Development: The Second of the Three Spirits

Sherlock woke suddenly to the sound and heat of the fire crackling merrily in his fireplace. He sat up, disorientated. It was his own flat, yes, but it was completely unrecognisable. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, holly and mistletoe on every flat surface and a Christmas feast set out on his kitchen table, the microscope having vanished from sight. There were turkeys, cranberry sauce, a goose, venison, oysters, prawns, sausages, ham, mince pies, plum pudding (with jugs beside it of both custard and brandy sauce) fruit of every description and a giant tower of profiteroles garnished with cream and toffee in the middle. That table had never had so many edible delicacies on it at once. The sideboard was not neglected either. There was champagne with real French labels, mulled wine, white wine, eggnog, two bowls of punch (one with orange slices and L-plates, the other with candied cherries and mint) and what looked like several glasses of sherry.

Sherlock stared in confusion at the bounty, the likes of which he had never seen before. This surpassed even the dim memories from his childhood of the formal Christmas table settings his mother had arranged to have catered, in the early years before his father had died.

A warm alto voice interrupted his thoughts, "Here, have a glass of champagne to help you get into the spirit of things."

A champagne flute was pressed into his hand, and he finally tore his gaze away from the room to look at the speaker. It was Irene Adler, a little older-looking than he remembered her but still svelte, wearing a red lace sheath dress with sky high Louboutin stilettos. She had a spike of holly on top of her French rolled hair, and golden angel earrings with little bells that tinkled as she moved.

"Irene?" asked Sherlock, "Are you… dead and a spirit now?"

Her laugh was low and musical. "Dear me, no. I'm not really Irene - I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. She sends her regards though, from her happy retirement in the Mediterranean. We are not here to talk about the dead past, you know, but what is happening right now. Irene is alive," the ghost peered deliberately at Sherlock, "I'm not so sure about you, though."

She leaned back and took another glass from the sideboard for herself. "Drink up, and let's get to know each other a little. I fancy you don't have much of an acquaintance with Christmas, though I think you have met some of my sisters in the past."

"Does Irene have sisters?" asked Sherlock, confused.

The ghost laughed again, "No, I meant me. I have over two thousand older sisters gone before me, and I am the youngest of the family. Haven't you met any of them?"

"I don't really remember," said Sherlock sullenly. He realised with dismay that he could not recall ever really celebrating Christmas. In his experience it was always a day to be endured, or ignored.

Sherlock sniffed contemptuously, "As far I can see, Christmas Day is an excuse to make people stressed and angry with each other and the season for shop assistants to be terrified of giving people the wrong greeting. Whether they use 'Happy Holidays' or 'Merry Christmas' someone is bound to be offended and even abusive over it."

Irene's mobile mouth turned down at the corners. "It is true that people use the excuse of Christmas to express their pain of exclusion or anger at what they see as the erosion of religion, but that has nothing to do with me. Place the blame for their fearful actions of anger and bitterness on their own heads. I am the spirit of all celebration, of all generous impulses, of all reconciliation and friendly good wishes. People can call me Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or a simple gathering of family and friends, and I will answer to any name. I will accept any good deed done in the spirit of kindness and compassion as a gift given to me. Presents are exchanged in the name of Santa, St Nicholas or if you prefer call them Zawadi or just light candles - I'll bless them all.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before tossing his head carelessly, "Anyway, if you have something to show me, get on and do it. Mycroft promised me learning experiences and I don't see anything edifying in this enormous waste of food. Let's get on with the program, shall we?"

"Very well," Irene returned. "We don't need to go far for the first celebration. Just down the road to Upminster, in fact. I think you know the address?" She picked up the little card which still rested on the coffee table, almost hidden between the enormous teapot and coffee plunger, and held it out to him. "Shall we?"

Sherlock took the card between his long fingers. John's address. He had almost forgotten the invitation to join John's Christmas party. He looked up from the card and found himself facing the very door of that address. He tried to conceal his start of surprise. Irene pushed him hard, right in the middle of his back, and he stumbled straight through the closed door and into the room.

The living room was small, but lavishly decorated with a tree, window decorations and tablecloth in matching blue and silver. Sherlock had no difficulty deducing that the colour-scheme was Mary's. John had not an aesthetic bone in his body, as his jumper of the day bore witness. Today it was a navy and red jumper with white snowflakes and three reindeer on it, apparently engaging in some kind of group hug*. Hideous.

John was polishing glasses and setting the table.. His movements were steady, automatic, showing that he had done this many times before. Then he came to the napkins. He took out the blue and white cloths (obviously a set with the tablecloth) and tried to roll them into elegant scrolls such as seen in the best restaurants. He rolled them one way, then another, but each time he set them down they unrolled themselves, often flopping off the edge of the table onto the floor. He picked them up and hurriedly dusted them off, glancing into the kitchen as if worried someone might catch him at it. He next tried folding the material into hats and then squashing them onto the plate to keep them from unfolding. Finally, in a burst of frustration, he simply stuffed all the napkins underneath their respective plates and sank down into the chair at the head of the table with his hands over his face, shoulders shaking.

Irene remarked quietly, "John has a tender heart. When he decides to love someone, he doesn't do it by halves or with reservations. He loves with everything that he is, gives his all to his beloved. He is in pain now, yes, since Mary's death. But do you think he would have chosen not to love her in order to save himself from this pain?" Irene's eyes were scorching as she stared into Sherlock's soul.

"No," he whispered. "John was always the brave one. He was always willing to make the first move, take the first step. He asked, it was I…"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door behind him. John quickly wiped his face with his hands and one of the napkins, before opening the door. In came Mrs Hudson with an enormous turkey and a small jar of cranberry sauce. "John dear, grab it quick. It's heavy. I'll just pop this on the kitchen counter for later," she put the jar down next to the sink and rushed back outside for the rest of the food. "Here we go, orange glazed ham (that was always my mother's traditional recipe) and shortbread biscuits. I've also got mince pies - Sherlock used to love my mince pies, you know - are you expecting him?" She looked around the room hopefully, as if wishing Sherlock might suddenly leap out from behind the four-foot Christmas tree.

John shook his head slowly, "I made a point of leaving a message on his phone yesterday, but he didn't answer. Not even a text."

"Never mind, dear. He might still turn up." She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Mrs Turner sends her regrets, I'm afraid. Her sister had a fall and cancelled her trip to Italy, so Mrs Turner went up to Devonshire to spend the holidays with her."

John stared at her with dismay. "So it will be just you and me, then?"

Mrs Hudson stared back. "I thought you said you invited Molly and her boy as well?"

John shrugged with one shoulder, "Yes, but she wasn't sure if she could come. It all depends on how Andy is behaving today. Molly sometimes gets so tired doing everything on her own, you know…" he trailed off awkwardly.

Mrs Hudson lowered her voice and leaned toward John, as if afraid of being overheard. "Do you think her boy is quite… normal?"

John bit his lip and darted his eyes around the room. Sherlock recognised his cornered-but-trying-not-to-actually-lie expression. "Well, I'm not a paediatrician you know. A formal assessment would be the best thing, really, if Molly can afford it. Only I don't know if she gets child support payments and a full multi-disciplinary autism assessment is expensive." He lifted his hands helplessly, "She's never asked me and I don't want to intrude. She's a doctor herself, I think people sometimes forget that. If she wanted to know, she could easily find out."

He stopped abruptly and Sherlock easily read the rest off his face. If she doesn't want to know, I'm not going to break down her denial and force her to confront the bad news.

"Well," said Mrs Hudson into the heavy silence, "How about some of that white wine then? Or are you opening the sherry?"

The next few minutes were busy with hunting through the liquor cabinet for the sherry, finding a glass and pouring out a measure. John decided to get himself a beer. "I didn't make punch, not really worth it for only three people, you see."

Another silence.

"Did you text him?" Mrs Hudson said abruptly.

"No," said John, without needing to clarify the subject of their discussion. "He just ignores texts from me these days. He's got the address if he wants to come over."

"Oh, John," groaned Sherlock. "How did we come to this? I save all your texts in my phone - I read and re-read them, but after all these years how could I just walk back into your life? It's too late, too late for both of us."

Irene raised one eyebrow from her station across the room. "Why is it too late? He's not married anymore and you're not dead anymore…"

Sherlock shook his head fiercely, "He might have wanted me once, many years ago, but I've treated him too badly for him to still love me. I'm different too. Older, colder. I don't think I'd be good for him now."

"Why don't you ask, and let him make that choice?" Irene suggested softly.

"I couldn't… I'm too… I mean, it's not…" Sherlock's stuttering was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Molly!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, throwing open the door, "Come in, dear, out of the cold and bring in Andy - my he's grown! How old are you now, Andy sweetheart?" she bent down to look directly into his face. Andy averted his eyes and hid his face in Molly's skirt.

"He's feeling a bit shy today, Mrs Hudson," Molly apologised. "Let's go in, sweetie, and you can look at John's doctor's bag." She ushered the boy into the living room. "He always likes playing with stethoscopes, you know. I think he might want to be a doctor one day." She smiled fondly after him.

"I've never heard him talk, but I suppose he does to you…" said Mrs Hudson, fishing delicately for information.

"Oh yes," replied Molly immediately, "He knows lots of words. He just doesn't like to talk in front of strangers - I think he worries about his accent."

"Oh goodness, he shouldn't worry about that at all. People are so much more understanding than in my day. Back when I was a girl no-one would ever want to see a doctor with a brummie accent, but these days…"

"Oi! Lay off Birmingham!" John called out from the kitchen. Then poking his head back into the room he added, "Molly, what's your poison?"

"I'll have whatever you've got open," said Molly, "Bubbles if you have them, or white if not."

"Bubbles it is!" John disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Anyway," said Molly with determination "It isn't that kind of accent. It isn't even a British accent, as such. Oh dear, I mean… You'll hear it as soon as he talks. It's an American accent."

"American?" Mrs Hudson repeated blankly. "How could he have an American accent?"

"I think it's from the telly," said Molly, blushing. It isn't that he watches it a lot, but he likes Sesame Street and he's just kind of… picked it up," she finished lamely.

Mrs Hudson frowned and was trying to find something non-judgemental to say (and was finding it difficult to do so) when John reappeared with two champagne flutes. He held out one each to Mrs Hudson and Molly and was just making a remark about how Christmas is the time of year to break out the good stuff, when he was interrupted by a small flying body which smashed both glasses out of his hands and onto the floorboards. Andy was shrieking "Poison! Poison! Poison!" at the top of his lungs while stamping his feet in the mess of liquid and broken glass on the floor.

For a few moment pandemonium reigned. Molly was stammering apologies and trying to pull Andy away from the debris, while Mrs Hudson was fluttering around a strange kitchen looking for a broom and pan, and John was picking up the largest shards of glass in a napkin and trying to reassure Molly it was all going to be fine. Sherlock closed his eyes to the tumult and walked back out through the closed front door. He sat down of the front door step and rubbed his temples.

"What Molly needs is a good man to encourage her to stop using the telly as a babysitter." said Irene.

"Stop it. What do you know about it?" Sherlock hissed at her. "The boy is clearly on the Autism Spectrum and he was in a strange place, frightened for his mother's life. He thought John's comment about 'poison' was literally true and that he was saving Molly from a horrible death. I think John realises it and Molly must as well, no matter how much she's been avoiding it until now. It's blown up in her face, she can't continue to ignore it."

"I see," said Irene. "And exactly how much do you know about it?"

"Enough," said Sherlock flatly.

Irene raised one elegantly sculpted eyebrow. "And why would that be?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Everyone knows there is a large age gap between Mycroft and myself. What they don't know is that the son born between us was autistic. He drowned having a seizure in the bath when I was five, and everyone thinks I have forgotten him, but I haven't. I haven't." He repeated fiercely. "I read all about the autism spectrum when I was older, medications and how to manage seizures and the behavioural issues. I was too late, of course, but it's all saved in the Mind Palace room I have dedicated to Sherrinford. Andy is just as described - acquiring an accent off the television, taking everything literally, and so on."

Irene frowned at him, "Did you ever tell anyone about all this?"

"No-one would believe me. How much do you remember from when you were five years old? I loved Sherrinford, and when he died I gave that love to Redbeard. When he died, I swore I'd never love again. Caring, love - they only bring pain. Mycroft was right about that. Being alone is the only sure protection. Look at John and Molly right now if you don't believe me. They both love and it cuts their hearts open and leaves them to bleed. Calling myself a sociopath keeps everyone at a distance and makes sure they don't get close enough to hurt me, or themselves by becoming attached to me. People are afraid of those more intelligent than themselves anyway and I've cultivated a few eccentricities which confirm their prejudices. It's better this way for everyone."

Sherlock hung his head down between his knees. "I can't go back in there, spirit. I know exactly how it will be. Molly will apologise and will have to either take her son home early, or they will hang on for another hour in agony for everyone. Andy will be emotionally fragile and overwhelmed and might even have a meltdown. Molly will be tense and unhappy. John and Mrs Hudson will try to help and only make it worse by drawing attention to the problem." Sherlock ended with a gusty sigh. "I don't need to see it to know how it will all play out."

"Very well," said the Ghost of Christmas Present quietly. "Let's move on then. Shall we see what New Scotland Yard is up to this year?"

She snapped her fingers, and they were standing in the middle of the office space outside Lestrade's office. He had a bigger office now, as suited the Superintendent, but he was still working inside it and there appeared to be no signs of any kind of party from the night before. The office floor was very quiet, with only two Sergeants on duty. They were quietly talking about Lestrade, Sherlock realised.

The woman was speaking, "… take the boss some coffee? Seems a bit sad that he's here working on Christmas Day. Price of success, I guess."

The man shook his head, "No, he always works Christmas. Says those with families should spend the day at home while those without can work and treat it like any other day. I think he tries to forget it's Christmas Day, to be honest. Since his second marriage broke up he always works both Christmas and New Year, and that was before he became Superintendent."

The man looked at his fellow officer speculatively, "So you're single, I presume?"

"Yep, unattached and fancy free…"

Sherlock shifted his attention from their predictable flirting and moved towards Lestrade. He looked tired, worn and depressed. Sherlock remembered that he had been reinstated at NSY after the debacle surrounding Sherlock's fake suicide was all sorted out. He had been promoted but he still worked too hard, and then his second marriage had failed leaving him nothing but his work. Clearly Lestrade had not bothered to try to form a new relationship since then. He and Sherlock had texted information back and forth for years, but Lestrade was too senior to attend crime scenes himself now, so even Sherlock could not remember the last time they had actually spoken.

"You could have called him, you know," said Irene. "You knew he was alone. You knew from the state of his shoes, even though he never told you."

"I… yes." Sherlock did not try to excuse himself. "Spirit!" he exclaimed, "Show me some hope! Surely someone, somewhere is connected with someone else. Surely someone is celebrating sincerely and with true affection!"

"You? Interested in affection? I thought you couldn't abide sentiment?" goaded Irene. "You never had friends. You never wanted friends."

At the aghast expression on Sherlock's face, she relented. "You never had much use for friends or family before, but I suppose since it's Christmas we can let you borrow some."

The scenes flickered past his eyes, changing as soon as he fully comprehended their meaning. Clara and Harry Watson embracing and sharing champagne flutes filled with sparkling soda. Mrs Turner and her sister dusting icing sugar over mince pies, far too many for the two women, they were obviously going to take them to the neighbours. Dimmock being welcomed home by his family after working a morning shift - they had waited Christmas lunch for him. Sally Donovan surrounded by her three children and a massive extended family of aunts, uncles and cousins.

Then even faster, people he did not know at all. Families gathering for lunches, for dinners. Work colleagues sharing coffee. People gathering in groups in churches and synagogues. Miners on isolated stations putting up tinsel, and oil rig workers sharing food and lighting electric candles. In the southern hemisphere summer, families were eating cold seafood and then going out for beach cricket or swimming.

The visions blurred before his eyes until he cried out "Stop! Stop spirit, it's too much!"

The images immediately ceased, and they were back on the doorstep of 221B. "Too much happiness? Too much friendship and love for you?" asked the spirit sarcastically. "Never mind, look over there," she nodded towards the group of homeless people gathering under the bridge. They were warming their hands over a fire built in a rubbish bin and talking.

"Christmas not too cold this year, eh Robby?"

"All for the best, and I got a real nice bunch of fruit from the posh lady on the corner, look. Want some?"

"Thanks. I didn't get nuthin' from the git back there. Time was, when the doctor was around, that he would give out plenty of dosh in view of future information, but not now. He don't care for anyone but hisself now."

"Does he care for himself though? Since he came back from the dead, he hasn't been exactly the same, you know."

"True. He's back from the dead, but not exactly fully alive either."

"You tryin' to say he's undead? Like a zombie or sumthin'?"

"Nah, nothingk like that. He's just walkingk around half alive since his doctor left."

"I'm not a doctor but I could live pretty nice in that flat if he's looking for a new flatmate!"

They all laughed and the conversation moved on. Irene touched Sherlock lightly on the arm to direct his attention down the river the other way. Further along the shore three people were lying huddled in blankets close to the water's edge. One was a child, the other two not much older, teenagers Sherlock guessed from their sizes. As Sherlock looked they seemed to come closer, though he was not conscious of moving. They were lying very still and appeared to be asleep.

The angle of the vision suddenly shifted and from where they appeared to be hovering over the water Sherlock could see the pools of blood in which they lay. All three of them had been murdered, their throats slit as they slept.

"Oh no, spirit," whispered Sherlock, "Who would do this? It is obvious they have no money. It was a crime and a waste to kill them."

Irene opened her eyes wide in pretended surprise, "But you like murders! Even if you think this one was boring," she gave the word his very own inflection, "why should it upset you? It isn't your business. You're not a charity, remember. They are only useful to you as they supply you with data. If you didn't give anything to Wiggins, who is useful to you, how much less would you want to waste your time and thought on these three?"

She leaned closer, "Do you want to know who they are? Would their names interest you?"

Sherlock could not help himself. Information, clues tantalisingly out of reach, had always been his obsession. "Who are they? Were they children of someone I know?"

"They were the children and the responsibility of all of Mankind. They lived in all corners of the globe. The boy is Justice. The girl is Altruism. The child is Love."

"Who would kill such innocents? Tell me, that I may track down their killer!"

Irene looked at him sadly, "You know their killers well. They were killed by Fear and Hate, while Estrangement stood by and said nothing."

Sherlock gasped, "Estrangement is not a crime."

"No, but it is the alienation of society from these children that allowed them to be killed. If they were fed and nurtured in the hearts of all, their killers could never have reached them."

Just then the echoing toll of Big Ben striking midnight throbbed through Sherlock's body. The very atmosphere seemed to shake, and the Ghost of Christmas Present vanished, and Sherlock started to fall towards the cold, black water of the Thames. He tried to cry out, but before he could snatch a breath the icy water closed over his head and flooded his lungs.

*John's jumper can be seen by Googling "Reindeer Threesome Christmas Jumper" since I can't get a link to work here.