"'Fear not,' then said the Angel, 'Let nothing you affright! This day is born a Savior, of a pure Virgin bright! To free all those who trust in him from Satan's power and might!' O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy!"

"Sherlock!"

The violin screeched to a halt and Sherlock Holmes stopped singing. It was Christmas Eve, and the Sun was just starting to sink down over the horizon beyond the window of 221B Baker Street. Dark gray clouds filled the skies over London. People were rushing to and fro to either get home, or pick up their last-minute goods, for the holiday that would ride in on the morrow. The master detective looked over to his doctor friend, who was tapping his pen impatiently on his writing desk.

"Is something wrong, John?"

"I'm trying to write."

"Well, what's stopping you?" Holmes scoffed, and prepared to continue his violin carol.

Watson ground his teeth, pen tapping twice as fast on his desktop.

"It's very hard to concentrate when you're performing a concert in our room," he said, far-too-patiently.

Holmes froze, and blinked at Dr. Watson, then looked to his violin...and chuckled somewhat nervously.

"Ah...sorry, John," he apologized, sincerely. "I was just getting into the Spirit of the Season."

"It's fine," sighed Watson, and gave a smile. "You sing very well, by the way. I never knew that."

Holmes' eyes widened...then he grinned in his usual cocksure way.

"Ha! Well, deduction is far from my only great talent!" he cheered boastfully, and gave his friend a wink. "If one learns how to play, one can also learn how to carry a tune!"

Watson just rolled his eyes at Sherlock's boasting. He then returned his journal. Holmes, meanwhile, put his violin back in its case, still whistling (softly, mind you) to the tune of the Christmas carol he'd been playing.

"What are you working on?" he thought to ask.

Watson paused, and raised an eyebrow.

"You usually don't seem interested in my writing," he remarked.

Holmes shrugged.

"I can't work on my monograph till I can run tests, and Miss Hudson raised such a fuss about all the guns that I won't be able to do that for at least a few days. On top of that, the Blue Carbuncle case is at a standstill. I'm BORED, John," he huffed, flopping into his armchair with a petulant snort. "At least asking what you're doing gives me something to ask about. I know I can't convince you to give me the needle…"

"You're correct there," Watson glared sternly, almost scoldingly.

Sherlock just smiled a faint smile.

"It's actually the Carbuncle case I'm writing about," Watson informed the detective, tapping the paper of his journal with one finger. "I don't know how it's going to end, but a case THIS strange seems like something my readers would enjoy hearing about."

"Hmmmm, I see," Sherlock nodded, as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and then lit it with a match. "Well, hopefully the trail picks up heat soon...I would have thought for sure Mr. Henry Baker would have seen the advertisement by now, or that someone would have told him…"

"Perhaps he doesn't live in London," suggested Watson.

"That is possible," murmured Holmes with a nod, taking a drag from his cigarette and sighing out the smoke towards the ceiling.

Watson smiled sympathetically at Holmes' dour expression. He paused before biting his lip, turning his chair slightly.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I have a question."

"Hm."

"This robbery...do you think it could be the work of the Lord of Crime?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

"It seems to bear some hallmarks," suggested Dr. Watson. "A strange theft and even stranger hiding place, all targeted at a noblewoman with a less-than-stellar reputation. It's possible, yes?"

"Hmph. It's...conceivable, I guess," Holmes confessed, but shook his head. "I don't think so, however, John. For one thing, the Lord of Crime doesn't seem the sort to leave things to chance. How could he have known the bird would end up in the hands of Lestrade?"

"That could have been a mix-up in his plans," suggested Watson.

"True," Holmes supposed, "But there's also the issue of Horner in the dock. The Lord of Crime, so far, doesn't seem the sort to sacrifice his chess pieces to the hands of the law...and if Horner is innocent, then my suppositions so far about how he works would have to be quite wrong."

"That's fair," mumbled Watson, then raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he could get involved then? For the reasons I gave?"

Sherlock paused, a faraway look in his blue eyes, before very quietly saying, "He might be involved already, John."

Before John could ask about that line of thought further, a knock came at the door. Miss Hudson entered the room.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson," she piped up. "I know you were planning to write today, and I didn't want to disturb you…"

"You never care about disturbing ME," grumbled Holmes, but made sure to avoid Miss Hudson's glare right after saying those words.

"Is something the matter, Miss Hudson?" Watson asked, politely.

"There's a man here to see Sherlock," the landlady answered.

Sherlock immediately perked up, and sat up straighter in his chair.

"Is he a man with a large head?" he asked bluntly.

Miss Hudson frowned, crinkling her nose.

"Well, that's a bit personal," she huffed...then paused before quietly confiding, "He is, actually."

"Did he give his name?" Holmes inquired, looking more excited as a smile started to flicker on his lips.

Miss Hudson shook her head.

"No matter," Holmes chuckled, and waved his cigarette about, coils of smoke wreathing his head as he boomed: "Send him in, Miss Hudson! Hurry!"

Miss Hudson nodded, and then ducked out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Watson, sensing the case was heating up, bookmarked his journal and put his pen down.

"Do you think it's Baker?" he asked.

"Well, I'm expecting no one else, and the large head was certainly a clear characteristic," Sherlock grinned. "Could you get the new goose out from the icebox and put it on the sideboard, John?"

The doctor did so, and just in time, for no sooner had he plopped the goose down and hurried to stand beside Sherlock to greet their guest, than Miss Hudson returned, and silently showed their visitor in. She shut the door behind the man, who stood in the doorway with a nervous sort of smile. The man was of slightly-above-average height and portly build, carrying himself with dignity despite the shabby appearance of the gray greatcoat he wore. His head was indeed large, and his face was blanketed by a thick, wooly beard of wispy silver, spotted with streaks of light brown. His features were broad, but intelligent, and the lush color of his nose and cheeks indicated his drinking habits, yet he currently seemed sober, not swaying in the least on his feet as he looked between Holmes and Watson. His eyes were the same shade of gray as his greatcoat.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the man greeted.

"And the same to you, sir!" Watson smiled, and waved to the couch across from their chairs. "Please, take a seat!"

"It is a cold day, and I observe your circulation is more adapted to summer than winter," Sherlock added.

The man bowed his head gratefully, and sat down beside the crackling fireplace of 221B. He sighed, pausing to warm his hands - which wore fingerless gloves - before looking back at the two men. Both had sat down, as well. Watson had an expectant smile, while Holmes eyed the man with intense interest.

"How can we help you?" Holmes asked.

"A simple matter, sir," the man answered, his voice carrying a dignity beyond his evident status as he rubbed his hands together with a still-anxious smile. "I am led to believe, via an advertisement a friend told me about, that you have two items of mine in your possession. Namely, a goose and a hat."

Sherlock smirked and stood from his chair, sauntering over to the chest of drawers where he had stored the hat.

"Mr. Henry Baker then, I believe?" he inquired cockily over his shoulder.

"Harold Baker, actually," the man corrected. "My late brother was Henry; I live with my sister-in-law, and the goose was for her."

Holmes gaped, the smile struck from his face. He looked a little pale.

Dr. Watson giggled, and quickly covered it up with a cough as Harold Baker glanced curiously between the two. Holmes glared at the back of the doctor's head, blushing slightly, and cleared his throat.

"Ahem...right," he muttered, and pulled the hat out of the drawer before offering it to the man. "Well, um...is this yours?"

Baker took the hat from Holmes and inspected it briefly, before grinning widely and nodding, clutching the hat to his chest.

"Yes, sir, it is undoubtedly mine!" he declared. "I would have put an advertisement out myself, but shillings have not been so plentiful as they once were. I can't even afford gas lighting at my house. I was quite certain the roughs who assaulted me made off with both my goose and my headgear; I didn't wish to spend money I might not have later in a hopeless endeavor-"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Holmes frustratedly brushed the explanation off, and took a deep breath before sitting down, giving Watson a glare out of the corner of his eye as the Doctor was clearly trying not to laugh. "Mister, uh...HAROLD Baker, then...about your bird…"

"Yes?"

"We were compelled to eat it," Holmes apologized.

The man looked at Holmes with obvious devastation.

"To...to EAT it?" he nearly whimpered out.

"It wouldn't have been any good to anyone if we hadn't," Holmes shrugged, then took a final drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out and pointing towards the sideboard. "Having said that: we took the liberty of buying a new one for you, if you'd like it. It's about the same weight and size."

"And much fresher!" added Watson. "Would that suit you well enough?"

Mr. Baker looked towards the sideboard, and his devastation became a look of immense joy.

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" he exclaimed, nodding happily.

"Of course," Holmes thought to continue, "We still have the legs, beak, feathers, and internal organs - such as the stomach - stored from your goose. Should you wish to have any of them?"

Mr. Baker burst into a hearty laugh.

"They might make odd souvenirs of my misadventure," he chortled with a shake of his head, "But I fail to see what other use the disjecta membra of my former feathered friend could be. No, sir: I shall confine my attention to the exquisite bird I see resting on your sideboard."

Holmes and Watson shared a look. It was very obvious now that Harold Baker had no idea about what had been in the belly of his intended Christmas goose. But of course, there were still other questions to be asked…

"Would you mind telling us where you got your original goose, Mr. Baker?" asked Dr. Watson.

"Of course, sir, but why?" Harold Baker asked with a cock of his huge head, which rolled like a huge red rock upon his shoulders.

"Well, we've never before tasted such a good bird," Holmes explained. "So it would be of great interest to know where we might get one on our own terms next year."

"Ahhh," Mr. Baker nodded sagely. "Well, sir, I got it thanks to the Goose Club."

Holmes blinked blankly. Once again, he and Watson shared a look, this time one of bemusement.

"Goose Club?" they asked at the same time.

"Yes, gentlemen," Mr. Baker said, and then explained: "I am a frequent visitor of the Alpha Pub in Bloomsbury. I go there nearly every evening, after finishing work: I am not a rich man, but I make a respectable living - even if I do say so myself - at the British Museum."

"Oh, studying?" Watson asked, getting up to grab his journal so he could take notes.

Harold Baker turned a little redder in the face and squirmed, seemingly embarrassed.

"More like helping others with their studies," he admitted, almost shamefully. "I, ah...ahem...I have a certain knowledge of books."

"I see," Holmes murmured, and offered a cigarette, which Mr. Baker turned down. He shrugged and lit a new one for himself before waving for the man to continue.

"Well, gentlemen," Mr. Baker said, seemingly happy to relate his adventure as Dr. Watson sat back down beside his friend, "A few months ago, the host of the Alpha, one Mr. Windigate by name - who I am happy to say I consider a close friend of mine - instigated a Goose Club. The idea was that returning patrons could, by means of donating a mere tuppence each week, receive a bird for Christmas. Mr. Windigate would take the money, buy the geese, store them in a cold spot, and give them to us on the night of December 21st."

"And that is where you got your bird, I presume."

"Yes. The bird was something of a peace offering for my sister-in-law: I'm afraid to say she is...somewhat irked with me, feeling I should earn more gainful employment. I keep trying to explain my situation to her, but she does not listen. I hoped that by providing Christmas Dinner, I could prove to her the worth in letting me stay and get in her good graces."

Baker chuckled and leaned in close, conspiratorially.

"When I picked up my goose from Mr. Windigate," he grinned, almost boyishly, "I told him, 'At this time of year, we must not deprive those we love...or even those whom we live with.'"

Watson snickered. Holmes just smiled and said nothing.

"Well, gentlemen," Mr. Baker finished up, "Having picked up my goose...and enjoyed a few pints of the landlord's most excellent beer...I headed for home, when a couple of ruffians attacked me, demanding my pocketbook. The events are all a blur to me, but I remember that it ended with an official-looking man blowing a whistle, and in the bedlam I lost both my items, broke a window, and...well...fled. I felt rather foolish afterwards, I must confess, as I'm sure the man was only trying to help."

"Well, all's well that ends well!" boomed Sherlock Holmes, and - cigarette still stuck between his teeth - he plucked up the goose and offered it to Mr. Baker. The man placed his dark blue derby back upon his grizzled head, and took the bird with a grateful smile.

"Thank you for the help, sir!" Sherlock said, clapping the man on the back. He hit a little too hard, and Mr. Baker flinched with a soft, pained laugh.

"It, uh...it is I who should thank you, sir, for all your efforts. Especially the bird: it will bring a rare smile to the face of my late brother's wife," he said, and smiled a bit wider before tipping his long-lost hat. "Have a Happy Christmas Eve, and a Merry New Year."

"I'll try," muttered Holmes to himself, and showed Mr. Baker out. He sighed softly as he shut the door...and instantly, his smile faded into a pout.

"Well, so much for him," he grumbled. "He hasn't got a clue about what's going on!"

"At least he could tell us where to start looking for more clues," Watson said, and smirked teasingly. "I'd say our Mr. HAROLD Baker has been a big help."

Holmes glared at Watson.

"You are developing a vein of pawky humor, John, and I don't like it," he groused, then sighed. "But you do well to chide me: the sister-in-law was a relationship I should have thought of. It makes the neglect even more understandable…"

Watson's smile became more sympathetic as he saw the way Holmes crossed his arms and hung his head. He stood up and moved over to his friend, patting his shoulder.

"You seemed right in every other respect," he said. "And now we can really start this investigation, can't we?"

Holmes smiled.

"That's true," he nodded.

Another knock came at the door, and the pair moved away from it. Miss Hudson entered, carrying food on a tray.

"Dinner," she smiled as she placed it on a table.

"Thank you, Miss Hudson!" Watson smiled.

"Ah, actually," Holmes piped up, lifting a finger, "Would you mind if we changed dinner into supper?"

Both Watson and Miss Hudson looked at Holmes, freezing in place. Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear; his momentary gloom was gone as the thrill of the hunt filled his heart.

"John, do you need to eat right now? As in, RIGHT now?"

Watson blinked and paused, glancing between Miss Hudson and the detective somewhat nervously.

"Well...um...n-no, I...I guess not…"

"Then come on!" shouted Sherlock, making both of them jump as he snatched up his black overcoat and slung it about his shoulders. "Faces to the South! Quick March!"

And without another word or a moment of waiting, Sherlock Holmes sprinted out of his room and down the stairs.

"Hold on!" Watson called out, hurrying to the landing and looking down. "Where are we going?!"

"To the Alpha Pub!" Holmes yelled back. "Where else?! Hurry up, John!"

Watson sighed as Holmes vanished, and he soon heard the sound of Sherlock hailing a cab. He quickly grabbed his own black overcoat and gave a bashful smile to the rather flustered-looking Miss Hudson.

"Sorry, Miss Hudson," he apologized. "I guess he wants to follow this trail while it's still hot."

So saying, Watson tore out of the house almost as fast as Holmes did. Miss Hudson gaped...then glared, and yelled after them both.

"'Still hot,' huh?! WELL, THAT'S MORE THAN THE SUPPER WILL BE!"


A distant street band played "Silent Night" off-tune. The Alpha Pub was unusually quiet that night; as it was Christmas Eve, most of its regular patrons had long since returned home, rather than risk a hangover on Christmas Day. Still, the public house was not completely devoid of life…

The boisterous host and bartender marched from behind the bar to a table in a distant, window-less corner. He was the picture-perfect landlord for such an establishment: a burly man of both brawn and blubber, with a jolly face and a thick handlebar moustache, with small but very shiny eyes, and black hair greased in pomade. He wore a cream-colored apron over his pinstriped black-and-white dress shirt and a pair of dark gray trousers, along with heavy leather boots.

"Here you are, gentlemen!" the boisterous bartender boomed, putting down a tray with several drinks of differing sizes on the table. "Two glasses of red sherry, two pints of whiskey, and two cups of ginger ale! Just as you ordered!"

Mumbled words of thanks came from the six men seated at the wide corner table as they took their drinks and lifted them as if to toast the landlord. The bartender smiled as he picked up the empty tray, and then held out one fat, sausage-fingered hand.

"Our Compliments of the Season, Mr. Windigate," one of the men said, in a cool, calm, crisp sort of voice, as he placed the sum of the drinks, along with a surprising tip, into the host's palm.

"Well! God bless you for a gentleman, sir!" Mr. Windigate grinned, and happily trundled back towards the bar: he still had to clean up an unfortunately large stain an earlier customer had left behind.

William James Moriarty was the gentleman in question. He smiled with his usual placid disconnectivity as he watched the man go, then took a sip of the sherry he had ordered. It was lovely.

"Well now," he said softly, putting down his glass and folding his hands on the table as he looked at his crew. "You all understand what we have to do?"

"It seems perfectly clear to me, William," Albert nodded, and took a sip of his own sherry.

"I think it sounds like fun!" Moran grinned, swirling his whiskey about in his glass as he looked to Jack, who was the other whiskey drinker at the table. "Seems like you and I will get to enjoy the thrill of the battlefield once again, eh, old man?"

Jack the Ripper smirked and clinked his glass against Sebastian Moran's.

"Just try not to slow me down, Colonel," he said, in a darkly teasing tone.

"I don't like it."

All eyes turned to Fred Porlock, who was staring in a silent, sullen way into his ginger ale.

"Eh? What's the matter?" asked Jack.

"Do you see something wrong with the plan?" Louis spoke up, for the first time.

Fred shook his head.

"No, it's just…"

He paused, then looked up at William, who raised an eyebrow.

"Master William...I know the Countess has to pay. That's why we're doing what we're doing: to take down the Bad Nobles. But…"

"...But," William guessed with a smile, "You're worried about the innocent Mr. Horner."

"Yes," Fred nodded, and looked almost ashamed as he went on: "Shouldn't we...well...be focusing on helping him, first?"

"William's plan is absolute," Louis glared. "We follow it to the letter."

"Louis, it's alright," whispered Professor Moriarty, his voice firm but not unkind, then looked back to Fred and paused before speaking: "I believe that John Horner's innocence will be proven in the course of this caper. Don't forget, our 'other half' has been running a line of investigation of his own. While we deal with the Countess, I think his side of the spectrum will allow Horner's innocence to come to light."

"But what if it doesn't?" Fred Porlock pressed.

"Then we will adapt," William said, patiently. "Don't worry, Fred: I won't allow a guiltless man to go to prison. Holmes has the Blue Carbuncle: if necessary, we can take it from him ourselves, and then go about things our own way. But as long as there are two lines of inquiry running, I think our focus should be on our chief mission statement: purging a devil from this planet."

Fred bit his lip, but nodded, showing his understanding, and took a drink of ginger ale.

"I have to admit, I'm a little nervous," chuckled Moran, taking another drink of whiskey before looking at William. "I know it will all be for show, but still, the idea of going against YOU…"

William's smile became rather dangerous, and his glowing eyes seemed to flash.

"Don't worry, Sebastian," he said, far-too-smoothly. "I'm sure you'll manage."

Moran took a quick swig of whiskey to try and hide how absolutely TERRIFIED those words made him feel.

"We only have to keep her distracted, right, Brother?" Louis checked, before taking a drink of his own ginger ale. "The three of us 'protecting' her, while Fred deals with his side of the plan?"

"That is correct," confirmed William.

"Hmmm," Albert murmured. "Then you may not need to worry much at all."

"Oh no?" Jack piped up, the veteran stopping with his pint of whiskey halfway to his lips.

"Well," Albert smiled, "I could always bring the Countess out of the 'arena.' As long as she can hear commotion of SOME sort…"

"That's true," murmured Moran, and chuckled with obvious relief. "Well, that may be helpful."

William frowned. The others noticed it immediately.

"Do you not approve, Young Will?" Jack checked, cocking his white-haired head slightly.

"I'm not sure," William admitted, then chuckled as he quietly added: "That's a new feeling."

The others chuckled too (except Fred) before Professor Moriarty went on: "On the one hand, what Albert says makes sense, and it would be unnecessary to carry out a pointless charade: a waste of energy and resources. On the other hand, creating a suitable FALSE commotion would actually be more difficult: we can't seem to be acting at all."

"That's a good point," Moran murmured. "With the Enders case, those of us acting were in plain view. Creating a convincing facade when unseen is tricky: you can always tell when someone is just pretending as opposed to living in the moment."

"Well, then perhaps a compromise can be reached?" suggested Albert.

William hummed softly and thoughtfully, taking another drink of sherry. Just as he was putting down his glass...his eyes widened. It was only a tiny amount...but it was noticeable.

Louis noticed the widened eyes, and turned fast to see what his brother saw...and gaped. He tapped Albert on the shoulder, and when Albert looked, so did the other three members of the Moriarty organization.

Out the window of the Alpha Pub, across the cold street, were visible two figures in thick black overcoats. One was easily recognizable from his derby hat and fine-looking cane. The other was even more recognizable…

...Especially when they caught the glint of moonlight off his skull ring.

"Sherlock Holmes!" gasped Louis.

"He's coming here?" murmured Albert, suspiciously, as the pair came to a crosswalk, and began to move directly towards the pub.

"What now?" whispered Fred, as Jack and Moran looked to William worriedly. If Holmes saw all of them in the same place at once, it could be disastrous.

Professor Moriarty, thankfully, was quick with instructions.

"The three of you take the side door and depart," he ordered. "Take a cab to Mr. Eden's Tailor Shop, and Louis will rendezvous with all of you there with further instructions. Be quick now."

Fred, Moran, and Jack Renfield all nodded, and then stood. The latter two put the chairs they had been borrowing back at the table where they belonged; Fred had been sitting directly beside the criminal professor. Moran called out a quick farewell to Mr. Windigate, informing him of their exit. The man smiled, moustache bristling as he waved back, and quick as a wink, the trio were gone.

Louis and Albert both sighed with some relief, and all three brothers took a drink, polishing off their glasses...at the same instant Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson entered the Alpha Pub, the jangling of the doorbell alerting Windigate to their presence.

"Ah! Good evening, gentlemen!" he called out as the pair approached the bar.

"And a very cold one," chuckled Watson, rubbing his hands together to warm them as he pulled his head back into his coat, trying to stave off the chill.

Holmes smirked with a hint of affection, as if his flat-mate's teeth chattering amused him; the cold seemed to have absolutely no effect on him, for he stood proud and strong as ever.

"What will be your pleasure?" Mr. Windigate asked.

"Two pints of your best beer: one for me, and one for my friend here," Holmes demanded.

"Right away, sir!" smiled the bartender, and hurried to get the glasses. He handed one to Watson first, who took a hurried drink and sighed, as the alcohol helped to mask the frost. Holmes chuckled and took a polite sip of his own before offering his money to the landlord.

"It's excellent!" he complimented.

"Thank you, sir," smiled Mr. Windigate as he pocketed the money, and went to look for the washcloth he'd been using.

He stopped short however, when Holmes spoke again: "I knew your beer would be great, after learning about your geese."

Mr. Windigate blinked, looking rather perplexed.

"My...geese, sir?"

"Oh, yes. We were talking to a friend of yours earlier today: Mr. Baker?"

"Oh, Harry!" Windigate beamed at the mention of his comrade and customer. "Yeah, he comes in here almost every night! Not the past couple, though...probably busy with the holidays, eh?"

"I wouldn't worry too much," Holmes smiled, and leaned forward on the bar, eagerly. "He was telling us about your goose club, and claimed he'd never tasted quite so fine a bird in his life!"

"Well, I'm glad to hear it!" Mr. Windigate chuckled. "I can't take credit, though: the geese weren't mine, I guess he misinformed you."

"Oh?" Watson spoke up. "Where did you get them?"

"From a poulterer, obviously," Mr. Windigate smirked with a chortle. "Keeps a shop in Convent Gardens."

"Which one was it?" Watson asked, excitedly.

Mr. Windigate blinked, and frowned, a little put off by the army surgeon's animated exuberance.

"Why?" he asked, not quite suspiciously, but more...cautiously.

Watson stammered, trying to come up with an answer, but thankfully Holmes beat him to it.

"We know a couple of them down there, personally," Sherlock said.

"Ah, I see," smiled Windigate, quite placated, and scratched at his pinkish cheek. "Let's see...I actually can't remember the name now; not somebody I've done business with before, you see...hold on! If you gentlemen don't mind waiting a moment, I'll see if I can look it up! I wrote it down somewhere, I know. It'll only take a couple minutes; I'll even write down the information, if you want."

"That would be fine, thanks!" Holmes said, lifting his cup as if in toast. Mr. Windigate bowed his head in return, and then marched off towards somewhere at the back of the pub.

Watson sighed with relief, and looked at Sherlock sheepishly.

"Sorry, I feel like I almost ruined it," he said, quietly.

"Don't worry, John," grinned Sherlock, and patted his partner on the back (a little too roughly, if the pained squeak Watson let out was any indication). "He's gone to find out, there's no harm done."

"I hope we're on the right track," Watson added worriedly, taking another sip and grimacing; he could drink, and would drink, but beer had never been his preferred beverage. "I feel like we might be looking for a needle in a haystack…"

"Hardly," Sherlock shrugged, and turned around, leaning his back against the bar. "To analyze things properly, one has to try working backwards; let the effects reveal their cause. If we keep tracing this path, we'll find the root of the problem. We'll figure out how the jewel ended up in the goose, mark my words."

Watson smiled, encouraged by Sherlock's words. He then glanced idly to the side...and gasped, quickly tapping Holmes' side, as his eyes connected with two familiar crimson irises.

Sherlock was in the middle of taking a drink. He grunted with a scowl at the interruption...but once he saw where Watson was looking, he promptly coughed, spitting out some of his beer.

"L-Liam?!" he nearly wheezed, not even looking at what he had lost as he gaped in surprise.

William James Moriarty smiled ever so slightly wider. Albert pretended he hadn't noticed anything yet, acting as if he were checking his pocket watch. Louis groaned and sighed at the same time, adjusting his glasses.

"Good evening, Mr. Detective," purred Professor Moriarty. "Fancy meeting you here."

Holmes' expression lit up with bewildered delight, and he almost seemed to teleport across the room, zooming over to the table and sitting down in the now unoccupied space beside William without so much as a check for permission. John H. Watson, seeing the enthusiasm of his friend, sighed and plodded after him, pulling a chair over to sit down at the same table. (Unknowingly, the doctor chose the same chair Sebastian Moran had used only moments ago.)

As Watson sat down at the table, Albert put away his pocket watch, and gave a genial smile to the two newcomers, as if he had just noticed them.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, I presume?" he quizzed.

"You have the advantage of us, sir," smiled John, almost apologetically.

"No he doesn't," Holmes interjected, and gave a slight smirk in Albert's direction. "Lord Moriarty, William's older brother, yes?"

"Indeed," Albert said, and bowed his head politely as he steepled his hands with his elbows on the table. "It's a pleasure to meet you. William speaks of you constantly."

"Oh?" Holmes piped up, looking pleased. "All good things, I hope?"

Albert's eyes narrowed ever so faintly, but his smile remained in place, and his tone didn't change an ounce.

"Only the best things," he replied.

"What are you both doing here?" Louis asked.

"We're tracking down a lead!" Watson said, with a grin.

"And we might ask the same question of you," Holmes added, smirking with interest as he took a swallow of his beer before continuing: "I'd hardly expect to see three aristocrats here."

"We were paying a visit to the British Museum," Albert said.

Holmes frowned.

"You were not," he said, now looking a little suspicious. "It's closed on Christmas Eve."

Albert's smile fell.

"It's no good you lying to the detective, Big Brother," smiled William, whose own composure remained unbroken as he gave Sherlock one of "his" smiles. "If you must know, Mr. Holmes, we got lost."

"Lost?" both Holmes and Watson asked at once.

"I'm afraid so," Albert sighed, and his embarrassment was only half-faked as he said. "I apologize for my feeble attempt to deceive you. It's just...humiliating, as you can imagine."

Holmes laughed.

"I can understand why!" he crowed. "A nobleman lost in Bloomsbury! And his brothers, to boot! Sounds like the start of a bad joke: three Moriartys walk into a bar…"

"Sherlock!" hissed Watson, in a scolding tone.

Albert's smile was a bit more tense, but it stayed in place. William remained cool as a cucumber.

"We stopped here for a drink and to try and get our bearings," said William.

"We were actually about to leave when you arrived," Louis put in.

"Where are you all trying to get to?" Watson asked, taking another grimacing sip of his beer.

"To the home of the Countess of Morcar," Louis answered. "We have some business with her tonight."

"What a coincidence!" Watson smiled, and jabbed a thumb at the dark-haired detective. "The two of us are here tracking down a lead about...um...you-know-what."

"Then the mysterious Henry Baker finally called?" William asked.

Sherlock forced a smile.

"Oh, yes," he said, one eye twitching. "Mister Baker came alright. Very helpful chap, definitely…"

Moriarty smirked knowingly, and looked away from Holmes before simply saying: "His name wasn't Henry, and the woman was his sister-in-law, yes?"

This time it was Watson who nearly choked on his drink. Holmes' pupils became pinpricks.

"That's what you meant by it not being the only relationship to make sense," he realized quietly, and let out a breathless, slightly unhinged chuckle. "Liam...you are a scoundrel."

"Only on occasion," Professor Moriarty replied, cheerily.

"Hmph. Well," muttered Sherlock Holmes, stirring the beer in his glass with a few careful turns of his wrist, "At any rate, John and I have found a line of investigation that has been totally missed by the police. Not that finding THAT out is anything new…"

"Have you been to see the man they arrested?" Albert asked. "Horner, I think was the name?"

"No," Watson said. "Sherlock and I were talking about that on the way here."

"John and I agree that Horner seems an unlikely suspect, with what we have learned," Holmes elaborated. "I intend to follow this scarlet thread to the end, and find out what really happened: who took the Blue Carbuncle, and what happened for it to end up where it did."

A whistle from the bar interrupted the discussion; it came from Mr. Windigate, who waved to Holmes and Watson. The pair quietly excused themselves and went to speak to the bartender.

"We should go now, brother," whispered Louis, and Albert nodded in agreement.

"No, not yet," William smiled, narrowing his eyes as he watched the detective and the doctor approach the bar. "I think I have a better idea…"

"What would that be?" Albert asked, as Louis tilted his head.

"You'll know soon enough," purred the Professor of Crime in response.

The two other Moriartys blinked, looked at each other, and shrugged helplessly.

It wasn't long till Holmes and Watson got the information they needed, taking a small notecard from Mr. Windigate. Sherlock gave the pub host an extra tip for the help, and then headed back towards the table just as William was finishing speaking to his brothers. As they approached, William stood up, gathering his hat and overcoat. He put them on and picked up his cane as Albert and Louis followed suit.

"Did you get the name you needed?" Albert asked.

"Yes," smiled Holmes. "And the address."

"Branson Breckenridge," Watson recited, obviously trying to commit the information to memory as he followed the name with the address.

"Yo, Liam," Holmes grinned, and tossed his head indicatively towards the door. "Wanna come along? Might be interesting."

"As a matter of fact, I think I would," the Professor said, bold as brass.

Holmes looked elated. Watson smiled vaguely.

Louis and Albert looked stunned and appalled.

"But...but Brother…!" Louis began.

"What of the Countess?" Albert broke in.

"Oh, that is no great issue," smiled William, his composition as carefully maintained as ever as he gestured with his cane towards his intended replacement: "Dr. Watson can accompany you both."

"M-Me?!" John Watson yelped, now looking not too dissimilar from the brothers. "But...but...I-I'm not a nobleman, or anything, I-!"

"Oh, you hardly need to worry about that," purred Professor Moriarty, ignoring the way Albert was staring and Louis' jaw had nearly dropped to the floor. "The majority of the business on this adventure is in the hands of my brothers; you might say I'm there for emotional support. But as the Countess IS expecting three after the message we sent her earlier today, a third person would be appreciated."

"That...well...that's true, but...Sherlock-"

"Aw, don't worry, John!" Holmes grinned boyishly, patting his partner on the shoulder. "Go ahead! It's not often you get to travel to a place like the Morcar estate, and in the company of two nobles, AND via their own coach!"

Watson was blushing beet red.

"Well...uhm...that's...it's...just...I…!"

Holmes chuckled at his friend's stammering, while Professor Moriarty smiled blithely. He barely seemed fazed at all when Albert placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him around to face him and Louis.

"William, what are you up to?" he asked; he sounded less infuriated and more suspicious than anything else.

"Brother, why would you leave with Holmes now?!" Louis hissed. "What about your plan?"

"Believe me, I know what I'm doing," William said coolly. "Dr. Watson can carry out my part quite well, I think, as long as you all don't get too...overzealous. And by adding this unexpected element to the mix, we can create a scene that is far more convincing for our purposes."

He smiled at both of them as they just stared, speechless.

"Trust me," he whispered.

Those words seemed to activate something in both of his brothers; as they both settled, though they still looked dubious.

"We do trust you, William," Albert said.

"Good," nodded the Professor, and looked to Louis. "Relay the information as necessary to the others at the rendezvous point, then head directly to the Morcar Estate. Once your business there is concluded, you'll find me at 221B Baker Street."

"Understood," Louis said, but he looked dreadfully nervous as he said it.

"Oi!" Holmes' abrasive voice cut in, ignoring Watson's stuttering protestations as he draped an arm unexpectedly around William, pulling him away from his brothers. "Are you ready to join me, Liam?"

For a fraction of a second, William James Moriarty's picture-perfect composure cracked. The intimate, friendly, sudden gesture caught him quite off guard. His eyes widened and his smile dropped in a vulnerable, flustered look...but the momentary startlement was quickly dispelled, and he hurriedly regained his ramrod stance, tipping his hat slightly to hide his blush as he smiled in the catlike, cool way that he was more accustomed to show.

"I am prepared," was all he said, and smiled at Watson in the same totally collected manner. "Goodnight, doctor. Till we meet again. Please make sure my brothers don't do anything too foolish."

Albert and Louis' eyes opened wide as Sherlock Holmes laughed...and, his arm still around Moriarty's shoulders, the detective and his unknown nemesis exited the pub, smiling at each other without a care in the world. The trio left behind watched as William hailed a cab with a wave of his cane, and the pair hopped in and took off into the gathering night, heading towards Convent Gardens.

There was an awkward pause...then, Dr. Watson and the Moriarty Brothers looked at each other with equally flabbergasted expressions.

"Well," Watson said, and let out an awkward laugh. "That was...ha ha...u-unexpected."

"Indeed," muttered Albert, and cleared his throat as he put on his hat and coat. Louis hastened to do the same.

"Come along, Doctor," was all Albert said, and walked past Watson towards the exit.

Watson bit his lip as he watched the chocolate-haired nobleman depart...then nearly jumped as a hand fell upon his shoulder.

He looked up to find Louis James Moriarty, smiling in a friendly way.

"We'll be glad to have you along for the ride," was all the butler said.

Watson blinked...then smiled a bit more genuinely.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Not at all," Louis said. "We have one stop to make, then we'll head to the Morcar Mansion, now that we know the way."

"Alright," Watson said, and he and Louis walked out side by side.

But even as Watson smiled, Louis frowned, looking rather worried as they headed out the door and towards the family carriage, parked around the side.

"I hope William hasn't made a rare mistake," he whispered to himself.


Convent Gardens was crowded and noisy on that Christmas Eve night. Near a street intersection was a poulterer's stall; the man at the stall was a scrawny, bony man, with large eyes and high cheekbones; he almost looked like a walking skeleton, rather than a normal man. His face was framed by thick red-haired mutton chops, and he was dressed in a dark green shirt, a black vest and matching tie, navy trousers, and a faded blue apron. A straw hat was perched upon his head, with a peppermint striped band and a sprig of holly stuck in it, no doubt in honor of the Season.

Though crowds were bustling all around the area, the stall was unvisited; the skinny man was reading a sports newspaper - specifically the Pink'un - as he hummed to the tune of a Christmas song.

"Excuse me," came a voice at the counter of the stall, and the poulterer quickly looked up. He folded up his newspaper at the sight of two men standing there and waiting. Both were tall and lean, but athletic; one man wore a thick black overcoat, which massed his messy black hair, and had dark blue eyes that pierced through the dark of that winter night. The other man wore a similar overcoat, and a gray top hat; his hair was blonde, and his eyes - most peculiarly - were a strange shade of red, and even seemed to glow in the dark.

The poulterer frowned in bemusement at the appearance of these strange visitors, and his long legs quickly carried him over to peer at the men. The selling of birds seemed rather tailor-made for the man, for the quick movements of his head were certainly quite avian-esque.

"Can I 'elp ye?" he asked.

"You are Mr. Breckenridge?"

"That's right."

"Then yes, I think you can," William James Moriarty smiled.

"Then again, perhaps not," Sherlock Holmes sighed, gesturing towards the barren state of the cart. "Sold out of geese, I take it?"

"Aye," the man said with a curt nod, puffing through the nostrils of his snipe, beaky nose. "I've got some turkeys in th' main shop, though. If it's a goose ye want, specifically, I'll be 'avin a shipment o' five hundred comin' in next week."

"Next week is no good," Holmes said.

"Mmmh, I see," hummed Breckenridge. "Tell ye what…"

He pointed off in another direction.

"...I got a pal, 'e's still sellin' some geese. If yer quick, 'e can fix ya up."

"Ah, but we were specifically recommended to you!" Holmes declared.

"Oh?" Breckenridge responded, eyes widening in surprise. "Who by?"

"Mr. Windigate of the Alpha," William answered.

"Oh, yeah! Nice fella, 'e was!" smiled Breckenridge. "Bought a couple dozen offa me."

"Fine birds they were, too!" Holmes cheered, and tilted his head. "Where did you get them from?"

In an instant, Breckenridge's expression changed. He glared, and his head tilted to the side as he leaned over the side of the stall, arms akimbo and voice a dangerous snarl.

"Now, look 'ere, Mister, what are ye drivin' at?" he sneered. "C'mon, let's 'ave it straight now!"

Holmes' eyes widened in surprise. He exchanged a quick glance with William, whose smile had faded. Beyond that, the Professor looked barely fazed at all. Sherlock frowned and narrowed his own eyes as he looked back at the ornery salesman.

"It's straight enough," he sniffed. "I simply wish to know who sold you the geese you supplied to the Alpha Pub!"

"Well, I'm not tellin' ye!" snapped Mr. Breckenrdige. "So now?"

Holmes scowled, his own glare deepening.

"I don't see why you're getting so upset over a little thing like this," he said, almost warningly.

"Upset?!" exclaimed Breckenridge, and barked out a derisive laugh. "Ha! You'd be upset, too, if ye were as pestered as I've been th' last couple o' days! When I pay money for a product, that should be the end of it, but ohhhh no! It's 'where are th' geese?' Or 'who'd ye sell them geese to?' An' now, 'Where'd ye get th' geese from?' It's not like they're th' only blasted geese in th' world, y'know!"

"Well, I don't know anything about that!" Holmes snapped right back. "I have no connection with anybody else who's made inquiries-"

"Inquiries!" spat Breckenridge. "More like the Spanish Inquisition! I tell ya, I never expected THAT when I bought th' damned geese! Now sod off! I'm not tellin' you! Either of ye!"

And with a haughty huff, Breckenridge turned on his heel and retired to read his newspaper, pointedly never looking at the men and pretending they weren't there.

Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty shared a look. It was clear from Breckenridge's statement that at least one other person had been asking a lot of questions about the geese he sold to Windigate. That, to them, could only mean one thing: someone else was actively trying to hunt down the Blue Carbuncle.

Now, the question was how to learn more.

After a few moments...Moriarty sighed.

"Ah, well," he said, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder sadly. "Come along, Holmes. The bet is off."

Sherlock caught on quick, and a smirk flicked across his face as he saw the way Breckenridge's big ears pricked up.

"Right, Liam," he huffed. "This blighter won't help us, let's go."

The two turned and prepared to leave-

"Oi, wait a moment!" called out Mr. Breckenridge. "What bet?"

The pair smiled subtly at one another, almost like a pair of naughty schoolboys...then turned around to face Mr. Breckenridge, returning to stand by his stall. Moriarty leaned on his cane and moved in close to explain things confidentially, given the crowded conditions. Holmes smirked and leaned on the cart as well, quite casually.

"My friend and I are fowl fanciers," explained William. "Both of us pride ourselves on our opinions when it comes to geese, but we're having a bit of a disagreement."

"Disagreement?" Breckenridge repeated, brow scrunching up on his narrow face.

"Yes," William nodded. "You see, he bet me five pounds that the goose we enjoyed from the Alpha was country bred. I bet, in turn, another fiver, saying it was town bred."

"Aha!" Breckenridge exclaimed, and smirked at Sherlock. "Well then, Mister, you've jus' lost yer money: all th' geese that went to the Alpha was town bred."

Moriarty grinned triumphantly, tapping his cane on the pavement as he gave Sherlock a smug, half-lidded smile. Holmes was ready to play along, and gasped, as if offended.

"It was nothing of the sort!" he insisted, trying to sound as pompous as possible. "I know it was bred in the country!"

"I say it wasn't!" Breckenridge bellowed.

"I don't believe you!" Holmes sing-songed tauntingly with a grin.

"Come on. Pay up, Holmes," Moriarty chirped, lifting a hand expectantly.

Holmes glared at him as Breckenridge was quick to break in.

"C'mon, Clever Boots, ye think y'know as much about geese as I do? I've 'andled 'em since I was a nipper!" the poulterer said. "I'll say it again: all them geese was town bred!"

"Ha! You'll never convince me to believe that!" Holmes shouted.

"Come on, come on!" William persisted, flexing his fingers in a beckoning way. "Do the decent thing now!"

Holmes glared at William again; underneath the facade of frustration was a bright light of excitement. He covered that up as he looked back to Breckenridge, and jabbed a finger in his face.

"Tell you what: why don't YOU have a bet with me then?" he grinned tauntingly.

Breckenridge smirked back challengingly, brushing away the hand with a swipe of his own.

"It's just takin' yer money," he said, then smiled wider as he went on, "Still, jus' to teach you not t' be so obstinate...I'll wager a sovereign!"

"DONE!" boomed Holmes, pounding his fist on the stall desk.

"RIGHT!" Breckenridge yelled back, in the exact same way, with the exact same gesture, and hurried into his shop.

Holmes snickered and looked to William, who smiled with obvious vanity.

"How did you deduce that would work?" he whispered. "Was it the newspaper? That was my clue."

"Actually, it was his mutton chops," William said. "I've never met a man with a haircut like that who wasn't fond of gambling."

Holmes smiled wider. His blue eyes almost seemed to glow like the professor's.

"Liam," he whispered. "You complete me."

Moriarty's smile widened in return, his eyes glittering in an almost hungry light. He said nothing.

A moment later, Breckenridge returned, and Holmes stuck his nose up, once again putting on the airs of a perfect snob, while William leaned in a devil-may-care way on his cane, each playing the roles they'd created.

"Alright then, Mr. Cocksure!" the shopkeeper cackled, carrying two large ledgers under one arm. "I thought I was fresh outta geese, but it seems we've still got one 'ere. Ha Ha! Now then…"

He placed both ledgers on the stall counter and opened them up.

"Look at this one 'ere," the poulterer said, pointing to the book on the right. "This is a list o' my suppliers. The ones in blue ink are me country folk; th' rest, in red ink, are all me town folk. Now, read th' name in red, three boxes down."

Holmes peered at the book and read the information aloud: "Margaret Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road. Account Number 249."

"Aye," nodded Breckenridge, a greedy look in his eye as he pointed to the book on the left. "Now, this is where I record all me sales. Go on, find that same number there, an' read th' last entry."

Holmes did quickly and read the information aloud again: "Mrs. Oakshott's Eggs & Poultry. Twenty-Four Geese...Sold to Wendell Windigate of the Alpha Public House."

Breckenridge smirked as Holmes looked crestfallen in disbelief. The shopkeeper slammed both books shut and held out one hand with a flourish, crooking a finger indicatively.

"Got anythin' more t' say, Mister?" he teased.

Sherlock looked at the extended limb blandly...then sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. He plucked a sovereign from it and dropped it into the poulterer's hand, then prepared to leave…

"Oi!" snapped Breckenridge, and pointed to Moriarty. "What about this gentleman's fiver?"

Holmes stopped short, eyes wide, and then looked to his companion. The scarlet-eyed blonde smiled perhaps a little TOO cheerfully, and once again held out a hand expectantly.

Sherlock Holmes flushed almost purple as he tugged a five pound note from his pocketbook and thrust it into Professor Moriarty's hand.

William chuckled as Holmes stomped off, sulking, and then tipped his hat and gave a wink to
Branson Breckenrdige. The poulterer returned the gestures, and then went back to his newspaper.

"Bravo, Liam," Holmes mumbled, almost pouting as Moriarty tucked the five pound note into his pocket. "You outsmarted two birds with the same trap."

"I don't know what you mean," William James Moriarty said innocently, and smirked mischievously. "I always thought I had a knack for theatre. Perhaps I should have become an actor instead of a math teacher, eh?"

Holmes couldn't help but smile and chuckle; for some reason, it was impossible to stay mad at Liam.

"Well...now, there's a new problem on our hands," he murmured, turning his head up thoughtfully towards the sky. "Should I go to Brixton tonight, or wait till morning? And in either case…"

He looked back to Moriarty.

"...Is this where we part ways?"

William's smile softened.

"Where you go, I go," he promised.

Holmes smiled back. He seemed grateful, perhaps even relieved. His own smile was surprisingly soft; softer than he usually showed anyone, even Dr. Watson.

"I appreciate that," he said. "It's gratifying to know I have someone like you, Liam."

William's eyes widened very slightly.

"To know...you have...someone like me?" he repeated, slowly and questioningly.

"Yeah. Someone who thinks like me. Someone who…"

"...Will always be there, regardless of the case?"

"Yes."

The pair were inching closer to one another as they spoke, facing one another; their faces were almost touching…

...When suddenly, a familiar, cross voice screamed out and made them both jump.

"GEESE?! I've 'ad enough o' you an' yer geese!"

The pair looked back to Breckenridge's stall, and spotted a man now standing there, face-to-face with the irate poulterer. He was slight of figure, with bristly whiskers and large teeth and ears, giving him a rodent-like appearance, and dressed in a butler's black-and-white uniform, save for his gray scarf and black homburg hat.

The detective and the mathematician looked at each other quickly, then ducked into a nearby alley, peering around the wall to watch the exchange as the man clasped his hands desperately, pleading with the poultry-shop master…

"Mr. Breckenridge, look here-"

"No, YOU look 'ere! If ye want a goose, come back next week!"

"I don't want a goose next week!"

"Then ye can go to th' Devil!"

"Please, I just need to know about ONE goose, if not all of them!" the man begged. "It had-!"

"Clear off!" snapped Breckenridge, swiping a hand dramatically through the air and gnashing his teeth, not giving the man a chance to finish. "If ye come back 'ere again, I'll set the dog on ye!"

"Listen, Mrs. Oakshott-"

"You bring Mrs. Oakshott 'ere, an' I'll answer to 'er! What 'ave YOU got t' do with it, eh? Did I buy them geese offa you?"

"No, b-but one of them was mine, and-!"

"Well, go an' ask Mrs. Oakshott about it!"

"She told me to ask YOU!"

"Ye can ask the King of Prussia for all I care! I've 'ad enough o' you an' yer silly talk! Get out of it, understand?!"

With a snarl, Breckenridge grabbed a yardstick, shaking it threateningly. The rat-faced man whimpered, cowered, and scuttled away. Breckenridge harumphed and returned to his paper once again, shaking his head in annoyance.

The man stopped not far from the alley where Holmes and Moriarty were in wait. They watched as the man paused, glancing around fretfully and hugging himself. The butler shivered, and scurried away down another street.

"Liam," Holmes whispered. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Indeed," Moriarty responded. "This may save us a trip to Brixton."

The pair whispered something to each other...and after a moment, Holmes slipped out of the alley and then shot straight down another...while Moriarty began to march off in the direction the small, rodent-like man had gone.

It wasn't too long, thankfully, before Moriarty caught up with the ratty butler. The man was fidgeting nervously, not so much walking as pacing mindlessly. He seemed lost, as if trying to decide between a choice of evils: heading back to try Breckenridge and his fury again, or heading to some other unknown place he clearly did NOT want to see.

Eventually, the little man evidently made up his mind, and began to leave the Convent Gardens area. Moriarty followed at a steady pace.

At first, nothing much happened...but after a short while, as the crowds began to thin, the little man realized he wasn't alone. He could hear the tap-tap-tap of a cane on the cobblestones behind him. Each time he glanced back, he looked to see if the source was nearby…

Finally, as he came to a less populated area of the city, his eyes widened as he saw a pair of red, glowing eyes, and noticed the cane in the crimson-eyed figure's hand.

Understandably spooked, the man quickened his pace, and tried to evade his pursuer. He ran back into the crowded parts, and then into the less crowded streets, weaving between carters and cabs. No matter what obstacle he tried to put in his way, the man with red eyes was still behind him, and it seemed that the faster the little fellow tried to run, the closer the red-eyed figure got.

Panicking, hyperventilating, the man dove into an alley between two empty houses...only to freeze up and gulp nervously, as the alley came to a dead end.

He looked back slowly...and turned pale as the top-hatted figure, with eyes like Lucifer himself, appeared at the entrance to the alley.

The man with the cane only took three steps before the butler gauged his chances, glancing furtively between the two empty buildings...before lunging at the door of one of them with one hand, the other holding his hat…

...But scarcely had his fingers brushed the doorknob than the door to the empty building opened...revealing another man with deep blue eyes, smirking cockily as he barred the doorway.

"What's the hurry, little friend?" he crooned teasingly.

The butler swore under his breath and tried to run to the other house...only to yelp as the man with blue eyes caught his arm.

"Relax!" the dark-haired detective laughed. "Don't be in such a rush!"

"L-Let go of me!" the butler almost squeaked, which didn't help him seem any less rodentine.

"Excuse me."

Both turned, the butler freezing and the detective smiling superciliously as the red eyed man drew nearer. In clearer view, the butler realized the man was very young, and had golden blonde hair. His expression was mild and patient, a contrast to those unsettling red irises in his optics.

"We could not help overhearing the conversation you had a short time ago with Mr. Breckenridge," the blonde man explained, politely. "Please, there's no need to be scared."

"Yeah, we're not gonna hurt you. In fact, we want to help!" the blue-eyed one declared.

The butler frowned in confusion.

"Help me?" he quizzed. "How? Who are you, anyway?"

"I am Professor Moriarty," the blonde introduced himself, and pointed with his cane at the other man. "This is Sherlock Holmes. It is our business to know what others do not."

"Neither of you can know anything of THIS business," muttered the butler.

"On the contrary, we know everything!" Sherlock claimed. "You are trying to figure out the whereabouts of some geese, or more specifically, one particular goose: one with a black stripe around its neck, sold with several others by Mrs. Oakshott to that red-haired poultry-shop owner."

The butler blinked...and slowly, a smile - an eager, excited, hopeful smile - crossed his lean face as he looked between the pair.

"This...this is perfect!" he exclaimed. "Sirs, y-you're the very people I've been DESPERATE to meet for days now! I can't even begin to explain my interest in the matter."

"I'm sure you can't," murmured Moriarty to himself.

"I think we should continue this discussion in comfort and privacy," suggested Holmes, and released the man's arm. The man rubbed his wrist with a wincing smile; Sherlock DID have a tight grip. "I'll call us a cab, Liam."

"Thank you, Holmes," the Professor said with a bow of his head, and stood aside while Sherlock headed to the entrance of the alley, and whistled to a nearby Hansom driver, who was just dropping off a fare. The Professor then approached the butler with a smile.

"Now, sir," he said politely, "May I please know the name of the person we are going to assist?"

"It's Ja-er...um...John R-Robinson."

Moriarty laughed lightly.

"Oh, no, no, no, sir, your real name, please!" he twittered, with a far-too-wide smile. "It's very awkward doing business with an alias. Trust me, I'd know."

The butler shuffled guiltily, like a boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar...but he quickly regained his dignity, standing erect and straight.

"If you must know, sir," he said, somewhat grandly, "My real name is Ryder. James Ryder."

Moriarty smiled. The butler suddenly had the feeling of being a mouse who'd been captured by a VERY hungry cat.

"Yes," William said softly, and then spoke more loudly, the danger leaving his face as quickly as it had come. "I believe you're the butler in servitude to the Countess of Morcar?"

"Um...y-yes, that is correct," Ryder said, unsteadily.

"Liam!" came Holmes' voice, as the hansom pulled up.

"Coming!" Moriarty called back, and placed a hand on Ryder's shoulder. Ryder flinched; whenever Moriarty breathed out into the cold night air, the steam would rise around his face, which created a VERY unsettling visual when combined with those glowing, blood red eyes. "Let's go, Mr. Ryder. We have much to discuss."

Somewhat reluctantly, James Ryder went along with Professor Moriarty, who ushered him into the cab, sitting the man between himself and Sherlock Holmes. The cabbie whipped his horse into action…

...And as the horse-drawn carriage began to ride off in the direction of Baker Street, the dark clouds over London let loose their bounty.

Snow was just beginning to fall.