Prompt: Stockings, from Wordwielder
Christmas at Scotland Yard was hardly the most joyful event of the year. Lestrade didn't have anything against the holiday, but it was hard to get into the Christmas spirit in a building that was constantly full of just-arrested criminals and looked more like a prison than anything else. The Christmas tree standing in the corner, the garland around each doorway and the stockings hung in each division only served to make it obvious how very not jolly the whole thing was.
The stockings, in particular, had become a point of contention. Someone had decided to take it upon themselves to bring in little gifts to fill the stockings each day leading up until Christmas. Whoever this was had decided not to identify themselves, which Lestrade suspected was because they didn't want to get blamed for what had turned into interpersonal fighting on a scale not seen since the days of Moriarty, when crime had increased a hundredfold and everyone blamed each other for not solving their share of the increased workload. The now daily arguments over whose gift was better, or who had got a better gift yesterday and was now disappointed with today's.
Lestrade could hardly be bothered with the whole thing; there were still crimes to solve, after all, and he didn't care in the slightest about whatever cheap trinket appeared in his stocking each day. So far he had been the proud recipient of a small wreath, a tiny knitted bag, two different wooden nutcrackers and a miniscule book of poems. He had given each of them to his children, who were happier with them than he ever would have been. He also could not bring himself to take part in the daily circular conversations wondering who was behind it. As far as he was concerned, the only mystery was that anyone would be so invested in the various useless gifts they were receiving in the first place.
But one week (and one stuffed mouse, an embroidered handkerchief and a tiny music box) later, Lestrade had to admit the mystery gift giver was a larger problem than he could just ignore. Mostly because today had ended with an actual fistfight between two junior bobbies, one of whom was convinced that he was given a thimble as an insult when his friend received a small slice of fruitcake, which apparently showed him as the favored of the two.
Whatever Lestrade's opinions of fruitcake (and he was positive the thimble was the better gift), this could not be allowed to continue, and with no evidence pointing to whom it might be, Lestrade had only one option left. Which is how he found himself sitting in Sherlock Holmes's sitting room, explaining the whole situation.
"Let me make sure I am clear. Someone at Scotland Yard is leaving anonymous gifts in each Christmas stocking, and this is disrupting work enough so that you want to hire me to find out who it is?" Holmes asked, his eyelids half closed in that expression Lestrade found so irritating.
"Yes," Lestrade said resignedly. "The arguments each day are more than I can take, and everyone is spending more time on this than on solving actual crimes! It simply must stop."
"I am sure the population of London will be delighted to know this is how their police force spends its time," Holmes said languidly, and Lestrade could not help but glare at him. The man lorded it over them on a regular basis that he thought he was better than them; must he gloat so now?
"If I may make a suggestion," Dr. Watson said. "If it is this much of a problem, why do you not simply remove the stockings?"
"Orders from the Commissioner," Lestrade said glumly. "Apparently we are to unite in the spirit of Christmas, or some such nonsense, and he refuses to see how it is causing the exact opposite."
To his surprise, Holmes began to laugh. "You and I are alike in this, Lestrade. The forced cheer of this season does nothing for either of us."
Lestrade merely grunted in response. "Will you take the case, then?" Otherwise, he could not see what use it was having the world's only consulting detective on (rather annoying) retainer.
"I shall," Holmes said. "The case is simplicity itself but the irony of Scotland Yard needing to consult me about a mystery inside their own domain is enough motivation."
Spite, Lestrade had heard, was a vicious motivator. So he trooped back to headquarters with Holmes and Dr. Watson in tow, and had to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Holmes interrogate his fellow police officers.
To his credit, Holmes did treat the case as seriously as he would have any murder Lestrade had ever brought to his door. He insisted on hearing exactly which gifts everyone had received each day, and on viewing today's items. He did get some strange looks from those officers who didn't know him as he went through his usual crime scene routine of crawling on the floor to examine the molding and sniffing the stockings. At least, that was what it looked like. Lestrade had never been quite sure of what he was doing when he started in on it.
"As I thought, it is simplicity itself," Holmes said. He was holding the deck of cards Lestrade had found in his stocking that morning. "Where might someone purchase all these different objects so cheaply? Obviously they are not spending a great deal of money on them, especially since they are purchasing an item a day for everyone in the building."
"A pawn shop?" Lestrade suggested.
"A consignment shop?" Dr. Watson said.
"More likely," Holmes said. "Items in pawn shops tend, in my experience, to have more value, as those who sell them are looking for a higher sale value. These items are, as you said, Lestrade, nearly worthless monetarily."
"Worthless entirely," Lestrade said. Though his daughters had enjoyed the nutcrackers, both of whom were now wearing crowns and had been declared to be princes of whatever far away land they had made up now.
Holmes continued as if he had not heard him. "The other clue is that you each arrive in the morning to find the stockings already filled, do you not?" Lestrade nodded. "So whoever is behind this is in the building when no one else is."
"Well, that makes it simpler," Lestrade said. "There's always at least one guard, to watch whoever we have under arrest overnight. Then there are those who clean the building. That is it."
"Undoubtedly, at least one of them must be new, as this did not happen last year," Holmes said. "We should be able to narrow it down easily."
Lestrade frowned. "It is difficult to keep anyone on the night shift. I wager at least three of them are new in the past few months, more since last year."
"Hmm. That complicates matters. Watson, where is the nearest consignment shop?" Holmes asked.
"That's easy," Lestrade said. "There is one around the nearest corner."
"Very well. Lestrade, provide me with descriptions of everyone who has access to Scotland yard after normal business hours," Holmes said imperiously.
"I can do you one better. I have their photographs," Lestrade said. Scotland Yard had been the first to keep photographs of employees on file, and he was rather proud of that. He went and got the record books, following Holmes as he swept out of Scotland Yard.
"In the end," Holmes said later, over a glass of brandy. "It was a simple affair. The clerk at the consignment shop was most helpful, was he not, Lestrade?"
Lestrade grunted. They had arrived at the shop to be greeted by a cheery clerk who immediately said, "Oh, you have found out where the gifts come from? Have you been enjoying them?" At which point Lestrade had promptly wiped the smile off his face by telling him no, they had not, and to please inform them of who was behind the entire debacle.
"You ought to tell your night guardsmen from now on to keep to their job description and not get involved in anything else," Holmes said.
Lestrade had actually felt rather badly once the truth came out. The pawn shop clerk told them their newest night watchman, ("Aha! I was right!" Holmes declared on finding this out) a pleasant fellow unused to night shift work, had felt as if he did not know any of his coworkers. The stockings had been his way of trying to break the ice, so to speak.
"Even better, rotate them off the night shift occasionally so they do not have to resort to such extremes to make friends," Dr. Watson added.
That idea had merit. Holmes had taken them directly from the consignment shop to the poor fellow's flat, where he was so apologetic upon realizing what a mess he had caused that he offered to resign. Lestrade would not hear of it, though he did insist that the gift-giving had to stop.
"In any event, this case is sure to be unique as the only time Scotland Yard consulted me to solve an internal mystery," Holmes said, chuckling. "Lestrade, I must commend you on so thoroughly reinforcing my opinion of the official police force."
Lestrade scowled and drained his brandy glass. "At least the fighting will stop, and that is all I ask," he said.
He was only further disgruntled when he arrived the next morning to work to find everyone arguing over why they had not received presents in their stockings that day, and seeking to cast blame on whoever had stopped it.
Fortunately, while they all realized Holmes had been behind the mysterious end of the gifts, no one had yet realized Lestrade had brought him in on the question, and he decided very quickly to keep it that way.