"In Bethlehem, in Jury, this blessed babe was born! And laid within a manger, upon this blessed morn! The which his mother, Mary, did nothing take in scorn! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy, Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy…!"
Sherlock Holmes - now dressed in his usual attire of white, loose-fitting dress shirt, dark blue blazer, and matching trousers with dark shoes - paid no attention to the carolers singing across the street from his flat. The great detective reclined upon the sofa in the main room of the flat on 221B Baker Street. He drummed the fingers of one hand against one upraised knee, while his other hand propped up his head, resting on his chin as he squinted thoughtfully at the rather disreputable piece of headgear he had placed upon his coffee table.
He was still staring at the hat when the sound of footsteps thumped and clattered on the steps, and Dr. Watson came bustling into the room. His hat was on crooked, and he was carrying a very large stack of boxes wrapped in brown paper. He awkwardly shut the door with his foot, and his large brown eyes blinked as he peeked around the parcels in his arms.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, and let out a slightly breathless, nervous sort of laugh. "Sorry it took me so long; Miss Hudson said she was getting worried. Have you had a good morning?"
Holmes didn't answer; he was still staring at the hat.
"...Right," Watson murmured, and cleared his throat before wrestling a newspaper out from under his arm and slapping it onto a table. "Anyway, I was heading to check prices at various shops, but the crowds were awful, and the fact I couldn't catch a cab…! Not to mention the shops were running dry of the things I wanted to get for my family, so...I just...HAD to buy things, you know? Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to get everything on my list."
He blushed slightly as he looked to Sherlock, and gestured to him with the stack of parcels.
"I, uh...could use a little help?"
Sherlock continued to stare at the hat.
John frowned; his arms were getting VERY tired. He sighed and shook his head, and groaned slightly as he set the stack down in a corner of the room.
"Well," he muttered, "Aside from the gifts for my family, I also bought a fresh flash I think you might be interested in."
Sherlock Holmes remained silent, still not even looking Watson's way as the young medic hung up his coat, hat, and cane up on a nearby rack. He straightened up his olive colored jacket, then picked up the paper again and ruffled through it before finding the page in question.
"Here, listen to this," he gasped out, and cleared his throat before reading from the paper: "'Reward: One Thousand Pounds, to anyone with information on the whereabouts of the Blue Carbuncle.' The article below continues: 'on the morning of December 21st - that's just yesterday, of course - the famous Blue Carbuncle ring was stolen from the Countess of Morcar's estate. Inspector Gregson has announced that one thousand pounds will be given to anyone who knows anything about the jewel, or his current suspect, Mr. John Horner-'"
"What do you make of it, Watson?"
The gray-blonde doctor stopped short and looked up from the paper, Sherlock Holmes was still in the same position, still staring at the old, beaten-up hat.
"...What do I make of...the report?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, and looked at Watson for the first time.
"What report?" he asked, blandly.
Dr. Watson blinked...then sighed and shook his head, tossing the paper back onto the table.
"Never mind," he huffed, red in the face and feeling rather foolish. He hated it when his flatmate did this sort of stuff. He then moved closer and knelt down to get a better look at the old, dented, dusty derby. His frown showed he didn't think much of it. "What's so interesting about this hat? Are you on a case?"
Sherlock scoffed.
"No, not at all," he answered, sounding rather annoyed by that fact, but a smile soon graced his face, albeit a very small one. "This is just a token of one of those whimsical little adventures you will get when you have about four million people jostling each other within the space of a few square miles."
Watson huffed, and glanced back at the stack of gifts.
"I know what THAT feels like," he almost pouted.
"Hm?" Holmes hummed, and looked in the direction Watson stared...then frowned. "Oh. So that's where you've been all morning."
"Yeah," the good Doctor sighed, and then smiled back at his friend and partner in crimefighting. "Nearly getting trampled by about a dozen little old ladies was worth getting-"
"-Perfume for your sister, a hand mixer for your mother, some rum for your brother, a new watch for your uncle, and a dress for your aunt. Don't look so surprised, John, I didn't even deduce anything this time," smirked Sherlock in response to the wide-eyed look the doctor gave him as he spoke. "I just read your list; you left it on your nightstand."
"Oh," Watson responded, blushing once again.
Sherlock chuckled, and his eyes lit up boyishly.
"Did you get me anything?" he asked hopefully.
"Not yet," confessed Watson. "I haven't actually figured out what you'd like...you wouldn't happen to have any suggestions would you?"
"Does the Lord of Crime on a silver platter count?" drawled Holmes.
Dr. Watson smiled almost apologetically, his expression like a small and embarrassed boy.
"I...don't think I could come close."
"Then no, I've got nothing," shrugged Sherlock, and smiled. "You don't need to worry about me, John. But please get something for Miss Hudson: if at least one of us doesn't acknowledge her for the holiday, I suspect we'll both be in need of a new place to sleep."
Watson gulped nervously and nodded, eyes very wide indeed.
"R-Right!" he said. After an awkward pause, he then gestured to the hat. "So, uh...what's the business with the hat, if it's not a case?"
"Oh, this," chuckled Holmes, and handed the hat to his friend. Watson stood up and inspected it carefully. "Lestrade brought it over I think not long after you must have left. Apparently someone dropped it, and he was hoping I might find some way of returning it to the rightful owner. Hardly a mystery, but it makes for a good exercise in deduction."
Watson grimaced, looking between Sherlock and the large, dirty bowler.
"It does?" he quizzed, skeptically.
Holmes nodded.
"Trust me, an EXTREMELY good one," he grinned impishly, and reached into his pocket before handing over a small magnifying glass. "You know my methods: apply them."
Watson paused, then hesitantly took the magnifying glass. He stood up, holding the derby in his other hand. The doctor then turned the hat in his hands a few times, actually sticking his tongue out as he tried hard to focus on every detail he could take in, peering through the glass. Sherlock's smile widened with amusement at the sight as John H. Watson narrowed his eyes analytically.
"Well?" he asked, smoothly, sitting upright on the sofa and leaning forward eagerly, tapping his fingertips together. "What can you see?"
Watson paused a moment longer before clearing his throat. He straightened his back.
"Ahem! Well, ah," he began, his voice indicating he was trying to sound as authoritative and clear as possible, "Apart from the obvious initials on the inside of the hat, 'H.B.' - presumably standing for the name of the owner - I can also see…"
He trailed off.
"Yes?" Holmes hissed eagerly.
Watson looked between his friend and the hat...then deflated with an almost ashamed expression.
"I...can't actually see anything," he admitted, glumly.
Sherlock Holmes' face showed signs of disappointment, and he sighed, shaking his head as he took the glass and the hat back.
"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. Your problem is that you never INFER anything from what you see," he frowned.
"I'm sorry," mumbled Watson, scratching the back of his head guiltily.
"It's fine, John," Holmes said, with a forgiving smile, which then shifted as he tucked his glass away and looked at the hat with a slight huff through his sharp nose. "What I wouldn't give to have someone to actually SHARE these exercises with, though...someone to understand how it works without acting like it's all a magic trick…"
"I'm always happy to hear your reasoning," Watson smiled helpfully.
"I know," nodded Holmes. "But it's not the same as speaking with someone of a like mind. You're a doctor, right?"
"Last I checked," Watson shrugged with a small smirk.
"And if you wanted to speak to someone about an issue involving medicine, who would you talk to?"
"Another doctor."
Holmes gave a pointed look. It took Watson a second to understand his implications.
"I see," he said softly, then added a little louder, almost teasingly, "You could always call on your brother."
Holmes looked as if Watson had just suggested neutering someone. With a spoon.
"I want to be CHALLENGED, John, not tortured till I beg for death!"
Watson laughed.
"Alright, alright," he chuckled, and tilted his head as he sat down across from Holmes...only to quickly leap out of the chair when he realized he was sitting in Sherlock's chair. He made a show of dusting it off, and sat down in another seat. "So, ah...who would you want to talk to, in that case?"
"Hmmm," Holmes murmured, eyes turning back to the dark blue derby, but seemingly looking through it rather than at it. "I'm not sure; that's the problem, John. I often feel I'm...rather alone in the world. The only other person I can think of to talk to in this way would be-"
"Professor Moriarty!"
Both Holmes and Watson jumped at the announcement from Miss Hudson that came from the door. They looked...and Holmes' expression brightened more than ever, a wide, exuberant grin splitting his face.
"Liam!" he exclaimed, all but bounding from his chair. "What an unexpected surprise!"
William James Moriarty stepped into the room, his own expression his usual patient, catlike smile. He bowed his head respectfully as he stepped slightly to one side, allowing Louis - who looked like he was trying to avoid eye contact with EVERYONE - to enter silently behind him.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," William greeted, in his quiet, polite way, and tipped his head to gesture towards his companion. "You remember my younger brother, Louis, yes?"
"Of course," Sherlock Holmes smiled, and gave a mock salute, winking roguishly at the scarfaced young Moriarty. "Yo! Nice to see you again."
Louis squirmed rather uncomfortably and bit his lip. Already he was regretting coming along for the ride. He knew that William had more than a small amount of fondness and respect for the consulting detective...but every time he saw that cocky smirk and heard that over-boisterous voice, and the way his brother would just take it all in his stride…
"Good evening," was all Louis said, and had to do his best not to hiss the words like a snake.
Sherlock didn't seem to pick up on the hostility - or, more likely, was just good at hiding it - and simply smiled wider, he then looked back to the older Moriarty with a grin.
"You're a long way from Durham," he chuckled, and smirked a bit more smugly. "What's the matter, mathematician? Have a problem that needs solving?"
"If I did, with all due respect, I wouldn't ask you, Mr. Detective," William said, giving one of his much-too-nice smiles to the blue-eyed sleuth. "Or did you forget you got a zero on my test?"
Holmes flushed while Miss Hudson giggled before leaving the room, allowing the four to continue with their own devices in private.
"Liam," the private eye said, smile a little more forced, "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Not till the day you die," William purred smoothly.
"Call my brother Liam again, and that may be very soon," mumbled Louis to himself.
"Hm? Did you say something?"
Louis froze up as he found Sherlock Holmes AND his elder brother both looking at him inquisitively. He forced a shy, unassuming smile onto his face.
"No, nothing," he answered, sweetly.
The two shrugged and looked back to one another. Louis' smile instantly fell as his own red eyes - not as bright as William's, but still smoldering with ruby-tinted danger - zeroed in murderously on the detective.
"So, why are you here?" Holmes asked.
"I'm arranging a little Christmas get-together," William replied, and then looked around the private eye's shoulder. "Is Dr. Watson here?"
"Present!" Watson announced, standing up from the couch and approaching. He extended a hand to the young math instructor. "And it's a pleasure to see you again, Professor."
"Thank you, Doctor," William said, as he shook Watson's hand. "The pleasure is entirely mine."
Watson smiled a little wider, then looked back at Louis, who nearly jumped back at the acknowledgement...especially when Watson held out a hand with a bright, chipper grin.
"John H. Watson," he introduced himself. "We never got a chance to properly meet, but you were there during the case on the Paddington line, yes?"
Louis blinked twice...then nodded slowly and accepted the doctor's hand, giving it a firm but gentle shake.
"Yes, that's correct," he answered. "It's...good to officially see you, Doctor."
"Thank you, Mr. Moriarty," Watson nodded back, then cocked his head to one side, innocently. "Or, ah...would you prefer I call you Louis?"
Louis frowned. At least this one ASKED before indulging in such familiar terms.
"Mr. Moriarty will do, thank you," he answered, somewhat tersely.
Watson just smiled a bit wider, not at all perturbed.
"Mister and Professor Moriarty it will be then," he accepted, cheerfully. "Welcome to 221B! And I apologize if I embarrassed you with my questions."
He gave a slightly weary smirk as he gestured to Sherlock Holmes.
"Formality is apparently a myth, according to him," Watson joked.
"Oi! I can be formal!" Holmes snapped, in a petulant tone, almost like a small boy insisting he could totally drink the wine in his dad's private cabinet.
"That will be the day," chuckled Watson.
Louis didn't smile, but...he did relax. He looked Watson up and down, and his gaze softened.
This one, he decided, he could be around and NOT want to impale on a pair of gardening shears.
"Well, with the introductions out of the way," Holmes said, and gestured towards the sitting area. "All of you, take a seat, and tell me what's going on."
"Thank you," William nodded, and the group moved back. Watson sat down on the sofa, while Holmes sat down in his usual arm chair. William occupied the seat beside Watson, and Louis - who had never looked more uncomfortable in his life - begrudgingly sat next to Sherlock Holmes.
"As I was saying," Professor Moriarty started again, "I'm having a small party for the holidays - nothing too pretentious - and if the two of you weren't busy this Christmas, I thought I'd see if you would care to attend."
"Tch. I haven't been to a party in almost six years," snorted Holmes. "But I'll go, if it's your party! What about you, John?"
Watson nodded.
"I have family to visit in the morning," he said, "But if this gathering is in the afternoon or evening…"
"It is," Louis spoke up, and reached into the inner lining of his coat before pulling out a small invitation card. He adjusted his glasses, checking it, then handed it to Holmes.
It took all his self control not to grab hold of the detective's arm and slam him into the floor just for breathing in his brother's presence.
Holmes - still seemingly oblivious - inspected the card, and nodded before handing it to his flatmate.
"The party starts at tea time," he said.
"Perfect," smiled Dr. Watson, and looked over the card quickly before turning to William. "We'll be there right on time!"
"I'm glad to hear it," Moriarty said, his expression unbreakable, then turned curious eyes towards the hat on the table. "Out of curiosity, where did that come from? It doesn't look like it belongs to either of you."
"It doesn't," grinned Holmes and picked the hat up off the coffee table before giving it to William. "Oi, Liam...how much can you gather from this hat?"
"Hmmm," murmured Moriarty, and looked it over with mild interest in his scarlet eyes before ultimately speaking: "A few things. Any context I should know?"
"It was accompanied by a goose," Holmes said. "The words 'Mrs. Henry Baker' were printed on a tag attached to the bird's left leg."
"You didn't tell me that," mumbled Watson, but his sulking fell on deaf ears as the Professor looked the hat once over a second time...and then smiled a little wider, as if he had made up his mind.
"The man is intellectual; probably an academic," he began. "That is the first obvious point."
"Agreed," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together eagerly and fidgeting happily in his chair as he leaned forward. "I believe he was once rich, but has since gone down in the world, most likely sometime within the past two to three years. What do you think?"
"I concur, that seems likely," the Professor smiled, and then went on, without even looking at the hat. "He also has foresight."
"HAD foresight," Holmes spoke up in a tone of correction, wagging a finger in the air. "Less now than he used to."
"Yes, pointing to a moral retrogression," conceded Moriarty. "My guess is alcohol, what do you think?"
"It seems the most likely cause, definitely. That's also probably why his wife has ceased to love him."
"Oh, most assuredly."
As the pair talked, Louis and Dr. Watson's heads flicked back and forth, watching the pair almost like watching two tennis players. The young brother and the army surgeon looked at each other with matching, helpless expressions. Watson smiled and shrugged hopelessly. Louis gave a flicker of a smile in return, and returned his attention to the ongoing deduction match.
"It's easy to say he doesn't take very good care of his clothes," Holmes huffed.
"Yes, but he has retained some degree of self-respect," Moriarty said gently. "I would say that he is middle-aged, you?"
"Almost certainly. His hair is gray and grizzled, obviously."
"Oh, very obviously. And he anoints it with lime cream."
"Probably got a haircut recently, right?"
"Probably, yes. And I would conclude by saying it is unlikely that he has gas laid on at his house."
Holmes laughed and clapped his hands with joy.
"Bravo, Liam, bravo! I was hoping you'd catch that part!" he cackled.
"I'm glad I did not disappoint," Moriarty said, quite calmly, and offered the hat back. "Has anything escaped me?"
"Nope!" chirped Holmes with a shake of his head, flipping the hat in one hand. "I think that clears up everything."
"Er...n-not for me, it doesn't."
The two geniuses looked to Dr. Watson. He gave them a timid smile as he added: "I...don't really know how you both came up with all that."
The detective and the mathematician looked at each other, then back to Watson.
"Isn't it obvious?" they asked at the same time.
Watson blushed very red indeed.
Louis, noticing his discomfort, cleared his throat, getting the attention of both his brother and their unknowing nemesis.
"With all due respect, Brother William," he began, "You were taking things a little too far just now, weren't you?"
William looked amused.
"Louis, everything I've said is plainly here," he responded, and gestured towards the hat. "The evidence is in clear view."
"Well, then I'm certain we must be very stupid," Watson broke in, half-jokingly.
"Yeah, you can be," shrugged Sherlock. "But don't worry, almost everyone is."
Watson flinched slightly. Louis frowned at the sight.
"Well, Mr. Holmes," he began, suddenly feeling a defensive streak rise in his chest. "Would you and my brother care to explain how you both figured all that out, then?"
Holmes pouted, and gave William a look that seemed to say, Do I HAVE to?
William James Moriarty smiled patiently, and waved a hand for Holmes to start.
Sherlock sighed...then took a breath.
"Well," he smiled in a showoff sort of way, "Where would you like me to start?"
"The intellectuality," Louis answered. "You said he was an academic."
"Ah! That," Holmes declared, "Is just a question of cubic capacity."
FWOPP. Louis yelped comically as, without warning, the dirty old hat was placed on his head. It fell over his face, it was so big, nearly knocking off his glasses.
"H-Hey…!"
"A man with so large a head," smirked Holmes, playfully, "Must have SOMETHING inside it. No?"
William chuckled as he plucked the hat off Louis' head. The younger Moriarty glared daggers at Holmes as he adjusted his glasses, grinding his teeth…
"Holmes, you…!"
"Sherlock!" snapped Watson, with a stern glare. "Don't be rude!"
Holmes winced guiltily, and gave an apologetic smile to the doctor. Watson nodded stiffly, then smiled at Louis in a similar way, as if saying he was sorry for his flatmate's actions.
The look pacified Louis, who smiled back thinly.
"Anyway," Watson went on, looking back at Sherlock, "That's hardly scientifically accurate: there are lots of people with large heads who are conjectured idiots."
"This is true, Dr. Watson," Professor Moriarty spoke up, his voice taking on the tones of an experienced instructor as he showed the hat off and continued the explanation. "But there's more to it than that: close inspection not only shows his intellectuality, but also his decline in fortune. Notice the way the brim is mostly flat, but curled at the edges? That sort of hat is a fairly recent fashion - less than three years old - and you will notice the band of discolored red silk on the inside lining: when new, this hat was a very good one. Expensive and stylish."
"It's also obvious he leads a sedentary life," Holmes pointed out, leaning back in his chair and casually pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it and took a drag from it before blowing a smoke ring and going on: "There is a LOT of dust on that hat. You can detect the amount of sweat staining the lining: obviously a free perspirer, so not in the best of training. You can also see the signs of his foresight."
"Where?" Louis wondered.
"Right here," his brother answered, and pointed to a broken hat securer on the back of the brim. "These devices are never sold with hats; you need to buy them and have them set in separately. He HAD foresight, because he bought one to try and keep his hat from being lost, but he has less now, because - obviously - he hasn't bought a new one, nor seen about repairing the old one."
"Correct," agreed Sherlock Holmes, and smiled lazily at Louis as he blew another smoke ring before concluding: "Altogether, a man who lives a sedentary life, has a large head, used to have taste and foresight, and likely still has some semblance of them now, as he HAS kept this once-good hat, is unlikely to be an idiot."
"That's fair," Louis conceded slowly.
"But what about his financial standing?" pressed Dr. Watson. "The Professor said you could see that, too?"
"Well, John, if he was able to buy a hat like this within the past couple years, but hasn't gotten a new one since - which is likely, since this one is so dirty and battered - he's obviously got much less money than he used to," Holmes shrugged.
"What about his wife, then?" Watson urged. "You said she had ceased to love him."
"That hat hasn't been cleaned in weeks!" scoffed Holmes, waving his cigarette dismissively. "That's all the proof you need!"
"Indeed. When I see a man," Moriarty concurred, "Who has a hat in this condition, and his wife has allowed him to go out that way, I fear he has lost his wife's affection."
"He might be a bachelor," Louis suggested.
"Nay, brother: remember the goose Mr. Holmes mentioned?" tutted William. "'For Mrs. Henry Baker.' In all likelihood, it's her husband that the initials inside, 'H.B.', refer to."
Holmes gave a subtle grin at Watson, who smiled back bashfully.
"Well, you both have an answer for everything," he chuckled softly.
"The answers are always there if you look for them," the detective said sagely, and pointed to the hat in Moriarty's hand. "The further points that he is middle-aged, has grizzled hair, uses lime cream, and probably had a haircut recently can all be learned just by taking a close look at strands of hair left stuck in the lining."
"Quick question," Louis piped up. "How do you know that this Mrs. Baker isn't the man's mother?"
"Well, she'd be a VERY old lady, for a start," Holmes drawled, and shrugged. "Besides, if her son is middle-aged and still staying with her, either he takes care of her, or she nags him; she might even have a servant looking after him. She'd almost never let him go out with his hat in that state. The wife who doesn't love him anymore is the only relationship that makes sense."
"Not necessarily the only one," murmured William, cryptically, but didn't venture to offer anything else, then looked to Louis. "Have Mr. Holmes and I satisfied you thoroughly, brother?"
"Actually, there's just one more thing," Louis admitted. "How do you deduce that he does not have gas in his house?"
William smiled indulgently, and pointed to a number of small, blue-black speckles on one side of the hat.
"See these?" he cooed. "They're tallow stains; candle wax. He's tried to cover them up with ink, very crudely. One, two, or even three such stains might come by chance...but when I see more than five? He never got candle stains from gas lights, brother."
"The brand of ink is another sign of his academic nature," Holmes thought to add. "It's commonly purchased for use by libraries on the West End, or in other places of scholarly study, such as museums. It smudges less easily than other brands. I think that's all."
Dr. Watson whistled, evidently most impressed.
"I will never fathom how either of you can do all that," he said, almost breathlessly.
"Elementary, My Dear Watson," smirked Sherlock Holmes.
"Indeed," nodded Moriarty, and tapped the side of his head with one finger. "Eyes and brains, my dear doctor. That's all it takes."
"Well," Louis said, after another short pause, "What will you do with the hat now, Mr. Holmes? Return it to its rightful owner?"
"I wish I could," sighed Sherlock Holmes, frowning as William placed the old felt hat upon the coffee table once more. "But there's gotta be about a dozen or more Henry Bakers in London alone; returning this hat honestly won't be easy."
William opened his mouth, as if to offer a suggestion...when suddenly, the door to the flat burst open.
"HOLMES!"
The four looked up. Inspector Lestrade made a mad dash towards the gathered group. Miss Hudson, who looked startled beyond belief, entered cautiously behind him.
"I tried to stop him," she peeped shyly.
"It's alright, Miss Hudson," Dr. Watson assured her, as Lestrade stood panting and sweating, snorting like a buffalo as he hurried to where Holmes sat.
"Holmes!" he gasped out. "Holmes, you won't believe-!"
"Good evening, Inspector."
The two Moriartys spoke their greeting at the same time. Lestrade looked at them, as if he had just realized they were there, and gulped thinly before speaking. He was pale as a sheet.
"Good evening," he coughed out. "Forgive my intrusion, Professor Moriarty...Mr. Louis."
"Oh, Mr. Louis!" John chirruped, and smiled at Louis. "Can I call you that?"
Louis smiled with clear amusement and nodded to show that was fine.
"What's the matter, Inspector?" William asked.
Lestrade licked his lips - they felt dry - and without answering, looked back towards Sherlock Holmes, who was watching the decidedly unsettled Inspector with an aura of coolness so potent, one might have thought Lestrade came running in like this every day.
"It's...it's the goose!" the Inspector choked. "The goose, Holmes!"
"What about it, Lestrade?" he asked, and mimed flapping wings with his hands as he gave a teasing smile. "Has it come back to life and flown out the window?"
"That would be too normal," groaned Lestrade. "See, I-I took it home, like you said I should, and my wife plucked it and was getting it prepared to cook. And then…"
He paused...and lifted one fist, holding it near Holmes' face.
"...Then...when she was cutting it open...THIS came out of its belly."
Lestrade opened his hand.
Miss Hudson trotted forward to get a closer look, while the four men in the flat leaned in to inspect the item in Lestrade's open palm. Holmes and William's eyes widened, while Louis, Watson, and Miss Hudson all gasped. Sitting in the middle of Lestrade's hand was a large silver ring, elegant engravings carved into it…
...And inlaid with the biggest, most spectacular, sparkling, deep blue crystal any of them had ever seen in their life.
"It's...it's beautiful!" Miss Hudson cried out.
"Beautiful and deadly," intoned Professor Moriarty.
"Lestrade!" Holmes cried out, picking up the ring in his forefinger and thumb. "You've hit the motherlode! Do you realize what you've found?!"
"Well, it's a precious stone, obviously," Lestrade answered. "It cuts glass like putty; I tested it before coming here."
"It's more than A precious stone!" thundered Holmes, rising to his feet and holding the gemstone up to the light. "It's THE precious stone!"
"The Countess of Morcar's case!" Watson realized.
"The Blue Carbuncle!" exclaimed Louis James Moriarty.
Holmes grinned widely, as he lowered the ring, and then slipped it onto his own finger, as if to test its size. He laughed softly.
"The Blue Carbuncle, indeed," he almost growled - not with anger, but a sense of rising excitement, then looked to William with the same smile. "Liam...I think I just found a new mystery to solve."
"How did THAT get inside my goose?" boomed Lestrade.
"Not your goose, Inspector; Mr. Baker's," the Professor soothed. "And I believe that's the mystery Mr. Holmes is referring to."
"Damn right!" laughed Holmes. "Seems like our little game has more meaning than we realized, huh, Liam?"
"I should say so," nodded William, and stood up from his seat. "And with that in mind, I think Louis and I should take our leave. You'll no doubt want to get started right away."
"You know me so well," Holmes all but sang, batting his eyes, and let out a whoop of excitement as he hurried to his writing desk, and began to hurriedly scrawl with a pen upon some parchment.
Louis glanced at Holmes, then back to his brother.
"But, William-"
"Come, Louis," Professor Moriarty called, already walking towards the door. "Let's be on our way."
He took Miss Hudson by the hand and bowed in a courtly manner. She blushed and giggled, waving goodbye as the Professor called back over his shoulder, "I'll show myself out, thank you."
Louis blinked. Before he could move, he suddenly felt a hand fall on his shoulder. He looked to its owner, and found Dr. Watson smiling at him.
"We'll see you on Christmas Day," he said, softly but pleasantly.
Louis stared at him for a moment...then nodded without saying a word, and hurried to follow his brother.
He glanced back one last time to see both Lestrade and Watson were peering over Sherlock's shoulder to see what he was writing. Then, he left the room.
Moments after the Moriartys left, Holmes put down his pen and lifted the paper, reading the message on it aloud.
"'Found: A Goose and a Dark Blue Hat. Mr. H. Baker Can Have Same. Address: 221B Baker Street.' That should do the trick," Holmes nodded, and carefully began to fold the paper. "Miss Hudson, could you do me a favor?"
"That depends on what it is," the landlady said uncertainly.
"Lestrade," Holmes asked, once he'd finished folding, "Do you remember how much that goose weighed?"
The Inspector did, and named the weight. Holmes smiled and looked to Miss Hudson.
"Go and buy a goose of the same weight, or as close to the same as you can get; if you can get one that's even heavier, that would be all the better."
"Why should I be the one buying a goose?" huffed the pink-garbed woman.
"Well, we need something to replace the one Lestrade and his family will be having," Sherlock said, plainly. "He'll even pay you back."
"Me?!" exclaimed Lestrade. "Why should I be the one paying her back?!"
"Well, you'll have plenty of money," Holmes replied.
"That's true," Watson thought to say. "The reward is a thousand pounds."
Lestrade looked like he might faint. Miss Hudson didn't look much better.
"A th-th-thousand p-pounds?!" stuttered the Inspector.
Watson nodded with a wide smile.
Both the landlady and Lestrade looked at each other, then back to the doctor and the detective.
"I'll go get one now!" Miss Hudson said, VERY rapidly, and practically vanished in the blink of an eye, her footfalls soon heard racing down the stairs.
"Should I go claim my reward now?" Lestrade asked, sounding more curious than excited; a doubtless testament to his integrity.
"Not yet; I want to get the whole story before we take any action," Holmes said. "But you can do something else for me."
"What's that?"
Holmes gave Lestrade the folded piece of paper.
"Please take this and have it advertised in all the morning papers."
"All of them?" Lestrade gulped.
"ALL of them," insisted Holmes. "We have no idea which paper or papers Mr. Baker prefers. We need to talk to him first, so we can try to figure out how the Blue Carbuncle ended up in the belly of his goose."
Lestrade stiffened up and nodded in a militant manner.
"I'll take care of it right away, Holmes," he promised, and marched out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Now alone, aside from his flatmate, Holmes looked to Watson and offered him the ring.
"Now, John...please put this somewhere safe. I trust your organization skills better than my own."
"You better," smirked Watson, and carefully held the ring in his hand, as if afraid he'd somehow break it. His expression soon showed concern. "Holmes...one thing worries me."
"Only one thing?"
"Inspector Gregson has already arrested someone for the crime," Watson pointed out. "Do you think...maybe he's got the wrong man?"
"Right now, it's impossible to say what's going on," Holmes smiled. "That's what makes this fun, John. The Game's Afoot!"
Inspector Lestrade hurriedly through on his overcoat and hat. He checked his pockets quickly, then hustled down the street in the direction of the advertising agency.
He was unaware, as he left Baker Street, that two familiar figures were standing in an alley beside the flat house, their red eyes trained on him.
"The Blue Carbuncle," murmured William James Moriarty to himself. "Lost and found in the stomach of a dead bird. This is intriguing."
He smiled at his brother.
"Don't you agree?"
"I do," Louis whispered back. "But, Big Brother...why did we choose to leave so suddenly? We might have learned more from Holmes! Or are you planning to follow-?"
"No, Louis," William said, shaking his head, his smile fading into a dark frown. "I have a sneaking suspicion that Scotland Yard has apprehended the wrong person. I won't allow a potentially innocent man to go to court for a crime he didn't commit. But I'd rather take my own line of investigation."
"Then what are you planning to do?"
"Call a cab and head back to Durham, for a start," smirked William, then paused before going on: "Holmes will most likely try to use the information he gleaned from that hat to find out what's going on. I plan to focus on the scene of the crime, and investigate the people involved."
"I'll help in any way I can," promised Louis with a loyal smile.
"I know, brother," William smiled back. "I know. Now, come along…"
He left the alley, and Louis followed, William hailing a cab with a wave of his cane.
"...This adventure should prove quite interesting."
