"From God, Our Heavenly Father, a blessed angel came! And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same! How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy!"

There was an irony in those final lyrics, John Horner thought with a sigh, as the song of the carolers not so far outside the barred window of his gaol cell echoed in the chilly morning air. He hugged himself tightly, curling upon the floor beside his cot with a shiver.

Aside from the carolers, the dripping of water from another cell, and a hacking cough from still another not so close by, was all the thirty-six-year-old could hear. His hazel eyes were dismal and tragic to behold. He was still dressed in the plumber's uniform he'd been arrested in, and his skin felt grimy after all the time he'd spent in the tiny, cramped space without a change of clothes. Dark stubble speckled his jawline and the area over his lips.

The man hadn't felt so hopeless in a long time; his heart was heavy as a femine, beautiful voice still screamed at him in pain in his mind. He could see the look of betrayal in her eyes as clear as day…

"You told me you changed, John! You said this was over! I want to believe you...but how can I?! How can anyone?!"

Tears prickled Horner's eyes. He eyed the sheets on his cot with a dead sort of expression, silently pondering if he could make a noose out of them quickly enough to avoid being caught.

The answer was evidently "no," because a moment later, the workman heard footsteps coming down the hall. He stiffened and looked towards the barred door of his cell apprehensively. His apprehension was soon justified; his heart sank as he found the stern scowl of Inspector Gregson glaring at him through the bars. The Inspector was accompanied by a guard, who opened the door with a jangling of keys. The rusty hinges creaked horribly as Gregson slipped into the cell and glared down at Horner, who remained seated in a most pathetic manner as the sour-faced policeman sneered down at him.

"Well, Horner," Gregson began. "Her Ladyship is not at all pleased with me. It's not enough that I've found you out, she's just worried about that damned Carbuncle."

"Really?" Horner droned, and looked away, staring at the floor miserably. "Well, that's a shame, isn't it?"

"Oh, it is," Gregson said with a sarcastic smile, kneeling down to Horner's level. "For you, especially, it is."

Before John Horner could react, the Inspector grabbed him by the collar; he gasped as he was slammed against the wall. He could smell the onions Gregson had recently as the angry, bullheaded Scotland Yard official got up in his face.

"Where did you put it, Horner?"

"I never took it, Inspector, I've-!"

"Listen," Gregson hissed, narrowing his eyes, and jabbing Horner with a finger of his free hand. "If you tell me what you did with it, I'll put in a good word at your trial. But if you don't-"

"Please!" Horner begged. "I've been straight for years, ever since-!"

"If. You. Don't," snarled Gregson, eyes blazing. "When the judge hears about your record, you may never see your wife and child again!"

Horner let a single tear fall and whimpered. Gregson glared, unaffected.

"I've caught you, Horner," he growled. "You can't get away from this so easily! But I still need that bloody jewel! Now just tell me where-!"

"Ahem! Inspector Gregson?"

Gregson jumped and released Horner, who collapsed to the floor with a sob, covering his face. He looked to the barred door and gulped nervously at the sight of a dark-haired man in glasses, dressed in a finely pressed suit.

"Ch-Chief Inspector Patterson!" he exclaimed, and smiled crookedly. "Ha Ha! F-F-Fancy meeting you here, I, um...I was just...trying to question the prisoner once more. Heh…"

"So I noticed," Patterson said, coolly. "If your interrogation is complete, Gregson, there's a visitor here for Mr. Horner."

Gregson frowned. Horner looked up with surprise and hope in his eyes.

"His wife?" guessed Gregson.

"Jenny?" whispered Horner, faintly, almost childishly.

Patterson looked down and gave a sympathetic smile to the condemned plumber.

"No," he said, simply, and stepped aside slightly, revealing another figure behind him. Both Horner and Gregson reacted with some confusion at the sight of a young man - in his early twenties - dressed in a chocolate-colored suit and gray top hat. He carried a silver topped cane in one hand, and had blonde hair that resembled strands of gold.

Behind the bangs of golden hair were visible two red eyes, which - for some strange reason - glowed in the dark.

Both men quivered at this last oddity.

"Who are you?" both Horner and Gregson questioned at once...then promptly glared at each other before looking back at the mysterious visitor.

The visitor smiled a small, patient, placid sort of smile; pleasant enough, but lacking extreme emotion. He removed his hat and bowed his head politely as he tucked his cane under one arm.

"Professor William James Moriarty," he introduced himself. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything too important?"

Gregson's frown deepened. He glanced quickly at Horner, then exited the cell, joining Patterson and Moriarty in the hall.

"What business do you have here, Professor?" the Yard Inspector inquired suspiciously.

"I'm afraid it's rather personal," Moriarty replied, evenly, and gestured to Patterson with his hat. "The Chief Inspector here knows, and agreed to allow me to speak with the prisoner, alone."

Gregson looked a little offended at being kept out of the loop. Patterson rolled his eyes and beckoned the Inspector closer, whispering in his ear: "Professor Moriarty claims to know about Horner's prior conviction; he wishes to ask him if a robbery involving a friend of his might have been Horner's work."

Gregson's eyes widened.

"Oh!" he murmured, and then looked to Moriarty with a little more respect: "Well, as you wish, Professor. But be wary: this man is a repeat offender currently awaiting trial. As you can imagine, a man like that is unlikely to speak the truth."

Moriarty did not flinch, blink, or even show any sign he'd been listening to Gregson as he simply said, "Of course. I understand. Thank you, Inspector."

Gregson grunted and nodded. He glanced back at Horner and called out to him: "We'll continue our 'discussion' later, you thief!"

Horner flinched as if he'd been physically struck as Gregson stomped out of the gaol area. Once the Inspector's footfalls faded, Patterson personally opened the cell door.

Just before William James Moriarty entered the cell, he placed a hand on the young professor's shoulder.

"Are you sure you want to be in there alone, William?" he whispered. "The man IS a criminal; he might do you violence."

Moriarty looked towards Horner with a detached, clinical air, then back at Patterson.

"I see no signs of violence in him, and precious little that is criminal," he answered, quite sweetly. "He won't harm me."

Patterson frowned and nodded.

"Alright," he conceded. "But I'll personally stand guard here, just in case."

William bowed his head gratefully, and entered the cell fully as Patterson shut and locked it behind him.

John Horner scrambled back a bit as he found himself alone in his cell, not with the temperamental Gregson, but the youthful-yet-imposing figure of Professor Moriarty. There was something in the professor's smile - his glowing red eyes and unflappably easy demeanor - that deeply unnerved the arrested workman. Like staring into the eyes of a gluttonous cat…

"Good morning, Mr. Horner," Moriarty greeted, perhaps a little too politely; as if he were a machine simply reciting lines. "How are you getting on?"

Horner gulped nervously and paused before answering weakly: "I wish I could say well, but that would be a lie."

Moriarty's smile widened slightly.

"An excellent answer. I do hate liars," he purred.

"Wh-What do you want with me?" Horner asked; he hadn't heard what Patterson whispered to Gregson, after all.

"I'm here to help you," Moriarty answered, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

The prisoner squirmed, never taking his gaze off the red-eyed professor.

"How can you possibly help me?" Horner asked, half-suspiciously and half-disbelievingly.

Moriarty's smile never wavered. He still remained unblinking. Horner felt a tremor go through his spine; that handsome young face seemed to bely something much, much more dangerous under the surface, he could feel it in those eyes.

"Allow me to parry that question with one of my own," Moriarty responded. "Do you know what has happened to the Countess of Morcar's Blue Carbuncle?"

"No!" Horner promptly exclaimed in a tone nearing desperation. "Damn it all, I wish I'd never heard of that rock, or that woman, or...or...or anything like that!"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"You're positive?"

"Of course I'm positive!" huffed Horner. "Not that YOU'D believe me. Not that the police will, either. The world's clearly decided I'm guilty without a trial…"

"I haven't," the Professor said plainly.

"Really? Then...th-then how come you're asking if I know anything about the Blue Carbuncle?"

Moriarty blinked slowly. Just once. Then he stepped closer, and knelt down, so he could be eye level with Horner. His practiced expression of pleasant composition remained fixed as he answered Horner in the same calm, almost monotonous tone he'd used thus far.

"Because I do know where it is."

Horner's expression shifted from sneering disbelief to shock, surprise...and a hint of optimism.

"You...y-you found the…?!"

Moriarty silently lifted a finger to his lips. Horner took the hint and gulped back further words, realizing his voice had been a little too loud.

"...How...wh-where did you find it?" he whispered.

"That's not important," Moriarty responded, and narrowed his eyes. "Unless you already know."

"I don't. I swear I don't!"

"And you also swear you had absolutely nothing to do with the robbery?"

"Nothing at all!" insisted Horner. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

"Is that so?" Moriarty asked, eyes still narrowed into scarlet slits. "Explain, please. Tell me everything."

Horner hesitated...then took a deep breath before telling the Professor his story.

It might have been stupid, he figured, but if this strange man with the glowing eyes could help him at all, it would do no good to hold secrets from him.

"When I was still a lad - a teenager, I should say - I made a living out of stealing expensive jewels and fencing them off," John Horner began. "I was pretty infamous, even if I do say so myself: some papers called me 'The Phantom,' and others 'The Creeper.' I could slip into a place stealthily, and back out again, and I learned how to climb up pipes and find other ways to get into rooms high-up. With nothing but an old-fashioned screwdriver, I could jimmy a lock, and you never knew one with a keener ear for hearing tumblers on a safe!"

"You seem proud of your accomplishments," Moriarty observed.

Horner chuckled wryly.

"I'm really not," he said, with a sad sort of smile. "I was a stupid kid: smart as paint when it came to crime, but...stupid. They finally caught me, and what got me sent to the dock in the end was a lie I told. I saw the errors of my ways in prison; spent seven years there, doing hard labor. Seven years, Professor...wasted just for the sake of a handful of shiny rocks. I vowed I'd never steal again."

He looked off to one side, a nostalgic warmth coming over his expression.

"My vow became stronger when I met the woman who would become my wife," he added softly, more to himself than to Moriarty. "She made me promise, on our wedding day, that I would never lie to her. And when our son was born, I made the same promise to him."

He looked to Moriarty pleadingly.

"I've kept my promise to both of them. I haven't told a single lie," he insisted.

"Then why do the police suspect you?" Moriarty asked, as he sat upon the cot and leaned slightly on his cane; crouching for so long hurt his legs. "Is it merely for your previous conviction?"

"If only," scoffed Horner. "Like I said: wrong place, wrong time. See, the day the gem was stolen, I was summoned to the Countess' mansion by her butler."

"James Ryder," Moriarty remembered.

"Right," nodded Horner. "He greeted me at the door, and Her Ladyship's maid, Catherine Cusack, led me to where the trouble was. I fixed the problem; wasn't even a difficult thing, only took about ten minutes to mend, maybe fifteen. Then, Ryder took me to the Countess. She paid me, and I left. That. Was. It."

"And I presume the jewel was discovered missing soon after you had left?"

"Exactly. And the Countess and Cusack both claimed it was there before I'd arrived."

Horner scowled as he tossed his head towards the cell door indicatively and finished: "Inspector Gregson's in charge of the case, and it didn't take him long to reach the obvious conclusion."

"An obvious conclusion you claim was false."

"Of course it's false!" Horner cried out pleadingly. "You've gotta believe me, Professor! You've gotta help me! If…"

He paused and gulped; tears were in his eyes again as his voice softened.

"...If what you say is true...you're the only one who can."

William looked the teary-eyed Horner up and down...then nodded in a business-like manner.

"I will do what I can," he promised, and rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. Horner. You've been most helpful."

Professor Moriarty then headed towards the exit to the cell. He tapped on the bars with the metal head of his cane; Patterson had just paused for a cigarette. The Chief Inspector hurriedly unlocked the cell and opened the door.

Moriarty glanced back over his shoulder.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Horner," he smiled.

Horner glanced into a corner gloomily.

"It doesn't look particularly happy so far," he mumbled, then looked up timidly. "You...meant what you said? About...you know what?"

Moriarty nodded.

"Every word," he promised, and tipped his hat as he flipped it back onto his head. "Be brave, Mr. Horner. This is a season of hope."

Without another word, Professor Moriarty left gaol.


The sound of chimes playing holiday tunes mingled with the clamor of busy shoppers in the department store. Louis James Moriarty frowned as he watched people push and shove and shout at each other, rushing to get things before their neighbors, while children howled about wanting the fanciest of the toys on display in the shop windows…

"William," he sighed, "When did Christmas become about taking rather than giving?"

William James Moriarty smirked at his brother's words as he quietly looked over a handwritten list of gifts to buy. Louis was pushing a trolley cart, covered in various items they had picked out so far.

"I believe it happened to Christmas around the same time it happened to society, little brother," William said, rather briskly.

Louis nodded, sighing through his nose, then furrowed his brow.

"Brother…"

"Yes?"

"You're positive about Mr. Horner's innocence?"

"Quite," William said, looking at some items on the shelves before him. He soon spotted what he was looking for, and pocketed the list before pulling the box off the shelf and placing it on the trolley with the rest of the intended presents.

"How come?" Louis asked, as he pushed the trolley and obeyed, keeping close behind William...but not too close, lest he bump into his beloved elder brother.

William raised an eyebrow as he glanced back over his shoulder, before turning his gaze forward once more.

"For a start," he replied, "A guilty man would surely have told a better story. Horner has hardly any story to tell; indeed, everything he said, one could argue, only further incriminates him. A man who is guilty, knows he's guilty, and wants to get out of being found guilty, would be trying everything he can to prove he isn't. Horner sticks to his innocence, but shows understanding for why others wouldn't accept such a plea."

"Then you're just taking him on his word?" Louis checked, as the pair moved into another aisle.

"Not entirely," William said with a shake of his head, this time in response to Louis' question as he put a finger to his chin in thought, once again inspecting the items on the shelves even as he spoke. "I looked into Horner's background. This crime feels far too clumsy for someone who had once held his talents."

"Well, then why not tell the police?"

William looked at his brother with an almost sad smile.

"Louis," he said, gently, "If I felt that was enough to convince them, I'd tell Patterson to let the man go this very instant. But the former point is the word of a convicted felon, and the latter, one could argue, is simply a sign of a once great villain now quite out of practice. It's not enough to convince any proper judge, let alone Inspector Gregson, or even our friend, the Chief."

Louis sighed, and adjusted his glasses with a shake of his own head.

"Well...I guess we'll have to find out more before we can help him at all," he mumbled.

"We shall, never fear," William promised. "I already have Albert running an errand of his own for the purposes of this adventure; I suspect this case may give us a very special opportunity."

"Oh? What would that be?"

William's smile darkened.

"We may be able to not only save an innocent man from a stiffish prison sentence," the Professor answered, "But also bring down a very Bad Noble in the process."

Louis' eyes widened.

"Do you mean the Countess of Morcar?"

William nodded, and looked away from his brother, refocusing on the items on the shelves.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd, brother," he said, "That out of all the misfortunes that have befallen people in the past thanks to the supposedly-cursed ring, the only one who has benefited at all has been the Countess?"

Louis frowned. He looked befuddled. William elaborated quickly…

"Murders, maimings, robberies, suicide, vitriol throwing...and the death of her husband," William reiterated the bloody past of the Blue Carbuncle. "Which one doesn't fit the rest in the pattern?"

Louis bit his lip...then his eyes widened and he gasped in realization.

"Wait...are you suggesting…?"

"When the Count fell down the stairs, the Countess inherited everything: his house, his servants, his fortune...his ring. Out of all the people who have been involved with that pretty little toy, she's the only one - till now - that catastrophe seems to have ignored, at least materially. I, for one, find that suspicious."

Louis gulped, quickly catching onto what William was insinuating.

"But!" William said, with another of his far-too-cheery smiles, "We can worry about that matter later, after we hear whatever Albert has to report. For now, we must continue our shopping. Have we got everything for our associates?"

"I think so," said Louis. "All that's left are the items for the gift exchange you had planned. You...did deliver a message to...Him, didn't you? About the matter?"

"Yes, and another to Inspector Lestrade, and to Miss Hudson," confirmed William. "Evidently, Holmes took the liberty of inviting the former, and Watson invited the latter."

Louis scowled.

"A Scotland Yard official AND the entire Baker Street team in our base of operations?" he queried. "Isn't that...unwise?"

"Only if we're not careful," William said, a flicker of thrillseeking eagerness in his crimson eyes. He then looked back to the store aisle, scratching his chin as he inspected the items around him. "Have you any idea what you'll get for your part of the exchange?"

"No," Louis said, in a tone that indicated he hadn't even given it much thought. He then went on: "I drew Dr. Watson's name, and I don't know him well enough to even start planning on what to buy him."

William smiled knowingly.

"Perhaps you should try to do so," he suggested, innocently. "You might get your chance soon."

Louis furrowed his brow, his glasses glittering with curiosity at his brother's cryptic words. He was about to ask what William meant when, suddenly, an obnoxiously loud voice called out down the aisle.

"Yo, Liam! We meet again!"

The Moriartys looked. William's eyes glittered with the barest hint of pleasure, while Louis tried not to look as intensely incensed as he felt by the mere sight of Sherlock Holmes, sauntering down the aisle, waving with one hand while the other was stuck in his trouser pocket.

"Greetings, Mr. Holmes," William said, and tilted his head. "Are you here alone?"

"Nah," Holmes drawled, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Oi! John! What's taking you?"

Dr. Watson entered the scene right on cue; like Louis, he was manning a cart...but instead of colorful boxes, the cart was covered in guns and ammunition.

Louis gaped in stunned surprise at the sight of all the weaponry, while William calmly raised an eyebrow. Watson smiled almost sheepishly back at them.

"Good day, Professor Moriarty. Mister Louis," he said politely, then glared at Holmes. "Sherlock, this stuff is heavy! Don't move so fast, I can't keep up!"

Holmes barked out a laugh and gave Watson a pat on the back.

"Ha! I should think a stout ex-army fellow like yourself would leap at the chance to show his strength!" he teased. "Especially with all the ladies shopping today…"

Watson blushed and grumbled something under his breath that made Louis smirk. William chuckled.

"I take it you're not here doing your Christmas shopping," he observed.

"Nope," Holmes confirmed with a toss of his raven hair. "Just as I take it you recently visited gaol, yes?"

Louis blinked.

"How did you…?" he started, but his brother intervened with the answer.

"The dirt on my shoes, yes?" Moriarty presumed.

"Quite," nodded Sherlock Holmes, and smirked teasingly. "What sort of villainy have you been up to, eh? A distinguished young professor in gaol? 'Tongues will wag,' as my brother would say!"

William blinked slowly, his half-lidded, predatory smile never once shifting. There was something satisfied about his expression; like a cat that knew it had eaten SEVERAL canaries, but no one else had realized that yet.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," he said, in a slightly clipped sort of way, then hastened on before Holmes could quiz him further: "I sincerely hope all this...hardware isn't connected to your lost and found advertisement? I noticed it in the Times this morning."

Holmes confirmed this with a shake of his head, and Dr. Watson spoke up: "Sherlock is planning to write a monograph on how different weapons and different brands of ammunition IN those weapons can leave different ballistic fingerprints."

He then looked down at the mass of guns, somewhat uncomfortably, and added under his breath: "I get the feeling Miss Hudson is going to be quite put out, to say the least…"

"I can imagine," droned Louis, and couldn't help but smile the tiniest tad when the Doctor gave him a world-weary look and a nod.

"I see," murmured William, and frowned a little. "Then the mysterious Mr. Baker has not shown up to collect his lost treasures yet?"

"Sadly, no," sighed Holmes. "Either the man has not yet seen my advertisement, or something has kept him from coming so far."

The Moriartys shared a quick look, then turned back to the Baker Street duo.

"Well, we hope he shows up soon enough," William said.

"Where are you keeping...it?" Louis questioned, pointedly.

"Oh!" Watson exclaimed. "Do you mean the Blue-?"

"SHHHH!"

Holmes and Louis both shushed him. Watson subsided with another sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he peeped out.

Sherlock shook his head, in a sort of "what am I going to do with you?" way, then looked back to Louis.

"I am keeping it in my museum," he said, enigmatically. "I'd rather not discuss the details in public."

"Perfectly understandable," William said, then his own smile became a sneaky smirk. "So, have you gotten something for the gift exchange at the party?"

Holmes matched his smirk with an identical one of his own.

"Perhaps," he said, cryptically. "Have you?"

"Possibly," William replied.

There was a pause...then the pair immediately began to mutter between each other, each making deductions at a rapid pace. Holmes noted that Moriarty had recently purchased a new vest; Moriarty, in turn, noted that Holmes was due for a haircut in two weeks. Sherlock presumed that William knew how to play chess; William countered by saying Sherlock was probably good at poker.

Louis sighed, a bored look on his face as the pair rambled on and on. Watson glanced between the genius pair and the blonde man in glasses...then bit his lip, pausing before turning his cart around and backing up, sidling himself and his trolley into place beside Louis. Louis glanced at the Doctor quietly, then dutifully faced forward again.

"I think they're trying to figure out what each got the other for Christmas," Watson whispered.

"A brilliant deduction, Doctor," Louis droned, sarcastically.

Watson chuckled...then paused before speaking softly again.

"What DID your brother get for Sherlock?" he asked, then added quickly: "I won't tell. Trust me, I've managed to keep MY gift to him a secret for a while, I think I can keep his, too."

Louis paused before answering: "Brother William actually hasn't purchased a present for Mr. Holmes yet. In fact, we were just discussing that before you both arrived."

Watson blinked...then burst out laughing. Louis jumped in alarm.

"What's so funny?" he asked, bemusedly, as Watson stifled his laughter into giggles.

"Nothing, nothing!" twittered Watson, then snorted a few times before pointing at the pair, using his other hand to shield his mouth as he whispered: "Sherlock hasn't gotten him anything yet, either. They're both trying to deduce something that isn't there!"

Louis blinked...and then couldn't help but snigger. He eyed the two geniuses - Holmes had just made an observation about William's hat, and William had just made an observation about his shirt - before smirking back at Watson.

"Should we tell them, or let them figure it out themselves?" he asked, impishly.

"I think it's more fun to let them figure it out," Watson said with a matching smirk, then frowned as he looked down at the guns and ammo on the trolley. "Especially after he's had me haul all this around today…"

Louis shrugged, looking at his own load of gift boxes.

"I'm used to helping out my brother in more manual fashion," he admitted, a sort of dangerous glint in his eyes as he added: "This is hardly the most...UNPLEASANT job he's ever had me do."

"Hmph. Well, I can say the same for Sherlock," grumbled John Watson, and looked up to Louis with a tired sort of expression. "One time, I was having to deal with several emergency cases at once, and he sent me a letter reading, 'Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.'"

Louis blinked.

"Dare I ask what was so important?" he queried.

"He literally wanted me to lie on the pavement and pretend I was dead while he inspected part of Regent's Park," Watson said. "And all the while, people were passing by, seeing me just lying on the sidewalk, staring at me as if I'd gone mad!"

"Tch," Louis scoffed. "He sounds even more aggravating than your stories would lead us to believe…"

"My stories?" Watson repeated, and visibly perked up. "Hold on...you...you've read my books?"

"Of course," Louis said with a smile, and gestured towards William. "My brother made a subscription to Strand Magazine. We get several copies each week: one for myself, one for each of my brothers, and one for each of the key members of our servant staff."

Watson beamed brightly. His eyes were bright and hopeful.

"What do you think of them?" he asked, eagerly (and a little anxiously), bobbing slightly on his heels.

Louis tilted his head in thought before speaking.

"They're quite good," he admitted. "I think my personal favorite is The Adventure of the Resident Patient."

"Really?" Watson blinked. "But that's one where Sherlock actually lost…"

"That's why I like it," Louis said.

Watson let out a suspiciously giggle-like laugh.

"You don't like him much, do you?" he remarked.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Doctor," Louis shrugged. "I like him. In a way."

In a, "God, I can't wait to go to his funeral," way.

"It's alright," Watson smiled. "I know he can be difficult and trying...indeed, he can be difficult WITHOUT trying. No one knows it better than me."

Louis smiled back at Watson...and adjusted his glasses.

"I drew your name for the exchange, I believe," he murmured.

"You did," Watson nodded. "I'm guessing you haven't gotten anything for me yet, though?"

"No," Louis admitted. "What sort of things are you interested in? Besides writing and tolerating the existence of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Hmmmm...reading, for one thing," mused Watson. "It seems to go hand in hand with writing. Most writers I know are avid readers, too."

Louis nodded, making a silent memo of that fact, as Watson smiled up at him.

"I'm looking forward to visiting the Moriarty Household: I've heard you're a good cook."

"You have?" blinked Louis in surprise. "From where?"

"Your brother!" Watson chuckled. "Secondhand, anyway. He mentioned it to Sherlock, and Sherlock mentioned it to me. I'm excited to taste what you can make!"

Louis found himself blushing, and gave a shy smile, shuffling on his feet a little.

"I...well...that's just my brother talking," he chuckled, bashfully.

"I accept him as a credible source," Watson said. "Might I ask if you learned to cook from anyone in particular?"

"No, actually," Louis admitted. "I'm mostly self-taught: once I was adopted into a nobleman's family, I had access to the knowledge, and I just...wanted to make myself useful. Cooking seemed one way to go about it, and I genuinely enjoyed doing it. So I started reading every recipe book I could find to try and figure out what I could try."

Watson was smiling wider now.

"William is lucky," he commented.

"Why?"

"I have to deal with a guy who won't even put dangerous chemicals away in their proper place half the time," scoffed Watson. "Having a brother with him who is so diligent is something I hope he's grateful for."

Louis felt his blush intensify.

"I...well...um...I certainly hope Mr. Holmes appreciates having such an amiable, sociable partner," he smiled back, almost shyly.

Now it was Watson's turn to blush and match that smile.

A snicker interrupted both of them, and they looked up...and blushed more than ever as they found William and Sherlock had finished their little deduction match, and were staring at the two with matching, knowing, rather proud-looking smiles.

"Ahem...ah...well," Louis ineloquently started, "The, uh….the doctor and I…"

"Are you ready to move on, Sherlock?" Watson broke in, speaking perhaps a little too rapidly.

"Sure," nodded Holmes, and waved to William. "See ya later, mathematician!"

"Good day for now, Mr. Detective," Moriarty said with a tip of his hat, and Watson hurried to follow Sherlock out of the aisle.

Louis was still blushing as William turned back to look at him with a brotherly glint in his red eyes.

"I knew the two of you would get along," he teased.

"Can...can we please finish shopping and head home, Brother?" Louis mumbled with embarrassment.

Moriarty smiled wider with affectionate amusement, but nodded his consent.

"Yes, let's," he agreed, and led Louis down towards another aisle. "My chat with Mr. Holmes has put us a bit behind. After all, we want to be back at the mansion before Albert returns from his mission, if we can help it…"


Fred Porlock clicked his tongue and pulled on the reins, drawing the black horses that drew the Moriarty coach to a halt. The carriage had stopped outside a magnificent manor house, its exterior done up in candles and mistletoe garland, a wreath placed upon its front door.

The door to the carriage - decorated with the three golden spiders of the Moriarty Coat of Arms - swung open...and Albert James Moriarty adjusted his top hat as he stepped out and smiled up at Fred.

"Bring the carriage to the stable house and wait for me there, Fred," he said. "This shouldn't take too long."

Fred nodded silently, and then clicked again as he flicked the reins, and set the horses at a trot. The coach then pulled away in the direction Albert had indicated.

Albert smiled a tad wider, then looked to the mansion before him. His deep green eyes eyed it with careful scrutiny before he walked towards the entrance, his usual charming, disarming, friendly smile fixed quite easily upon his face.

The eldest Moriarty tapped on the door with his cane. A few moments later, the rodent-like features of James Ryder peeked into view as the door was open.

"Good afternoon," he said in his reedy tenor voice, then raised a thin eyebrow. "Are you Lord Moriarty of Durham?"

"That's right," Albert nodded. "Is the Countess of Morcar home? I believe she is expecting me."

Ryder opened his mouth to answer, but a sharp, authoritative voice behind him stopped him short.

"Ryder! Who is that at the door?"

The butler flinched and quickly called back with a slight stutter: "L-Lord M-M-Moriarty, Your Ladyship! He's here on time, as he said in his letter."

"Excellent. I cannot abide tardiness," sniffed the snooty voice somewhere beyond. "Show him in, Ryder!"

The butler sighed with mild relief, and quietly whispered for Albert to come in as he opened the door fully and stepped aside, waving one arm in a grand gesture of invitation. Albert swept the hat off his head and nodded respectfully, giving Ryder an almost sympathetic smile before entering the centerpiece of the Countess' estate.

The Countess of Morcar stood before Albert with a welcoming smile...too welcoming. Internally, Albert felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest: it reminded him of the sorts of smiles his father would give either when hosting parties or attending them. A blithe sort of smile that spoke of far too much privilege and far too little self-awareness. He'd seen that look on too many people too often.

He always enjoyed seeing that look fade into something else as the privilege was stripped away and the self-awareness pushed forward.

Externally, he matched the woman's expression.

"Welcome, Lord Moriarty," the Countess said respectfully, with her head held high, looking down at the younger noble over her upturned nose. Albert got the feeling she was gauging him in some way; whatever opinions she was trying to make, they didn't matter much to him.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting," Albert politely intoned. He swept off his top hat and offered both it and his cane towards a red-haired maid who approached him and took both with a quiet murmur he could barely make out and not understand.

"Not at all," said the Countess. "But I was rather surprised by your telegram. We haven't seen each other since the masquerade ball a few months back, if I'm not mistaken."

"The one where Baron Rollinson died of a heart attack?"

The Countess blinked and tilted her head.

"Oh, was that then?" she murmured. "Honestly, I almost forgot...I wasn't even in the room when that happened. A great pity, yes."

Albert's expression did not shift. It was odd, he thought, that he'd learned more from his younger adoptive brother than William ever learned from him...but then again, their family was not exactly normal.

"Indeed it was," Albert said. "At any rate, my brothers and I are planning to host a Christmas Party."

"Are you here to invite me then?" the Countess asked.

"Oh, no," Albert said with a shake of his head. "I know you'll be involved in other matters yourself."

He put on his most flattering expression as he added: "Everyone has told me that the Countess of Morcar gives the finest Christmas Parties one could ever attend."

The Countess' prideful smile widened.

"I try," she said, simply, then tilted her head. "But that still does not explain your presence here."

"Well, I want this party to be the best I can make it," Albert explained. "My family is...somewhat solitary. As I'm sure you know, while I frequently socialize, visitors to the mansion in Durham are unusually rare. Therefore, to ensure I can impress my guests, I wanted to get an expert opinion on how best to prepare for the event."

The Countess chuckled.

"It seems rather last minute," she said, with a sagely twinkle in her eye that told Albert she was trying her best to actively look and sound like an expert. "However, I would be happy to give you a tour around my home to show you what I've accomplished."

"That would be splendid," Albert smiled, and this time he meant it.

A tour might give him a chance to check on a few things, in his own subtle little way.

The Countess of Morcar nodded, and then looked to her maid.

"Cusack! Return to your duties," she ordered, snappishly, then looked to her butler. "Ryder? Prepare some tea for myself and Lord Moriarty; bring it to the Library."

"Yes, ma'am," both servants said. Ryder bowed and Cusack curtsied, then they went away in two separate directions.

As they went, Albert noticed both glanced to each other and smiled before departing and disappearing. It was a small moment, a throwaway exchange...but something about their expressions made his green eyes narrow with interest.

He was no deductive mastermind like William, but he knew how to gauge people's expressions well. It was a trait that had served him excellently on frequent occasions.

He was soon broken from his musings by the tapping of the Countess' decorative cane as she swirled her garish, red-and-green dress about her and began to strut like a peacock down the hall.

"Come, Lord Moriarty," she called over her shoulder, crisply. "I have much to show you."

Albert followed without a word.


"Truly, your sense of decor is nearly perfect, Countess," Albert said, as he sat at a tea table in the library, sipping from a cup of Darjeeling while the Countess enjoyed some Jasmine. James Ryder had left the tea things in their place before departing silently.

"Oh, it's just a knack," the Countess said airily, waving one of her weathered hands about before taking another sip.

"There was one thing, however, I felt you could improve, if you would not mind a suggestion."

"Oh?" the Countess frowned, looking a bit miffed at her preparations not being totally to Albert's liking. "And what would that be?"

"The star atop your Christmas Tree," Albert said, and took another sip of tea before going on: "I take it that star is an old one?"

"It was in my husband's family for years before I ever even arrived."

"I see. Well, I would advise purchasing a new one," Albert suggested. "The old one is looking a little tarnished, and while heirlooms are grand, I felt that the mixture of the old star with the bright new ornaments was a bit too much of a contrast. It left one feeling...incomplete."

"I see," murmured the Countess, and took a sip of her own drink. "I'll make a memorandum of it in my diary tonight; perhaps I can send Cusack out for one in the morning."

Albert froze, the cup halfway to his lips.

"Diary?" he questioned, curiously.

"Oh, yes," the Countess nodded with a slight smile. "Every night, before I head to bed, I pull it out from my...well...I won't say where, but it's in my private chambers. I write everything in it; memorandums, records of interesting events, even financial points, if needed."

"Really?" Albert blinked, then smirked teasingly. "Seems a rather girlish habit."

"Honestly, it helps to keep me sane in a mad world," snorted the Countess with a frown. "When surrounded by the lower class, one must have SOMEONE to talk to. Even writing in a diary is preferable to fraternizing with paupers."

Albert's fingers twitched around his teacup and saucer, but his smile remained in place.

"I sympathize," he lied, then paused before putting down his cup and saucer. "Your Ladyship...may I ask you a question?"

"You may, sir."

Albert glanced side to side, and then leaned in conspiratorially.

"I hope I don't seem rude asking," he whispered, "But...may I see it?"

"See what?" the Countess asked in curiosity.

"The Blue Carbuncle."

The Countess stiffened, and tightened her grip on her cup. She paused...then took a quick sip, her entire being becoming terse as she put her dishes down as well.

"I...assume that you do not keep up with the news much, Lord Moriarty?" she checked, slowly.

Albert smiled guiltily.

"I am unforgivably lax with such matters," he once again lied, and tilted his head. "Why? Did you lose it?"

"Lose it, indeed!" scoffed the Countess. "If you must know, Lord Moriarty, the ring was stolen."

"Stolen!" Albert gasped, and had to congratulate himself for how well he feigned surprise.

"Yes," the Countess scowled, fists gripping her gown. "I had Ryder call on a plumber to deal with a tub in the servants' quarters of this house. For some reason, it wasn't running."

The woman looked askance, glaring at the floor as she added, more to herself than Moriarty, "I generally wouldn't care, but I was NOT going to have grimy servants for my Christmas Party. If one is to allow pigs into a China Shop, the least they can do is make sure they haven't rolled in mud recently."

"And this plumber was the thief?"

"Who else could it be?" the Countess huffed. "The Blue Carbuncle was in the box where I usually keep it before he arrived, and it had disappeared by the time he left. Besides, the fellow has a record as a jewel robber, according to the police."

"Hmmmm," murmured Albert, and took a sip. The Countess noticed his tone and looked at him more intently.

"You sound as if you have reason to doubt Scotland Yard," she observed.

"No, no," Albert mumbled with a shake of his head. "It just...all seems strange."

"What does? A jewel thief stealing a jewel?"

"No," Albert said, more firmly, and then elaborated as he looked to the Countess. "The fact that this jewel thief had to have known where you kept the Carbuncle in order to take it without disturbing anything else. He'd never come to the house before, had he?"

The Countess opened her mouth to answer...then closed it again, and looked away, realization dawning.

"Heavens, you're right," she breathed out. "I hadn't considered that."

"Yes, not to mention I presume your private chambers are on a totally separate floor from the servants' quarters?"

"Naturally!"

"Did you see the gentleman to his duties?"

"Hardly," sneered the Countess of Morcar. "Ryder took him to the tub that was broken."

"And he did fix it?"

"Yes," the Countess confirmed with a nod. "Cusack said that the tub soon began running again without fail."

"Well then," Albert concluded, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling as he puzzled the matter aloud, "This supposed thief would have had to head to the servants quarters, then find his way to your room, then find the Blue Carbuncle without making it look like he ransacked the place, then head BACK to the other floor and bathroom, and fix the tub. All this without being detected and without taking too much time as to arouse suspicion."

The Countess nodded slowly.

"That's true," she murmured, then added aloud, "Inspector Gregson HAD suggested that he might have had an accomplice. That is why I offered a reward."

"That is a possibility," conceded Albert. "Of course, it's equally likely it was an inside job."

"Inside job?!" exclaimed the Countess. "Don't be absurd, Lord Moriarty! My servants are completely loyal to me; their lives BELONG to me, and they know it! Why would they risk throwing away their jobs for my ring?!"

"There are some things worth more than money," Albert said simply.

"There are?" the Countess queried, sounding like the idea was a completely foreign concept to her. "Such as what?"

Albert smiled mysteriously and shrugged in response.

The Countess of Morcar frowned, then took another drink of tea. A few moments passed in silence between the pair of nobles before a distant sound of crashing glass alarmed both.

"Oh, bother!" huffed the Countess, and stood quickly, picking up her cane. "Please excuse me, Lord Moriarty…"

She growled like an angry bear, slapping her cane into her palm almost like a club.

"I believe one of my servants requires disciplining," she said, dangerously, and stalked out of the room.

Albert's smile faded into a sour glare behind the woman's back as she disappeared from sight. It wasn't long before he heard distant, garbled shouts, and then - WHACK! - the frightful sound of the cane as it was no doubt put to proper use.

Albert put down his tea and shuddered. He felt physically ill. A memory of a boy with a fork entered his mind, and his fists clenched...

Just then, a new sound interrupted his thoughts; it was coming from behind a bookcase in the mansion library. Curiosity piqued, Albert stood and silently tip-toed towards the bookcase. His hands ran through his brown, swept-back hair as he listened closely, making out two voices - a man's and a woman's - whispering to each other.

"You still haven't found it?!" the woman hissed.

"I'm trying, Cathy, I truly am," the man simpered.

"James, we're running out of time!" the woman pleaded.

"I know, I know!" the man hissed back, then his voice softened as he went on. "Don't worry. I just need to get him to tell me where he sold them. Once I find them, I can find it, and we'll be free."

The woman's voice quavered.

"I hope to God you're right...I can't take much more of her...I don't want to...to end up like...like…"

She sobbed. The man's voice shushed her gently.

"It's alright, Cathy. We'll get out of here. Whatever it takes. That's a promise."

Albert peeked around the bookcase, unable to listen any longer; he had to see. His green eyes widened...then narrowed again in a smirk as he saw the butler and the maid kissing each other passionately.

"My, what a touching display," he spoke up.

The two servants each yiped comically, and jumped away from each other like scalded cats. Their faces were flushed and they were trembling fearfully as they saw Albert's dashing grin.

"I...we...it's n-not what you think, sir!" Catherine Cusack insisted.

"N-Not at all!" James Ryder almost seemed to beg. "We...w-we were just…"

Albert held up a hand in a placating manner, silencing them both.

"If you're worried about me telling Her Ladyship, don't be," he said, kindly. "Your secret is safe with me."

The butler and the maid sighed and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you, Lord Moriarty," Cusack said softly.

"It's quite alright," chuckled Albert, and raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so frightened, though?"

The pair's smiles faded, and they looked to each other, before looking back to Albert.

"The Countess...is a hard mistress, Lord Moriarty," Ryder explained slowly. "The thought of her servants fraternizing with each other is disgusting to her: she once described it as like watching stray dogs mate."

Albert cringed at the description.

"She demands that all of us be loyal to her," added Cusack. "And ONLY her. Servants who displease her or show disloyalty…"

Another distant WHACK intruded on the conversation, and both servants flinched.

"...Well...they don't last long," the maid quivered.

"I see," Albert murmured, and narrowed his eyes. "Is she...VERY violent?"

"She hasn't killed any of the servants, if that's what you mean," Ryder said. "But her temper is atrocious; we're always afraid that...that…."

"Someday she might," Albert finished gravely.

The pair nodded; they looked scared just to be telling him all this.

"Then it is not loyalty, but fear, which keeps you all in line?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, pressed on: "I couldn't help but overhear you mentioning you 'didn't want to end up like...someone.' Who was that someone, if I might ask?"

The pair looked at each other.

"I'm...not sure we should tell you, sir," whispered Ryder.

"Please," Albert said with a smile. "I know it may seem odd to trust a nobleman, but I am not like the Countess. All I want to do is help, if I can find a way."

Both servants bit their lips...but finally, Catherine took a breath, relenting her information.

"It was her husband, sir," she said. "My...my mother - God rest her soul - was working for the Countess at the time, and she once told me that...well…"

"The Count didn't simply fall down the stairs," Ryder finished for her. "According to Cathy's mother, the man was pushed. By the Countess."

Albert's eyes widened...then narrowed again.

"You're sure of this?"

"Well, that's the trouble, sir: we're not," sighed the butler. "The Countess would beat Cathy's mother and threaten her never to tell a soul. She eventually died a broken woman."

"She was the only witness," the maid whispered tremulously. "Unless the Countess confesses, no one will ever know the truth now, for sure."

Before Albert could respond to these startling news, or ask any further questions, the sound of the Countess' footsteps, returning from down the hall, was heard. The two servants stiffened, looking like scared rabbits.

"Thank you," Albert said, and smiled beneficently. "I'll take this knowledge to heart. Hurry and go, before she gets here."

The pair nodded and disappeared quickly, darting into another part of the library and fleeing through a side door. Albert then returned to the main part of the library and resumed his chair quickly, as if he had never left. He finished off his cup of tea just as the Countess returned. The woman sniffed snobbishly as she adjusted her dress.

"Forgive me for abandoning you, Lord Moriarty. One of the new kitchen workers was being...silly," she finished, lamely.

"Quite alright," Albert lied again, and pulled out his pocket watch, making a show of checking the time before tucking it away. "I'm afraid I have to be going, however. My brothers will be expecting me back in Durham by a certain time, and it's quite a drive back in my family coach. I'd hate to worry them."

"Understandable," nodded the Countess. "I'll show you out myself."

The Countess did just that, escorting Albert James Moriarty out of the library and through the maze of her manor house till they reached the foyer. She plucked Albert's hat and cane up from where they had been placed, and offered them with a charming smile of her own...though not as charming as the one Albert gave to her.

"Goodbye, Your Ladyship," Albert said as he took both items. "I hope the missing jewel will be returned to you soon."

"As do I," sighed the Countess.

"One thing more," Albert asked, hat over his heart in a contrite manner. "Would you mind terribly if, tomorrow night, myself and my youngest brother, Louis, came by? He is the one most in charge of our servants, and perhaps he could learn a thing or two from your holiday preparation firsthand, rather than secondhand from me."

"I would not mind that at all," the Countess smiled, clearly relishing any chance to show off her stately home and its gaudy Christmas decorations. "Would eight o'clock be sufficient?"

"A little later might be preferred," Albert hummed thoughtfully.

"Oh. Well...eight-thirty, then?"

"Yes, thank you. That would suit admirably."

"Excellent; I shall be expecting him on the dot," smiled the Countess, and opened the door for Albert. "Goodbye for now, Lord Moriarty. I am glad you were so impressed by my advice."

Albert smiled enigmatically as he tapped his top hat back into place atop his head.

"Believe me, this visit was more helpful to me than you will ever know," he said. "Happy Christmas, Countess."

And without another word, Albert James Moriarty left the mansion, and began to make his way towards the carriage house, where he knew Fred would be waiting.

He had a great deal to tell William when he returned home.