Disclaimer: still not owning a thing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from Book girl fan: "Please, sir. Not on Christmas!" Thank you! I had fun with this one. Researched a bit of Victorian slang because I was in the mood, but don't count on me to do so every day. ;D Skinners were women who made their living luring children into alleys, stripping them, and selling their clothing, leaving their frightened young victims naked in the street. (Wow, never knew this was a thing!) Nobblers was one of the names given those among the underworld who inflicted bodily harm, often in the form of severe beatings, to anyone transgressing the Victorian criminal's "code" — especially those serving as informers to the police. A zounderkitewas a complete idiot who constantly made clumsy and awkward mistakes.
You would think that hardened criminals that made their living under the Professor's orders would obey unquestioningly. Especially since every single one of Moriarty's plan was a brilliant success. To Moran's surprise, though, sometimes even usually ruthless thugs could suddenly grow a conscience around the holidays. It was galling.
"Please, sir. Not on Christmas!" the Jones couple, Ella, the skinner and her husband, nobbler Arthur, pleaded in one voice.
The former Colonel only rolled his eyes. "Yes, on Christmas! Not on Christmas Eve neither on Boxing Day. You'll do what you're supposed to do or I'll find someone else to do it, and then I'll have to deal with your insubordination. You don't want that, do you?" he snapped.
"But, sir…Christmas," Arthut bleated again, as if it should have any bearing on their plans.
"I should just take you out here and now, but you're usually good hands, so I'll explain why Christmas in small words. Just this once, mind. Any further objection from any of you from now on will be treated with a bullet, are we understood?" Moran said, glaring at them, arms crossed.
They had the good sense to nod.
"If we take the little Lord on any other day, his parents' first thought will be to find us and make us pay. Call the police. Maybe even some more private detectives just because. Things will drag on, and there's a chance someone will find you. Which you don't want, yes?" the sniper explained.
They nodded again, more eagerly this time.
"On Christmas? They'll behave just like you two idiots. 'Oh, not on Christmas!' His parents will do anything we ask to have their precious heir returned before the day is gone. And then they'll celebrate. And then, the morning after – or the afternoon, if they drink enough – they'll remember they should really call the police. By then, any clues you left behind should have been destroyed by the revelries. So, unless you mean to change job and offer yourselves as nannies, I suggest you leave your ridiculous fancies behind and follow your orders," Moran concluded. For once, he empathised strongly with his boss. How did the Professor manage being constantly surrounded by zounderkites?
The Joneses gaped at him. "You're a genius, sir!"
He sighed. "No, I'm not. You're idiots. Now, shoo. You have your orders. I don't want to hear from you until it's done."