Disclaimer - I made my list, checked it twice, and found I still owned no rights to any of the characters within, although Sherlock Holmes and related characters are, I believe, in the public domain.

Frog1 - Thanks for the heads-up. I try to research to keep everything in its historical context, but it seems there are some things I'm still not quite up to snuff on. Guess I'll have to go back to hitting the books, or more likely, the 'Net.

A/N – Merry Christmas. Or Happy Christmas Eve to those night owls who are the first to read this chapter. Enjoy this little gift, from my heart to yours.

Bruce Wayne looked more at Jamie Watson's back than at the dressing room around him as he entered it. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was studying every corner of the room intently.

"Sir William was…"

"Sir William Moore," said Holmes. "Renowned Shakespearian actor. Came from a long line of respected actors. He portrayed me on stage once… badly. He was also your Jacob Marley."

"Exactly," said George Clark.

"He was also a disagreeable man, I assume," said Holmes. "And he often complained about a draft."

Clark just looked at Holmes with surprise. Holmes moved to the wall and ran his hand against it. He opened a panel and snowflakes flew into the room.

"Yes," said Clark. "Sir William had a dressing room with a door to outside the theater."

Holmes watched as Bruce ran his hand across a dresser in the room and then reeled back in disgust. He lifted green fingers into the air and began waving his hand, like a bat shaking water from his wings. Holmes just shook his head.

"When was the last time anyone saw Sir William alive?" asked Holmes.

"I saw him when he first came in to the theater, about three hours ago," said Clark. "He passed me and went straight into his dressing room, locking the door behind him. That was his habit. Method actor and all."

"I'd say cause of death was strangulation with this chain," said Dr. Jamie Watson. "Probably overstating the obvious, but that's what they pay me for."

"Who are you?" asked Clark.

"Jamie Watson. I'm a doctor."

"But you're so young. Barely in your…"

"Twenties. I know. My father had powerful connections in the medical world."

"Who had reason to want Sir William dead?" asked Holmes.

"That's a stupid question to ask!" scoffed Clark.

Everyone turned at looked at George Clark as if he had just said something vulgar. He began to blush a bit in response.

"I just meant, everyone Sir William Moore ever met has wanted him dead. He's managed to survive alright so far."

"Then perhaps a better question to ask is who's seen Sir Williams over the past three hours?"

At the moment, there was a huge gasp. A young woman with curly golden hair was standing in the door, her mouth hanging wide open. In an instant, a young, dark-haired man ran up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and turned her around in the doorway.

"What happened?" said the young woman between sobs. "It's Will, isn't it? He's dead."

The woman broke from the man's grip and ran back into the room. She made a fist and bit it, tears streaming down her face.

"What happened?"

"This is Mary Kissick," said Clark. "She's one of our actresses. Mary, I'm sorry you had to…"

The man embraced Mary tightly.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he said. "You shouldn't have seen this. I'm so sorry."

"Perhaps it would be best if the lady went to her dressing room to recover," suggested Gregson.

Ebenezer Scrooge entered the dressing room. Bruce was just beginning to appreciate how wondrously spacious Sir William's dressing room was.

"Michael," said Clark, "get Mary out of here."

"But… but… but… Bah!"

Micheal and Mary left the room. The other man looked from the crowd in the room to Sir William's body and back again.

Gregson stepped forward.

"I'm Chief Inspector Gregson," he said. "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"The famous detective," said the young man, stepping forward. "I'm Quincy Ford."

He and Holmes shook hands. Holmes withdrew his hand quickly and looked at it.

"Sorry about that," said Ford. "The paint's a killer to get out of your clothes, but at least it dries quickly."

"You're a carpenter, Mr. Ford?"

"Yes. I've been helping with props and set design and construction."

"Quincy was with me the last time I saw Sir William alive," said Clark.

"Yes. I remember," said Ford. "He grunted at us both rudely. It only makes sense that someone finally got to the old bugger."

"No need for such vulgar language!" said Gregson. "Especially not in front of a…"

"I don't mind it," said Jamie.

"Wait a minute," said Clark. "You should have been the last one to see him alive, Quincy. I sent you to tell him his cue was coming up almost half-an-hour ago."

"I did tell him," said Ford. "I went and knocked on his door. Yelled in to him. He didn't say anything."

"Did this seem suspicious to you?" asked Jamie.

"No," said Ford. "He was stubborn and he usually didn't talk to anyone while in the dressing room. I thought I even heard him grunt a response, but it might just have been my imagination."

"With your permission, I would like to talk with the rest of the members of your cast, Mr. Clark," said Holmes. "They may be able to help better pinpoint a time of death."

"Whatever it takes for you to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you consent, Chief Inspector?" asked Holmes.

"Of course," said Gregson. "Just try not to disturb anything backstage until backup arrives."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What do you want?" snarled Michael.

"We'll start with your full name," said Bruce, stepping into the dressing room, which was less than half the size of Sir William's.

"Michael Wyte. Are you with the police?"

"Not officially," said Holmes. "We're consulting detectives. May we ask you some questions?"

"Will you leave if I say no?"
"No," said Bruce.

"Then just shut the door behind you," sneered Wyte. He removed his long, snowy gray wig, revealing shorter, thinner, and darker gray hair beneath.

"Do you know anyone with a reason to want Sir William dead?" asked Holmes.

"Half of this cast," replied Wyte, "if not all of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's start with our fearless leader," said Wyte with a smirk. "He and Sir William have a long history, and a bad one. They used to be partners in a stage act. Sir William made it big. George Clark didn't. To add insult to injury, Clark had to grovel at Sir William's feet for him to be a part of this production."

"Why?" asked Bruce.

Wyte removed his shirt, revealing a pale, saggy chest and belly. Bruce gagged. Holmes just kept his eyes focused on Wyte's sneering face, unflinching.

"Because Clark's career was going down the latrine," said Wyte. "He needed a hit to redeem himself. The only way to do that was to get a hold of the most famous actor he knew. And speaking of said actor, let me tell you this, that Moore fellow was very overrated. And you know, there's something unlikable about that Clark guy, too. Makes enemies everywhere. He and that carpenter really can't stand each other."

"Anyone else who hated Sir William?" asked Holmes.

"Talk to the women here."

"They hated Sir William?"

"If not him, he gave them a reason to hate each other. That old codger had a way with the ladies, let me tell you. That smarmy,Shakespearing thespian thing he had going on. They thought he was so sophisticated. I think he was just perverted, going for younger women like that."

"Younger women?"

"Oh, he charmed the old ladies, too," said Wyte. "But he was more interested in the young ones. That fine thing playing the first ghost…"

"Sabrina Smith?" said Bruce.

"Exactly. And the girl playing Belle, the younger me's love interest. Marry Kissick. He would take Kissick aside and give her 'acting lessons.' He called them that, anyway. Then she caught him giving lessons to that other foxy lady, and all Hell broke loose."

"Thank you for your help. Mr. Wyte," said Holmes. "You've helped me immensely. And Merry Christmas."
"Christmas? Bah humbug!" said Wyte. "Confounded holiday! Confounded play! I'm glad it's over now. Waste of my acting talents, I'll tell you!"

"But you're playing the lead role."

"So what? I should have been King Leer. They rejected me, and I ended up doing this instead. It's an outrage! It's unheard of! It's… it's…"

"Casting by type?" suggested Holmes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"He was a rather unpleasant fellow," said Holmes.

"Lot of people are like that," said Bruce. "This time of year. This lousy time of year. You know, suicide rates go way up in December? Depression is at an all-time high."

"Now that, my friend," said Holmes, "is humbug."

He stopped and looked across the hallway. A piece of paper clinging to a small door read: "Mary Kissick as Belle."

"She should be worth talking to," said Holmes.

Just then, Quincy Ford, the carpenter, stepped out of Mary's dressing room.

"Please, don't disturb her, Mr. Holmes," said Ford. "She's really upset right now. Can't this wait."

"I understand your feelings, Mr. Ford," said Holmes. "But it's best that this is taken care of as soon as possible."

"I won't let you!" said Ford. "She's not herself right now."

"I really must speak to her."

Ford looked at his feet for a moment, deep in thought. Finally, he looked back at Holmes.

"Do you think you can go easy on her?" said Ford. "I just don't want her hurt any worse than she is now."

"I understand entirely, Mr. Ford," said Holmes. "I'll treat her with the utmost sensitivity. Master Wayne, perhaps it's best that you not come in with me."

Bruce was slightly offended. He opened his mouth to say that he could be very sensitive with women, which was not always true, but Holmes had already gone into the dressing room.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Mary Kissick's beautiful face had become a mess of watering make-up. Holmes offered her a handkerchief.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, my dear," said Holmes gently. "You're taking this very hard."

Mary just nodded and sobbed. Holmes began to blot her face with his handkerchief.

"You cared for him a great deal?"

Mary nodded.

"Did he care for you?"

"I… I… don't… know," she said between sobs. "I thought so. At least, I wanted to think so."

"You were in love with him?"

"I don't know," said Mary. "I was certainly charmed by him. He seemed so sensitive and so polite. But he was kind to all of the other women as well. Not just me."

"And how did this make you feel?"

"Does it really matter now?" screamed Mary. She collapsed into more sobbing. Holmes just waited patiently. He handed her his handkerchief and she accepted it.

"Ms. Kissick, the police will have to consider you a suspect in Sir William's death. They will have to since you were emotionally involved with him."

"But I didn't kill him!" cried Mary, bringing her fist down hard on her dresser. "I didn't!"

"I want to believe you, Mary," said Holmes. "But I need to know where you've been over the past three hours."

"I only got here two hours ago," said Mary. "George and Quincy saw me come in. They were putting some last minute touches on some of the props. Then Lisa and I…"

"Lisa?"
"Lisa Craig. She plays Mrs. Cratchet. She and I helped each other with make-up and then we went to her dressing room and ran lines together." She began to sob again. "Now I'll have no one to love this Christmas."

"What about Mr. Ford?"

"Mr. Ford? Quincy?"

"I'm sorry. I thought he and you were…"

"Friends, nothing more," said Mary.

"I just noticed a good deal of affection in your relationship."

"We're very good friends," said Mary. "And very old friends. But nothing more."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Meanwhile, Bruce had knocked on the door to Sabrina Smith's dressing room, and he had found much encouragement to come inside. Sabrina threw her arms around him immediately, then pushed him back so she could look at his face.

"You and Mr. Holmes are looking into Sir William's murder?"

"Yes," said Bruce. "That must mean a lot to you, with you and him having a relationship and all."

"Why, Bruce, are you jealous?"

"No. I'm just getting my facts straight."

"I was allowing Sir William to become close to me," said Sabrina. "But not because he was charming or handsome, which, by the way, he wasn't. I wasn't falling in love with him. I just wanted him for his connections."

"You mean, in the acting world?"

Sabrina put her fingertips behind Bruce's ears and began to stroke gently to his chin and back.

"It would mean a lot to me if you could tell me who killed him."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes stepped out into the hallway. A moment later, Bruce exited Sabrina Smith's dressing room smiling.

"That doesn't look like Christmas cheer on your face," said Holmes.

"Maybe not," said Bruce. "But it's very infective."

Just then, George Clark appeared at the end of the hallway.

"How's the investigation coming?" he asked.

"We're making progress," said Holmes. "I don't believe I've heard your alibi yet."

"There's not much to hear," said Clark. "I arrived three and a half hours ago. Ford arrived half an hour later. We started doing touch-ups on the props and scenery. About fifteen minutes before the show started, I left Ford on his own, which made him furious. That stubborn carpenter! I then took my place in the house to watch my actors perform."

"Can anyone corroborate that?" Bruce asked.

"The lady I was sitting next to could have," said Clark. "But I sent her away, along with the rest of the audience. The Chief Inspector said that would be the most advisable thing to do."

"Thank you, Mr. Clark," said Holmes. "We'll call you if we make any more progress, or if we have anything to ask you."

As Clark turned and left, a ten-year old boy came hobbling down the hallway on a crutch, repeating over and over, "God bless us everyone!"

He crashed into Holmes and Bruce and yelled, "Watch we're you're going, will you?"

Bruce looked taken aback. Holmes merely went down on one knee, sinking to the boy's level.

"You must be Tiny Tim."

"Name's Freddie Byron," said the boy. "I'm only Tiny Tim in the play."

"Freddie Byron, the rising child star," said Holmes. "I've seen your performance as Oliver Twist. You must have quite an affinity for Dickens."

"Huh? Who?"

"Never mind. Just tell me, how well did you know Sir William Moore?"

"He's dead, ain't he? Serves him right, the old fart. I was just practicing my lines the other day, pretending to limp around on this crutch. And he bumped into me. Then he began cussing quite rudely."

"Have you seen Sir William tonight?"

"No," said Freddie. "But I know Mr. Ford was going to talk to him. I remember hearing Mr. Clark yell at Mr. Ford to tell William Moore his cue was coming. They were working on painting that ugly green thing back there." Freddie pointed. "Speaking of Mr. Ford, he ran into me quite rudely this evening, too."

"While you were pretending to limp on your crutch?" said Bruce.

"No!" said Freddie. "I'd been watching the show from backstage. Then Mr. Clark came out and told everyone to go home. A little while later, Ford runs into me. He throws me to the side saying he has to get to William Moore's room and he has to stop Mary."

Holmes looked at the green set piece behind him. He then looked at the stain on his hand.

"We've got matching colors," said Bruce, holding out his own paint-stained hand.

"No!" cried Holmes. "I can't be getting this slow in my old age! I should have seen it the whole time."

"Seen what?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Chief Inspector Gregson, Dr. Jamie Watson, George Clark, Quincy Ford, Bruce Wayne, and Sherlock Holmes were all gathered in the late Sir William Moore's dressing room.

"So, who killed Sir William?" Clark asked.

"I'll start with when Sir William was killed," said Holmes. "And that was about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered."

"But that's quite impossible," said Dr. Watson. "The condition of the body…"

"Was caused by exposure to cold," said Holmes. "This was in order to cause the body to appear as though death had occurred hours, rather than mere minutes earlier. Up until these few minutes, the killer had an airtight alibi. That killer was… Quincy Ford!"

"Me?" objected Quincy. "What ever would give you that idea?"

"Several things," said Holmes. "I thought it was strange when you hurried to this room for Mary Kissick. You wanted to shield her from the shock of Sir William's death, a shock you yourself should never have seen coming. But the most damning evidence is the paint smudge you left in here. You claimed you only came to the door when telling Sir William his cue was coming, but you must have actually come inside to leave that green stain."

"I could have left than at any time," said Quincy.

"No, you couldn't have," said Holmes. "The paint was still wet when my colleague discovered it. You told me that the paint stained easily but dried quickly. You couldn't have left that paint stain more than half an hour earlier than it was discovered."

"Why'd I kill him?"

"For your beloved Mary," said Holmes. "You had feelings for her. Romantic feelings. And the last thing you wanted was to see your beloved mistreated by another man. When you came in to tell Sir Williams was coming, you heard him talking to himself about how women were playthings to him, something you already resented. You couldn't stand to think of the way Mary Kissick would feel when she found out.

"Sir William Moore's prop chain was lying on his dresser. You grabbed it, leaving the paint stain on the desk. I'm sure the stain will be easy to find on the chain as well. You wrapped it around Sir William's neck, choking him to death.

"When you realized what you'd done, you knew you'd need a way to avoid suspicion. You knew a little bit about how time of death is established some how. You dragged the body out the side door into the cold snow. A few minutes later, you ran back in and dragged the body back into the room. It was discovered immediately after, and it was still cold. This gave you the perfect alibi. George Clark and you didn't get along. He wouldn't lie to protect you, so by honestly establishing your whereabouts for two hours earlier, you would avoid suspicion if the time of death was recorded as falling during that period."

"I can't believe I fell for it," said Dr. Watson.

"You had no way of knowing that stiffness and coldness was caused in this case by exposure to ice rather than death," said Holmes. "The autopsy would have given other indicators that Sir William was murdered more recently than previously thought. It was just a matter of time."

"All right," said Ford. "I'll go quietly. I didn't mean to do it, but I did. Something inside me just snapped."

"So much for peace on earth," muttered Bruce.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Immediately after arriving back at the cottage, Bruce began to climb up the stairs to his room.

"You're going to bed already?" asked Holmes.

"I'm going to my room," said Bruce. "Don't expect me out for a while?"

Holmes saw Bruce enter his room and heard the door slam. He climbed the stairs and entered the room.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I just don't do Christmas," said Bruce.

"I don't understand," said Holmes. "Why not?"

"What's it matter to you?" said Bruce. "You keep Christmas in your way, and I'll keep it in mine."

"Why don't you want to celebrate Christmas?" asked Holmes.

"I can't," said Bruce. "I can't. Because I've seen and heard all the messages of what Christmas is supposed to be about. It's supposed to be about love and being with your family."

"That's what this is all about?" asked Holmes.

"Of course it is," said Bruce. He buried his chin in his pillow. "Christmas hasn't meant anything to me since my mom and dad died. They made Christmas into Christmas. They were loving and generous and joyous. Then somebody took them away from me."

"And you haven't celebrated Christmas since?"

"I have," said Bruce. "Alfred would celebrate with me. Some years he'd even wake me up at night, parading around in a Santa suit." Bruce laughed. "He made one skinny Santa. He'd make sure I got everything I wanted for Christmas. But not the thing I really wanted. Alfred couldn't bring me my parents back."

He sighed.

"I'm just afraid this year, without even Alfred, I'll have no family to celebrate with."

He buried his whole face in the pillow now.

"Maybe I'll talk to you again December 26th."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

December 25th, 1935.

Bruce was awakened by something different in the air. A different combination of sounds and smells.

Bruce slowly cracked open the door. The smell was stronger in the hall, and even stronger down the stairs. Bruce turned into the parlous. Right next to the entrance to the dining room was a tall evergreen, decorated in shiny bulbs and ornaments of gold and silver.

Around the tree were Sherlock Holmes, Chief Inspector Gregson, Dr. Jamie Watson, William Wiggins, and a stranger.

"Merry Christmas!" they all shouted.

"And you were worried you wouldn't have a family to spend Christmas with!" said Holmes.

Bruce came closer. Standing next to Wiggins was a very thin girl. She was much younger than Wiggins was, a couple of years younger than Bruce. She had long, stringy, dirty blonde hair. Her lips were full, red, and extremely sensuous. There was something in her eyes that was both naughty and nice.

"This is my sister, Screamer," said Wiggins.

"I'm Bruce," said Wayne, taking the blonde girl's hand gently.

Screamer giggled a high pitched, girlish giggle. Then she winked mischievously at Bruce, long eyelashes almost touching her cheeks.

"This is for you," said Jamie. She brought a brightly colored package out from under the tree and handed it to Bruce. He tore the wrapping open and lifted the box inside.

Opening the box, Bruce found a small but decorative clock. On the back was engraved, "From Dr. Watson, With Love."

"And this is from me," said Holmes. He brought a package out from beneath the tree. His wrapping paper wasn't as bright and colorful as Jamie's. In fact, it was old newspaper. But Bruce tore the paper away eagerly still. He found a box inside.

"At least it will keep your ears warm."

Inside the box was a leather cowl. Black.

"God bless you, Mr. Holmes," said Bruce.

And, as Freddie Byron joyfully observed, "God bless us, everyone!"

A/N –Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.

I might be back with another update in January. But I'm definitely taking the rest of December off.

In the meantime, have a blessed Christmas and joyous New Year.