A/N: Watson is top dawg. Based on sagredo's prompt. "It's two days before Christmas, and not a single tree is left to be had in London. Or is there? Luckily for Mrs. Hudson, her (in) famous lodger is perhaps the only man now capable of finding one. Can Holmes be coerced into doing so? And, does he bring back a 'Charlie Brown' tree?"

It was the first Christmas I had spent in 221B Baker Street since Holmes's sudden return to my life – a return, almost, from his own death. We had once again taken lodgings with our loyal housekeeper, Mrs Hudson. This familiarity was why our landlady came to us with an unorthodox request, and why we felt obliged to help her.

"My apologies for it, gentlemen. As you know, I habitually leave the two of you to yourselves: I do not interfere with your investigations, nor your... delightful... violin music, nor your other... habits." Mrs Hudson looked disapprovingly at the bullet holes in the wall, which formed the letters "VR". "You've always paid me handsomely and punctually. This one time, however, I must ask you to do something more."

Holmes drew a breath through his pipe, then removed it from his mouth. He looked lazily at Mrs Hudson and nodded – the nod presumably signifying his assent for her to continue speaking.

"Er..." she began. "I want a Christmas tree."

Holmes raised his eyebrow.

"And I can't find one in the whole of London!"

Holmes raised the other eyebrow before speaking.

"My dear Mrs Hudson, I find that exceedingly unlikely." He stopped talking, and stared at her. Before she spoke, however, he clapped his hand to his temple. "I have had a brilliant thought! I shall procure you a tree, should you promise to arrange the repair of my intolerable living quarters."

Mrs Hudson glared at him, but remained silent. After some moments of thought, she nodded.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Holmes. "Please follow me, Watson, and bring your revolver."

He rose from his lethargy, springing from his chair to the front door of 221B. I moved somewhat more reluctantly, for I had overindulged at Christmas dinner. For this reason I was reluctant, but also because of my trepidation about my revolver. Evidently, Holmes expected trouble. By the time I left 221B, Holmes had hailed a hansom cab. We climbed into the vehicle, and Holmes ordered the driver to visit an address in Clerkenwell.

"In order to get this tree, Watson, we shall have to revisit the abode of the greatest schemer of all time." He smirked as he said this, perhaps reminiscing. "We shall take our tree – from Professor Moriarty!"

"Holmes," said I, "what are you talking about? Moriarty died at Reichenbach."

"Of course," said he, "and what use can a dead professor have for his precious Swiss pine?"

"So we intend trespass."

"Trespass on the estate of a scoundrel," said Holmes. "It will give me much satisfaction to take something from my greatest foe."

We fell silent, and within a few minutes, the cab arrived at the estate of the late Professor Moriarty. It was an expansive townhouse, matched by its large, overgrown grounds. A rusty iron fence surrounded those same grounds, although we easily managed to bend apart the bars. We walked through this newly-made entrance, I following Holmes to our prize. I was not disappointed. The tree was a magnificent specimen, at least ten feet tall, with ample room for all Mrs Hudson's ornaments.

"I was pessimistic when I told you to bring your revolver, Watson. Clearly, the man had no friends or kin to inherit."

"A lonely existence, yes; but let us return to the business of uprooting this behemoth."

My friend scowled.

"Watson, I am afraid I overlooked that."

Exasperated, I turned to Holmes.

"Do you mean to tell me, Holmes, that you brought nothing in the way of tools? No axe, nor a saw, nor even a spade?"

"I fear I am a through-and-through urbanite, my dear Watson. The thought never occurred to me."

"You mean," I said, "you had the foresight to remember my revolver, but brought nothing to move the tree?"

I was incredulous and frustrated. A journey to 221B and back would require us to return in darkness. I was not even certain we had the tools to move the tree: Mrs Hudson's gardening was limited to orchids.

Crestfallen, Holmes nodded.

"We shall have to return to 221B," he sighed.

"No!" I exclaimed. I was determined that, if we were to take the tree, we should take it now.

"Watson," said he, "I admire your warriorlike stubbornness. Nonetheless, I do not think we can move this tree without tools."

Suddenly, I had a revolutionary moment of insight into our problem.

"We shall simply have to buy a saw on the morrow," Holmes continued.

I drew my revolver.

"And– Watson! What are you doing?"

I fired six shots into the trunk, each shot punctuating Holmes's confused bellow.

"WHAT"

BANG!

"ARE"

BANG!

"YOU"

BANG!

"TRYING"

BANG!

"TO"

BANG!

"DO?"

BANG!

Holmes silently looked at me for a moment. Then, the trunk began to creak.

"Move," I said.

Holmes moved aside just as the tree trunk split. The tree crashed into the space where he had stood. Holmes stared at me in disbelief.

"Maiwand Christmas," I said.

I twirled the smoking revolver around my index finger before returning it to its holster.