I knew we were in Oxford when the landscape below us changed from skyscrapers to trees. I cruised along the streets slowly until I reached the top of the little hill and the familiar white fence came into view. The shrubs had been decorated for Christmas. Just outside the gate stood a short figure in a white shirt, looking down the road. I smiled. It was my mother, looking out for us. Good thing I had told her we were coming at nine.

After Holmes had escaped my family, who had been fussing over him, I led him to his bedroom. He paused in the hallway to inspect a Da Vinci cartoon hanging on the wall.

"Holmes," I called. He whirled around sharply, accidentally knocking down a photo from the shelf. The plastic frame hit the carpet with a hardly audible thud. Holmes picked it up and looked at it, the expression in his blue-grey eyes softening.

"Your younger days?"

I took the photo from him as if in a daze. "It's just me and my friends," I explained, replacing the photo on the shelf. "We were fourteen then."

There was a deafening crash from the kitchen and the both of us jumped. Running into the kitchen, we found my mother trying her utmost to fight a large Styrofoam piece shaped like a whale and other assorted bits and pieces into a ridiculously tiny plastic bag. We helped her wrap it up in brown paper and tie the monstrosity up with string.

"Thanks," she said. "Good thing you managed to get it under control. Mrs. Fitzgerald would murder me if I don't get it to her today."

"What's it for?" I asked. "We can help you get it down to her. We've nothing to do anyway."

"It's for the annual Advent fair," explained my mum. "We're supposed to be putting up a puppet show with the story of Moby Dick and Mrs. Fitzgerald is supposed to decorate Moby. You'll find her at the market. The fair is the day after tomorrow."

We started to push the package out of the kitchen. "Oh, Beth!" called my mother. "If you see your friends you should invite them over tomorrow night!"

With an old creaky trolley, we trundled down to the market with the snowy-white, eyeless whale in search of Mrs. Fitzgerald.

A blind man could find the market easily. What distinguished it was the noise that came from it. Mrs. Fitzgerald was easy enough to find. As soon as we stepped in, we heard a loud cry, "Flowers for sale, going cheap! Buy 'em while they're still going cheap!"

We followed the shrill voice and came to a brightly coloured table littered with flowers and a little old woman standing at it. "Mrs. Fitzgerald?" I called.

The old woman raised herself on her plump, dimpled arms and squinted at us through her thick glasses. 'Why, if it isn't Beth Lestrade come home!" she cackled, her face breaking into a toothy grin. "Nice to see you home, dearie." She turned to Holmes. "And who's this handsome young man? Are you her boyfriend?"

I gave a nervous laugh. "No, no, he's just a friend. My mother sent you something." We heaved the package off the trolley and deposited it on the counter. Mrs. Fitzgerald poked a hole in the paper with her little finger and peeped inside.

"Oh!" she chuckled. "It's old Moby! Well, well, well. Here's something for your mother. Send her my regards."

She disappeared behind the mountains of flowers and came up with an enormous cuboid-shaped white package, which she helped load onto the trolley. We bid her goodbye and trundled on.

We hadn't gone more than a few paces forward when a familiar voice behind us cried out, "Hey! Isn't that Beth? I thought she was in London?"

"She comes back for Christmas, you dummy," answered an equally familiar voice. We turned around to behold two figures standing in the middle of the path gawking at us. It was Noelle and Christine.

"Hey guys!" I said. "What are you doing here?"

Noelle put on a pitiful expression. "Have mercy on us, poor children whose parents have turned us out into the cold winter… to buy groceries!"

"Ditto," said Christine, shrugging. "Who's your friend?" I turned to Holmes.

"Holmes, meet Noelle and Christine. They were my best friends at school."

"And still are!" added Christine with finality, grinning.

"You two, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's supposed to be my subordinate at work but he doesn't act like it at all."

"Wait, wait, wait!" shrieked Noelle. "That is Sherlock Holmes? The real Sherlock Holmes."

"One and the same," said Holmes, with the famous dramatic flair.

"Oh yeah, I just remembered. If you've got time tomorrow night you can come over to my house for the annual get-together. I promised I'd organize it."

They looked at each other for a minute and then replied. "Sure. We wouldn't miss it for the world."

We trundled on back to the house as fast as we could go so we could get rid of the huge white package sitting comfortably in the trolley.

Should I continue this story? Should I abandon it and let everybody guess what happened between Lestrade and Noelle? I think this would a good time to beg for reviews. Oh, and thanks Crystal.