"The shepherds at those tidings rejoiced much in mind, and left their flocks a-feeding in tempest, storm, and wind. They went to Bethlehem straightway, this blessed babe to find. O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy!"

Louis James Moriarty sighed, a drab look on his blood-eyed face as he adjusted his glasses with one hand before taking hold of the reins carefully once more. He shivered slightly as he saw the Morcar Estate not so far away. The falling snow left him feeling damp and chilly, and the organ grinder singing the old carol (badly) on a street corner left him certain that the tune would be stuck in his head all day.

He flicked the reins and grumbled to himself, shaking his head to keep focused. As he drove the carriage through the gates of the Morcar Estate, he knew that he would have to stay in the game his brother was playing; with a wild card added to the deck, anything could happen, and it was his duty to make sure it all worked without a hitch.

Louis pulled up to the front of the mansion; he looked down and saw a short, stooped servant, dressed in raggedy gray and with a pockmarked nose, hobble over silently.

With a kind smile at the not-so-pleasant figure, Louis clambered down from the seat, and knocked on the doors.

"We're here," he announced, and waved for the unpleasant-looking servant to climb up to the driver's seat.

The shabby fellow nodded, still silent, and at the same time he began to clamber up into the seat, the door to the carriage opened, and out stepped first Albert James Moriarty, and then Dr. Watson. The doctor's eyes widened and his jaw fell slightly agape at the sight of the excellent manor house, glistening like a stack of gold on that snowy night.

"My goodness," he whispered, noticing the multitude of decorations strung and hung upon the exterior, and noting the warm light from within the fine old house. "I...I never expected it to be so...so…"

"Resplendent? Majestic? Pulchritudinous?" suggested Albert with a small smirk.

"...I was going to say 'big,'" Watson answered lamely, "But yes, all that."

Albert chuckled and shook his head, while Louis called up to the servant in the driver's seat.

"Take it to the carriage house, my good man!" he ordered.

The pockmarked servant quietly nodded, and clicked his tongue, flipping the reins and driving the horses towards the carriage house and stables.

No sooner was the carriage gone, than Louis sneezed once. He pulled his pocket handkerchief out of his vest; Watson's eyes glimmered with concern.

"Are you alright, Mr. Louis?" he asked, already slipping into something close to a medical voice.

"At the moment. Just the snow," mumbled Louis, tucking the handkerchief away.

Albert's smirk widened.

"Yes, let's get inside, quickly," he said. "My brother's immune system is fragile; we mustn't let him catch his death of cold."

Louis flushed with embarrassment.

"Brother," he growled out through clenched teeth, as if Albert had just shared a flustering childhood memory. "I'm perfectly fine…"

"Nevertheless, let's hurry inside," Watson smiled. "You've been out in the cold long enough."

Louis' eyes flickered behind his glasses, but he said nothing, following quietly as the other two men approached the mansion door. Albert knocked with his cane.

Not long after, the Countess of Morcar herself answered the door, a smile upon her face as she stood tall and stiff, head held high, cane held in an elegant manner in one fist.

"Good evening, Lord Moriarty," she greeted, and her eyes fell to Louis quickly. "And this, I take it, is your brother? I recognize his photo from the papers."

Louis blinked, but his face was impassive; not the predatory poker face of William, nor the charming, disarming smile of Albert, but simply a relaxed, calm expression. He bowed his head respectfully and simply said, "Yes Ma'am."

"How do you do?" the Countess twittered, and Louis felt his stomach churn unhappily. Like Albert had before him, he could see through the Countess' restrictive smile all too well. The facade cracked a little more when she noticed the third man, and her smile faltered.

"Who is this?" she asked, somewhat demandingly, pointing her cane at Watson. The doctor stepped back, a restrained, soft sound coming from his throat at the point of the blunt instrument being thrust his way. He smiled nervously and tipped his hat.

"D-Doctor John H. Watson, Your Ladyship," he said, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a business card, which he handed to her. "My card."

The Countess inspected the card with an air colder than the snowy weather without.

"221B, Baker Street," she read aloud, and sniffed snootily. "Hardly an address to inspire confidence."

Watson's smile did not falter.

"My flat-mate and I have never really sought to inspire confidence," he said, quite honestly. "We have quite enough of our own."

Louis smirked. The words were spoken politely, but he caught the undercurrent of boldness in the doctor's voice, and it pleased him...especially when the Countess narrowed her eyes, looking a little miffed.

"Dr. Watson is a...personal friend," Albert intervened. "He has come at my brother William's request; William is indisposed, and the Doctor graciously agreed to dictate things while you show Louis what you have to show."

"I did?" Watson asked...then, at a nudge from Louis, quickly said, "Ah...that is...yes, ma'am, I did."

This explanation settled the Countess' haughty attitude considerably: after all, a friend of a fellow noble family was another matter.

"Very well," she said, and soon resumed her warmer demeanor (though saying it was "warmer" was like comparing an ice cube and cold water), as she beckoned the three men in. "Quickly, gentlemen: in from the snow!"

The three men were only too happy to oblige. There was no servant to greet them as they wiped their feet on the mat inside the foyer, and then hung up their overcoats and hats themselves, Watson and Albert placing their canes in an umbrella stand.

"I have to admit, I'm a tad surprised," Albert spoke up.

"Surprised?" the Countess repeated. "By what?"

"No great matter, Your Ladyship," shrugged Albert. "It's just that I would have expected your butler or your maid to greet us. Mr. Ryder or Miss Cusack?"

The Countess snorted with a scowl.

"Mr. Ryder left earlier; some sort of business in Convent Gardens, he wouldn't explain much."

"And your maid?"

"Cusack is nowhere to be found!" exclaimed the Countess angrily, gripping her cane more tightly as she added, softly and sinisterly, "I shall have a very serious talk with that miserable girl when I next see her...a very serious talk, indeed…"

Albert's smile became a bit more tight-lipped, and Louis narrowed his eyes, but they said nothing.

"I'm sure she'll have a good reason, Your Ladyship," Watson said, soothingly, knowing nothing that the two Moriartys knew.

"She'd better, Doctor. She'd better," glared the Countess, then cleared her throat and straightened up. "Now, I shall direct you all on a tour of the mansion itself. Lord Albert, you have already seen what there is to see; would you care to join us or wait elsewhere?"

"I'll be happy to join," Albert said with a smile. "Perhaps if Louis needs help understanding something, I can explain."

"I would appreciate that," smiled Louis, and then looked to Watson. "Doctor, would you write down anything I feel I need to remember? I can take the pages from your memorandum book later."

"Certainly!" smiled Watson, and pulled a memorandum book he carried with him at all times out of his pocket; he wasn't sure how Louis knew about the little booklet, but he also didn't care much.

"Excellent," the Countess said in a clipped way, and nodded. "Then, if you will come with me gentlemen, we shall-"

CRASHK!

The four all jumped in alarm, the Countess gasping in fright as a window shattered, and two darkly dressed figures leapt into the room. Both were wearing long, heavy black coats, with black masks over the bottom halves of their faces. One of them carried a pair of pistols, the other dual knives. The former had gray-blue eyes and strange, seaweed-colored hair. The latter had long white hair, tied in a ponytail, and copper colored eyes that glinted dangerously, as bright as the edges of his bayonet-style blades.

The Countess of Morcar gasped in fright and ducked behind Albert, who stood in front of her protectively, while Louis clenched his fists, slipping into a ready stance of own. Watson just stared, eyes and mouth wide open.

"Wh-What on Earth?!" exclaimed the Countess.

"Who are you?!" Albert demanded to know.

The two men narrowed their eyes, and pointed their weapons at the Countess.

"Who we are is not important," the man with the guns said.

"This is a robbery," the man with the knives went on. "Cooperate, and there won't be any-"

BANG!

The man with the knives gasped and jolted; his daggers sparked as - with almost unnatural skill and precision - he struck away the bullet that had been aimed at his shoulder. It ricocheted into the staircase nearby, making a black hole in the bannister.

Dr. Watson stepped forward, glaring determinedly; a VERY large Army-Issued Revolver was smoking in his hand. All present stared at him in shock.

"You just broke into a lady's house on Christmas Eve," John said, far-too-coolly. "That's not polite at all. I would advise you both to leave now."

The two attackers seemed rather shocked. They looked at Watson, then each other...then seemed to smirk behind their masks before facing him again and adopting fighting poses.

Watson sighed; he looked rather sad, regretful, but only for a second.

"I don't like fighting," he muttered, "But if you insist…"

His eyes slid over to Albert.

"Lord Moriarty...will you protect the Countess?"

Albert was speechless. He nodded slowly. After what he'd been told of and seen from the Doctor, this took him VERY off guard. Granted, things were still going according to plan, but the start of said plan was already not as intended.

Watson smirked, noticing Albert's expression, and only guessing part of its reason.

"Don't be so surprised," he chuckled. "I WAS in the military."

"You were a doctor, though," Louis thought to say; he looked equally stupefied.

"I had bad days," Watson replied, rather grimly, and narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Louis, you should get to safety, too."

Louis had to admit, the stunning seriousness Watson was showing almost convinced him to do so...but he remembered the plan, and decided to stick to it.

Besides, if Watson was going to play for keeps - and he clearly was - someone had to be a mediator here, whether the Doctor knew it or not.

So, he instead adopted a grim expression of his own, and moved into a ready stance.

"I'm trained," was all he said.

Watson's eyes lit up; for a moment, that bright, sunny smile returned to his face...but it was gone in an instant as, without further warning, the man with the knives came charging forward.

Watson and Louis dodged to either side, and the knife-wielder swung his blades at the Countess. Albert twirled the middle-aged noblewoman out of the way, almost as if waltzing with her, and guided the panting, panicking lady out of the foyer.

"Hurry, Your Ladyship; this way!" he said. "Stay by me!"

The Countess whimpered as Albert led her around a corner, too confused and scared to argue. The man with the daggers moved to pursue them…

BANG!

Another shot from Watson nearly blasted away his big toe, and he jumped back. Watson huffed through his nose, and tilted his hat forward on his head, the brim half-hiding his eyes and giving him a much less sweet appearance than usual.

"Not another step," he warned.

The copper-eyed burglar seemed to grin behind his mask.

"I could say the same for you," he said darkly.

Watson heard the click of a revolver being cocked behind him, and - remembering the second villain - turned around fast.

BANG-BANG!

Two guns went off almost at the same time, as the masked gunman and Dr. Watson fired at each other.

PING-PANG!

The bullets smashed into each other in mid-air, and fell to the floor; the heat and pressure caused the projectiles to be mashed together in a wad of twisted, lumpy lead, which bounced twice on the floor before going still.

Watson and the masked man gaped, and looked at each other, then their guns, with matching expressions of amazement…

...But the freak accident was quickly overlooked as the masked man glared with a growl, and opened fire again, blasting once more with his first pistol, and twice more with the second.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

John H. Watson held onto his hat and dove towards the grand staircase, ducking behind one side of it. Once the shots had ended - BANG! - he swung himself around and fired at the attacker's left knee.

Either the attacker moved out of the way, or Watson missed, but the shot must have been close enough to cause discomfort: the second man dropped down on the other side of the steps, the pair having a bullet battle across the foot of the foyer staircase

The copper-eyed man watched all of this, and moved to seemingly try to help his partner...only to stop short when a knife went to his own throat.

Louis' red eyes were hard and dark as he leaned close, whispering in the man's ear…

"Make it look good, Maestro. We now have an active audience."

Jack Renfield blinked...then smirked behind his mask.

"Young Louis," he whispered back. "I think maybe you've forgotten…I TAUGHT you how to make it look good."

Louis gasped as - WHAM! - the old man suddenly grabbed his arm and Judo-tossed him to the floor. Louis was quick to scramble to his feet as the disguised Jack the Ripper scraped his blades against each other in a showy fashion.

"HAVE AT YOU!" he roared, and Louis barely had time to parry a strike from one knife, as Jack flew at him, swinging his blades around. Louis gritted his teeth as he blocked and dodged each strike; Jack was telegraphing each attack, making it easier to avoid or block...but not so much it looked forced or phony. Just enough to give Louis a hint of his next move, so his fellow butler wouldn't be taken off guard.

Their job was to make a distraction; provide a show for Watson, a reason for the Countess to hide, and an opening for their other party member. They didn't want to kill anyone, least of all each other.

Sebastian Moran flinched back in his hiding place, splinters of wood nearly stabbing into his cheek as he avoided another shot from Dr. Watson. He couldn't help but smile; the little medic had more gumption and a better aim than he reckoned! If William saw a perfect match in Sherlock Holmes, Moran would have been tempted to say he saw an equally worthy opponent in Watson right about then and there.

His mind wasn't really on the sport of things, though; he had to keep on his toes. He checked his ammo, and then fired another shot. He was missing intentionally; aiming just shy of Watson each time. It would have been easy to put a bloody hole in the surgeon's forehead, but Moran had no desire to do that. Louis had given him William's orders: the doctor was not to be harmed. On the flip side, Watson seemed to have far less compunctions about wounding Moran, if not outright killing him, which left Sebastian at a slight disadvantage.

Only a slight one. He was good at dodging.

While reloading one of his pistols - he could hear Watson was doing the same with his own revolver - Moran's navy eyes looked towards the window they had crashed through, where he saw the silhouette of another figure watching the battle…

"Move quickly, Fred," he whispered to himself, as he fixed and cocked his gun, ready to continue the game…

Outside the window stood the grotesque little man who had taken the Moriarty coach to the carriage house. He noticed the glance Sebastian Moran threw his way.

His own eyes - almost the same color as the masked colonel's - narrowed and he nodded, then silently moved away from the window, almost crawling on his belly as he headed towards the back of the mansion. There was a balcony on the second floor of the manor house. This was the Countess of Morcar's bedroom view. Albert - according to William's plan - would have taken the Countess to the kitchen to hide. With the sounds of clanging metal and gunpowder exploding all over the place, plus her own mortal terror, and any words Albert might pour into her ears, she would never hear anything that the young Master of Disguise would do.

Fred Porlock - costumed as the nasty little stablehand - reached into the folds of his shabby cloak...and pulled out a thick rope, with a grappling hook attached. He twirled the weighty end of it before hurling it upwards. The hook latched onto the balcony railing, and Fred jumped up, feet planting onto the side of the old mansion. Then, he began to quickly and quietly climb up, as if scaling a mountain.

Soon, Fred reached the balcony, and shimmied nimbly over the railing. There was a huge glass door, really an oversized window, which led out onto the balcony. He tried the handle, but of course it was locked. This was of no great concern, however: reaching into his coat again, he found that one key item that every criminal worth their salt carried on them: a lockpick.

Fred was as skilled at picking locks as any of his other talents; once it was open, he did something unexpected: he removed his boots. There was a purpose to the oddity: with all the snow, his boots were no doubt VERY moist, and footprints would easily be detected. He couldn't allow that. Once they were off, he opened the glass panel and slipped stealthily into the Countess' personal chambers. The room smelled like expensive perfume...the bad kind...and was done up in far too much pink for his personal tastes. With a slight grimace, the youthful scoundrel crept over to the Countess' writing desk.

It did not take him long to find what he was looking for: a book with a blue cover but pink spine, inside of which were dozens upon dozens of pages of the Countess' handwriting. Two more identical books were beneath it. Fred checked through all three volumes, flipping through them quickly...then his eyes widened as he froze on a particular page.

He skimmed it swiftly, then narrowed his eyes before tucking the book into another secret place in his costume (he had a lot of those ready). Now it was time for him to make his exit, and he did so as stealthily as ever. The Master of Disguise spoke not a word, but shut the drawer, making sure nothing seemed disturbed as he scurried out the window. He slipped back into his boots, shut the panel - locking it as he left - and then slid down the rope back to solid ground.

Fred whipped the grappling hook off the railing, and rolled it back up even as he ran back to the window. He could still hear the sounds of the skirmish: as he peered through the window, he could see that Jack and Louis were all but wrestling on the floor, each (seemingly) trying to stab the other in the face, but never getting close enough. Moran had changed positions, taking cover behind a small table near the wall; Watson was still in his spot behind the stairs.

Moran fired one more shot before feeling a hand tap his shoulder. It was the disguised Fred, who withdrew his hand back through the window and gave him a thumbs-up...before seemingly disappearing into the exterior shrubberies.

Sebastian smiled behind his mask, wider than before. That was the signal. The game was over and the charade could end. He whistled sharply to his "partner in crime," and both Jack and Louis froze and looked his way.

"Oi!" Moran called out to Jack. "Let's get outta here, mate! No amount of money is worth this!"

Jack nodded, and looked back to Louis...before striking him with a clubbing blow on the skull.

Louis cried out shrilly; he barely heard Jack mutter, "Sorry; didn't mean to make it so hard."

Then, without another word, the old timer pushed away from his opponent, and dashed towards the window. Colonel Sebastian Moran leapt through the shattered portal, and Jack the Ripper was quick to follow. Watson ran to the window after them, gun still wisping with smoke...but sighed with aggravation as he looked outside to see nothing at all.

"They got away!" he exclaimed, then looked back to Louis...and his eyes widened as he saw Louis clutching the side of his head, trying to sit up. His expression, once grim and determined, softened instantly...and he tipped his hat back, his face more fully on display as he holstered his trusty revolver and ran to the youngest Moriarty's side.

"Mr. Louis!" he gasped. Worry was very evident in his face, the soldier replaced by the gentle doctor. "Are you injured?"

"It's nothing," mumbled Louis, shaking his head to clear it and checking his glasses. They weren't damaged; he sighed with relief and adjusted them before looking up at Watson wearily. "I'm going to have quite a headache for Christmas, but other than that, I think I'll be fine."

Watson smiled with relief and chuckled, helping the stunned Louis to his feet; Louis stumbled once and nearly cussed.

"I wish he hadn't hit me so hard," he muttered, rather casually, forgetting the facade for a split second.

Any panic he felt about that evaporated when the good doctor rolled his brown eyes.

"Don't be so petty; you'll sound like Sherlock at this rate," he teased.

Louis groaned.

"Please don't say that, Doctor; I thought you were supposed to heal the sick, not make people feel sick."

Watson let out a laugh suspiciously close to a giggle, and Louis smiled fondly.

"Well," the Doctor said, straightening himself out and still smiling, "At least now I know why I came."

Louis blinked, and his smile fell. Maybe there was reason to panic after all.

"What do you mean?" he asked, slowly. Had Watson realized the truth of what was going on? Had they been too obvious?

Watson smiled at Louis with slightly narrowed eyes.

"I know my flat-mate," he said. "Your brother may have volunteered me, but Sherlock never would have agreed to it unless he thought there was a good reason to do so. My guess is he knew something like this was going to happen, and he wanted to make sure your brother was out of harm's way, and I could be here to help out. So, when William suggested I go with you, he decided to take advantage of that."

Louis blinked slowly. He...really didn't know how to react to that. He almost wanted to laugh out loud, but somehow found that string of logic almost made too much sense, from a certain point of view.

"I...ah...I see," was all he finally settled on, then narrowed his eyes, deciding to continue playing along. "But how would Mr. Holmes know?"

Watson shrugged.

"I haven't the foggiest," he admitted. "But one thing I've learned is that when I don't know what he's up to, I always find out in good time."

Louis smiled.

"That's funny," he whispered. "I feel the same about William, a lot of the time."

Watson chuckled and his smile turned teasing.

"I guess we both have schemers to deal with, don't we?" he joked with a wink.

Louis' smile widened.

"You have no idea."

"MY HOUSE!"

The shrill, hoity-toity cry made both Louis and Watson flinch like guilty schoolboys; they turned to see Albert return, following the Countess of Morcar, who stared in horror at the broken window, and the bullet holes that riddled the floor and walls.

"Are you both alright?" Albert asked calmly, as if the room WEREN'T a disaster area.

Louis and Watson nodded, looking between Albert and the Countess, who was staring at each separate puncture-wound in her bannister like they were bullet holes in her own children.

If she'd ever had any.

"The woodwork...the decor...the DAMAGES…!" she choked out.

Watson shuffled on his feet, and mumbled something, tipping his hat down again, this time to hide his face. Louis chuckled and looked to Albert.

"I...think we had better leave the Countess now," he said slowly. "This has been a trying experience for her. We can come back another day."

"Agreed, Louis," Albert nodded, and smiled a smile that was perhaps a little too similar to one of William's for ANYONE to feel comfortable as he patted the Countess' shoulder. The woman had fallen to her knees, one hand over her mouth as she picked up a wreath that had been shot to pieces into the battle. She looked about ready to cry at her decorations being spoiled.

"Goodnight, Countess!" Albert said cheerily. "I recommend drinking some warm milk before bed; it will help calm your nerves."

And without another word, Albert led Louis and Dr. Watson out of the mansion. Watson kept his hat down, awkwardly shuffling behind the two Moriartys.

He turned back once to try and apologize for the mess...only to see the Countess was kissing one of the walls, like a mother trying to kiss her child better.

He lifted a finger, mouth open...then closed his mouth...lowered his finger…

...And wisely decided to say nothing, leaving VERY quickly.


Meanwhile, at 221B Baker Street…

Miss Hudson had retired to bed early. The flat was silent when Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty ushered James Ryder into the consulting room. The butler shuffled nervously across the floor and sat down on the sofa pointed out by Holmes, watching as the two men removed their overcoats, hanging them up on a rack. Moriarty also removed his hat, and propped up his cane in a corner, before the pair crossed to where the fireplace was still blazing; evidently, Miss Hudson had wanted Holmes and Watson to return to a warm room.

Sherlock mentally reminded himself to thank her for that later.

Sherlock sat in his usual chair, and Moriarty took the seat beside him.

"Now, sir," Moriarty began. "Are you comfortably settled?"

Ryder nodded, but he didn't look comfortable at all; he was fidgeting constantly.

"Well, then let's begin," smiled Holmes, crossing his legs and leaning his head into one hand. "For starters, Mr. Ryder, what is it you want to know?"

"The goose!" Ryder exclaimed, so loudly that Holmes jerked back slightly in his seat, before smirking as the man licked his lips thinly and went on more quietly: "Th-The goose, gentlemen...the one with the black stripe on its throat...where is it?"

"I'm afraid it's gone," Holmes said.

Ryder went pale.

"Gone?" he gulped.

Holmes nodded slowly and silently.

"Gone," he repeated, and made a show with his hands. "Poof! Vanished."

"B-But…but what do you mean by gone?!" exclaimed Ryder, now looking more worried than ever, the ratty fellow twitching nervously. "What happened to it?"

"After it left Mr. Breckenridge's establishment?" Moriarty purred, raising an eyebrow. "It's quite an involved story, Mr. Ryder, but the short answer is...it came here."

A pause.

"Here?" eeked Ryder.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and gestured around the flat with his hands. "I last saw it in this very room. And I am not surprised you took such an interest in it."

Ryder looked puzzled. Holmes smiled wider, and shared a look with William James Moriarty. The detective then stood, and moved to another part of the room.

"Why?" Ryder asked, trembling as he spoke.

"Oh. Well, it laid an egg, after it was already dead," Holmes said casually.

Ryder blinked.

"...What?" he deadpanned.

"Oh, not just any ordinary egg, Mr. Ryder," grinned Holmes, and reached into a gaslight fixture. "But the bonniest, brightest…"

Ryder's pupils dilated as Holmes revealed a familiar ring.

"...BLUEST egg you ever saw."

Ryder gaped...slowly, a dumbstruck sort of smile came over his lips. Almost as if in a trance, he rose to his feet, staring at the sparkling Blue Carbuncle as if it were an angel from above, sent to bring him to salvation. He trudged the short space across the room to where Holmes was standing - just on the other side of the fireplace - and reached out with quivering fingers for the ring…

...Only to stop short as Holmes clasped his fist around it...and all the blood drained from the butler's face as he saw the victorious grin on Sherlocks' own.

"The game's up, Ryder," whispered Sherlock Holmes.

James Ryder blinked three times...a soft "gluck" sound echoed in his throat...then he moaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he began to collapse in a faint.

"HOLD UP, MAN, YOU'LL BE IN THE FIRE!" shouted Holmes, catching Ryder before the man could swoon straight into the fireplace, and roughly shoved the butler back onto the couch. Ryder yelped as he hit the chair...and then almost immediately began to sob, his whole body shaking as he clutched his face, crying like a small child who had lost his parents.

Sherlock Holmes loomed over him with a stern glare, watching without a single shred of pity as the man wept.

"Look at it, William," he intoned, in a tone of disgust. "What a wretched little shrimp it is, to be sure. There's not enough blood in it for felony with impunity."

Moriarty narrowed his blood red eyes at Ryder, who whimpered and quivered, soon beginning to wipe his eyes clear. He was still crying, but he had composed himself.

"We have almost every link in the chain, Mr. Ryder," he said, and when the butler's watery eyes fell upon him, he straightened his stance in his seat, steepling his fingers and holding his head high, looking down his nose at the fellow with his unearthly red eyes. "There is very little you need to say. Still, that little might as well be cleared up to make the case complete."

"For starters," Holmes said, sitting down in his usual armchair with almost lordly dignity, "Why did you steal the jewel? Was it just for the money?"

James Ryder whimpered. For several seconds he said nothing, trembling and biting his lip. Finally, Holmes lost patience.

"ANSWER!" he bellowed, and Ryder flinched as if he'd been struck...then, in a very tiny voice, he began to confess.

"It...it was C-C-Cathy's idea," he coughed at last.

"Cathy?" Holmes queried.

"Catherine Cusack," guessed William James Moriarty. "Her Ladyship's maid. I take it, Mr. Ryder, that you and Miss Cusack have been in a relationship for some time?"

"Almost three years, sir," James Ryder nodded, head bobbing miserably. "She...she has a friend in America, who served time. Our...our p-plan was to use the funds we'd saved to s-s-sail to the United States, a-and ask that friend for help fencing the jewel."

"And then, with the money that would provide, the two of you could start a new life together, in a new land?" Holmes drawled, and scoffed. "Sounds like a bad romance novel."

"M-Maybe, sir, but it's true!" insisted Ryder. "We...w-we just wanted to get away from the Countess, Mr. Holmes...Professor...we just wanted to be free together!"

"Yes. Free. Together," William repeated, his voice dripping with venom. "I suppose that's why you saw fit to strip a man of that freedom and his family, eh?"

Ryder made a noise like a kicked puppy, and ducked his head. His hands fidgeted guiltily around his hat.

"You have the makings of a pretty villain, Ryder," Professor Moriarty remarked. "I presume you remembered Horner's exploits as a jewel thief from old papers, and when some small job was needed at the mansion, it was your idea to use him as a scapegoat."

"You knew suspicion would fall on him the minute his name was mentioned," Sherlock Holmes continued. "But you...YOU stole the jewel. You probably just tucked it into your pocket while the Countess was out of her quarters; it would have been easy for you to do that. You waited till he was out of the house, then informed your confederate, Cusack. She raised the alarm, and when Gregson arrived, the fact Horner was in the house was all the proof he needed. You organized it so this unfortunate man would be arrested, and then-!"

"I'LL NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF, MR. HOLMES!" screamed Ryder, suddenly throwing himself off the sofa and kneeling before the detective pleadingly. "For pity's sake, have mercy on me! Think of my father, think of my mother! It would break their hearts! I've never done anything wrong before; I've never stolen so much as a farthing, you've got to believe me!"

"We're hardly talking of farthings," Moriarty said, coldly.

Ryder ignored him, and Sherlock's eyes jolted wide open as the man grabbed hold of his pant legs.

"Don't bring me to court, Mr. Holmes! Professor!" Ryder wailed. "I'll never steal again, I swear it on the Bible! For God's sake, please-ACK!"

Ryder fell back with a startled cry as Sherlock Holmes rose up suddenly in his seat. His fists were clenched at his side, and his teeth ground against each other in fury as he glared down, eyes like ice.

"Get. Back. In. Your. SEAT!" he roared.

Ryder did so, whimpering like a wounded animal. Professor Moriarty, the whole time, sat cool and aloof, not even flinching a mite at Holmes' outburst, watching Ryder with the predatory calmness of a spider waiting to catch a fly.

Sherlock, however, was still seething, looking down at the pathetic Ryder like he was a scab that needed to be plucked off and flicked away.

"It's all very well for you to cringe and crawl now," he snarled, "But you thought little of the man you sent to the dock for a crime of which he knew NOTHING!"

Ryder gulped a few times, and wiped his eyes on his sleeves.

"I'll...I'll sign a confession," he bleated. "I'll fly; I'll leave the country with Cathy. Without us, the trial can't proceed; the charge against him will break down, a-and if there's proof…"

He trailed off. Sherlock Holmes narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Ryder closely. Ryder writhed in his seat under the strict stare.

"I...I know I've done something terrible, taking that man away from his family," the thief said, softly. "I've been thinking over that hour after hour, but...self-preservation and all that. I'll...I'll tell you anything you want. Just...please...don't send me there, too...I've been imprisoned for a long time already."

Moriarty calmly looked between the robber and the detective, waiting to see Sherlock's reaction.

"What happens will depend upon you," Holmes declared, and sat back down in his armchair before looking at the young Professor. "Liam? Can you write down a confession?"

William nodded silently, and stood up. He paused to glare at Horner with his blood red eyes, and when the man nearly sobbed again, continued. He picked up a few pieces of paper and a fountain pen from Dr. Watson's writing desk, then sat back down and prepared to write.

"Tell me the whole story," Sherlock Holmes urged, gravely. "How did the stone end up in the goose, and how did the goose end up on the open market? The truth now, Ryder. The truth! That is your only hope."

James Ryder nodded, and took a few breaths to calm himself. Professor Moriarty fastidiously scribbled down as much as he could, transcribing the man's words as Ryder soon proceeded to tell his story…


I'll tell you everything I can; there's plenty to relate.

After poor Mr. Horner was arrested, it occurred to me that I should hide the jewel as quickly as I could. After all, I had no idea when the police might get it into their heads to search me. There was no safe place I could think of on the estate. I managed to slip away for two hours, while the police were investigating things; it all worked like a charm, you see. Horner's record was so bad, they fixated on him, and I suppose in the time I was gone, Cathy was able to come up with a good excuse to explain away my absence to both the officers and Her Ladyship. It was in those two hours that an idea came to me, which I thought would beat the best detective that ever lived.

How wrong I was.

My sister, Maggie - Mrs. Oakshott to you - runs a farm in Brixton. She raises fowl and collects eggs, and then sells them to market. She's got four kinds of birds: chickens, ducks, turkeys...and geese. I took a cab to Brixton, hoping to think up a plan where and when I was away from the Countess and the chaos. Maggie was happy to see me, but I must have seemed very odd, because she said I looked as if I'd seen a ghost. I told her there had been a robbery at the Morcar Mansion. She led me out to a spot near the pens to rest myself, and went into the house to fetch me some brandy.

Once Maggie went back into the house, I just happened to glance towards one of the pens. Inside of it were twenty-five geese. All of them were identical, pure white...except for two. Both had black rings around their necks. That was when the thought came to me, and with a sudden lurch - like a wolf pouncing on a rabbit - I loped into the pen, swinging the door shut before lunging at one of the two geese with a black-ringed neck. I caught it easily, and - while it was squawking - I dropped the Blue Carbuncle down its gullet, just as easily as if it were a pill.

Now, my idea was this: my sister had told me that I could have one of the twenty-five geese for Christmas, and she would send it to me after she sent out the other geese to market. I knew that would happen that very night. I quickly scrambled back out of the pen, and told Maggie which of the geese I desired.

Maggie was...a little confused - put out, I should say - because, she revealed, she'd actually been fattening up a different goose especially for me. I insisted emphatically that I wanted the one I had pointed out. My sister was miffed, but she relented, with the warning that she wouldn't be doing me any favors next year.

At the time, I thought I could live with that. Right now, I'm not so sure.

You might be able to guess what happened next: sure enough, the goose came ...but it was the wrong one! The stone was nowhere to be found! At first, I thought it might have been destroyed inside the bird, but then I remembered there were TWO geese with black rings around their neck! Both were about the same size and weight: Maggie had no way of knowing which one had the Blue Carbuncle in its belly!

Frantic, I raced back to her place, and desperately urged her to tell me where she'd sold the geese. I thought it was luck smiling upon me, at first, when she said all twenty-four others had been sold to the same place: Breckenridge's Poultry Shop.

Once again, I was sorely mistaken. The man had sold the lot! I begged Breckenridge to tell me where he sent all those geese! I pleaded with him, but he never divulged anything! He was always as you saw him this evening. I searched as often as I could for someone else who might know something, but I didn't know where to turn! I thought I'd go mad! I knew tonight was my last chance! Being Christmas Eve, by this time tomorrow, all those geese will be eaten, no doubt, if they haven't been already…

...And...and now...now I'm a branded thief. Without...without ever even...even TOUCHING the wealth for which I sold my character.

What am I to tell Cathy now? Where...where can we go from here? What do I tell my sister...what...what hope or chance is there for me to start fresh?

I can't move on. I never could.

All I've done is lost my soul, by sending an innocent man to gaol...and all for nothing!

God help me...oh, God help me…


As James Ryder finished his confession, he once again buried his face in his hands, sobbing like an infant as he rocked back and forth pathetically in his seat. Professor Moriarty's expression was blank, glowing red eyes burning as he tapped a final period into place. He paused, looking at the pathetic little man with a total absence of emotion before standing and strolling towards him.

He tapped the weeping butler on the shoulder. The man looked up at him, face speckled with freshly flowing tears. Moriarty held out the paper and pen.

"Sign," he commanded, his voice the dangerous hiss of a coiled serpent.

James Ryder did not dare disobey, and hurriedly scratched his name upon a dotted line Moriarty had drawn. The Professor took the confession from him then, and placed it on a nearby table as the man hugged himself, sniffling and whimpering, shaking as he continued to cry.

Moriarty then looked towards Sherlock Holmes. The detective wasn't looking at Ryder, but rather at the wall, his expression deeply pensive. One of his hands massaged his forehead, the other drumming its fingers methodically on the armrest of his seat. He was perfectly silent, the cigarette in his mouth sending wisps of pale smoke up to the ceiling.

"The confession has been formally signed, Mr. Holmes," William informed him, in a business-like manner.

Holmes grunted but said nothing, still staring at the wall…

...But he blinked when he heard Ryder sniffle and snort loudly. He looked towards the rodent-like man, his expression seemingly surprised to see the man was still sitting there...then, he glared.

"...Get out."

The words were so quiet, William almost wasn't sure he heard them. Ryder must have felt the same way, because his own teary, bleary eyes blinked open, and he looked up at Holmes, not daring to hope.

"Wh-what?" he whispered.

Holmes didn't look at Ryder as he snuffed out his cigarette.

"I will give you and Miss Cusack twelve hours to leave the city," Sherlock said. His voice was mechanical, matter-of-fact, betraying no feeling at all. "Sail to America, if you want to, whatever, just be gone before then. That is when I will share the confession with Scotland Yard. Now get out."

Ryder blinked...and a tiny, elated smile crossed his face.

"Heavens bless you, sir," he whispered.

Holmes blinked a dull, slow, dead blink, barely giving Ryder a glance.

"No more words," he droned, monotonously. "Just. Get. Out."

Ryder had dropped his hat on the floor. He picked it up and placed it on his head, then got up from his seat. He started to leave...then paused, thinking better of it as he moved back to where Sherlock sat.

"I...I don't know how to thank you-EEP!"

Ryder stopped short with a squeaking sound as Sherlock rose suddenly from his seat, grabbing the man by the collar."

"This is your last warning," Holmes growled like an angry bulldog. "Go."

He released the butler's collar, shoving him back. Ryder stumbled briefly, but soon regained his balance, and darted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. His footfalls were heard upon the stairs, soon followed by the distant, dull thud of the downstairs door opening and shutting fast. After that, silence.

Professor Moriarty watched all this with an unchanging, automaton-like demeanor. He was still unblinking as he looked at Sherlock Holmes, who prowled like an angry cat towards his fireplace, leaning against the mantle with his head down. William moved towards the nearby window and looked outside.

Through the ever thickening snowfall, he saw the dark shape of James Ryder run down the street, away from the flat...then, he turned a corner, and was gone.

Moriarty blinked once, then looked back to Sherlock, who had just pulled a bottle and a shot glass of brandy from a nearby cabinet. He poured himself a shot, and drank it down, before lowering his head again. His dark hair hid his face from sight.

William looked him up and down. His expression still hadn't shifted an ounce.

"I must confess, Holmes, to being a little surprised."

Holmes snarled, and hurled the empty glass into the fireplace, in a sudden explosion of frustration.

"I AM NOT RETAINED BY THE POLICE!" he roared. "I'M NOT HERE TO SUPPLY THEIR DEFICIENCIES!"

Professor Moriarty did not even flinch. He quietly watched, hands behind his back. His fingers unconsciously twitched against each other in a spidery way as he watched Holmes deflate and collapse into his arm chair. The man took a swig of brandy directly from the bottle...then topped the drink, shaking his head as he placed it on the coffee table. He brushed some hair out of his face and looked at William with a weak, weary smile.

"I may be committing a felony," he conceded, "But I am also saving a soul. Send him to gaol now, he'll be a gaol-bird for life...but he's been so scared this time, he shouldn't go wrong again."

Professor Moriarty was silent. His expression still failed to even twitch a muscle. He turned to look back out the window. He could see Ryder's footsteps in the snow...he could see the way the still-falling ice crystals steadily began to cover them up...as if the man had never been there at all…

Sherlock's blue eyes flickered as he saw the contemplative way the academic stood there...saw the unsettling look in those glistening, glassy red eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out on a sigh...then jumped from his chair, far more jovial.

"Well, anyway, we have the jewel!" he said, clapping his hands together and moving to stand by William's side. "Not to mention the confession. Even if we didn't, as the man said, the trial won't go on. One way or another, John Horner is as good as free, and the Blue Carbuncle may be returned to its rightful owner! Besides…"

A hand fell on William's shoulder. For the first time, emotion sparked in the Professor's hollow face, as he stiffened, and looked to Holmes, who smiled back with a gentle, almost affectionate look of his own.

"...This is the Season of Forgiveness," Sherlock winked. "Right, Liam?"

Professor Moriarty blinked twice.

"Forgiveness," he whispered, almost sounding as if the word were a foreign concept to him...then, in an instant, his mask-like smile slithered back into place, his expression cooling in a split second. "Yes. I suppose you have a point."

Sherlock Holmes smiled a little more widely.

Just then, the pair heard the door open behind them. They turned to see who had come in...and both smiled even more widely yet at the sight of Watson and the Moriarty Brothers stepping into the room.

"Ah! John, welcome back!" Sherlock greeted.

"Albert. Louis," William greeted in his much-too-quiet voice. "You're here sooner than I expected."

"Our business with the Countess of Morcar is concluded, William," Louis reported, a hint of pride in his voice and expression.

William raised an eyebrow.

"Satisfactorily, I take it?"

Albert glanced at Watson, who flushed and kicked at an imaginary stone, before looking back to his adoptive sibling.

"Yes, William," he confirmed, in a voice that was perhaps a little too spritely. "Most satisfactorily."

William's smile took a turn for the devious. If either Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson noticed, they were very good at pretending they didn't.

"Well, not a moment too soon!" grinned Sherlock, and waved the confession paper in the air. "We found out who was really behind the burglary! Tomorrow morning, I'll bring this report to the police; maybe I can finally convince Gregson that the Earth is round and yes, in fact, our planet does revolve around the Sun."

"Don't get too overzealous," chortled John Watson.

"All in a night's work, I suppose," chuckled Professor Moriarty, and walked over to the door past Watson, picking up his hat, coat, and cane. "Well...it's a long ride back to Durham, and the hour is rather late. I think we had better be going, don't you, Albert? Louis?"

Both of the other Moriarty brothers nodded in agreement.

"Aww...can't you stay for a drink?" Holmes almost pouted.

"Another time perhaps," William said airly, and smiled slyly as he put on his coat and hat. "Besides, there will be plenty to drink tomorrow night, I assure you. Six o' clock?"

"Six o'clock," confirmed Sherlock Holmes with a smile. "Myself, John, Miss Hudson, and Lestrade will all be traveling together. We'll be taking a horsebus to the train station, a train to Durham, and another horsebus from the Durham station to your place."

"Seems like a good plan," Albert said.

"Be on time," Louis thought to warn.

Holmes frowned and crossed his arms, sticking his long nose up into the air.

"I cannot account for the punctuality of Dr. Watson and the rest, nor the reliability of the company steam engines, nor even for the swiftness of the horsedrawn transports, but I, for one, plan to be at the Moriarty Mansion PRECISELY at six o' clock!" he declared, huffishly.

"Presuming you don't sleep in till five," mumbled Watson.

William chuckled as Holmes clearly became embarrassed by Watson's words.

"Well...we shall see you when we see you, then," the Professor said, and tipped his hat. "Good evening, gentlemen...and thank you both for a VERY interesting Christmas Eve."

"Goodbye, Doctor," Louis added to Watson.

Watson smiled and bowed his head respectfully back. Albert James Moriarty quietly waved farewell, and the three brothers then left 221B Baker Street without another word.

The moment they were gone…

"So, John...how was the gunfight?"

Watson turned around fast, eyes nearly bugging out as Holmes lit a cigarette, casually looking out the window.

"How did you…?"

"Gunpowder residue on the back of your hand. Simple, really," Holmes said, and his joviality was replaced with serious concern. "What happened at the Morcar Estate?"

"Then you did know something would happen!"

Holmes blinked slowly, expression cool and almost blank as he blew a smoke ring.

Watson knew that look.

"...Wait...you...you DIDN'T know?"

Holmes shook his head.

"I sent you with the Moriarty brothers because I saw no harm in it; Liam is my friend. I wanted you to get to know his brothers, that seemed a good way to do it. Besides, it meant I got to have a night out with Liam," Sherlock shrugged. "I know I'm eccentric, John, but not EVERYTHING I do has some bizarre mystery behind it."

Watson now looked rather worried.

"Well...it's a bit of a long story, but...if you're sure you want to hear it…"

Holmes was about to demand the information...when suddenly, he heard something outside. He looked out the window...and a soft, strange sort of smile came over his face.

"...John...was anyone injured?"

"No."

"Killed?"

"No."

Holmes snuffed out his cigarette and smiled at Watson.

"Then let's wait till morning," he said. "I think we both could use a rest."

Watson looked relieved.

"Thank you," he said, shoulders slumping. "The adrenaline is wearing off, and I feel like I've been running around in circles for fifty days."

Holmes chuckled, and moved to pick up his violin.

"Before we both get to sleep," he said, and plucked a few strings, checking the tuning, "Let me play you a carol, John. Would you mind if I tried what I was playing earlier today?"

Watson smiled and sat down, brushing off his knees and smiling expectantly.

"I am all ears," he declared.

Sherlock Holmes grinned, and treated his friend right then and there to a private concert...playing and singing to the tune he'd heard William James Moriarty singing just before he'd seen his coach drive away.

"But when to Bethlehem they came, whereas this infant lay, they found him in a manger; where oxen feed on hay! His mother, Mary, kneeling, unto the Lord did pray: 'O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy!'"