AUTHOR'S NOTES: First of all, this story will consist of six chapters, uploaded daily over the course of this week. I was initially planning to upload this much closer to Christmas proper, but for reasons I won't go into that had to change. I have to say, I am EXTREMELY proud of this story, so I hope you all enjoy it. :)
Second of all, to any one who may be waiting on updates for "The Uncertainty Principle": yes, those updates ARE coming, I promise you. I was halfway through Book II when I suddenly realized what I was doing wasn't working properly, so I've had to go back and try to figure Book II out before I can go on. With a certain game series having its big anniversary in the near future, I'm not going to abandon this one. :P
Anyway, Happy Holidays, Everyone!
"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! Remember, Christ, Our Savior, was born on Christmas Day! To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of-!"
"I feel neither comfort nor joy hearing you murder that song, Moran."
Sebastian Moran frowned as he looked down from the ladder where he stood, glaring at the smaller figure with messy, dark locks who was calmly placing ornaments upon the lower portions of the huge Christmas Tree.
"Oh, sure," he huffed. "Of all the times you choose to talk, it's to make fun of my singing, eh, Fred?"
Fred Porlock - the teenaged youth the Colonel addressed - said nothing as he continued to decorate. Moran blinked, then rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath as he went back to stringing garland near the top parts of the tall tree.
Elsewhere in the ballroom, Jack Renfield smirked and chuckled, shaking his head with amusement at the pair. The old butler then turned to supervise his fellow servant, as the young man in glasses and a dark blue suit adjusted a wreath over one of the ballroom windows.
"A little more to the left, Louis," Jack suggested.
"Like this, Maestro?" asked Louis, glancing back over his shoulder to be certain.
"Perfect," nodded Jack, as Louis hopped down from the stepladder. The elderly gentleman handed him another one of the wreaths he had slung upon one arm. "Now for the next one."
Louis smiled and took the wreath; Moran had stopped singing, but he was still humming merrily. There was good reason for those in the Moriarty Household in Durham to be merry: it was December 21st. The first day of winter, and only a few days till Christmas! Music was playing on a Gramophone the Moriartys had bought, and filled the empty ballroom as the group worked to decorate the space. Boughs of holly decked every hall in the stately manor house, and candles had been prepared to provide illumination on cold winter evenings.
"Come on, Fred!" Moran urged as he stepped down from his ladder to fetch the star for the tree. "Show us a smile, at least! Where's your Christmas Spirit?"
Fred Porlock shrugged and said nothing as he continued to place red, gold, and blue sphere-shaped ornaments upon the tree, along with a number of candy canes.
"You do seem more sullen than one would expect," Louis broke in, addressing Fred but focused on hanging another wreath.
"Is something the matter, Young Fred?" Jack checked, with a concerned frown.
The young master of disguise shook his head and paused before answering very quietly: "I just...don't understand."
The other three paused and looked at each other, then back at Fred.
"Understand what?" wondered Jack the Ripper.
"What is the point of all this?" Fred asked. He didn't sound obstinate or petulant; simply confused and curious.
"The point?" sneered Moran. "Oi...haven't you ever celebrated Christmas before, kid?"
Fred shook his head.
Moran blinked.
"Oh," he said, suddenly feeling rather foolish.
"They're just traditions, Fred," Louis smiled. "For fun. Not everything has to have a scheme behind it."
"Besides," Jack added, "It does an old heart good to see this place a bit more...festive than usual."
"Ugh… 'old heart,' my boots," mumbled Moran. "You're not fooling anyone with that old timer act, y'know."
Jack Renfield smirked and said nothing.
"But why bother?" Fred persisted. "I mean...it's just going to be us, isn't it? Why are we getting so worked up about…'being festive' when we're the only ones around to enjoy it?"
Moran lifted a hand to retort to that...then froze...and blinked before looking at Jack and Louis.
"He, uh...has a point. Why ARE we decorating so much? I mean, I even had to put stockings over the fireplace! It's not like Father Christmas will be coming HERE," he frowned, looking a little befuddled.
"Well," Jack said, slyly, "For one thing it gives YOU something to do, our chore-dodging Colonel."
Moran flushed.
"We're decorating because Brother William said so," sniffed Louis, as if this was the only answer he ever needed. "Besides, it's nice to change things up once in a while, with the decor."
"I suppose so," Fred murmured softly.
"Still," huffed Moran, as he approached the tree, "We could have a Christmas Party or something…"
"A party?!" exclaimed Louis, sounding aghast.
"You DO remember how difficult it was to keep things organized when we had a tea party, yes?" droned Jack.
Fred blushed, remembering the very pretty girls who had flocked around him in the gardens, while Louis shuddered with similar recollections. Moran, for his part, smirked.
"I do," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "You're acting like that's a discouragement."
Louis sighed and adjusted his glasses, while Jack pinched his brow and grumbled.
"Aw, c'mon!" Moran almost whined, as he climbed the ladder and paused, fitting the star into place. He clapped his hands together in a spit-spot fashion as he fixed it where it belonged at the top. "Seriously, a Christmas Party here might not be so bad!"
"We are NOT having a Christmas Party," huffed Louis.
"Oh, we wouldn't have to invite many people; we could choose who comes," shrugged Sebastian. "And we could get gifts for me-I mean, each other. And think of all the drinks we could enjoy!
The other three eyed him boredly.
"Colonel, does getting drunk resolve everything for you?"
"Pretty much, Louis, yeah."
"Well, you're going to be disappointed," the youngest Moriarty declared, primly. "We are not having a party, and that is final."
"On the contrary, little brother," came a voice. "I think the Colonel's idea is an excellent one."
Sebastian Moran yelped and nearly fell off the ladder; he caught himself just in time as the other three jumped and looked around to see who had entered. Fred instinctively ducked his head subserviently.
"Master William," he whispered.
William James Moriarty stood in the entrance to the ballroom; his hands were behind his back as he stood proud and straight in the doorway. His usual, mask-like expression was in place; the eyes unsettlingly empty and smoldering with crimson power, a small, cunning smile on his face as he looked to his subordinates one at a time; a flicker of amusement passed his lips at the sight of Moran, and was matched by a similar flicker of affection when he stopped on Louis. He then looked around the ballroom approvingly.
"Excellent work, everyone," he congratulated, inspecting the wreaths. "This chamber is looking quite splendid. Thank you all for your efforts."
"Oh, it was nothing, Brother," Louis smiled bashfully, while Jack stiffened with a proud smile of his own.
"Master William," Fred spoke up, "How long were you listening?"
"Oh, long enough," shrugged William.
"Long enough, indeed," huffed Moran, mimicking William's tone as he shambled down the ladder and brushed himself off. "What were you saying about my idea being good?"
"Ah, yes. A Christmas Party," William nodded, as if he had just remembered saying that. "I think it could actually be nice to have some company over. Especially for the holidays. Besides, I had an interesting idea for a way to celebrate."
"Oh, dear," Jack spoke up worriedly. "Your 'interesting ideas' can be...dangerous."
William chuckled.
"Not THAT sort of idea; I simply thought it might be fun to have a gift exchange in honor of the Christmas season."
The other four all looked at each other, then back to William.
"Gift exchange?" they chorused.
"Is there an echo in here?" a new voice chortled. "You all seem to be keeping up rather slowly."
Once again, all turned towards the ballroom entrance, as a familiar man - older than William and Louis, but not as old as Sebastian Moran - entered the room. He had chocolate-colored hair, and eyes the color of emeralds.
"Ah, Albert," William greeted respectfully. "I was wondering when you would arrive. It's a pity Mr. Bonde and the rest of MI6 won't be able to join us for the holiday season."
"They'll be having their own fun," smirked Albert as he approached William. "Their mission in India will prove quite vital to our future plans."
"Perfect," purred William, and raised an eyebrow as he noticed a roll of newspaper under his adoptive elder brother's arm. "Was there something you wanted to show me?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Albert nodded, and pulled the paper out before passing it over and telling William which page to turn to. He then explained: "A robbery of a noblewoman: the Countess of Morcar."
William's red eyes lit up, and he took the paper.
"Interesting," he murmured, and before he had even reached the page questioned: "So, someone finally decided to take it, eh?"
Albert smiled.
"Nothing gets past you, does it, William?"
"I try not to allow it," William said smoothly.
"Ah, excuse me?" Moran spoke up, raising a hand. "Took what, exactly?"
William looked up calmly.
"The Blue Carbuncle," he answered, impressively.
Moran blinked dumbly.
"The Blue What?"
William's smile was like the sort one would give to a VERY small and VERY slow-witted child.
"The Blue Carbuncle," he repeated. "It is the Countess' pride and joy."
"The Countess of Morcar," Louis broke in, "Inherited the stone from her late husband, the original Count of Morcar. She was not born into nobility, but the Count married her and she took his money - and the stone - when he passed on."
"I see," Moran uttered. "Well, it's gotta be a pretty famous rock if William knows about it."
"Most people in London know about it," Jack frowned. "It's one of the most valuable gemstones in the world."
"Yes, and also one of the most infamous," William broke in, as he finally found the page he was looking for. He scanned the newspaper even as he spoke, and wandered towards a small couch in the ballroom. "It is the nucleus of crime: every good stone is. One might call them the Devil's Pet-Baits: the larger and older the stone, the more facets, and each facet is a tally mark exhibiting a bloody deed."
"Very poetic," Albert commented.
"Are you trying to say it's cursed?" Moran spoke up, curiously.
"It has been rumored as such," Professor Moriarty answered, coolly, and sat quite properly upon the couch, his expression unshiftingly calm and peaceful, his smile never leaving his face, nor changing an inch. "It is only twenty years old, yet despite its youth, it already has a sinister history."
"Yes," nodded Albert, and looked to Moran as he went on, counting off points on his fingers. "Two murders, a vitriol throwing, a suicide, no less than seven robberies, three of which led to the person who owned the stone being maimed for life…"
"...And the accidental death of the old Count," Louis put in. "He fell down the stairs while wearing the stone."
Moran shuddered.
"Ugh...sorry I asked," he muttered.
"Oh, there's no need to be worried," William said, and flashed one of "his" smiles - the closed-eyed types that were far too happy to be real - at the Colonel. "After all, curses are mere superstition."
He paused, then looked back to the paper, and his smile faded slightly.
"This robbery is fact, however...it seems a plumber has been arrested for the crime, despite the evidence being purely circumstantial."
"A plumber?" Fred broke in.
"John Horner," William elaborated, reading off the newspaper. "Age 36, resident of the Spitalfields district. Evidently, the crime was reported by Her Ladyship's butler, one James Ryder by name; her maid, Catherine Cusack, corroborated Ryder's account, and Horner was arrested shortly thereafter."
"What do you think of it all, William?" Albert asked.
William glanced at his brother, then back at the paper. He looked at the article for a while...then shook his head before putting the paper aside.
"At the present," he said, "I think nothing of it. I would need more data. But given what I know of both the Countess and her precious gem, it's hard for me to feel much sympathy for any party involved."
"With a past like that, I find it hard to disagree," Jack Renfield muttered.
"Well, with that out of the way," Colonel Moran said, moving closer and pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, "Can we get back to the party you were talking about?"
"Certainly," William smiled, and folded his hands in his lap as the group gathered dutifully around him. "I thought it might be wise - and amusing - to have a gift exchange for the holidays. We'll draw names from a hat, and whoever we choose, we have to get a gift for them."
"Well, that sounds fun, but it's hardly a party if it's just the few of us," Moran huffed.
"I suspect William has an idea of who to invite to fix that," Albert smiled. "Right, little brother?"
"Of course," nodded the Professor, his smile widening ever so faintly, then looked to Louis. "In fact...Little Brother, would you care to join me tomorrow on a train ride?"
Louis eyes widened.
"Of course!" he smiled brightly, then tilted his head. "But where are we going?"
William's smile remained fixed. His eyes did not blink, but they seemed to flicker, as if he were gauging something about his little brother. Whatever it was, he seemed to approve, because he closed his eyes and dipped his head slightly, a soft puff of amusement coming from him as he stood.
"London," he said, and politely moved through the crowd of his enemies towards the window across from him. "I have decided that our guest will be Him."
The atmosphere changed. Albert seemed to have no reaction - as if he had expected this, or perhaps been told ahead of time - but all other eyes widened, either in surprise...or even apprehension."
"You're not serious," Moran grunted out, midway through lighting his cigarette.
"I am," Professor Moriarty answered, looking out through the window over the dark fields of Durham, in the direction of the capital city.
"Is that really wise, brother?" Louis spoked up, narrowing his eyes. "You chose Him to be our Detective, and we all know how skilled he is. And after the Tea Party…"
"...After the Tea Party," Moriarty broke in, "We should have no difficulty keeping a small number of people out of our most private affairs. If I know Him well enough, there will be several ways to...distract him."
"Still, Master Louis has a point," Jack Renfield spoke up. "He might prove tough to handle, and if he's not the only one, we may not have the force of numbers. Especially with Mr. Bonde and his crew out of the country, currently."
Fred nodded in silent, stoic agreement.
Professor Moriarty's expression remained cool and well-sculpted: a picture of perfect composition. When he spoke, his voice was much the same; quiet, but cutting, and firm without being cruel.
"Three of you," he said aloud, "Have served in the military. I presume even the two of you that haven't are familiar with the venerable adage, 'keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?'"
Sebastian and Renfield both narrowed their eyes, and the group nodded together.
"He is my greatest obstacle, and my greatest asset," Moriarty intoned, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he continued to gaze out the window, as if seeing something beyond the nighttime roads of Durham. "The black pawn and the white knight, both at once. And after recent developments - the discovery of a certain file, for instance…"
He trailed off and waited till he heard his younger brother's fists clench before continuing.
"...I think I will need to keep a particularly close eye on him. Inviting him to a small, intimate gathering for Christmas seems a natural and offputting way of handling that," William elaborated. "Make no mistake…"
He looked back over his shoulder with a crafty smile.
"...If he accepts my invitation - and I suspect he will - we'll be the ones scrutinizing him, not the other way around."
He paused impressively, then looked to Louis once more.
"So, little brother...will you still accompany me to London? To Baker Street?"
Louis nodded, and stepped forward, placing a hand on his heart and bowing slightly.
"I would go with you to the ends of the earth, Brother."
William let out a soft chuff of laughter.
"No need for such dramatics, Louis," he almost giggled, then looked back out the window. "Very well. Tomorrow, you and I shall pay a visit to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And who knows…"
He glanced back again, this time to the newspaper on the sofa.
"...Perhaps the news of a certain robbery may pique his interest."
"I won't be long, Miss Hudson!"
Dr. Watson adjusted his thick black overcoat and slung the tasseled edges of his bright green scarf over his shoulders as he glanced back to the woman in the pink dress who stood in the doorway. Miss Hudson smiled and nodded.
"Just be careful, Doctor," she warned. "You know how the holidays can make people."
"I'll just be checking prices," chuckled Watson. "If Sherlock wakes up, tell him where I've gone, won't you?"
"I will," Miss Hudson assured him.
John Watson smiled and tipped his hat, then went off down the street, whistling cheerily as he sauntered down the road. Miss Hudson watched as the young surgeon paused before a shabby old man with a tin cup, and dropped a few coins into it before continuing on his way.
The landlady of 221B Baker Street smiled wider, a hint of pride in her eyes, like a big sister admiring the way her younger brother was growing up. She was just about to shut the door and return inside - it was a VERY cold morning - when suddenly, she heard a shout.
"Miss Hudson! Miss Hudson! Hold on, please!"
Miss Hudson stopped short...and blinked, jerking back in surprise, as a forty-year-old man - his jaw nicely squared off by a small beard - came sprinting up to the doorstep, dressed in a thick brown coat and matching derby. He was carrying - of all things - a dead goose in one hand, his fist clasped about its webbed feet while its broken-necked head dangled upside-down. The goose was unremarkable, aside from the fact there was a thick black stripe around its neck, and a tag on its left leg. In the other hand, he held a battered, dark blue bowler hat: it was very dusty, with some discolored spots, pale red lining with hair stuck in it, and a busted hat securer set into the wide brim.
Despite the oddities of the moment, Miss Hudson recognized the visitor instantly.
"Inspector Lestrade?" she gasped. "What is-?"
"Is Holmes here?" Lestrade blurted out, panting, his breath steaming white in the December morning air.
"He's still asleep," Miss Hudson answered, rather taken aback. "Is...is it an emergency?"
"Yes...no...I don't know!" sighed Lestrade in aggravation, and smiled feebly. "Sorry, Miss Hudson, I'm...rather worn out. It's been a tiring morning, and last night wasn't much better."
"That's alright, Inspector," the landlady smiled, and stepped aside, allowing Lestrade into the warmth of the flat house. "I'll see if I can get him for you. But no promises."
She locked the door and quickly led the Inspector upstairs. When she reached the door into a certain room, she knocked on it loudly.
"Sherlock!" she yelled. "You have a visitor!"
No reply came. Miss Hudson frowned and knocked again, louder than before.
"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"
Still no answer. Miss Hudson sighed and looked to Lestrade, who could only shrug helplessly with his hands full. The auburn-haired woman grumbled to herself as she tried the door; it wasn't locked.
"The great, useless lump," she muttered to herself, and let Lestrade into the main room of her famous tenant's personal chambers. She gestured for him to wait and walked through the room and around a corner, into a side room.
The side room was a bedroom. She opened the door quietly and peered inside.
She scowled, as she saw the young man with very, VERY messy black hair, lying belly-down on the bed, arms spread out as if hugging his pillow...a pillow he was drooling on as he snored like a pig.
"Sherlock!" she hissed. "Wake up!"
Holmes snored again, and mumbled something about bees, but otherwise didn't react.
Miss Hudson glared, fists clenched tight, and stomped her foot.
"SHERLOCK HOLMES, WAKE UP AT ONCE!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.
"BWA-GAH-HUH?! JOHN, WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" came the slurred exclamation from Sherlock Holmes as he jumped and rolled over, sitting up in bed and sending his blankets flying against the wall. His eyes went wide as he glanced around in a blind panic, brain still trying to adjust from dreamland to reality.
Once his deep blue eyes fixed on Miss Hudson - who stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently - he instantly looked bored and groaned, flopping back on the bed.
"Sherlock, get out of bed and get dressed!" she snapped. "Inspector Lestrade is-"
"Oh, please," Holmes slurred out tiredly, his hands over his face as he spoke into his palms. "Go away…"
Miss Hudson turned red in the face and looked towards one of Sherlock's legs - clad in blue pajama bottoms - then back up at him. With a slightly vicious smile, she lunged forward, and seized one of his legs…
"Oi, what the-YAGH?!"
THUD-THUNK-THUMP.
Lestrade jumped, a bit startled, as he heard the loud noises, followed by a string of curses far too colorful to relate, from the other room...then watched, rather stunned, as Miss Hudson came flouncing out of the room, nose up in the air, and - without looking at him or saying a word - left the area.
The seasoned inspector gulped, a single bead of sweat staining his brow, then looked back towards the direction she'd come from. He heard muttering and mumbling, along with shuffling noises - no doubt the sound of Sherlock Holmes getting up off the floor after being literally dragged out of bed - and not long after, Holmes left his room, entering the main part of the flat. He was scowling, blue eyes burning like ethereal fire, a cigarette already in his mouth as he hastily tied his hair back in a ponytail with a black ribbon.
"Damn it...up till past midnight trying to figure out that bloody forgery case," he grumbled. "I look forward to sleeping in, and that-!"
"Ahem...ah...Holmes?"
Sherlock jumped in alarm and looked up...and blinked at the sight of Lestrade standing awkwardly in the room, still holding the goose and the bowler hat. He sighed with relief around the cigarette clenched in his teeth.
"Lestrade," he grunted, showing no shame at all about the fact he was standing there in nothing but a poorly-fitting white nightshirt and pajama trousers as he dimly waved a hand towards a table in the room. "Put down that hat you're carrying. And your goose."
Lestrade nodded gratefully, and dropped both weightily onto the table. Holmes waved again, this time towards a chair, indicating Lestrade could sit down. The Inspector did so, watching as Holmes lit his cigarette before collapsing into his favorite armchair. Sherlock took a long, slow drag from his tobacco roll, and blew a smoke ring through a sigh.
Lestrade fidgeted awkwardly in his seat, glancing about the empty room and then to Holmes, who continued to stare contemplatively at the ceiling as if watching the smoke curls was the most interesting thing in his life at that moment.
"...So, ah...how are you this morning?" the Inspector asked.
Holmes very, VERY slowly looked to Lestrade with a deadpan expression.
"I'm going to forgive the stupidity of that question, because I'm guessing you have a case for me," he droned.
Lestrade flushed and stiffened his back, going into business mode.
"Not exactly," he said, crisply. "I came to you about those…"
He jabbed a thumb towards the items he had put on the table. Holmes looked at them, then raised an eyebrow as he looked back at Lestrade.
"What about 'em?" he frowned. "I don't think a stupid hat and your dead bird are going to interest me."
"Well, for a start, that's part of the trouble," Lestrade said. "The bird isn't mine."
Holmes blinked, and gestured with his cigarette in a "go on" gesture. Lestrade shifted in his seat and began to explain.
"Last night, I was on my way home from the Yard; I'd finished work for the day early, and Patterson dismissed me," the good Inspector began...then paused and glanced about. "Do you have that puppet theater with you? Maybe if I showed you-"
Holmes interrupted with an impatient, snarling sound. He pinched his brow in aggravation with one hand as he took another drag from his cigarette from the other.
Lestrade paused...then took a breath and squared up again before going on, his voice and words as clear and concise as he could manage.
"As I was saying then: I was on my way home, passing through Bloomsbury, when I came across two thugs assaulting a drunk man. The hat was lying on the ground; my guess is it fell off in the struggle."
"Excellent deduction, Inspector," muttered Holmes, sourly, his eyes still weary, as if all he could think of was how nice it would be to get back to bed.
"One of the men was holding the drunkard by the arms; he was still holding his goose at the time, by the neck," Lestrade went on, making sure to include what details he could: he knew that even the slightest thing might be important to the consulting detective. "The other man was holding a bayonet style knife to the drunkard's throat. I was off duty, but I couldn't let this go on, so I pulled my whistle from my coat pocket and blew it hard."
"And the roughs took to their heels?"
"So did the drunkard," sighed Lestrade. "You see, when the two muggers fled, the drunk man stumbled and fumbled and ended up smashing into a window pane. I ran to see if he was hurt...but he must have panicked and thought I was going to arrest him for breaking the window. He dropped his goose, it landed beside his hat...and before I could catch him, he scrambled into an alley and was gone."
"Thus leaving you with his lost baggage, as it were," Holmes concluded, gesturing with his cigarette towards the hat and the goose.
"Right. I would have returned them, but the fact is I didn't - and still don't - know how to," Lestrade admitted.
Holmes blew another smoke ring.
"My dear Inspector, I DO see your problem," he mumbled, scratching his cheek with his ring finger, the skull-shaped silver jewelry scraping against his pale skin.
Lestrade opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment, the door to the flat opened again, and Miss Hudson entered. She was carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of brandy. She didn't look at Holmes once, her expression blank and cold as she poured one glass of brandy and handed it to Lestrade.
"Thank you, ma'am," the Inspector said politely.
Miss Hudson nodded back but didn't smile. She cast a pointed, silent look at Sherlock - staring at him like he was less than the dirt under her heel - then began to leave the room, notably not serving him a glass at all.
Holmes glared behind her back...then sighed and threw his head back.
"I'm sorry, alright?" he called after her. "You can give me the bloody drink."
Miss Hudson stopped...and slowly glared over her shoulder.
"Say it like you mean it," she urged.
Sherlock Holmes blinked dully at her...then took a deep breath...before lowering his head and folding his hands, holding his cigarette between his fingers. He paused, then lifted his head, looking into her eyes.
"I'm sorry for being rude. Thank you for waking me."
Miss Hudson blinked...then smiled.
"There now!" she chirruped, and served Holmes a glass of brandy of his own. "Was that so hard?"
"Whatever," mumbled Holmes, and waved a hand in a shooing motion before taking a sip. "Please, disappear."
Miss Hudson rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling as she left the room.
"Ahem...anyway," Lestrade coughed, bringing Sherlock's attention back to him, "The whole thing didn't seem like a job for Scotland Yard. I hope you don't think I'm wasting your time, I know it's...rather trivial…"
"Oh, I dare not call anything 'trivial,' Lestrade," Holmes scoffed into his brandy. "Do you remember the Abernetty case?"
Lestrade's eyes widened...then narrowed again, and he scowled, his grip on his own glass tightening.
"I wouldn't call the brutal slaying of an entire family 'trivial.'"
"No, of course not," Holmes responded with a shake of his head. "But the only reason I got involved in that case to begin with was because of the depth in which some parsley had sunk into a tub of butter on a hot day."
"...Oh."
"Yes. 'Oh,'" smirked Holmes.
Lestrade downed the last of his brandy. Holmes soon did the same.
"So...what would you recommend me to do?" the Inspector asked.
Sherlock Holmes paused, and looked at the bird and the hat for a few short moments, one finger curled over his lips in thought. Another finger tapped on his armrest before he took one last drag from his cigarette. He snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray and stood.
"For a start," he declared, and tossed the limp body of the goose into Lestrade's lap, "Get that out of here and take it home. Cook it and eat it; it's already starting to stink."
Lestrade looked down at the goose in his lap, then back up at Holmes before carefully lifting it and standing up again.
"If you think that's best," he said slowly. "And the hat?"
"I will hold onto the hat," he smiled. "Perhaps I can find its owner."
"How?" Lestrade asked, crinkling his nose. "I don't even know his name, and you weren't there to see him at all!"
Holmes gave a mysterious smile, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Happy Christmas, Inspector," was all he said, making it clear that was a farewell.
Lestrade looked like he wanted to say more...but then looked at the goose in his hand and sniffed it. He cringed; Holmes was right - despite the cold, the bird would need to be plucked and prepared for SOMEONE'S dinner right away.
So, without more than a soft grunt and hat tip of farewell, the Inspector of Scotland Yard carried the feathered carcass out of the flat. Holmes shut the door behind him.
The detective sighed and, without a moment's pause, pulled ANOTHER cigarette from his pocket - yes, Sherlock Holmes slept with cigarettes in his pocket, and no, one should not find that very surprising - and began to lumber back to his room, scratching at his head and mussing his hair as he did so.
"Well...might as well get dressed for when John gets back," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Just as Holmes was about to turn the corner towards his room, he paused and glanced at the hat. He looked it up and down...then smirked, as if making up his mind about something...before heading off to get into some proper clothes.
Elsewhere in London, the door to a magnificent mansion was opened. The one who opened it was a small man, with a curlicue moustache; his sharp features and very large eyes gave him an almost rodent-like demeanor. He was dressed in the simple black-and-white tuxedo common to most fine English butlers, and stood with the same stiff propriety one would expect. Though he was very small, he stood so straight, he seemed a whole foot taller.
"Ah, Inspector," he greeted, in a reedy sort of voice. "Her Ladyship has been expecting you."
Inspector Gregson nodded as he removed the hat from his head. He was smiling with pride, cocksure and smug.
"So I've been told," he boasted. "I'm sure she's eager to hear developments in the case, yes?"
The butler slowly blinked.
"You could say that," he answered, and waved a hand for the Scotland Yard Inspector to enter. "Come inside, please."
Gregson did so, strutting like a peacock into the manor house. He glanced around at the opulent foyer, while the butler closed the door behind him. The mansion was all decked out for the holidays: garland was strung up from wall to wall, and at the top of the grand staircase, he saw a massive wreath…
...A wreath which almost acted like a picture frame for the two women who stood at the top of the steps. One was a young lady in a simple maid's uniform; she had red hair and eyes of pale jade. She stood slightly behind the other woman, her head bowed and back hunched slightly; subservient and seemingly rather scared.
One could hardly blame her when they saw the other woman: an impressive, tall, stately figure with sharp cheekbones and an upturned nose, garbed in a flowing, extravagant gown of bright red, with golden lace lining and evergreen frills. A gold-topped cane was held in her hands, and her brown hair was showing streaks of gray. Her face was done up with so much makeup, she looked almost like a mannequin sculpture of middle-aged propriety, rather than a real person.
A real person she was, however...one who gazed down at Inspector Gregson with a haughty patience.
"Good morning, Countess!" Gregson greeted boldly, and bowed before going on: "I want you to know we've officially charged Horner for the crime, and his case will be going to trial come New Year's! The thief is practically in prison now."
The Countess blinked slowly and was silent for a few seconds.
"I see," she said at last; her voice was as cold as mid-winter snow. "Inspector...might I ask you a few questions?"
"Why, certainly, Your Ladyship!" Gregson grinned, still bold as brass.
The Countess lifted one hand and displayed her fingers.
"Do you see this hand, sir?"
Gregson's smile faltered with confusion.
"Yes, ma'am…?"
"Do you see my Blue Carbuncle on my finger?"
Gregson's smile completely disappeared.
"No, ma'am."
The Countess glared.
"Then Where. Is. It?"
Gregson ducked his head and shuffled his feet.
"I, er...I don't know-"
"EXACTLY!" the Countess barked, and SLAMMED her cane powerfully onto the floor before striding down the stairs, the golden ferrule cracking and making her butler, her maid, and the Inspector all flinch with each sharp tap. "I am not at all impressed with your work, Inspector! The thief may be under lock and key, but the stone is still missing!"
"It's only a matter of time, Your Ladyship," Gregson said with a nervous smile, which fell the moment the Countess' glare met his eyes.
"I was led to believe that Scotland Yard works efficiently and with success," the noblewoman sneered, head held high as she loomed over Gregson, stopping part of the way down the stairs. "For the first time in my life, I'm beginning to think I was mistaken in my judgment. Perhaps you'd prefer I take the case to that amateur detective I've been reading so much about, eh?"
The Countess of Morcar smirked as Gregson ground his teeth and clenched his fists.
"That...will not be necessary, ma'am," he managed to snarl out, and took a breath before continuing: "Since I am here...might I make a suggestion?"
"You can hardly bungle things worse than you have already," sniffed the Countess. "I might as well hear how ELSE you can mess things up."
Gregson flushed. He looked back over his shoulder at the butler. Ryder averted his eyes. He looked up at the maid, but she was seemingly very interested in her shoes.
No support.
Gregson gulped, and dared to meet the icy, steel-colored eyes of the angry Countess.
"I believe," Gregson said slowly, "That our burglar had an accomplice in his crimes."
"Who?"
"I don't know," admitted the Inspector, and hastened onward: "But in my experience, and it is extensive, I've found there is no true honor among thieves. Especially not with the right...incentive."
The Countess raised an eyebrow.
"Are you implying I should offer a reward?"
Gregson shuddered. The tone of her voice made him feel like he'd been submerged in a frozen lake for five hours. Once he recovered, he went on.
"I am. I wouldn't be surprised if, with the proper inducement, I could have the jewel back within a few days. Perhaps less!"
The Countess narrowed her eyes cruelly, and then glanced at her maid. Cusack nodded. The noblewoman looked to the butler, who mimicked the action.
The Countess' gaze softened - but only enough for the icicles to become dull cubes - and sighed with frustration before looking back to Gregson, who lifted his head hopefully as she spoke only four words.
"How large a reward?"
