"Idiot! Absolute Idiot! You've no idea as to what to do! Don't say you're sorry; just do your job and do it properly! Quickly now!"
The Countess of Morcar's commanding voice, echoing through her mansion halls, preceded the middle-aged noblewoman entering her bedchamber. She slammed the door shut and pinched her brow with a sigh as she collapsed into a well-cushioned armchair at her writing desk.
"Honestly, what is the world coming to?" she whispered, to no one in particular. "It's Christmas Day, and everything is a total mess! My personal maid is gone, my butler has failed to return, the Blue Carbuncle has not been found, and now those buffoons can't seem to clean up properly after that nerve-shattering atrocity last night!"
The woman's frustration gave way to another weary sigh; her head hurt. This whole insanity was so extremely trying, and she felt as if she had aged another ten years just within the past week. She heard the tapping of hammers a floor below and winced, shuddering at the noise.
The Countess paused before drably eyeing the drawer where she kept her diary. She blinked twice...then mumbled something to herself as she massaged her temple with one hand before propping her cane up against one side of her desk. She then opened the drawer and pulled out her diary.
Just as the Countess of Morcar was about to shut the drawer again...she paused. Something seemed amiss. It took her only a moment to realize what it was: after the bedlam of the night before, she hadn't bothered to make any record in her journal, so she hadn't opened the drawer up. Now, she realized something important was missing.
One of the books was gone.
A look of great worry came over the Countess' face; beyond any amount of frustration, she looked genuinely nervous as she opened and shut the other drawers, checking to see if perhaps she had, at some point, pulled that volume out and simply misplaced it…
"Looking for something, Your Ladyship?"
The Countess turned fast towards the sound...and her eyes shot open with surprised alarm. She had opened the window sometime ago to take in the view of the snowy sights of London, along with the brisk winter air. Stepping through the open window, standing on her balcony, was a tall figure, carrying a silver-topped walking stick. They were dressed in a long, black cloak, a snow-speckled hood pulled up over their head.
The Countess gulped nervously as, in the shadows of the hood, she saw two crimson, almost catlike eyes glaring at her.
"'Hell is empty,'" the figure recited. "'And all the devils are here.'"
"What...what is the meaning of this?!" the Countess stuttered out, then tried to stiffen up and impose her authority as she went on, demandingly: "Leave this room at once, or I shall have my servants…!"
"They won't come," the hooded man said, tucking his cane under one arm. "As of this moment, none of your personal attendants are in the house...and the carpenters you hired are, in fact, in my employ."
The Countess blinked.
"Your...employ?" she repeated.
The darkly-cloaked man nodded, and then reached into the folds of his cloak...before revealing a familiar pink-and-blue book.
"I believe this is what you were looking for?" he purred, almost teasingly.
The Countess paled.
"How did you get that?" she gasped out.
The man's eyes narrowed. She couldn't see his face - only his eyes - but somehow, the woman knew he was smiling. He flipped open the book casually, turning the pages with gentle flips of his dark-gloved hand.
"An interesting source of reading," the man said, casually. "The ins and outs of a young lady's first times in a splendid house...I must admit, I felt somewhat voyeuristic reading such accounts. It almost shamed me enough to return this sooner. Almost."
The Countess squirmed uncomfortably. Her fists clenched at her sides as she narrowed her eyes, glancing towards the door quietly…
"Oh, it won't do any good to run," said the Man in Black, his voice flippant and patient. "Two more of my confederates are waiting right outside the door, even as we speak."
"You're bluffing."
The eyes turned to the noblewoman again, seemingly amused.
"Am I?" retorted the Man in Black, then called out a bit more loudly, "Excuse me, would you please give the Countess proof of your presence, Colonel?"
KNOCK-KNOCK.
Right on cue, there came a knock at the door, and then a voice from beyond it said: "My guns are ready if she tries to leave, boss."
"Good man," the Man in Black called back, approvingly.
The Countess gaped, looking between the door and the intruder as the man once again began to flip through her earliest diary without much care.
"Who...who are you?" she whispered.
The man looked up to her again; his voice was so icy, even the Countess' cold demeanor seemed like a volcano in comparison.
"I am the one who will plunge the Empire into the very depths of Hell," the man intoned. "I am the organizer of half that is criminal, and nearly all that is undetected in this great city. I am the Lord of Crime."
The Countess felt her heart skip a beat in dread.
"The Lord of Crime," she whispered into the room, her usually stern, strict voice becoming shaky. "You're...you're true. The rumors...they're real."
"I believe you have that backwards," chuckled the Lord of Crime, and returned his attention to the diary. "Of course, you're no stranger to crime yourself, are you, Countess?"
"Me?" the Countess scowled, trying to look bold but failing miserably. "I…why, I-I've done nothing wrong!"
The Lord of Crime huffed behind his hood.
"Throughout these pages, I see recollections of you 'disciplining' servants in ways that have led to permanent bodily harm, and by all accounts your methods have not mellowed with your age. You call maiming innocent people nothing wrong?"
The Countess narrowed her eyes.
"A servant's duty is to obey and function for its owner," she declared, attempting to match the ice in the man's voice with her own. "If a machine is defective, it needs to be fixed."
"And you fix the machine by breaking it? Rather paradoxical logic, don't you think?"
"If cutting a hole in a tank is the only way to get water out of it, you won't hesitate to do so, will you?"
The Lord of Crime paused, looking at the Countess once again.
"Only if the water is absolutely needed," he responded, calmly. "However, my dear Countess, I am not here to exchange philosophies. Rather, I wish to bring attention to one particularly fascinating incident. One which happened some years ago, on this very night."
The Lord of Crime smiled wider behind his hood at the look of mortification on the noblewoman's face.
"Ahhh, I see you know what date I'm referring to?" he crooned, and tapped one page of the diary he held with one finger. "You should. You wrote about it quite extensively here. I suppose such an event would have been worth writing about, in hindsight...after all, it's always a major moment when your husband dies, isn't it?"
He snapped the book shut, and tucked it back into the folds of his cloak.
"Especially considering the circumstances you described," he went on. "I must admit, I side with your late husband, who went to confront you about your mistreatment of the staff. I can imagine, for a lady of your temperament, the situation would have flown quite out of hand rather quickly...which you confessed yourself. Just as you confessed to, in the midst of your quarrel, roughly shoving him back...at which point, the poor man lost his balance, and accidentally went toppling down the stairs. His neck snapped, and that was the end of it. Dear, dear...that must have been a devilishly awkward position to find yourself in."
The Countess was shaking like a leaf as the Lord of Crime looked at her, his eyes devoid of all emotion.
"I...I never meant to hurt my husband," she said, her voice rather shaky.
"I believe you," the Lord of Crime said. "But do you know what else I believe? That you don't particularly regret it. Marrying him was simply a way of getting closer to money and to power. And once he was gone, you had both in spades; what was there to be sorry about? Accidental or not, remorse-inducing or not...the bottom line is that you profited from murder, Countess."
The Countess plucked up courage, puffing out her chest with pride.
"And? So what if I did?" she inquired. "You can't prove a thing! A person like yourself could hardly take that matter to the police!"
The Lord of Crime chuckled, and pulled his cane out from under his arm, taking hold of it in both hands.
"Oh, no, no, no, Countess...the police will have nothing to do with this. You see, when able, I prefer wiping out this world's grease stains…"
SCHLINK.
"...Personally."
The Countess felt her heartbeat and breath rate increase, as the Lord of Crime drew a long, sharp blade from his cane...and then, with Reaper-like determination, the hooded man began to move towards her, the red eyes remaining empty of all life and light. Sensing the imminent, deadly danger, the lady began to back up...only to inhale sharply as it wasn't long till she found herself pressed up against the shut and locked door of her bed chamber. She heard the click of a gun somewhere outside, and whimpered as the Lord of Crime continued to advance, sword held ready…
"Don't...don't kill me," she pleaded, shaking like a leaf. "P-Please...for the love of God, I...I don't want to die!"
The Lord of Crime paused before her, his eyes remaining shallow and glassy...and the Countess sharply cried out as he swung his arm upwards, leveling the tip of his cane sword at her throat.
She shook her head desperately.
"Please...please, please, no!" she begged. "I'll...I'll g-give you anything! Tell me what you want! Money? The Estate? My staff! Anything, ANYTHING, but-!"
She stopped short as the blade's point touched her throat. Tears prickled the noblewoman's eyes as she trembled, weak noises leaving her as she stared into those demonic eyes as they seemed to burrow into her soul.
"M-Mercy," she peeped out. "Please...sh-show some mercy…"
The red eyes narrowed. Something - some kind of emotion, the lady wasn't sure what - finally flickered in them, and the Lord of Crime looked the woman up and down scientifically. Then, the red eyes hardened, glazing over once more as the criminal mastermind spoke.
"A friend recently reminded me: this is the Season of Forgiveness. Regrettably, I cannot forgive you, Countess."
The woman shut her eyes, and braced herself for the end, giving up on all hope.
"However," the Lord of Crime's voice began again, "In the spirit of the season...I'm going to let you live."
The Countess opened her eyes.
"You...you will?" she rasped, still frightened, but now hopeful.
"Yes. Provided you do as I command," the Lord of Crime answered, and she could sense the smirk that slithered across the unseen face behind the hood as the owner of the unblinking red eyes continued. "From this point on, you are going to treat your staff with more respect. There will be no more beatings. Also, starting with the New Year, you are going to begin giving back more to the world from whence you came. You were not born with money, Milady, and you have, I think, forgotten what it was like to have nothing. I know the feeling, myself...and I have never forgotten. Starting in January, every month, I want you to make a donation of three hundred pounds to charity. I imagine you can afford that much. You may choose which organizations you make this monthly donation to, but do NOT shortchange them."
He leaned in close, the point still pressed to the woman's skin.
"If ever I find out that a single other servant has been harmed, or if you should fail to make your demanded contributions at any point...well. Perhaps the papers will report how the Countess of Morcar, like her husband before her, met an untimely demise in an 'accident' falling down her stairs. It seems like a poetic way to go, wouldn't you agree?"
The Countess just whimpered.
"I thought so," the Lord of Crime slithered, and withdrew his blade before sheathing it into the shaft of his walking stick. "Oh, and just to be clear: don't tell anybody that I called. That will be equally hazardous to your health."
He then snapped his fingers, and dimly, the Countess heard footsteps outside her bedroom door, as whoever had been standing there with a gun at the ready evidently left the hall. The Lord of Crime began to step back, and the Countess, clutching her throat, watched him move towards the window and the balcony, from whence he had evidently come. The scarlet eyes glittered as the hooded man gave a mocking bow, an inch away from the railing.
"Happy Christmas, Milady," he crooned, tauntingly.
Then, the Lord of Crime flipped over the balcony and was gone. The Countess impulsively raced to the balcony, looking over the side to the ground below.
There was no sign of the Lord of Crime anywhere. Not even footprints could be seen in the snow below. The legendary criminal had seemingly vanished into thin air.
The Countess of Morcar gulped again, and quickly returned to her room, shutting and locking her balcony window. She fell back onto her bed, sitting on it, propping herself up with one hand and clutching her heart with the other. She breathed deeply, trying to steady the organ.
She jumped as, just as her heart was beginning to settle, she heard a knock at the door.
"C-Come in!" she called, very nearly strangling the words.
The door opened, and in walked both Inspector Gregson and Inspector Lestrade.
"Good morning, Your Ladyship," Lestrade smiled, looking rather pleased. Gregson, in contrast, looked like someone had spat in his morning coffee; he grunted out an incomprehensible greeting of his own.
The Countess stood to greet them, somewhat unsteadily. The Scotland Yard officers' expressions changed as they noticed her own.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but are you ill?" Gregson asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost!"
"Worse," the Countess shuddered, and very nearly spilled the story to the pair of officers...but then she heard the tapping of a hammer downstairs - the carpenters supposedly in the Lord of Crime's employ - and quickly thought better of it. She cleared her throat and straightened her stance, trying to regain her usual dignity as best she could. "Never mind me, gentlemen...what are you here for?"
"Well, Your Ladyship," Gregson said, sounding rather tired as he spoke, "I have good news for you: we've found it."
The Countess' eyes widened.
"The Blue Carbuncle?" she guessed with a gasp.
"That's right, madam!" declared Lestrade with a beaming grin. "I found it myself!"
He reached into his pocket, and revealed the silver ring with the blue stone inlaid in it. The Countess quickly pulled it away from him, inspecting the ring for damage.
"Where...where was it?" she gasped.
"Oh, you wouldn't believe me," chuckled Lestrade, and jabbed a thumb at his colleague. "Gregson here certainly didn't."
Gregson scowled, looking rather embarrassed.
"It's...rather an involved story, Your Ladyship," he said slowly. "But we know who was truly responsible for the theft, and thanks to Inspector Lestrade's lucky find, and help from...ahem...some amateur detectives who have been of use to us in the past...we were finally able to piece together the puzzle."
"I understand there's a reward for the finding of the gem," added Lestrade, with a polite smile. "I would very much like to collect it. And if you wish, we can tell you the details of the case."
The Countess stared at the Blue Carbuncle thoughtfully. She looked into her reflection in the cursed blue gemstone.
Then, after a moment, she took a breath, and finally spoke.
"You have my thanks, Inspector Lestrade, and I will give you your promised reward," she said, carefully. "I would also appreciate being told the facts of the case. I suspect they are important for me to know. But before you get to that…"
To the surprise of both, she offered the ring to them, purposefully avoiding looking at the item and holding it as if it were diseased.
"Take it away," the woman whispered. "Put that cursed thing in the deepest, darkest vault of the British Museum."
Gregson and Lestrade looked at each other, then back to the Countess as Gregson took the ring back cautiously.
"All that fuss, and you...want to give it away?" the bullheaded inspector scowled, looking both frustrated and deeply confused.
The Countess quivered.
"The Blue Carbuncle has brought nothing but misery to me, and to many others in the past. The world will be better off without it."
The Inspectors looked at each other again, and shrugged.
"As you wish, Your Ladyship," Gregson grumbled, and pocketed the ring, tucking it away out of sight. "Now, as to the case...first of all, I have to tell you something about your two missing servants…"
Only an hour before the Countess of Morcar's encounter with the police, the sound of the steamship's whistle screamed across the icy harbor, as the passenger liner pulled out. The good ship Frivolity was on her way across the Atlantic, to next make port in New York City, U.S.A. Most of the passengers aboard the vessel had retired to their cabins quickly, to escape the chill.
Even now, however, so much time later, the shores of England fading fast behind them, two lone figures stood near the stern, staring into the distance. One was a man with a whiskery moustache and large teeth, his small frame causing him to have an almost rodent-like appearance; the other was a woman with pale green eyes, and red hair done up in a bun. Both were shabbily dressed in shades of gray.
They could hardly have boarded the Frivolity in the garments of their former trade.
The pair were silent as they stood beside one another, their expressions pensive and contemplative. Neither looked at the other. Neither spoke a word.
It was the woman who broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, James."
James Ryder looked down at Catherine Cusack with some surprise.
"Sorry?" he repeated.
"For asking you to steal the Blue Carbuncle," Catherine said, looking down at the waters below as she spoke. "I...we should have tried to make our way honestly from the start. It's my fault we're in this mess."
Ryder scoffed and looked away, rather glum.
"I should think I'm far more guilty, Cathy," he said, softly. "It's not just that I messed this whole scheme up, but...I agreed to it in the first place. And it was my idea which got that poor man sent to gaol for something he never knew about."
He closed his eyes, a tragic look on his face. Cathy smiled faintly, looking him up and down, and took hold of his arm.
"Everything you did, James," she whispered, "You did it for me. You did it so we could try again. So...I think we should share the blame, if nothing else. Both of us conspired; both of us made mistakes. If you'll forgive me for anything I did…"
She leaned up and kissed the former butler's cheek.
"...I'll do the same for you," she said, lovingly.
Ryder blushed slightly, and smiled with grateful affection. He took Cusack's hand, and gave it a kiss of his own.
"Thank you," he whispered, then chuckled softly as he looked back towards the disappearing shores on the horizon. "At any rate, Horner will be okay now...and we'll never have to worry about the Countess again. I think that makes this a Merry Christmas for everyone."
"Let's hope so," Catherine said. "And let's hope we can have many more in the future."
"Only one thing worries me," Ryder frowned. "How will we get by now?"
"The honest way, James," chuckled Cathy. "We'll get a job. We'll settle down. The way most people do. As long as we're together, nothing will go wrong."
James Ryder paused...then smiled wider, and hugged Catherine close.
"Cathy," he whispered. "When we reach New York...will you marry me?"
Catherine Cusack smiled and embraced him back.
"You don't even have to ask," she whispered in return.
The pair shared a kiss, and then - as England vanished in the distance at last - the former conspirators made their way to their cabin. They had a lot to make up for...and a lot more to look forward to.
Noon came. John Horner clutched the bars of his cell, staring out at the snowy Christmas Day outside. Back and forth across the streets, not so far away from the gaol, he could perceive the teeming masses of London celebrating Christmas. Carolers marched, and sleighs replaced the standard carriages. Red and green scarfs flapped in the wind, and brightly colored packages tumbled between the overfilled arms of departing shoppers.
Horner sighed, letting his head drop and releasing the bars, backing away from the window.
Just then, he heard the sound of police boots on the floor outside. He turned to see two figures approaching his cell. One was a uniformed guard, with a head like a Christmas ham; the other, who gained more of the former jewel robber's attention, was Chief Inspector Patterson.
Patterson smiled, as he waved for the guard to unlock and open the cell. With a rusty screech of the hinges, the deed was done.
"Mr. Horner, everything's sorted out now," Patterson announced, cleaning his glasses briefly before replacing them upon his face. "You are free to go."
John Horner blinked...then smiled, a tired, relieved look in his eyes.
"Thank you, Chief Inspector," he said, and gathered up the coat and hat that had been returned to him as he prepared to leave the cell.
Patterson just bowed his head respectfully, and he and the guard stood to one side as Horner left the cell…
...And the man froze at the sight he saw in the hall.
Standing in the center of the hall was a woman, about the same age as Horner, with nut-colored hair, dressed in a simple brown outfit; plain, but not ratty or disreputable. Clutching her leg was a small boy - only about four years old - sucking his thumb and holding a stuffed toy of Father Christmas under the same arm that held onto his mother's brown dress.
The woman's expression was thoroughly unreadable as she stared at Horner. The ex-con flinched; the last words she'd spoken to him still rang in his ears.
"I never lied to you, Jenny," Horner whispered, his voice echoing faintly in the cage-filled hall. "I swore to you. I'd never lie. And I never will."
Jenny Horner looked her husband up and down with the same blank, unreadable expression...then turned her head away. Horner felt his heart sink, and started to slump his shoulders, lowering his own head…
"I'm sorry."
The man looked up with a start at the same time as his wife. His eyes widened when he saw the tears in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, John," Jenny said with a faint, sad smile. "I...I should have believed you. We all should have. You're a good man. I knew it before I married you; I never should have forgotten."
John Horner felt tears prickle his own eyes, and something warm fluttered in his chest. Jenny smiled wider, and then looked down at the small boy holding onto her dress. The little lad's eyes were looking somewhat anxiously between his parents.
Jenny smiled and patted his shoulder.
"Say hello to your father," she whispered.
The little boy's eyes brightened, and he pulled his thumb out of his mouth, letting go of his mother's dress and running as fast as he could towards the older man.
"DAD! DAD! DAD!"
John Horner laughed with more lightness than he'd felt in days, and knelt down, scooping up the four year old boy in his arms and hugging him close. The boy happily nuzzled against his father's neck, squeezing him as tightly as his little arms could.
"I knew you would be okay, dad!" the boy squeaked. "I knew you would! I knew you didn't lie! I'm so happy!"
John Horner sniffled and gave his son a squeeze.
"Well, of course I'm okay," he chuckled wetly. "I couldn't leave you alone on Christmas, could I? You'd drive your mother crazy!"
The boy giggled happily as his father stood to his full height, positioning his child so he could ride on his shoulders. He then moved over to Jenny, and the pair shared a chaste but affectionate kiss, smiling adoringly into each other's eyes.
The Horner family looked towards Patterson and the guard. The guard was looking down awkwardly at his boots, and Patterson was adjusting his glasses and bowing his head to hide his own reaction to the sweet display.
"Happy Christmas, gentlemen," John Horner said, and smirked at Patterson. "Please give Professor Moriarty my thanks."
Patterson smiled mysteriously and nodded.
John Horner looked back at Jenny, and wrapped one arm around her, the other holding onto his son's leg as the little boy cried out, chest puffed out with pride: "Go, horsey! We have to be in time for Christmas dinner! And then we have to open presents! And-and then…!"
The child's words faded, mingling with his parents' laughter, as - hand-in-hand - John and Jenny Horner left the station house. Patterson and the guard both sighed with some relief, and then turned on their heels and marched away.
Christmas or not, a policeman's work was never truly done.
"Fred...this knife, it's...it's exquisite!"
Fred Porlock said nothing, simply and quietly watching as Jack Renfield examined the elaborately-decorated dagger in his pale-gloved hands. The blade was made of well-sharpened steel, and hilt polished silver and mahogany. The blade itself was painted and etched, colorfully ornamented with imagery of skeletons and snakes, in a style reminiscent of the highest grade of Oriental splendor.
"It must have cost a fortune!" Jack the Ripper chortled, flipping the blade in his hands to test its balance, and gave a slightly sheepish smile. "I feel rather lax in my own choice of gift…"
Fred blushed very faintly and fidgeted on his feet as he looked down at his gift: a leatherbound copy of Redoute's Book of Flowers, colored cream and gold with the image of two red roses on the front.
"Actually, I...have been wanting this book for a while," Fred said, in a very small, soft voice, and gave the most fleeting smile that could ever exist to the old man. "Thank you, Maestro."
Jack smiled wider; he sometimes forgot how young Fred truly was, but the way he spoke his words of gratitude made some small part of his withered, ancient heart sing.
"Still, nothing compared to this," he murmured, checking the length of the blade with keen interest. "How much DID it cost you?"
"Nothing."
Jack blinked, smile fading.
"Nothing?"
Fred shook his head.
"...Well, then...wherever did you get it?"
"From a nobleman William drove insane and forced to drown in the ocean."
Jack blinked again.
"...There is something telling in the fact I am NOT disturbed by this," he muttered.
Fred just shrugged, and looked out around the great ballroom of the Moriarty Mansion. The party was small, but not at all unwelcome, he decided: he had never enjoyed a party in his life, but...this was...nice. Seeing his friends and colleagues chatting, and seeing that even their enemies could not help but blithely enjoy the merrymaking, all while the mansion was warmed by firelight and the cold snow outside provided a beautiful nighttime contrast…
He smiled again. He liked Christmas, he decided. This was a good feeling.
"HA! So you DO have the ability to smile!" called a voice. "I knew it!"
Fred looked towards the source of the shout as Sebastian Moran - approached with a mug full of egg nog. (Heavy on the nog part.) Albert stood by his side, drinking a mug of the same. They were dressed in their usual attired, except that Moran was wearing a bright red-and-white holiday cap.
"I've always had the ability to smile," Fred said, very plainly, obviously not getting the joke.
"Could have fooled me," shrugged Moran with a smirk.
"Feeling festive, Moran?" smirked Jack, pointing with his new knife at the Colonel's headgear.
"Oi, it's Christmas!" laughed Sebastian, lifting his egg nog with a cackle. "Tis the Season to Be Jolly! Fa-la-la-la-laaaa…!"
"No one's going to be particularly jolly hearing that," Albert muttered, wringing out one ear with a wincing smile.
"Awww, don't be a Scrooge!" grunted Moran, nudging Albert in the shoulder, then stumbling with a chuckle; it was very clear he'd had perhaps a little too much egg nog by now, given the loudness of his voice and the way he was swaying slightly on his feet.
"Scrooge?" Fred blinked. "But...he's Albert."
Jack rolled his eyes with a chuckle.
"Character in a book, kid," Moran grinned, and loopily ruffled Fred's hair, making the young ninja blush and retreat, shaking his head with an uncharacteristically petulant expression. "Guy named Dickens wrote it...heh heh...Dick-ins…"
Albert and Jack gave each other long-suffering looks.
"With how you're reacting to the egg nog, I am hesitant to give you my gift," admitted Albert.
Moran froze in place; he even seemed to stop swaying.
"Gift?" blinked Moran...then grinned. "Oh, yeah! You drew my name!"
"Yes," Albert nodded and silently beckoned for Sebastian to follow him as they moved towards the Christmas tree. Albert held his liquor well, and walked with his usual stiff briskness; Sebastian was humming (off key) as he lumbered after him.
By the time they reached the tree, Sebastian had drained his cup to the dregs. Albert didn't even notice the moment the drunken Colonel sipped down the last of his yuletide grog, as he reached down and picked up a small package wrapped in green paper, with a red ribbon and bow.
As Albert stood up with the little gift in one hand, he frowned. Moran was not at all focused on him, pouting like a small boy as he shook his cup upside-down to see if there was at least a drop of egg nog left. Thankfully for the ballroom, not even one drip escaped.
"Ahem!" Albert coughed importantly, and the moment Moran looked at him, he smiled and offered the box. "Happy Christmas, Colonel."
Curiosity piqued, Sebastian put his empty cup down, and took the box from Albert. With surprising precision for someone who was on the cusp of that alcohol-addled place where he might have thought there were two packages, he opened it. His jaw dropped at what he found under the wrapping paper…
"Whoa!" he exclaimed, and grinned. "It's a BOX!"
Albert smiled ever-so-patiently.
"Very good, Moran," he purred. "And what's inside the box?"
Sebastian Moran aimed to find out. He flipped open the cardboard lid, revealing the container was filled with twelve brass-plated bullets.
"Be careful with those," Albert warned, as Moran plucked one of the bullets from the box. "They're a new invention of Q's: incendiary bullets."
"Incendiary?" repeated Moran, eyes wide.
"They set things on fire," Albert elaborated, taking a sip of his own nog.
"I know what the word means!" exclaimed Moran, and grinned viciously. "This is fantastic! A little 'loud' for my liking, but I imagine it'll be effective! Can't wait to test these puppies out…rifle rounds?"
"Your preferred sort," confirmed Albert with a grin.
Moran grinned, closing the box and tucking it into the pocket of the servant's uniform he was wearing; to the rest of the party, he had been introduced as "Alec Trevelyan," for the sake of preserving his identity. He hated to be in his servant's garb - so restricting - but all three Moriartys had demanded it, and Sebastian Moran had learned not to argue with them when they were unanimous.
Frankly, it was scary enough arguing with just one.
"Well, since you gave me mine, I guess I should give you yours," the veteran said, and - nearly stumbling as he bent down - he picked up an oddly-shaped bundle of black paper, wrapped with a silver ribbon. "I hope you know: it took all my self-control not to KEEP this."
Albert James Moriarty raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he took the gift from Sebastian, and tore open the paper, revealing the item inside: a bottle of red wine. He gasped at the vintage.
"A Chateau Lafite 1784?!" he exclaimed, and stared at Sebastian in amazement. "I-I didn't think there was any of this left! How did you get it?"
"I have my ways," smiled Moran, making a show of blowing on his knuckles and brushing them against his lapels before he winked at Albert. "It takes a drinker to know a drinker's tastes properly."
"I am not a drinker...not to YOUR extent anyway."
"But you DO love your wine," Moran observed with a grin. "And we all know it."
Albert smiled.
"Well...that's certainly true," he said, and hummed as he inspected the bottle. "Hmmm...I'm rather tempted to pour a glass now…"
"Could you share some?" the Colonel asked, licking his lips.
"Do you EVER think about anything besides alcohol?"
"Do women count?"
"Besides that, too."
"How about guns?"
"No."
"Gambling?"
"Come now."
"Then nope! Nothing else."
Albert sighed deeply.
"You are incorrigible, Trevelyan," he said, but there was a hint of amusement in his green eyes.
"Now don't be too hard on the man," came the brusque voice of Inspector Lestrade as he approached the tree himself, and lifted a cup of nog all his own. "This turned out rather well!"
"Maybe, but he should still show moderation," came the scolding voice of Miss Hudson, who followed the Inspector closely; she too had a cup. "You keep drinking like that, Mr. Trevelyan, and you'll ruin something!"
Sebastian gave his most charming, winning smile, and winked boyishly.
"Don't worry, ma'am," he said, in a deep, husky way. "I always take care of my best parts."
Miss Hudson blushed, looking like she wasn't sure whether to giggle or try and punch the man. Albert could only shake his head with amusement.
"Did you two give each other your gifts already?" he asked, politely, and drank the last of his own cup.
The pair looked at each other and blushed. Lestrade had a small teddy bear, dressed in a policeman's cap and uniform, tucked into the pocket of his coat. Miss Hudson, meanwhile, was glad the length of her tea dress hid the thick brown leather boots she'd been given from sight.
Both had awkwardly thanked the other, not wanting to admit how much either of them LOVED their gifts...and swore betwixt one another to not tell a single soul at the party ANYTHING about the matter.
"Mm-hm," Lestrade grunted.
"We did," Miss Hudson said, flatly.
They left it at that. The Colonel and Albert shared a look, and then shrugged.
"Where is your brother?" Lestrade coughed out, eager to change the subject. "Louis, I mean?"
"His pairing was Dr. Watson," Albert said, and gestured with the wine bottle towards a corner of the ballroom. "I believe they're just about to make their exchange, in fact…"
They were. Watson and Louis smiled to each other, each holding rather similar items in their hands: matching-sized rectangular prisms. Louis had wrapped his in purple paper, with a yellow ribbon and bow. Watson's was wrapped in plain brown paper, with a green ribbon and bow.
The pair exchanged the objects, raising their eyebrows as they looked at their gifts, then at each other.
"Did you get the same thing I got for you?" Watson queried, with innocent curiosity.
"I certainly didn't TRY to," Louis answered, then shrugged. "I suppose there's only one way to find out."
Watson nodded, and the two quickly opened their presents. Their eyes widened at what each found under the wrapping. Each had bought the other the same TYPE of gift, but they were not exactly the same GIFT, period.
"A book!" both exclaimed, then smiled at each other brightly, eyes twinkling, before looking at their separate items.
"The latest cookbook from Mrs. Beeton!" exclaimed Louis. "I hadn't realized this had come out yet!"
"I was able to get an advanced copy!" grinned Watson. "Miss Hudson is an avid fan of Mrs. Beeton's work, even though she rarely gets to exercise anything there; it's thanks to her I was able to get hold of it!"
Louis blushed slightly, and hugged the book close to his chest.
"Thank you kindly," he whispered, almost shyly. "I almost feel as if my gift is inferior."
"Inferior?!" laughed Watson, and read the title of the leatherbound copy in his arms. "'The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.' You call this INFERIOR?! Mr. Poe is the greatest American author of all time; my absolute favorite writer! How did you guess?!"
"I used William's basic method," Louis smirked. "Mr. Poe is the father of the modern detective story; being an author of such fiction yourself, it stood to reason you would enjoy his works, especially those of that sort."
Now it was Watson's turn to blush.
"I guess that does make obvious sense," he chuckled.
"Elementary, My Dear Watson," Louis said, imitating Sherlock Holmes' voice.
Both the youngest Moriarty and the ex-army surgeon snickered. Louis put the book to one side on a nearby table, and picked up a glass of Christmas punch he had served himself. (He didn't much care for egg nog.)
"Where is Mr. Holmes, on that note?" frowned Louis, sipping his punch and looking around the ballroom a little suspiciously.
"I'm not sure," Watson murmured, flipping through the book in his hands with an innocent smile. "Last I saw him, he was with your brother."
Louis froze; the glass made a soft, squeaky sound as his gloved fingers clenched it tighter.
"He was with who?"
"William. Er, I mean...Professor Moriarty," Watson answered, with a soft, embarrassed chuckle at his informality...but his smile fell when he saw the tense look on Louis' face. The youngest Moriarty was frowning, his red eyes hidden by the glare in his glasses as he scowled at the floor, brow knitted into a tight knot. The hand that held his glass was visibly twitching.
The doctor looked the youngest Moriarty up and down...then smiled, snapping the book shut and placing a hand on his shoulder. Louis turned with a slight start to look at Watson, eyes widening a bit.
"Mr. Louis," he began steadily, "Are you...jealous of Sherlock Holmes?"
"Wh-what?"
"Is that why you don't like him?" Watson pressed. "Why does it bother you so much to see him with your brother?"
Louis frowned, and looked away again, saying nothing.
"I...just don't like him," muttered Louis, then went on: "He's brash. He's disrespectful. He's cocky. He's loud. He's childish. He's far too smart for his own good…"
"And he makes your brother smile," Watson finished. "He makes him react in ways you've never seen William react before."
Louis bit his lip; he took a sip of punch and licked his lips thinly before speaking again.
"Watson...John," he whispered, and Watson's eyes widened at the choice Louis made to address him by his first name, "There's something you need to understand: my brothers and I...we are EXTREMELY close. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for them, and for so many years, they were all I ever had. Especially William. I would do anything for William; I would go anywhere for him, I would try everything to see him smile. TRULY smile. I know him better than anybody."
His red eyes showed again, and they were sparkling with vulnerability as he looked at Watson earnestly.
"Anytime I see Holmes and William together...I feel...agitated. For a LOT of reasons. I'm worried he'll take William to a place that won't be safe, and I'm worried that...that some things about William could be discovered-"
"Discovered?" frowned Watson in confusion.
Louis gave the doctor a faint, mysterious smile.
"Everyone has their mysteries, John," he said, speaking the name as easily as if he spoke it every day, before frowning again. "Mr. Holmes is good at finding them out, and...I guess I'm just...I'm worried he'll HURT William. And I'm worried that...that...well...if William keeps getting closer to him, then...then he might…"
"You're afraid your brother may not have time for you any longer. And you're worried you won't be able to help him if something goes wrong."
Louis bit his lip. His mind flashed back to a certain train trip...to the way William stepped over his words, ignored his advice, in favor of entertaining the whims of the eccentric Sherlock Holmes...to the way William smiled at the man, to the look in his brother's eyes as he draped across the seat of the dining car almost invitingly…
He had a sudden strong urge to grab something very sharp and pointy at that moment.
"Something like that," he whispered. "Yes."
Watson smiled wider; his smile was soft and gentle.
"Mr. Louis," he said, tenderly, "If what you say is as true as you make it sound...I really don't think you need to worry."
Louis looked to Watson, brow knitting again.
"Yes, Professor Moriarty and Sherlock are close; closer than perhaps they should be," said Watson. "But that doesn't mean your brother is going to forget you. If the two of you are so close, then he's not simply going to abandon you. It would be very foolish of him if he did, at any rate. As far as secrets go, trust me, Sherlock Holmes is as good at keeping secrets as he is at finding them out. And as far as the thought of your brother being hurt goes...first of all, I get the feeling he can take care of himself. And second of all…"
Watson smirked, and puffed out his chest slightly.
"...I'm here to keep an eye on that blue-eyed rascal," he declared. "So if he ever does ANYTHING that hurts your brother, I'll make sure to give him a good slap in the face and knock some sense into him, in person."
Louis blinked.
"Would you care that much?" he checked, looking at his cup and stirring the drink inside with a turn of his wrist.
"Of course!" Watson exclaimed. "Sherlock is my friend, my partner, but he's not my boss. And, I'm going to be honest…"
His smile softened, and he moved to stand in front of Louis, catching his eye again.
"...The two of them are made for each other, I feel," he said, gently. "I think you should be happy for William, not worried he'll leave you or get hurt in some way. What will be, will be, and I don't think that's a bad thing at all. Support him, try to help him, don't worry about him going away."
Louis looked Watson up and down. He wanted so badly to spill everything to the young doctor then and there; to tell him about just how thoroughly warped things were, and warn him that he had no comprehension of how real the danger was.
He knew he couldn't. So he simply smiled, and spoke the few honest words he could say.
"Thank you, John. I appreciate that."
"Don't mention it, Mr. Louis!"
Louis James Moriarty smiled wider yet, and blushed a bit, dipping his head.
"Um...you can...just call me Louis, if you'd like," he said quietly.
Watson looked surprised...and then elated.
"Of course! Whatever you say, Louis! Say, is the punch any good?"
"Oh, I think it turned out well. Would you like a glass?"
"Yes, please!"
Louis put his and Watson's books on a chair out of the way, then led the doctor towards the punch bowl. Neither was aware of two smirking figures, watching them from the shadows at the edge of the doorway into the ballroom. Blue and red eyes glimmered with a sly sort of happiness. The owner of the blue eyes took a drink from his egg nog, while the scarlet-eyed gentlemen daintily sipped his glass of punch.
Like his younger brother, he didn't much care for egg nog.
"It's wonderful to see them together, isn't it?" William James Moriarty commented.
"Yeah," nodded Sherlock Holmes, and looked over at William with a raised eyebrow. "I'm glad to see your brothers are doing well, by the way."
"Whatever do you mean?" William asked, his mask-like expression never so much as shifting from its usual canny, cunning smile. "I am, of course, equally pleased, but I am not sure what you are referring to with that statement."
Holmes narrowed his eyes.
"Did they not tell you about what happened at the Countess of Morcar's estate?"
William smiled ever so slightly more, and closed his eyes, dipping his head.
"Ah...that," he murmured, and opened his eyes again, looking back at Holmes. "Naturally they did, and I suspect your doctor told you?"
Holmes nodded, his expression serious.
"You're not concerned?" he queried.
"Are you?" returned William.
Sherlock took another drink of egg nog, then shook his head.
"Not really," he admitted. "John couldn't give me a very solid description of the criminals, and I suspect we won't be seeing them again. And as the Countess has reported the matter to the police already, I see no reason to be involved with a pair of ordinary housebreaking thugs. After all, no one was hurt, and they can't have been particularly professional."
Moriarty had to fight so very hard not to laugh.
"That's one way of looking at things," he murmured, then spoke a bit more loudly, changing the subject quickly. "I'm pleased you could come. I would have been deeply disappointed if you hadn't."
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed it for the world!" chuckled Holmes. "I'm not one for socializing, but…"
He smiled at William.
"...A chance to enjoy the holidays with someone other than my pain of a brother is appreciated. Especially when it's someone like you," he said, with a wink.
William's curved lips faltered and his eyes widened ever-so-slightly...before his usual crafty, vacant smile fitted neatly back into its default position.
"I'm glad I could provide an alternative then," he purred, then paused before looking out to the party again; his eyes were on Hudson and Lestrade, who were conversing privately, but he was still speaking to Sherlock. "Thank you, by the way."
"For what?"
"Inviting me to join you on your case," William said, and sipped his punch before carrying on. "It was truly a treat to team wit with wit, and I'm happy with the outcome of the adventure. It's...very rare I get to…"
He chuckled through his nose.
"...Well...play. My mind is frequently on my work; on my plans and my goals," he explained.
"Students keep you that engaged, eh?" Sherlock smirked.
"Oh, constantly," William answered, vaguely. "Having a chance to simply...try something different, to put those thoughts aside for a while and focus on a different challenge...it was...fun."
He paused, then added, "I don't...usually experience...actual 'fun' very often."
"Perhaps you should take a break from work then," Holmes observed, now looking slightly concerned.
"If only," chuckled William with a shake of his head, then looked up at Sherlock. "You know...it's funny though, Mr. Holmes...whenever I'm around you, it's as if my work doesn't exist. The rest of the world just...sort of fades away, and all that matters is the thrill of the game."
He smirked.
"I suppose that's why you were hoping I'd be your clever mastermind, eh?"
Sherlock's smirk matched William's.
"Yes," he whispered. "That was why."
William caught the emphasis, and the way it was spoken, but brought no attention to it. Without breaking eye contact with Sherlock Holmes, he quietly finished his punch, then licked his lips.
Holmes did the same with his egg nog, raising an eyebrow.
"What are you staring at?" he asked, curiously.
"You," answered Professor Moriarty, simply, and then tapped his forehead with two fingers of his free hand. "I'm only just now realizing: you have less frontal development than I should expect from your fantastic brain."
"Is that an insult?" Holmes huffed, crinkling his nose in mock offense.
"Oh, hardly," William said with a casual shrug. "You're incredibly handsome."
William put aside his empty cup, pretending not to notice the way Sherlock shuffled on his feet.
"Well...if you're going to pay me compliments, let me pay you one in return," the detective said, and put down his mug before gesturing to William's own face. "Your eyes are...highly unusual."
"'Unusual' is...hardly a complimentary term," Moriarty responded slowly.
"Well," smirked Sherlock, "It seemed less forward than saying they were beautiful."
Those same eyes flickered for a moment.
"That is...very kind of you," William said, and ducked his head, the shadows of his golden bangs hiding his ruby eyes from sight.
Sherlock smiled victoriously, pleased with the reaction, and tossed his head towards the hall, flicking some of his own hair out of his face.
"Why don't we go somewhere more private?" he suggested, rather casually. "I'd like to give you my present somewhere away from the group."
William lifted his head and narrowed his eyes.
"Be careful with your word choices, Mr. Holmes," he crooned in a sing-song voice. "The walls have ears in this house."
Sherlock just laughed.
"Do you know a place where we can be alone for just a moment?" he insisted softly, then glared as he added: "Don't suggest the bedroom."
"I wouldn't be so silly," William replied, in a tone that told Holmes he could be, before placing his empty glass on a small table nearby, beside a vase of roses. He then waved for Sherlock to follow him with one hand into the hall beyond the ballroom. He then led him down the manor hall and into a small alcove.
"This will do for the moment, yes?" he presumed.
"I think so," Sherlock said, and reached into his coat pocket. "You can give me your gift when-"
"Actually," William interrupted, lifting one hand in a sign for patience, before reaching into his own coat, "I happen to have your gift on me as well."
Holmes puffed through his sharp nose with amusement.
"Of course you do," he mumbled, and the two geniuses pulled out the items from their pockets and handed them to each other. Said items turned out to be a pair of unsealed envelopes: the one Sherlock handed over was blue, while Moriarty's gift to the consulting detective was red. Both were sealed with black wax.
The two quickly glanced up at one another, brows raised, then popped up the seals, opening the envelopes simultaneously. Still synchronized, the duo pulled out the items contained within: two thin strips of card stock paper - a pair of elaborately printed tickets.
"Sarasate?" whispered Holmes.
"At Saint James' Hall?" murmured Moriarty.
The pair looked at each other, bewildered...then smiled slowly. They had each bought each other a ticket for the same concert.
"Well. This is unexpected," chuckled Moriarty, as he noticed they had not only bought tickets for the same concert, but for the same night. "The stars do seem to have aligned haven't they?"
"Indeed!" chuckled Holmes, and narrowed his eyes; he looked almost bashful, but he was trying to keep his sharper demeanor intact. "Were you spying on me, Liam?"
"In this, I am guiltless," Moriarty insisted truthfully. "I simply knew you enjoyed playing the violin, and thought you would enjoy partaking in a concert."
"Whereas I knew that, with your intellect and sense of taste, the fine art of classical German music might be to your personal liking," Holmes said. "There is a good deal of it on the programme."
"Perfect," William said, flashing a cheery smile that, for once, was not quite as false as many others. "I tend to prefer it over Italian or French compositions."
"Same here," Sherlock said, and flushed, squirming a bit under William's scarlet gaze. "It is...ah...introspective."
William's smile became almost carnivorous as he stepped closer, his voice the purr of a crooked cat.
"Hmmmm...I like to introspect."
Holmes gulped. He tugged at his loose collar. That look in Liam's eyes...the way they glowed in the shadows of the alcove…
...Was winter already turning into summer? It seemed far warmer than it should have, suddenly...
"Well," Holmes said, and scratched the back of his head, suddenly taking on an appearance not unlike an anxious young man worried about asking a beautiful young lady out to dinner. "Ahem! I...don't suppose we could...go together?"
Moriarty looked Holmes up and down briefly. His smile held more grace than an infinite number of swans.
"I would be honored to sit beside London's Greatest Detective," William said, and bowed in an obeisant gesture.
Holmes smiled with a sense of relief, and - somewhat mockingly - returned the bow.
"And I would be honored to ride in the company of England's Most Brilliant Mathematician," he replied.
Moriarty laughed; Holmes' smile softened. He liked that sound almost as much as a violin.
Maybe even more.
"Well, I can hardly say no to such flattery," William cooed, and shrugged quite casually. "Seeing as we would be attending at the same time anyway, I see no reason to refuse. I shall be happy to accompany you, Mr. Holmes."
"Wonderful!" Holmes said, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt at that moment under Moriarty's unshakeable gaze, and tucked his ticket into his coat pocket. "Well, now that we've given our gifts, I think I'd like some more of that delicious nog, so-"
Before Sherlock Holmes could leave, a wiry, immaculate, steel-strong hand gripped his upper right arm.
"Mr. Holmes," came William's voice, and Sherlock shivered. There was something low and almost dangerous about the way he spoke...his iron grip and the smile on his lips making him look almost raptorial. "I'm disappointed in you."
"Huh?"
"The World's Greatest Detective hasn't noticed something important," Moriarty said teasingly.
Holmes frowned, now becoming rather confused...until suddenly, a faint, floral smell came to his nose. He looked up towards the source...and froze, like a deer caught in the hunter's sights. The cigarette fell from his mouth, and snuffed itself out on the floor.
Dangling only a foot or two above his head in the alcove was a sprig of mistletoe.
Sherlock Holmes - the man who could solve any impossible crime, the man who had stared death and panic in the face more times than he could count - gulped nervously, heart pounding against his ribs like an irate prisoner, as he slowly looked back at William James Moriarty, who smiled in a patient manner: not seductive, not mocking, simply...patient.
"Liam, you rascal," choked Holmes. "You brought me to this spot intentionally."
"Possibly," Moriarty said, oh-so-innocently, his smile not shifting an ounce, as he took a step forward. "You know how to play this game, don't you?"
"Haaah," Holmes breathed out shakily, and backed against the wall of the alcove nervously, saying nothing coherent in reply. "Liam, ah...let's talk about this…"
"Why?" asked William, in the same far-too-innocent tone of voice. "All that I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Holmes swallowed, and smiled nervously.
"Well...then it's possible my answer has crossed yours."
William's smile widened.
"You stand fast?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock nodded.
Moriarty's smile was the lazy, contented look of a fox with a belly full of rabbit. He leaned in close again...then frowned, drawing back when Sherlock flinched.
"What's the matter? Never been kissed before?" he teased.
"Yes. Quite. Right on," Sherlock said flatly.
"Well, now's the chance to fix it," William purred, and one hand elegantly lifted up and took hold of Sherlock's lapel. "It's not difficult. The physical interaction is really quite basic. And it won't take long."
"Well...the party, the others-"
"Do they really matter? This is just a party game."
Sherlock bit his lip. His blue eyes were burning like kerosene flame, matching the hellfire glow of Moriarty's blood-colored irises. Sherlock cautiously placed a hand against William's face. Moriarty leaned into the touch silently.
"Come now, Mr. Holmes," William said faintly. "Let's not waste anymore of one another's time."
He leaned close - so close, Sherlock could smell his cologne - and whispered huskily into the detective's ear.
"We both know how this ends."
Sherlock Holmes shuddered...then smiled. Not in surrender...but in acceptance of a new challenge.
"Conclusion: Inevitable," he whispered.
There was one last pause...then, two pairs of long arms wound about two bodies...two pairs of eyes - one blue, one red - closed...and two sets of pale lips pressed against one another tightly in a deep, passionate kiss…
...Which was quickly broken when a shrill giggle interrupted the pair. Both Professor Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes backed away from each other rapidly, to find they were being observed by Miss Hudson - the source of the giggling - and Inspector Lestrade, whose jaw was practically on the floor.
Holmes and Moriarty looked at the pair, then at each other...and in an instant, Holmes pretended to spit, and made a disgusted face, while Moriarty smirked with triumph and whipped a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, dabbing at his mouth as if he had just enjoyed a most exquisite meal.
"Pardon us," William purred, tucking the handkerchief away, expression resuming its usual cool, composed status. "I tricked Mr. Holmes under the mistletoe. There had to be a kiss, even with the unusual circumstances."
"Liam," Holmes almost growled, looking GREATLY embarrassed...and he was only half-faking it.
"I...I see," Lestrade mumbled, shaking his head as if to try and force away what he'd just seen in disbelief, while Miss Hudson gave a knowing smile at Sherlock. She said nothing, but the way she looked at both him and the Professor gave each the feeling she knew this was no mere prank.
William gave an all-too-innocent smile in return, while Sherlock sulked like a child.
"Were you looking for us?" Moriarty asked, politely, as if nothing at all had happened.
"Yes, actually," Miss Hudson said, and pointed towards the ballroom. "Lord Albert told Mr. Trevelyan that if there's going to be singing, EVERYONE should sing...to cover up how awful Mr. Trevelyan is, of course."
William and Holmes both chuckled as Lestrade went on: "Dr. Watson suggested Sherlock play for us with his violin, and Mr. Louis added that Professor Moriarty might regale us with his piano."
"Piano?" blinked Sherlock, and looked to Liam. "You...you play?"
"On occasion," William answered, humbly.
Holmes smiled anew; he looked about two seconds away from this time being the one to instigate a kiss.
"You never cease to amaze me," he murmured.
William looked rather proud of himself at those words, and nodded to his guests.
"I would be happy to play, and I'm sure Mr. Holmes wouldn't mind. Tell the others to join us in the Music Room; yourselves and Dr. Watson can follow my brothers and our staff, so as not to lose your way. Just give us a few minutes to get there first, so we can prepare our instruments."
"We'll do that," Miss Hudson smiled, and gave a wink. "Behave yourselves now."
"I don't know the meaning of the word," Sherlock snickered.
William just smiled and bowed his head.
As the pair walked off, William gestured for Holmes to follow him once again, and began to walk towards the music room…
...But before he got very far, Sherlock grabbed hold of his shoulder.
"Liam," he hissed, catching Moriarty's gaze as the youthful professor turned around.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock hesitated, biting his lip...then jabbed a thumb back at the alcove.
"What, ah...wh-what just happened back there?"
Moriarty blinked at the alcove as if he had forgotten it existed, then smiled back at Sherlock sweetly.
"I believe I just kissed you. And you kissed me back," he said, saying the words quite naturally and clinically, as if they were simple, obvious facts, and nothing more.
Sherlock blinked.
"Good," he mumbled. "I, ah...rather thought something like that had happened."
Moriarty nodded, and tried to continue, but Holmes still held him.
"Is something wrong?" William asked innocently.
"I'm not sure."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's expression was serious.
"William...why did you demand to kiss me?"
"That was the rule," William answered simply.
"It was more than the mistletoe. We both know it."
"Do we?" Moriarty replied, expression unbroken, now looking amused. "And why would you think that? Because you're the brilliant Sherlock Holmes?"
"No," Sherlock said, and now smiled with a sense of excitement as he lifted William's hand...and to the Professor's surprise placed a chaste kiss upon the back of his palm.
Then, Holmes' voice lowered to a near growl as he explained: "It's because I took your pulse."
He released William's hand; the same hand immediately flew to the Professor's face, as William placed it where Holmes' hand had rested.
"Your heart was racing, Liam. It still is," Holmes said, sounding like he was boasting. "Your pupils dilated when I looked into your eyes. Just because I've never kissed nor been kissed before doesn't mean I can't recognize the chemistry of attraction. As you said, it's quite basic."
William blinked...then smiled slowly.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes...you could not be further from the truth."
Holmes cocksure smile fell.
"...What?"
"My pupils were dilated only because of the change of light in this hall. And my heart was racing because I realized you had rather bad breath, and I was going to have to inhale it."
Holmes spluttered as, with those words, Moriarty briskly headed down the hall.
"I…! You…! That's not…!"
"The downside to physical reactions, sir," William called over his shoulder. "They're harder to prove in court."
Holmes glared...then grinned.
"LIAM! YOU GET BACK HERE!" he roared, and chased after the mathematician.
With a chuff of amusement, Moriarty ran down the stairs and towards the music room. He called back over his shoulder in reply as his pursuer bolted after him.
"Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes!"
Several minutes later, the whole party had reassembled in the music room. William James Moriarty sat the Grand Piano of the manor, fingers plinking and plunking on the keys as he gave them one last check. Sherlock Holmes, meanwhile, strummed a few of his fiddlestrings as he inspected his beloved Stradivarius.
"Are we ready, Brother William?" Louis asked.
"That depends," William answered, and looked to Albert. "Have you got your earplugs?"
"Earplugs?" frowned Moran, who stood beside Albert. "Whatever for?"
"Why, so his ears won't start bleeding, seeing as how he is the closest to your voice, Mr. Trevelyan," William said with one of his much-too-happy smiles.
Moran subsided as the rest of the party (sans Fred) chuckled.
"My violin is prepared," Holmes announced.
"Do we all have to sing?" asked Fred, innocently; this was all quite new to him.
"Well, it's more fun if we all do," Jack replied.
"I'll help you with the words," Watson offered, placing a hand on Fred's shoulder.
Young Porlock looked at the hand, then blinked up at Watson.
"You're a nice man," he said, in a mechanical, flat voice.
Watson blinked.
"Uh...thank you, I think?"
"You're welcome," Fred said, in the same tone.
"Enough stalling!" Miss Hudson exclaimed. "Let's begin!"
Inspector Lestrade grunted his consent, while Albert nodded in polite agreement.
"Alright," William said, and opened up a book of sheet music for different carols. "What shall we start with?"
"I might have a suggestion," Sherlock smiled with a wink.
And so it was that the Moriarty mansion - standing atop its lonely hill in Durham - was soon filled with the sound of a chorus of voices. The snow continued to fall, but winter's chill could not touch them at all. All thoughts of mystery, mayhem, or the troubles of the heart left their minds; all zealous ideals and intense desires were forgotten in the tunes they sang...and as they neared the climax of their first song, any passer-by could hear the words…
"Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place! And in true love and brotherhood, each other now embrace! This Holy Tide of Christmas all others doth deface! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy! Comfort and Joy! O Tidings of Comfort and Joy!"
