Today's Prompt: Hark (from Wordwielder).
Note: I was almost done writing the bonus response when I realized it would be the perfect opportunity to do a take on A Christmas Carol. I've never done on before, so I had to make it a double feature (even though it's running a little late).
A Christmas Carol
"I don't see why you insist on imposing your Christmas spirit on me when your fiancée would be more than happy to share it," Holmes snapped.
"Holmes," Watson attempted to reproach him, but to no avail.
At last, he gave up and made for the door, leaving Holmes alone by the fire. The door slammed shut behind him. Holmes reached up for the bottle on the mantle and plunged the needled into his arm. He let out a sigh of relief as the drug overcame his rattled nerves, and he fell into a stupor.
Outside, the winter wind howled raged against the shutters. The fire guttered in the grate.
"Holmes! Sherlock!" a familiar voice cried in his ear.
His eyes flickered open. "Victor?"
He looked as pale and worn as he had when he came to Holmes after his father's death, as he had looked before leaving for Terai. His eyes were wide and pleading, but the passionate light they had once held was gone, extinguished without a spark hope.
"It is so cold here, alone," said Victor Trevor, his voice but a hoarse whisper.
Holmes could hardly meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I failed you."
A ghostly hand reached out to lift Holmes's chin, sending a shiver down his spine. "You failed once, but you need not fail again. You need not sentence yourself to solitude."
"What can I do?" Holmes demanded. "He's already left me for a wife! He's too much a gentleman, he wouldn't break off an engagement even if he had a reason to."
"He will not be so far away. There is a chance, a hope that you may keep him in your life as I could not stay. You will be haunted by Three Spirits, with their aid you may be able to walk a different path. Expect the first when the bell tolls one…" As Victor's voice faded, so did he.
"Victor!" Holmes cried out. He leapt to his feet, an arm out as though to grab him, but his old friend was gone as though he had never been.
The clock tolled twelve.
Holmes was alone in the sitting room, by the glowing embers of a dying fire. Outside, it had turned dark. Snow swirled past the window.
He lapsed back into his chair and fell into a brown study. The minutes passed slowly; fifteen minutes, then half an hour, and finally a quarter 'till.
In the distance he heard the clock toll one.
Just as it sounded in his ears, a bright white light flashed outside the window, setting the whole room aglow. And out of that light came an ever shifting spirit, small like a child and with a youthful face, but with a long white mane of hair as though grizzled by age. Its body was ever-changing, flickering in and out of shadow.
"Hark! I am the ghost of Christmas Past," it proclaimed. "Rise! And walk with me!"
Holmes took the spirit's hand to follow it out into the open air, over the rooftops of the sleeping city. But as he stepped into the bright light he found himself back in the same sitting room he had left behind.
It was a bright and cheery winter day. A fire crackled in the hearth. Beside the fire sat Holmes and Watson in their usual places. The flat was not decorated for the holiday, but the tell-tale remains of Christmas dinner were still laid out on the table. It must have been their first year together at Baker Street. They were just smoking, each apparently occupied in their own thoughts, but ever so often they would glance over at the other, curious and hopeful of what the new year would bring.
As the years passed, the decorations became more extravagant, with garlands and lights. Watson was soon strong enough to bring in a Christmas tree that they covered in candles. For a little while their flat glowed, if only in the reflected light of Watson's quiet smile.
And then they got busier and Holmes grew preoccupied. With all the cases, there was little time for frivolities and he found it was easy to let them fall by the wayside. The previous year, Holmes had suddenly been called abroad, and so Watson was left to spend the holiday at Baker Street alone. He sat gloomily by the fire, his dinner barely picked at. Holmes tried to reach out to him, but Watson made no response, his eyes did not even flicker at the sudden movement, as though Holmes was not there at all.
It all faded away until Holmes found himself back in his own chair by the dying fire, where he collapsed into a deep sleep.
However, it did not last long. He was startled into awareness as the bell tolled once more.
His eyes blinked against the bright glow of what seemed like a thousand candles. He was in the same sitting room, but it had been transformed, decorated more than he or Watson had ever bothered, with garlands, mistletoe, ivy, and flowers, and all full of light. The table bowed under a rich Christmas dinner that spilled out onto the floor.
"Come and know me better, man!" exclaimed the large spirit with long fiery hair, dressed in a voluminous green robe that parted over his strong torso. He was perched on a feast of a throne. "Hark! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Come!"
He led Holmes out onto the snowy street. It was a bright, cloudless day. No one went about their business, but still the avenues were busy with children playing, men and women stopping and chatting, all serenaded by carolers. Holmes watched a young couple pass with a wary eye.
But they did not stop there. The spirit guided him out to the home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester, where Miss Morstan lived as governess for a little longer. Inside it was bright and cheery. The table was set for Christmas dinner, crowded with ladies and gentlemen, Miss Morstan and his own Dr. Watson among them. Holmes made for Watson without a second thought.
"Thank you for inviting me on such late notice," Watson was saying to the lady.
"Certainly," she said with a smile. Then she hesitated. "But what will Mr. Holmes be doing for Christmas?"
Watson let out a sigh. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately. He was never one for holidays, but he has been even more inhuman than ever in recent years. I'm worried for him, of course, but I daren't show my concern."
The lady patted him gently on the arm. "He's fortunate to have such a friend as you, even if he doesn't realize it. But there's no reason to let him ruin your Christmas."
"You're right," Watson said with a sad smile.
Holmes knew better than to call out to him. He just turned away and followed the spirit, now grey with age, back to Baker Street, where he collapsed into his chair.
Holmes tossed and turned in fitful sleep. As the bell tolled for the last time, the inhuman cry of a great waterfall seemed to sound in his ears, as an ominous portent.
He must have eventually fallen into a deeper sleep, for the next thing he knew, he heard a familiar voice calling to him. "Holmes. Holmes!"
His eyes flickered open to see the light of day streaming in through the window, and illuminated by that light was Dr. John Watson, bent over him, a damp cloth in hand.
"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed in surprise. "What day is it?"
"Christmas day," Watson answered with a little concern and a little depreciation. "How are you feeling? You've been insensible all night."
"I'm fine," Holmes insisted, brushing aside Watson's hand, but gently. "I'm sorry, my dear Watson, I fear I have been most unfair to you."
"It's alright," Watson began.
But Holmes stopped him short. "No, it isn't. Have you already had Christmas dinner with Miss Morstan or could I tempt you with a goose courtesy of Mrs. Hudson?"
"I haven't left, I couldn't." Watson sounded a little insulted by the suggestion.
"You would have been right to leave, but I'm grateful to have your company."
"Are you certain you're alright?" Watson insisted.
"Quite alright, my dear fellow. Now, call for Mrs. Hudson to bring up our dinner - it is not too late for Christmas after all."
Bonus: Hark the Angels
It began in the night. It started as a low whine that startled Watson awake. He slipped out of bed as it slowly rose to a resonant cry, like a wordless inhuman voice. It was hauntingly beautiful, almost like one of Holmes's improvisations upon the violin, but with less of a melody. He stood transfixed as the sound slowly faded into silence.
The noise of someone moving around downstairs startled Watson into awareness. He rushed down to find Holmes standing in the sitting room in his nightgown, far from his usual orderly appearance.
"Watson, I presume that was not your voice just now?" Holmes asked wryly, but Watson could detect a touch of concern.
"No, not mine."
"It was not mine, nor one of my nocturnal solos upon the violin," said Holmes, glancing around as though he could locate the source of the noise if only he searched for it.
"Do you know what could have made it?"
"I have a few theories," Holmes answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, but he did not elaborate.
Watson knew better than to press. Instead, he watched Holmes standing in the middle of the room. He could see his mind working behind those keen grey eyes.
He was about to make some inconsequential remark when it began again. Holmes immediately perked up, his eyes closed and head tilted to better pinpoint the sound. Watson could only stand and stare, overcome by the ethereal ring. It could have been one voice or many. One moment it seemed perfectly human and the next entirely alien.
"It is rather fanciful," remarked Holmes with a knowing smile after it had faded to silence once more.
Watson nodded. "I know it's absurd, but it being Christmas Eve, I can only imagine it to be a chorus of angels."
Holmes let out a barking laugh. "Or perhaps it is the wail of the ghost of Christmas past. However, I expect the answer is something a little more solid." He strode over to the wall and gave it a couple of knocks. "I believe it is the pipes that are to blame."