Prompt: Christmas cookies are going missing, from cjnwriter

My dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,

Please enjoy these Christmas cookies as our compliments of the season. May you enjoy a happy and healthy Christmas and New Year.

Yours,

Sir Henry and Lady Shirley Baskerville

"That was very nice of him to remember us," I remarked to Holmes when the handsome package arrived at the little cottage in Sussex Downs, full of a variety of Christmas biscuits in every imaginable flavor.

"I see he has not lost his Canadian way of referring to things, despite these long years in England," Holmes added. "Surely he meant biscuit."

"Surely we can forgive him his eccentricities," I said. "It is not every client who remembers us so fondly." Indeed, many clients would rather forget our involvement in their lives, as we tended to unearth secrets they would rather remain hidden. Sir Henry, however, in gratitude for our assistance in allowing him to take control of his ancestral title and home, had remained in correspondence with us both, to the point of attending Holmes's "funeral" when all had thought him dead, and inviting us both to his wedding when he at last found a lady worthy of the title of Lady Baskerville some few years ago.

"Indeed, Watson, especially as it is evident he keeps an excellent baker," Holmes said, placing the plate of biscuits in the center of the table. Few knew of his dreadful sweet tooth, which he successfully kept under control by his iron will (more successfully than he had many other of his vices), but I knew a plate of homemade biscuits would soon disappear if he was left to his own devices.

"Come, Holmes, let us survey your tarps to ensure they have not blown over in this wind before we enjoy these, shall we?"

"An excellent idea, Watson," my friend agreed.

When we returned, both looking forward to the promised treat of Christmas biscuits, Holmes surveyed the platter seriously, so that I thought he was merely putting thought into which flavor he wished to try first. Then his brow furrowed in a way intimately familiar to me. "Watson? Was there not a chocolate one on top?" he asked. "And one with walnuts directly next to it?"

Sherlock Holmes had, as ever, a mind for details, and I knew his memory would not have failed him in this matter. Besides, I had also remembered the two biscuits topping the pile, and they were most certainly gone now. "There were," I said. "Funny thing to go missing."

"Especially as there is no conceivable person who could have taken them," Holmes said, and by the gleam in his eyes I knew he would not rest until the mystery was solved. To him, any case was worth his time provided it was unique enough to interest him, whether it involved the murder of a nobleman or a few missing biscuits.

"I suppose they might have fallen," I said half-heartedly.

"With no crumbs on the floor to speak of?" Holmes asked sharply. "Come, Watson, are you that out of practice?"

"Well, you have no better answer," I said peevishly.

"We shall see if the same happens tomorrow," Holmes said with an air of finality. "That will determine the course of action to take. Make note, Watson, that once we are finished with our biscuits, the top layer are biscuits covered in pink sugar and those with vanilla icing."

I did so, then thought that I would have far preferred if Sir Henry Baskerville's gift had not come with a mystery to solve.

The next morning, the pink sugared biscuits were indeed missing, and Holmes let out a cry of what I must call satisfaction. "Aha! There is indeed a mystery afoot, Watson!"

"Yes, in our own kitchen," I said, yawning. "This is hardly a murder, Holmes. Might it at least wait until I have had my coffee?"

Holmes did not answer, kneeling down to inspect the table and the floor for any evidence of crumbs. "Whoever this is has done a masterful job at hiding the evidence," he said.

"Yes, but who could possibly have taken them in our own house?" I asked. We kept no servants save for Mrs. Cuthbert, a local woman who came in to cook and clean daily, and she had been given the Christmas holidays off and had not come since last week.

"That is what is so very interesting about it, Watson," Holmes said. "I have not seen a case so interesting in years."

"You have not seen a case in years," I responded. Perhaps, as I had often said, retirement had been a mistake. Holmes still maintained a keen interest in crime and while neither of us were in the same physical condition as in our days at Baker Street, he could certainly still have consulted from his armchair as he had done many times.

"Watson, I have achieved all that there is to achieve in the field of detection," Holmes said imperiously. "Besides, a case need not be of national importance to have features of interest, as this one does."

"You are right, of course," I said. "I would like to know who is eating our biscuits."

"Excellent. You and I shall remain here tonight, making it look as though we have gone out," Holmes said. "But in reality we shall be lying in wait." He looked quite excited by the idea, and I confess I found myself looking forward to it as well. It had been many years since he and I had been on a stakeout.

Little did I know how very unusually - and happily - this case was to end.

It was the strangest stakeout I had ever been on. With no element of danger, and in our own kitchen, it had far fewer stakes than any other. Holmes and I had made a show of putting on our coats and opening and shutting the front door, then taking our shoes off and slipping silently back into the kitchen, where we remained standing on either side of the icebox so no intruder might see us.

I could not imagine what intruder it was, since we had not noticed any evidence of a break-in, and while Holmes still had many enemies who would have gladly broken in to do him harm, I doubted anyone would do so simply to steal biscuits.

The kitchen was now utterly dark, and it was only by the light of the moon through the window that we were able to make out the platter of biscuits on the table. Suddenly, I saw movement on the table's surface. Holmes leapt out from his spot behind the icebox, throwing on the lights.

"BASIL?"

I could not believe my eyes. There, on the table, were our little fellow-lodgers from Baker Street, Basil and Dawson. It had been some time since I had thought of them, and it had never occurred to me that they had followed us here.

"I told you we ought to have told them when we moved in, Basil!" Dawson said in an admonishing tone.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Only a few months," Dawson said. "Basil has retired."

"Yes, and what better place to retire than the fields of Sussex Downs?" Basil said grandly.

"Though we did run afoul of your bees some weeks ago," Dawson added.

"Why did you not say anything?" I asked.

"That is my fault, Doctor," Basil said. "I thought what tremendous fun it would be to see how long it took Holmes to realize we were here? I must say, I was surprised it took until these delicious biscuits arrived."

"So it was you!" Holmes said.

"Precisely," Basil answered. "Though I am surprised you did not notice our presence before, Holmes. We have been availing ourselves of your kitchen, haven't we, Dawson?"

"You were responsible for taking the pie that I was saving!" I said, in sudden remembrance. Holmes looked at me quizzically, and I said, "I had a piece of pie I was saving from the fair in September, but the next day it was gone! I thought perhaps Mrs. Cuthbert had thrown it away."

"An excellent pie it was too," Dawson said.

"Well, that mystery is solved," Holmes said. "You are certainly welcome to stay, though I would prefer you ask if you want anything from our kitchen, in future."

"And," I added. "Please sit and enjoy some of the biscuits with us. We have earned it, and I wish to hear all about Baker Street." Now that the mystery was solved, I really was pleased to see our little friends, and I hoped very much they would enjoy retirement as much as I have these past few years.

"Certainly, Doctor," Basil said, helping himself to a biscuit.

"It really is very nice to see you both again," Dawson said. "I don't know how much longer I could have gone without saying hello."

And so it was that Basil of Baker Street became Basil of Sussex Downs, and no mouse has ever had a retirement like either of our little friends, and as for Sherlock Holmes, I believe he found that he and Basil, with their interests so in common, made each other's retirements better in every way, though I knew he would never say so.