Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein.

Dreamsprite 5 – As always, thank you for your reviews. I think you're right about Sherlock being a little bit out of character on his last adventure, but hear me out. First off, Holmes' fighting. The roundhouse kick was a bit much, but it was the only move that really fit. I wanted to show Holmes as a capable fighter. Most pastiches capture Holmes' brilliance as an investigator, but many forget that Doyle also described him as an able boxer and a crack marksman. A regular action hero. I also wanted to show Bruce isn't yet the capable fighter that he becomes as Batman.

As for Holmes' interactions with Professor Davenport. I wanted to really display Professor Davenport as a government bureaucrat, concerned with keeping secrets more than anything else. Also, I wanted Holmes and Bruce to unravel government secrets through their own means rather than just being given them. The adventure would have been much shorter if Bruce and Holmes didn't have the opportunity to get at the truth by their own means.

And yes, the McBane formula is an early version of the formula that will later create Batman's nemesis Bane.

A/N – Here's the festive Christmas caper I promised you. Sherlock Holmes is no stranger to Christmas crimes, from the canonical "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" to the series of pastiches published in "Holmes for the Holiday."

This particular adventure is derived from "A Ghost of Christmas", a "Murder She Wrote" fanfic of mine that wasn't well received and has long been deleted. I always felt that my plot was a good one and could be done better with different characters and a simplified story line. Hopefully, the presence of Holmes and Wayne and company will breath new life into my not-so-glorious recycled fanfic.

Consider it my little Christmas gift to you, my readers.

And those of you who do not remember Ms. Sabrina Smith may do well to reread the Case of the Winged Demon.

Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne

in

"A Case of Christmas Fear"

December 22, 1935.

The Thames was frozen solid. The air was frigid. Intelligent people were buried under layers of blanketing in their cozy households, or nestled up beside a roaring fire.

Joseph Gray was not fortunate enough to be among those intelligent people. He was drinking coffee in a cold, pitch black. The dock house was freezing. Joseph was cussing.

Earlier he had decided not to fall asleep on his job, only because he was certain that if he fell asleep in this freezing cold, he would never wake up. Now the prospect didn't seem like such a bad one. Joseph closed his eyes to rest them for a few minutes.

His senses sharpened, compensating for his lack of vision.

Joseph heard a sound. It was a very faint sound, but it was enough to make him open his eyes, jump out of his seat, and turn on his flashlight.

The dock guard searched the room with the beam of his flashlight and found nothing. Yet, when he closed his eyes again, he was sure he could hear another human's breathing in the room.

The guard walked forward slowly. Suddenly, something darted out of the blackness. The beam of light caught a glimmer of a brownish-red mass flying through the air.

"Freeze!" yelled Joseph.

He followed the path of the mass with his light. All he could see in front of him was a tower of wooden crates. Then he heard soft footsteps. He slowly made his way toward the tower of crates.

"Reo-wwr!"

An old tomcat ran across the warehouse floor. Joseph gasped to regain his breath and began to wipe freezing sweat from his forehead.

There was a bright flash of light up ahead. Joseph ran to the wall and threw up the light switch.

There was a moment of darkness and hizzing, then the warehouse was covered in light.

A woman stood in front of Joseph holding a camera. She was tall and slender and very beautiful. Now Joseph was really frozen.

She was dressed in a brownish-red jumpsuit, tight against her body, every curve distinctly displayed, rigid in the cold. She brushed long, brunette bangs out of her face. She was wearing a black mask across her eyes and nose. She smiled mischievously as she ran her hand down her side, past her hip.

Joseph said nothing.

The woman winked. Then she lifted one of her pant legs, revealing tanned flesh, and a gun. Everything went black.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sherlock Holmes was a man who was not easily puzzled. On top of that, he had spent the last several years of his life as a recluse. Therefore, Holmes was ashamed that he was puzzled over Bruce Wayne's reclusive behavior over the past month.

Bruce had spent most of his December in his rooms. He had still done his chores. He had watched with something resembling fascination when Holmes taught his to move the beehives to a heated hutch for the winter. He had talked even less than usual, though. He barely said a word. He was in a perpetual state of sulkiness.

Holmes could tolerate Bruce's anti-social behavior no longer. He was never a man of much celebration himself, but Dr. Watson had always become more lively and joyous during this time of year. Even Holmes hadn't been a complete stranger to Christmas joy during his few years as a beekeeper.

Holmes knocked on Bruce's door.

"Come in," was the emotionless reply.

Holmes pushed open the door. Bruce was lying awake with his head on his pillow, looking at the wall and frowning.

"Get freshened up," said Holmes, lightly shaking Bruce's shoulder. "We're going to the theater tonight."

Bruce just groaned and rolled over.

"The Chief Inspector has provided me with tickets for one of London's finer theaters," Holmes continued. "For myself and two companions."

"Which play?" asked Bruce.

"Mr. Dicken's 'Christmas Carol'," said Holmes. "Considered by some a classic. I've seen it myself once or twice. But there are new actors and a new director, which should make this a different show entirely."

"I'm not interested," muttered Bruce.

"Nonsense," said Holmes. "Now, go get properly dressed."

"I'm just not into this whole Christmas thing," said Bruce. "Wake me up when December ends."

Now Holmes frowned.

"I'm not giving you an option in this," he said. "If you want to battle the criminal classes, it's essential that you make contacts in the community. In all areas of society, including the theater crowd."

He hesitated.

"The other ticket is for the young Dr. Watson," said Holmes. "She will be accompanying us."

Bruce couldn't help the small smile dancing on his lips. The thought of the beautiful young doctor warmed his entire body. He had only seen her for extremely brief periods over the last three months.

"Also, I'm interested in seeing how valid the acting abilities are of your friend Sabrina Smith. She has a substantial role in the production."

Now Bruce couldn't help grinning wildly. He was lost in boyish fantasies of two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen… together.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"I'm not giving you an option," said Holmes, leaving and shutting the door swiftly behind him.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

A tuxedoed Holmes and Bruce found Dr. Jamie Watson waiting for them outside of the theater. She was dressed in the same dress shirt and black slacks Bruce had met her in, but the time since he had last seen her in it made her seem all the more attractive to him.

Dr. Watson folded the page of the London Times she was reading and smiled at Holmes and Bruce.

"Have you seen the front page?" she asked Holmes.

"Dock worker found unconscious," recited Holmes. "Serial prowler at large."

"What's all this about?" asked Bruce.

"Joseph Gray was found sleeping with a tranquilizer dart in his leg in a London dock house," said Jamie. "He's one of several warehouse guards that have been found like that all over the country over the course of this year. The incidents are attributed to a character known only as the Golden Fox."

"Half the workers swear the Golden Fox is a woman," said Holmes. "The other half swears just as vehemently that it was a man."

"Are you involved in the case in anyway?" said Jamie.

"No," said Holmes. "I haven't been asked. Not surprising considering the level of confidentiality surrounding the case. The papers have been sparser than usual with details."

"But you must have your own theory?" said Jamie.

"Enough talking shop," said Holmes. "Let's go in."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The trio entered the theater, surrounded by happy theater goers wearing decorations of holly sprigs and red and green ribbons. Men and women greeted each other and wished each other happy holidays. Bruce felt sick to his stomach.

"Bah humbug!" he muttered under his breath.

Finally, Holmes found the seats and the three settled comfortably into them. Bruce tried to sit next to Jamie, but Holmes gave him a stern look and insisted on sitting between them. Bruce tried to catch a sideways glance at Jamie, but he just found Holmes staring down the end of his long nose at him and giving him a disapproving glance.

Bruce folded his arms, pulled himself back into his seat, and reluctantly resigned himself to staring at the empty stage.

Holmes rose from his seat.

"I think I see Gregson and his wife," said Holmes. "I'll go have a word with them. But I'll be back shortly. Very shortly. Excuse me."

Bruce sat with his back stiff against the back of his chair, staring woodenly ahead of him. He heard Jamie's laugh.

"It's alright," she said. "He's not watching us anymore."

Bruce turned to see Jamie smiling widely.

"I know Uncle Sherlock can be a little overprotective of me…"

"I'll say!"

"But you'd probably get away with trying something," Dr. Watson continued. "After all, you're his golden boy."

Bruce looked at her in be-puzzlement.

"What do you mean?"

"You're his protégé," said Jamie. "The great Yankee hope. I didn't think I'd ever see Sherlock Holmes out in society again. You've given him fresh motivation. He's always had need of someone to be a mentor to."

"I still don't understand what you mean," said Bruce.

"He's getting old," said Jamie. "He wants someone to pass the torch to."
"What about Dr. Watson?"

"My father learned a lot from Mr. Holmes," said Jamie. "A lot about criminology. And ultimately, Uncle Sherlock helped dad fulfill his dream. I think he knew that was what he was doing all the time. But you see, my father didn't want to become a crime fighter. No. Uncle Sherlock helped him to become the thing he'd always wanted to be. A writer."

"A writer?"

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes taught my father to look at the world with fresh eyes. To see what was really going on in the human heart and human mind. To observe miniscule details and complex imagery. With Uncle Sherlock's mentoring, my father became a great author.

"Then there was William Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars. Wiggins is a detective now, alright. But he's a legman. He's extraordinary at gathering facts and information. But he's no super sleuth. He can't connect behavior and words and scenery to paint a picture of something that has happened in the past the way Sherlock Holmes can."

"And what about you?" asked Bruce.

"Uncle Sherlock has been a great personal mentor to me," said Dr. Watson. "He has helped make me into the woman I've become. But I learned everything about medicine from my father, and a few things about criminology from Uncle Sherlock. You're the first person he's mentored who actually wants to make it his life's goal to understand and stop criminals. He's grooming you to be the next Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, Bruce," Wayne heard in his ear. The voice was smooth, seductive, and feminine. Jamie's face turned sour as Bruce turned to look at Sabrina Smith.

Sabrina Smith's lips were a delicious ruby red and her dress was a sumptuous brown red. She was crouching behind his row of seats.

"I thought you were acting in the play," said Bruce.

"I am," said Sabrina. "I play the Ghost of Christmas Past. But it's so boring backstage. I wanted to get a look at the crowd. Then I saw you…"

She brought her lips close to his ear.

"…And I couldn't help but stop to say a friendly hello."

"Why, hello," said Bruce with a large smile.

"I'd better get back there to finish putting my costume and make-up on before our director catches me," said Sabrina. "He'd have a fit! See you after the show?"

"Count on it!"

Sabrina slunk away, her posterior shaking side-to-side behind her like a wagging tail.

"She's pretty," said Jamie slowly. She paused. "I don't like her."

Bruce's smile just expanded. Then he saw Holmes coming back to his seat, and the lights slowly began to dim.

"Perfect timing," said the great detective.

"Marley was dead to begin with," said the narrator in a voice worldly and distinctly British, smooth and thunderous, rich and simple. "As dead as a doornail."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The familiar scenes began to unfold. Ebenezer Scrooge ignored charity, rejected the spirit of Christmas, and mistreated his kindly clerk. Most of the audience was captured by the performance, held spellbound at the edge of their seats. Bruce, on the other hand, just yawned and leaned back further in his.

The scene changed to Scrooge's bedroom. When Scrooge sat on his bed, things became interesting.

"What's that I hear?" said Scrooge. "The rattling of chains?"

He cupped a hand to his ear and sat at the edge of his bed, waiting anxiously for something to happen. After a minute, he dropped his hand and rolled his eyes.

"What's that I hear?" repeated Scrooge, a little more loudly this time. "The rattling of chains?"

Again, he waited at the edge of his bed. After a few minutes during which crickets were audible, Scrooge pounded both of his fists into the mattress and walked off stage.

Loud whispers spread across the audience as the stage remained unlighted and deserted. Bruce recognized the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard standing up in front of him and walking towards the stage.

After a few moments had passed, Gregson walked back up the aisle to his seat, his face graven. The house lights slowly came up as Gregson made his way to Holmes' seat.

"Don't go anywhere," Gregson whispered. "They'll want to see you backstage."

The director walked to the front of the stage.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "The play will not continue tonight due to some very unfortunate circumstances. Your tickets will be refunded on the way out. Would you all please leave immediately? I'm very sorry, and I thank you all for your understanding."

As the confused audience made its way to the exit, Holmes, Bruce, and Dr. Watson moved in the opposite direction.

"Mr. Clark," said Gregson, "this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

George Clark's face was as white as a ghost's.

"Thank God you're here Mr. Holmes," he said. "I never thought I'd see this sort of situation. Not in theater."

"What's happened?"

"It's Sir William," said Clark. "Sir William. He's dead!"

George Clark, the director, led the detectives backstage to the dressing room of Sir William Moore, the acclaimed English thespian. A heavy chain was knotted tightly around Sir William's neck.

"You can't put this on me!" said Ebenezer Scrooge. "I've been on stage ever since this thing started tonight."

Jamie touched Sir William's neck. She looked surprised, then clapped her hands together. Some white powder fell from her hands. She touched Sir William again.

"It's awfully warm in here," she said. "But the body's cold and rigid. He must have been dead for over an hour. Maybe even two or more."

Holmes stepped into the dressing room.

"Come in here, Master Wayne," he said. "Tell me what you observe."