Prompt from Madam'zelleGiry - Carolers storming 221B

The Adventure of the Less Than Silent Night

The Reverend Barnaby Giry was very pleased with his choir. They had been out for only an hour singing to the crowds passing down Baker Street and pausing in front of several of the houses in hopes of receiving something warm to keep their strength up. His wife, Jennifer, had collected twelve pounds, six pence for the poor and it was looking like it would be a very good night.

"Let's give Mrs. Hudson a try," Jennifer said. "She's always got some hot punch to share out."

"Yes," agreed the reverend. "And she always enjoys our rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'."

The choir moved into position at the foot of the steps in front of the house at 221 Baker Street and with a blow of the pitch pipe the Reverend Giry signaled his parishioners to begin.

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

Remember, Christ our…"

BBAAAAAAMMM!

The entire choir faltered to a halt as window glass from the upper story flew out above the street and began tinkling down. A cloud of smoke billowed out of the now paneless frame and light flickered within. The carolers stared in shock as did many of the passersby.

"A gas line explosion!" shouted the good reverend. "Jennifer, call the fire brigade! You men, follow me!"

Giry, a large man in his forties, leapt up the short flight of steps and slammed his shoulder into the door, bursting the lock from the frame. His carolers at his heels he stormed up the staircase to the flat on the first floor and tried the knob. It was locked. From within he could hear two men shouting, apparently in distress.

"Come on lads!" Giry cried and threw himself against the door. There was too little room to gain any momentum so the door resisted their first effort, but sprang open upon their second. More smoke billowed out into the stairwell as the cracked panel swung open on its hinges. "Right! Follow me! Stay low!"

Giry and his men entered the flat in a crouch only to find the cloud of smoke already considerably dissipated. A well-built man stood near the window, fanning the smoky air with a newspaper while a tall, slim man was vainly attempting to brush soot off his blackened dressing gown. There was no sign of a ruptured gas line. Aside from the smoke, the destroyed window and the soot covered man, there was no sign of damage. What the devil was going on?

"Who are you, sir, and why have you broken down our door?" demanded the soot covered man.

"I thought…" Giry blinked at him. The man's face looked as though he were made up to play in one of those American minstrel shows, with only his eyes and mouth clear of the soot that coated everything else. "That is, we believed a gas line had exploded."

"Mr. Holmes!" cried Mrs. Hudson, entering the room. "Now what have you done?"

"It was only an experiment, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes replied, finally giving up on his attempt to clean his ruined dressing gown.

"I warned you something like this would happen one day, Holmes," the well-built man by the window said, continuing to fan the air with his newspaper. "You so rarely listen to me."

"Are you gentlemen alright, then?" Reverend Giry asked, bewildered.

"Quite alright," said Holmes straightening his dressing gown. "A slight miscalculation in ingredients, I assure you."

"Mr. Holmes, you'll be paying for all the repairs," Mrs. Hudson growled with the fury only a woman proud of her home could muster.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said stiffly.

"And there's our door to replace."

"I am not responsible for that, Watson," Holmes replied. "It is these men you must look to."

"It certainly is not!" snapped the elderly landlady. "You, Mr. Holmes, were the reason they felt the need to smash my front door and the door to your flat. You are responsible."

Holmes was about to protest, but Watson interrupted him.

"Here comes the fire brigade again," Watson said. "I'll go down and tell them it's a false alarm."

"Come along, Reverend," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the clergyman by the arm. I'll get you and your choir some nice hot punch. It'll help soothe your nerves, I imagine. Tenants who think they can play with explosives in my home. What will he try next? Indoor target practice? Really!"

The reverend and his flock watched for a few minutes as the doctor explained the situation to the fire brigade. They stood bemused as Mrs. Hudson groused about the bizarre behavior of her tenant and his infernal experiments. Gradually she calmed and even began speaking fondly of the gentleman.

"At least it is never boring around here, Reverend," she laughed. "And here's six pence for the poor."

"Um… Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Reverend Giry said, passing the coins to his wife. "Would you like us to finish our song?"

"Come back tomorrow evening, Reverend," she said. "I will make certain there is no interruption for you."

The reverend and his choir returned their cups to her and stood, uncertain how to proceed for a few minutes.

"Perhaps, dear, we should return to the church and begin again tomorrow," Jennifer said.

And so it was. The next evening they returned to 221 Baker Street and were able to finish their carol without interruption. Mrs. Hudson gave them more hot punch and several biscuits each. The good doctor put two shillings into their collection box. And there was no sign of Mr. Holmes, who apparently was having some trouble hearing anything but the ringing in his ears.

The End