskly before the flames.

"Mn." Watson grunted. He was so happy to be home he was approaching a state of mind close to somnolence. "Wonderful." He angled so his puffy eye was the one opposite the heat of the flames.

"I wired ahead to Mrs. Hudson to let her know we would be available for the holiday after all," the detective settled to his usual comfortable chair, with every bit as much enjoyment as his fellow lodger. One long hand reached for the Persian slipper with a contentment Watson found catlike, but quickly froze when the door opened to a quick knocking and the woman in question entered with a tray.

"You're quite fortunate I hadn't finished my baking for the church, gentlemen," the woman informed them with a smile. "The ovens were still quite warm."

"Oh…thank you, Mr. Hudson." Watson breathed, and although he didn't want to move, he took the tray from her hands with a smile. She beamed at him, and shut the door behind herself discretely.

Watson lifted the lid and breathed in the bliss of a good, solid dish of pot pie that smelled of leeks and paprika and cubes of lean pork. "Ovens warm, my eye. She had this prepared for us just in case."

"What makes you so certain, Watson?" Holmes' lips twitched.

Watson snorted. "My dear fellow, I may not be a Great Detective, but I am a fair observer of women." The older man lifted his eyebrows in a slightly mischievous expression. "And it is late in the month."

"And what would that have to do with the price of tea, Watson?" There was no doubt; Holmes was smiling broadly as he packed tobacco out of the slipper and into his large pipe.

"We pay our rent next week. What with the usual drains of the festivities…well, my mother often served a pot pie at the end of the month when expenses were drawn. It needs a modicum of ingredients after all, and enough lard to make a crust."

"Admirable, Watson." Holmes rose to his feet and tossed his match to the flames. "It does make one wonder what will be on the menu tomorrow."

-

Andrew Cheatham responded to stress badly. With his wife's former guardian wrecking her draconian havoc upon the world, he felt entitled to escape for a moment--just a moment--and dig up some sort of reassurance in the kitchen. The fine wines, dark beers and brandies were out of the question. One needed to have one's wits absolutely sharp around Mrs. Masters.

He had been openly helping himself to food in pantry when something large made a sound like a bag of burlap against the outer door. The big man frowned to himself, and brushed crumbs off his shirt-front as he went to the knob.

"Andrew--!" Geoffrey Lestrade swayed slightly in the doorway. He looked to have been in another fight. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Andrew doubted that, but there was a possibility his brother in law was concussed. It had happened before. He gaped at his sister's husband. "What in the name of God happened to you?" He wanted to know. "Again?"

"What do you mean, 'again?'" Lestrade sniffed, and drew himself up to his entire five-foot seven inch height. "I'll have you know, you fop, I have never once had the same disaster befall me twice."

"This is true." Andrew dubiously crossed his arms over his broad chest. He looked Lestrade up and down--mostly down--from his six-foot, five inch altitude. "What is it? Lestrade...are you drunk? Don't you want to warn my sister you're coming in?"

"What, looking like this?" Lestrade pointed to himself. "No, I'm not drunk, I've been on the g-- d----d Western Train Line since the Dawn Chorus, and--I'll have you know, you overdressed twit--It's about Clea we're talking about. What's her state of mind?"

"Exactly what one would guess from a holiday with my mother-in-law under the same roof." Andrew said darkly.

"You know she's not really your mother-in-law, just her former legal guardian."

Andrew sighed. "Do you mind? You're only giving me a false sense of hope that the woman will go away someday." He reached in his pocket for a perfumed cigarillo. "It's good to see you, though."

"You're joking." Lestrade said automatically.

"No, no, I'm serious. As soon as you walk into the room, Mrs. Masters forgets there's any other target for her arrers. Believe me, we're all grateful that she despises you so wholeheartedly."

Lestrade sighed. "That's more like it," he nodded. "I was starting to get a little worried at your Holiday charity." He chafed his gloved hands against the cold. "Well, since I never could get enough evidence to have her put behind bars where she belongs—"

"That's because you were trying to put her in gaol, not a zoo." Andrew broke in snidely.

"Point to Cheatham," Lestrade conceded. "The fact is, with a bit of help, we can serve her up a dish of crow for the holiday." The small man drew out his sentence like a fishing-line.

Andrew was dubious indeed, but willing to carry the flame of hope. Lestrade saw it flare up in his dark blue eyes.

"This isn't going to be complicated, is it?" He worried.

Lestrade grinned. "No, not at all."

-

Christmas morning burned bright and clear. The stacks had shut down for the precious few hours that would let people see snow without grey ash, yellow coal-smears, and black cinders.

The cold was incredible. After the marshes, Watson was frankly astonished. He bundled up in his extra-warm flannels and found a second pair of stockings before going downstairs. Being above the fire in the sitting-room, he knew it would be a bit cooler once he came down.

The doctor quickly saw to the fire, noting that Holmes' door was still shut, and went to the small window. He wiped the glass with his sleeve until the layer of frost peeled away and let him see out. Swarms of small children were racing up and down the white-carpeted cobblestones as if their very lives depended on it. He smiled at the sight. One of the constables was strolling down, in that slow, deliberate tread that is only possible when one is wrapped in thick layers of wool, shackled by enormous boots, and capped with a heavy metal helmet. He saw movement at the 221B Baker street window and lifted his hand in a greeting. Watson gave him a smiling hello back.

"You look quite invigorated, Watson," Holmes said from behind him.

Watson turned to find the detective, dressed as warmly as himself, sitting down with one leg curled underneath as he collected the dottles and bits from the previous day's smoking. The first pipe in the morning was always the worst. Watson bore it patiently.

"Nothing like the ease of one's bed, Holmes." Watson sighed as he stretched his feet before the flames. "Can you hear how quiet it is?" He tucked his hands deep inside his pockets, eyes closing in his own private joy.

Holmes silently counted the seconds.

Watson opened his eyes at fifteen. "I wonder if they'll be able to keep Jackson this time."

"One can only hope so." Holmes answered fervently. "He is quite a unique example of an unbalanced mind. With relief he touched a flame to his pipe and pulled hard. "As I said, it was of some interest. I felt Mr. Lestrade should be a part of it considering his past history with the man."

"I don't think he regretted it," Watson said with feeling. "And his Lordship was rather financially generous to all three of us."

Holmes grinned, his teeth latched about the stem of his pipe. "Rather more to Lestrade…giving him those swans."

"I don't know how he's going to eat all three," Watson protested. "I still say that was a bit of a cruel trick, Holmes. Lestrade loathes swans."

"So I noticed during that little affair at the park." Holmes was as imperturbable as an invisible owl. "But he does mind his manners around the peerage, and he wouldn't be so rude as to refuse his Lordship's generosity."

Watson shook his head chidingly. "Do you know, when the rajah wants to destroy someone, he gives the person the gift of a white elephant?"

"I believe I've heard the story, Watson. The white elephant is a rare and precious object, valuable and beyond compare…but it is also deuced hard to take care of, and just feeding it from day to day will shatter even the staunchest man's budget."

"Yes. Why am I thinking of white elephants right now?" Watson muttered, looking straight at Holmes.

Holmes shrugged it off. "He may not be imaginative, but Lestrade does possess some knack for being resourceful."

Watson shook his head and made himself as comfortable as humanly possible at his settee. Holmes, for his part, was soon engrossed in catching up with all the newspapers missed in London during their absence.

With the warmth returning to the room, Watson dozed the morning away until Mrs. Hudson announced a hot Christmas feast.

"And I'll have you know, gentlemen," the housekeeper said with a smile, "It's a rare treat we're serving today! A rare treat!"

-

Inspector Bradstreet had to lean against the door and kick it to dislodge a frozen lump of snow underneath the hinge. Gregson puffed as he helped from the other side. When the door managed to slam in the frame, the Constables applauded.

"Thank you, thank you," Bradstreet bowed from the waist. "Anything to report, gentlemen?" The casual question, asked every year, abruptly stopped in his lips. Every Constable present was grinning like someone had locked them into a sweet shop overnight. In the back, the other Inspectors that had beaten them there, Youghal, Morton, Hopkins and Parson, were grinning just as smugly.

Bradstreet lifted his head and sniffed. "My word, what smells so good?" He wondered. "Did someone bring in a goose?"

"Got a package from Lestrade, sir." PC Church beamed. "He sends his regards, and his regrets that he won't be able to attend. The package is to be shared equally to all, and to save some for the ones that are on duty today."

Gregson blinked. "That must be quite a large package." He observed.

For some reason, that put the office into a spate of hysterics.

"It's a goose, isn't it?" Bradstreet frowned, puzzled. "Isn't it? It smells like roasted goose with sage and walnut trimmings."

"Oh, it's goose, Inspectors." Youghal had a smile like a carved jacky-lantern on his smooth face. "Gunnysack goose, sir. The Inspector especially requested that all PCs who patrol the parks and water-ways this year have the first go at it."

-

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"Just a splash more, Clea."

Clea Cheatham Lestrade chuckled as she did as directed. "There. One splash more, luv." She set the lid tightly over the large rommertopf and tucked the large clay pot into the bake-oven. She was still beaming as she smoothed her skirts. "In less than an hour, you'll be the new hero of the Cheatham House."

"I don't know about that, ma-mel," Lestrade began. He was propped up with his back against the wall of the kitchen, lounging on the plank bench the servants normally used for their meals. A bottle of fairly decent wine was in one hand; his father in law had been pouring it into him for a good half-hour now.

"Yes, you are." Charles Cheatham rumbled with all the fervor of a mostly formant volcano. Although the man was stone-blind from cataracts, he was still disgustingly coordinated enough to tip the bottle and pour another serving into Lestrade's glass. "For more than one reason, I might add."

Lestrade drifted off to a slightly alcoholic haze. Hmn?" He wondered belatedly.

"Well, first, for managing to get back to the family for the holidays," Charles Cheatham slapped his diminutive son-in-law on the back; wine splashed on the floor. His assisting dog was only too happy to tend to it. "Secondly," he added while Lestrade still tried to find his breath, "you supplied one bloomin' glorious feast."

"I think you've drunk more than I have." Lestrade mumbled.

"Prolly. I'm old. I'm entitled." The patriarch was unperturbed. "And then you gave my daughter the cooking challenge of her life entire—legally, I might add. I mean, we would have covered for you if you'd brought home a swan illegally…"

"Ah, thanks but no thanks…"

"And you showed up that awful widow!" Cheatham finished with a shout that would have vibrated the cobwebs off the rafters, had they existed. "Sent her back home to skulk—where she belongs with her greasy fat cook! As if being a baronet is all that much to be proud of…much less being the cook for one..."

"And the best part's to come." Clea strolled over, parted the wine from her father's hand, and poured herself a glass with her husband's unsteady help. "Swan liver terrene. Won't that be something to talk about, served with barley-grain and gravy!"

"What are you going to do with the rest of them?" Charles Cheatham wondered. "I mean, it was generous to process all three of them here for your friends, but you've been up all night..!"

"Actually, it was a little shelfish," Geoffrey, exhausted, bloodshot with purple circles under his eyes, and so tired it was unsure how drunk he was, staggered to his feet, hand on the table-top holding himself up, "Went through the trouble of getting that looney back, was kind enough to be paid in swan, thought might as well make use of it. Mrs. Elizabeth is going to have one ruddy good time stuffing her quilts with swandown this year…" He took another drink; Clea smiled and put her arm around him. "And those wings…you tell me your grandsons won't enjoy wearing those giant wings the next time the priest wants them to play the part of some angel in the next play."

"You're right about that," Clea giggled. "We'll leave it to Elizabeth to puzzle out the wires and preserving and such."

"And we got out of Hogmanay," Lestrade marveled. "That's the fourth time in almost thirty years I've gotten out of Bradstreet's wretched Hogmanay. An' all I had to do was chase a madman into a frozen swamp."

"Miracles are for Christmas." Clea toasted her husband with her glass.