I have always been rather fond of Christmas, and look forward to the season every year with gladness. This year was no different, and though the weather outside was cold and grey, I enjoyed myself by the fir, with a good book and a glass of port. My companion, however, was not of the same feeling. Holmes did not dislike Christmas per se, and though not a religious man, he did still like to uphold the social graces of the season. However, as a student of the behaviour of folk and their routines, he found it rather unsettling that a time of year could elicit such a change in them. His logical mind found little comfort in being wished seasons greetings by a perfect stranger. However, over the last two days his mood had been more sour than usual.

For this reason, and the weather, for Holmes was not entirely well having had a heavy cold, he ventured out little. I had some little work, as the winter had brought with it the usual bouts of 'flus and fevers, but was this evening relaxing with my glass. Holmes lay on the chaise covered with a blanket.

"Would you like some supper, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Hudson walked in from the landing holding a tray.

"That would be most welcome, Mrs Hudson, thank you,"

"Mr Holmes?" she asked, crossing to the table and setting down her tray.

Holmes said nothing. I turned to him, and he looked back at me with pursed lips.

"Really, Holmes!" I said. "No, thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson poured my soup into a owl as I went to the table. I thanked her and she widened her eyes at me, looking over to Holmes. I nodded, and she smiled and left.

I drew a deep breath as I prepared to speak.

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?"

He ignored me also, which angered me. I paused for a moment, and then turned to my professional mentality.

"Your behaviour leads me to believe that something is wrong, Holmes."

Holmes let out a noise; half grumble, half grunt. He said nothing more.

"I shall consider myself privileged to be worthy of response."

"You may consider as you please!" Holmes leapt up, and ran off to his room, pulling behind him a trail of blankets.

I continued with my supper. I might have been hurt at this exchange, but it was fleeting. I was well used to Holmes' behaviour by now. I knew that whatever his annoyance, it was not with me. He was not normally so snappish, however, and this concerned me. He had solved several cases of late, and so his mental state was unlikely to have been caused by the lack of mental activity that so often plunged him into a black depression. Indeed, he had been visited by Wiggins a few days ago, and I thought that he might be involved in a case that he did not wish to share with me. His physical health was much improved, after his having exhausted himself by working twenty hour days through a heavy cold, and for once he was eating properly. I had checked his supplies of cocaine and morphine, but found nothing untoward. Indeed, his behaviour was very different now to that which came over him when he indulged these vices.

There was little point trying to reason with him in this mood, so I finished my supper, and my book, before retiring.

I woke very early the next morning, and received the fright of my life when I saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on my chest of drawers, not three feet away.

"Sorry, Watson."

"Holmes! Good God, have you been there all night?"

"No."

"What is the matter? Have we a case?"

"No."
"Are you ill?"
"No."
I looked at my watch. "Then what on earth are you doing?"

"The missing boy."

I thought for a moment. It was still early and my wits were not yet fully awakened.
"Missing boy?"

Holmes stared at me intently, surprised that I did not know what he was talking about.

I looked at him, much concerned.

Holmes sighed and grabbed at a bunch of newspapers he had placed beside him, thrusting them towards me. I sat up and looked at them. Some had been screwed up and then very carefully pressed flat. As I read, Holmes stared at me in anticipation.

I read hastily, and met Holmes' eyes with a sympathetic smile. This seemed to annoy him, though he did not say so. The articles were over six months old, from the previous summer, relating to a boy who had been found drowned in the Thames. The articles did not suggest the foul play that I had expected, since it seemed so important to Holmes, and a drowning was unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence. I was confused.

"You do not remember?"

I thought carefully and I did recall him mentioning such an event. However I was sure it was only in passing.

"I think you may have mentioned it at the time. Has something happened, Holmes?"

"Three days ago I was visited by Wiggins,"
"Yes, I remember."

"Do you remember the case of the Leeds ironmonger?"

"Indeed, yes."

"Last summer?"
"Yes."
"The irregulars were of great help to us in that affair, Watson."

"Indeed."
"I have been informed that the boy in question here was Thomas Pike, known as Pikey, one of the Baker Street Irregulars."

"Ah." However I was still not completely enlightened, as sadly, this was not the first time we had heard of the death of one of our band.

Holmes hung his head. "I have reason to believe that he died while conducting business for me."

"My dear Holmes," I said, and stood up out of bed.

Holmes looked at the ground. "I may have sent the poor child to his death."