A/N: An unusually sad fic, based on Sui Generis Paroxysm's prompt, "Hanukkah".
Holmes and I lounged in our living room at 221B, smoking. We had just enjoyed a fine Christmas dinner prepared by Mrs Hudson. The Christmas season seemed to reduce the number of mysteries we encountered: in snows like these, even the hardiest miscreant stayed at home. Holmes did not cope well with this involuntary respite, so I attempted to distract him – and by using one of the very methods I had learned from him. I induced him to pontificate on a subject I knew he held dear – namely, the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.
"There are numerous reasons for their failure, Watson. One reason is that they do not value deduction and forensics; they think of themselves more as moral guardians, to whom such sciences are irrelevant. That will change, soon enough. A second reason is that they will always want some small level of crime. They wish to retain their jobs, so they will systematically ensure that criminals exist. Though however insurmountable, I think this problem is comparatively minor. I expect the force will deter people from the worst crimes, creating new categories of minor, nuisance crimes."
Holmes puffed on his pipe and stared sadly out the window. After some time, we heard a knock on the door. We received a telegram, informing us that Hopkins urgently needed our assistance with a murder investigation in Islington. Holmes eagerly donned his coat, and we set out on foot.
"What about Hopkins?" I asked. "You bemoan the lack of decent policemen, but he seems sharp and devoted."
Holmes sighed. "That failure of the Yard is more insidious. Hopkins is a good investigator, and you are correct that he is atypically devoted. However, the reason he will not thrive in their ranks is the same reason that he is investigating a murder on Christmas day. You see, Watson, Hopkins does not celebrate Christmas. He celebrates Hanukkah."