As Mycroft Holmes saw the spirit silently approach, he knelt down before him. The very air in their presence seem to thicken with tension and impending doom. The spirit was shrouded in a deep black garment which concealed its head, face and very form. The only thing left visible was a thin, pale outstretched hand. For without this, it would have been difficult to distinguish the spirit from the darkness of the night.
"Do I have the pleasure of being in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come?" Questioned Mycroft, with as much dignity and reserve as he could muster. The Ghost of Christmas yet to come left him senseless and witless. The spirit did not answer back with words, only stretched out his hand further and pointed downwards.
"You are here to show things that have not happened yet, but are still to come?" Mycroft pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?" The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Even though Mycroft was well now used to the company of the spirits', he feared this silent this spirit so much so that his legs actually began to tremble. The Spirit observed him ever silently, allowing Mycroft time to recover.
"Ghost of the future!" Mycroft suddenly proclaimed. "I fear you more than any of the ghosts I have thus far seen this night! But I know that you have come to do me good, and I hope to live to become another, better, man. I am prepared to bear your company, and do so with a thankful heart. Please, will you not speak to me?" The spirit gave no reply, instead only raised its hand to point straight before them.
"Lead on, then." Mycroft said, "The night is ending fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit."
They did not seem to enter the city; rather the city seemed to come up all around them. As it came upon them, they found themselves in the heart of it; amongst the fast moving cars, the beggars who sat alongside the buildings, the people chattering among themselves, men entering cabs, women leaving stores with arms full of bags, just as Mycroft had seen them nearly everyday.
The spirit lead Mycroft in front of a large building where a group of men could be seen leaving. The Ghost pointed his hand as the words of the men became more clearer.
"No," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin," I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead."
"When did he die?" inquired another.
"Last night, I believe."
"Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, lighting a cigarette. "I thought he'd never die."
"God knows," said the first, with a yawn.
"What has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman with a thin, long neck and matching long and pointed nose.
"I haven't heard," said the man with the large chin, yawning again. "He hasn't got any family left, perhaps he left it for his department. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know."
This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "lord knows I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?"
"I don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observed the gentleman with the pointed nose. "But I must be fed, if I make one."
Another laugh.
"To be quite honest I'm not sure if I will go. I do not require food, but I've always found funerals to be much too depressing for me. But I'll offer to go, if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Good afternoon gentlemen."
With that the men broke apart, each leaving to go a separate way. Mycroft knew these men, he turned to the spirit for an explanation. But the ghost only pointed to where another two men were just greeting each other.
"How are you?" said one.
"Just fine, how are you?" returned the other.
"Quite well!" said the first, "I suppose you've heard the news than? Old geezer finally hit the bucket!"
"Yes I've heard, quite cold isn't it?" replied the second.
"Yes, quite seasonable for the Christmas time. Tell me, do you skate? Jane, you know the front secretary? What's to plan a office party..."
The rest of their conversation seemed to fade out, as it only contained meaningless small talk that was exchanged between the two co-workers.
Mycroft was at first confused as to why the Spirit would emphasize such a trivial conversation; but feeling that it some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it could perhaps be. As this was the Christmas of the future, it seemed the time was only a few years from his present time. So Mycroft tried to think of those connected to him who might be sickly or older. No one that these men would have known fit the description of the dead man they spoke of. It was obvious this person was unlikable, they had no family, and were quite wealthy. Perhaps one of the member of the Diogenes Club? But how would these men know of them? These men were businessmen whom Mycroft had dealt with from time-to-time. There would be no reason for them to the member of the Diogenes club.
But not doubting that to whomsoever they spoke of had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.
Mycroft Holmes knew this building perhaps better than his own house. While this was not his workplace, he visited quite frequently during meetings and inquiring new relations. As he looked around he saw a man in a business suit leaving an unmarked black car. As the man exited the car he noticed an older looking Andrea trailing not far behind him. The man was quickly meet and was greeted with the highest respects.
"Welcome! You must be the government official we've been expecting. My employer would like to thank you for bringing up the the business of the Diogenes Club to his attention..."
Mycroft could see no likeness of himself in the man. The man was younger, sharper dressed in overly expensive suits that were more uncomfortable than they were worth. A look of annoyance crossed over the man's face as the chattering secretary continued on talking only stopping for a quick breath. Mycroft had been in the man's same position all too many times. When a big fish visits a small pond it seemed to cause quite a commotion.
Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Ghost, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughts, he turned towards the Spirit. Its Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold.
They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Mycroft had never been before, although he recognised the type of place this was. The back streets were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, high, ugly. The streets, stores and houses were dowsed in the offenses of the smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.
There in the midst of this horrendous scene was a darkened den. The skeleton of a fully operating store sat decaying, but was disturbed and unable to rot away in peace. Broken windows and missing floorboards were the only decorations in the dimly lighted room. Broken glass cases were lined up at the front of the store and rotted wooden shelves were either eaten away until they fall on an angle or were a touch away from falling apart. Odd and ends were littered around the store, on display for the few customers. 'Clean' syringes were lines up in a row in a metal case next to a pile of what looked a small string-drawn bag full of leaves. A whiteboard hung behind the main display with different types of drugs and their prices.
But what was even more rare were the more commonly looking items that were on display. Rolex watches, newly fresh and clean silk bed linens, even name-brand suits that costed more money than anyone coming into this place could ever possess. Behind a counter was an old man; perhaps nearing his seventies and hoped to make some money off of anything that he could bear to part with? But the man's appearance told another story. They spoke of many harsh winters spent on the streets, of years of addiction and of how long it had been since he had lasted bathed.
As Mycroft and the Ghost came into the presence of this man, a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh.
"You couldn't have met in a better place," said the old man, removing his pipe from his mouth. "Come into the parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah. How it skreeks. There an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there's no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlour. Come into the parlour."
The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again. While he did this, the woman with the bundle threw her lot on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two.
"Come now Mrs. Dibbler, who's the unfortunate sod this time? We've all the same business as you, and as my policy 'Snitches get stitches.'"
"Dead," Replied Mrs. Dibbler, "so not like he'll be miss'n any of it anyways. I tell ya, he wasn't even missed! Nah, instead lay gasping his finally breath, all alone."
"Punishment for a life of sins," said the old man, knowing Mrs. Dibbler had come from a family of faith. "It's simple a judgment on him."
"I wish it was a little heavier judgment," replied the woman; "and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe."
But before old Joe could do so, the man whom had enter along with them came forwards and produced his findings. They were simple things, a plain golden ring, an old broken watch, and a beaten and battered black umbrella. Joe looked through the things and then reached into his pocket to produce a small sum of money. "There's you part, I wouldn't pay another pound more if I was gonna be shot for not doing it. Who's next?"
Mrs. Dibbler quickly natched up the chance before it could be stolen from her again. The first things she came forwards with were folded sheets that looked to be almost unused, along with silverware, a couple of fine china tea cups with saucers and a few stained doilies. "Now undo my bundle Joe, you won't be disappointed!"
Joe bent down and began unraveling the bundle, having to undo many knots. Finally once the bundle was free, he took out some large and dark fabrics. "Bed curtains?" exclaimed Joe, "You don't mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there?" said Joe.
"Yes I do," replied the woman. "Why not?"
"You were born to make your fortune," said Joe," and you'll certainly do it."
"Well I certainly wasn't gonna hold back when it only takes my hand reachin' out for it. And certainly not for the sake of a man he was!" Mrs. Dibbler huffed out. "Now be sure not to spill anythin' on the blankets!"
"His blankets?" Joe inquired.
"Whose else? He certainly ain't gonna get cold without them!"
"Lets hope he didn't of anything that could be caught." Joe said as he folded the blanket. "Ha! Still warm too!"
"Don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "I an't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. Ah. you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me."
"What do you call wasting of it?" asked old Joe.
"Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied the woman with a laugh. "Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. Not that it helped! He was ugly in life, he was ugly in death, no fine shirt ain't gonna fix that!"
Mycroft listen to the conversation in horror. As the small group continued about their business going through their spoils in the dim lights, Mycroft viewed them in utter disgust and hatred. They were like demons to him, turning a corpse into a market.
"Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, handing Mrs. Dibbler a large sum. "This is the end of it, you see. He drove everyone away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. Ha, ha, ha!"
"Spirit," said Mycroft, shuddering from head to foot. "I see, I truly do. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way, now. But good lord, what is this?"
He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it remained unmoving, announced itself in awful language. The room was very dark, too dark to tell what was in it or what type of room it was, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.
Mycroft glanced towards the Spirit. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Mycroft's part, would have show the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side.
"Spirit,." he said, "this is a dread filled place. Please, let us leave, for I shall learn no lesson here, trust me. Let us go."
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.
"I understand," Mycroft returned, "and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power."
Again it seemed to look upon him.
"If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man's death," said Mycroft, now quite beyond agonised, "show that person to me, Spirit, I beg of you!"
Again the scene changed, to a small flat with a mother anxiously pacing back and forth, while her children played with a small dog in another room. The front door was suddenly opened and a young man entered, quickly shedding his outer coating. "Tell me, what has happened?" The wife asked as she ran to her husband's side to aid him with his things.
"I went to the house to go see, and was meet by the same half-drunk woman whom I spoke of last night. It seems she told the truth, he is dead."
The wife seemed to breath a sigh of relief as she joined her husband on their couch. "Than who will our debts be transferred to?"
"I don't know, but when we find out, we'll be ready! Should his successor be even more heartless, I won't turn up empty-handed. We may sleep easily tonight, my dear!" As soon as they finished speaking, the children, in realizing that their father had returned, came running and embraced the man. The house soon became happier, a dinner was set with smiles gracing everyone's faces, and even the children, who did not understand the situation, seemed to have lifted spirits. It made Mycroft gasp in horror, that the only emotion caused by a man's death was one of pleasure.
"Please," Mycroft once more begged the Spirit, "Let me see something more tender, in connection to this man's death, there must be! Or even a darkened room, such as the one we just left, would be more pleasant for me then this."
So the Spirit did as it was asked, and showed Mycroft a darkened room, filled with mourners and grief. A room where a multitude of tears had just recently been shed.
The Spirit brought Mycroft to 221B Baker Street.
A/N:
Holy guacamoly, I have never written anything THIS long! Although I can't take credit for it, I did do a lot of copy and pasting from the original novel. WARNING! angst in the next chapter! But never fear! These are only shadows of this that COULD happen, if Mycroft gets his shit together we might just get a happy ending! Or who knows...I might go all Shakespeare and make you all cry your eyes out in the end!
I am sooo sorry about not updating! I have officially graduated high school and am currently looking for a job! (which is way harder than it looks!) The next chapter should be up sooner.
Also, I am currently put this story up on AO3, so if you're on there y username is LacieRiverPanda27, or you can find the link in my Bio on my profile! I also have all the links to all my stories on my Tumblr (The Consulting Panda).
Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoy it so far and will continue to enjoy the story!