Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Mycroft-"

A choked sob.

"He's gone, Mycroft. I couldn't get there in time. It's all my fault! I should have been faster!"

More sobbing. Mycroft stayed quiet, out of his depth in such an emotional situation.

A deep breath.

"It's just so sudden. We were on a case, and he had a gun, and he jumped in front of me, and - and he was shot, and now he's just gone!"

Another deep breath.

"Tell Mrs Hudson, Mycroft. She needs to know, and I'm not leaving. Not yet. Goodbye Mycroft."

The line went dead and Mycroft quietly hung up the phone.

Chapter Text

This was the best day of my life. Mary Morstan had consented to be my wife, and today we were to be wed. I stood at the altar, Sherlock Holmes at my side. To my gratification, he had consented to be my best man.

The doors opened, and Mary came out and started walking down the aisle. I was struck at once by her beauty. She wore white, following the Queen's new tradition. Her blonde hair was resting freely on her shoulders, and her blue eyes shone brightly. I could hardly believe that this beautiful creature was soon to be my wife.

She came to stand beside me at the altar. The priest began to speak. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of John Hamish Watson and Mary Morstan in holy matrimony..."

I must confess, I did not pay full attention to the priest. Mary was standing beside me, and I was anticipating the moment that she would be mine. After the whole affair of the Sign of Four, I feared that she would be too rich to consider marrying a poor man like me. Fortunately for me, the treasure was lost, and she agreed to be my wife. My happiness was complete.

Finally, the words I had been waiting for. "You may kiss the bride."

Chapter Text

I look down the rocks at the grieving man below me, aim steady, thoughts rushing through my head. This is a man who has obviously just lost everything. My orders were to kill him if Holmes lived, but I can not. What has the man done, to deserve death? He had followed his commanding officer, obeyed the orders given, and been faithful to the last. I can not reward such loyal service with death.

I lower my gun. The man does not deserve to die for following orders. I will wait until he is gone, before I kill Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

He leant back in his chair, eyes wandering around the room, coming to rest on the picture on the mantel. His flawless memory made photographs entirely unnecessary, yet he kept the picture anyway. His gaze drifted to the desk. Another photograph sat there, and was similarly purposeless. Why did he keep these photos?

He clasped his hands, deep in thought. Why should he keep those photographs, he knew them perfectly. Such sentiment would be uncharacteristic of him. Yet, it seemed so. Finally, it came to him. He kept those pictures as a testament, to the two people he respected most.

Chapter Text

Why anyone would want to room with Sherlock Holmes I'll never know, but somehow, he got himself a flatmate. A Doctor John Watson was with him during that Jefferson Hope affair in '81, and the lads at the station took bets on how long he would last. I didn't think he would last long. An old soldier wouldn't be able to stand Mr Holmes. We at the Yard could hardly stand him, and we only had to see him on cases!

After six weeks the man was still there, and I had to wonder if he was sane. Anyone else would have left after the first week, yet here he was. Even more extraordinary, Mr Holmes seemed to actually like him!

After the first six months I was sure. The man must be mad. He had not only stayed with Sherlock Holmes, but actually seemed to enjoy it! The final proof came when I saw them in the park one afternoon, strolling along, arm in arm. Anyone who would do that had to be crazy, there was no other explanation.

I have known Dr Watson for fifteen years now, and a better man I have never known. He has endured more than any man should, and survived. On some days, however, I still think he and Sherlock Holmes belong in Bedlam!

Chapter Text

"Nothing interesting in the papers then, Holmes?"

"Absolutely nothing Watson! When did London criminals become so dull? We haven't had an interesting case in weeks."

"I thought the Highmore case rather intriguing, actually. Quite a puzzle."

"It was simplicity itself, Watson. It was obvious from the feathers on her shoe. Anyway, there is now nothing to do, but for me to go back to my scientific puzzles."

"I figured as much, when I saw you at your chemical corner. Is that substance meant to be such an interesting purple? Holmes?"

"What is it, Watson?"

"That purple, Ho- Look out!"

BANG!

Chapter Text

"That Dr Watson's stories, are they? Never really thought much of them. I prefer a decent piece of writing myself, rather than that claptrap. I would be offended to be associated with it, if I were you," Andrew Wilkins finished with a sneer. He had come to consult Sherlock Holmes on a case, and the Strand issues on the shelf had caught his eye.

"Fortunately, you are not me. Please keep your opinions to yourself, Mr Wilkins, and stick to the facts." The detective scowled at his unpleasant guest, being very grateful that Watson was out, and could not hear the conversation.

"I'm just saying, I have no idea why you put up with such moronic drivel."

Much to his surprise, the detective stood up and gestured to the door. "Your case is uninteresting, and your manner is unpleasant. Leave these rooms at once."

"This is a very important case," Wilkins blustered. "It cannot be disregarded like this, Mr Holmes!"

"That is where you are wrong. If you cannot remain civil, I must ask you to leave."

"I shall, as I have no intention of staying here and being insulted. Maybe that stupid writing is all you deserve." With this parting shot, Wilkins turned to leave, but found his way blocked by an irate consulting detective.

When Wilkins went to Scotland Yard to complain, the constable in charge advised him to be glad he had only a bloody nose to show for his comments, and quite politely told him that if he would not keep his opinions of the Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to himself, the Yard would be happy to add to his injuries.

Needless to say, Wilkins left rather quickly after that, and was not heard of at the Yard or 221B again.

Chapter Text

The case of the Speckled Band, as Watson romatically named it, alarmed Holmes by showing him the true extent of Watson's regard for him. Why would the doctor risk his life on such a foolhardy venture, simply because he was asked?

Holmes pondered the question, but could not find an answer. He was used to such risks as a part of his profession, but Watson was not, and need not have come. So why had he?

In his confusion, Holmes asked Watson why he had not just let him go alone. Watson looked at Holmes, and replied, a smile on his face, "Because, Holmes, you are my friend, and I will not let you face danger without me."

Chapter Text

My friend died two years ago today, at Reichenbach Falls. He was not an emotive man, and never outwardly expressed signs of friendship, but I could see it regardless. It was in the small things, how he let me stay by his side when I did not understand what he did, or the well hidden delight when I praised his work. He was a genius in his field, the first of his kind. Only I will miss him, as no others truly knew him. Even I did not know him well. Yes, today, two years ago, Professor James Moriarty died.

Chapter Text

Holmes?"

Holmes turned to see Watson looking at him with a faintly amused expression. He was holding up a wig that Holmes had carelessly left in his chair earlier that morning. "What might this be?"

"I would have thought that obvious, Watson," Holmes said dismissively. Internally, he hoped that Watson had not realized where the disguise was from. "It is a wig. One of mine to be precise, so if you could-" He reached a hand out, and Watson gave the wig to him. Holmes hastened into his bedroom to put it away.

"Strange," Watson's voice carried through from the sitting room. "I'm sure that looks familiar." His voice still held a tone of amusement. "I wonder where I could have seen it? Oh, I know! It looks a lot like the hair of a man that helped with my bags yesterday. Now, I wonder how that could be?"

Holmes slowly walked back into the sitting room, to see Watson smirking at him. "Honestly, Holmes. I'm not an idiot. I've lived with you long enough to know when you are in disguise. I just want to know why you did it?"

"I was in the area for some research, and I was already in disguise, so-" Holmes flustered his way through.

Watson laughingly waved him off. "Thank you, Holmes."

"No bother."

Chapter Text

"Really Watson, how was I to know it would turn your hair green?"

Sherlock Holmes scowled across the room, where Dr Watson was steadfastly ignoring him. "Indeed," he continued. "I would not have spilt if you hadn't disturbed me."

Watson turned to look incredulously at Holmes. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

"Well, it is your fault, Watson. If you hadn't disturbed me, my chemicals would not have spilt on you. You can't blame me for that."

"Holmes, you were holding it above my head!"

"You shouldn't have moved." Holmes replied serenely.

Watson was incensed. "I just woke up!"

Chapter Text

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade called as he entered the room. "Mr Holmes, I've come to-"

Before he could finish, he was shocked speechless at the unusual sight of Holmes's feet rising from behind Dr Watson's desk. Dr Watson himself was sitting in his arm chair, seemingly unconcerned by whatever Holmes was doing.

"Do come in, Lestrade," Watson greeted warmly, looking up from his book. "Please, take a seat. This is frightful weather to be walking around in."

Lestrade took a seat by the fireplace as the doctor rang for tea. "I just came to tell you how the Rungley case wrapped up. What is Mr Holmes doing, Doctor?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Apparently, it is a necessary part of his current case. The victim was found in such a position, and Holmes is trying to discover the cause."

Lestrade took another glance at the detective, and once again marveled that he had found a flatmate so ready to put up with him.

Chapter Text

I watch Watson as he sleeps, head resting against the window. He has loyally followed me this far, but is it really fair for me to ask him to continue? I know that he will come with me as soon as I ask, and probably will come even if I don't ask. He is my faithful friend.

Is it fair to ask him to come this time? Moriarty is a criminal unlike any before. This could be very dangerous, and though I am willing to risk my life to rid the world of him, I am not prepared to risk Watson's.

He has a wife waiting for him back in England. Though I dislike her for taking Watson away from Baker Street, she is truly fond of him, and I must respect her. I will not allow Mary Watson to be widowed.

Having resolved that, I should tell Watson to go home, and leave me, but I cannot. I am selfish, I know, but I cannot let my only source of comfort leave. Without Watson, I should sink into a pit of the blackest despair. I must not allow that, not with Moriarty so close on our trail.

I know that Watson would not leave my side even if I did ask. What man could be more faithful than my biographer?

Chapter Text

There is a man standing by the railing. He is much thinner than his build seems to indicate, and he stands ramrod straight against the wind. That he used to be a soldier is obvious from his stance, even if we weren't on an Army ship.

I walk over to the rail. The storm is building, and all passengers must get below. I notice the way the man holds his left shoulder stiffly, and carefully walk to his other side, before touching his right shoulder. He swiftly turns and looks at me. At once I am struck by the haunted look in his hazel eyes, a look that speaks all too clearly of a place far away, and the horrors of war there. This man seems to be my own age, only twenty six. What horrors must he have seen to have such spectres lurking in his eyes?

Seeing me, the haunted look recedes, replaced by a careful blankness. The shadows are still there, but they hide behind a careful mask of nothingness. I sense that this is a man with a fierce pride, who will not accept any special treatment.

I shout over the wind. The storm is picking up, and even at close quarters it is hard to hear a word.

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to get below!"

Chapter Text

"Step well away, sirs, if you wish to keep your lives. I am quite capable of dispatching them if you come any closer."

The men exchanged glances and snorted in laughter, thinking there was nothing to fear from the thin, ill looking man with a limp.

"We got yer friend beat, wot's to say we won't get you beat too? Ya reckon we can, mates?" One of the gang blustered, hefting a club in his hands.

His gang sneered. Their sneers turned to girlish squeals when each of their clubs were systematically blown to splinters by well placed gun shots.

Chapter Text

Dear Sally,

Oh my dear sister, what a horrible time it has been for me! Just a few days ago, I attracted the attention of a Mr Thomas Escott, a plumber. I accepted his attentions, and hoped it would spur Arthur Newell on, so that he would finally propose. Eventually, Mr Escott asked me to marry him, and I didn't see any reason to say no. I may not have truly loved him, but he had a rising business, and it didn't seem like Arthur would ever ask! A girl can't wait forever, you know, even for love.

Just a few days later, there was a disturbance one night. The whole household was woken to the sound of gunshots. Mr Lewis went into the master's room, and found him dead on the floor! I right near fainted, I did, when I heard that. They almost caught the men who did it, but they got away.

The next morning, after Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard left, I got a note from Mr Escott, breaking our engagement. I just sat down and cried, it was just too much. Alfred came out, and saw me crying. He sat down, and well, the important news is, he proposed! Two proposals in one week, and never one in my life before now. We are getting married in three weeks time. Wish me luck, sister!

Your darling sister,

Betty

Chapter Text

Watson lay on the floor, barely conscious. His injuries were horrific, and I feared if his wounds did not receive attention soon, his life may be forfeit. I had suffered nothing but bruises and cuts, which made my self disgust all the worse. If I had not made such an amateur's mistake, in theorizing before all the data had been accumulated, this would not have happened.

I had, fortunately, alerted the Yard to our destination, but they may not arrive in time to save Watson's life.

I kneel by Watson's unconscious form, knowing I must admit this."I was wrong."

Chapter Text

I sit beside my companion as he sleeps. At first, the sleep is peaceful. Soon, his eyes begin to flicker behind his eyelids, and he mutters softly. His murmurs become louder, turning into names. Some I know, some I don't. He starts to thrash, calling loudly for the men in his dreams.

I shake him, and call his name. "Wake up, old man. Wake up now."

He startles awake, sitting bolt upright. He looks wildly around the room, then sees me and calms. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"You're welcome."

We sit in awkward silence for a few more moments.

Chapter Text

"What is it this time, Inspector?" Holmes muttered wearily.

I valiantly tried to hide my smile. "Terribly sorry, Mr Holmes, but I believe you left your coat when you were at the Yard yesterday. I thought I should return it to you."

Holmes groaned. "One or another of you Inspectors has been here every hour for the entire night, and I have not had any sleep! For the final time, this is not mine! I did not leave my hat, coat, umbrella, shoes, muffler, or" - shudder-"puppy, at the Yard, so do not keep asking!"

A muffled giggle was heard from upstairs, and Holmes's gaze sharpened. "Watson!"

Chapter Text

One evening, while my wife and I were enjoying a quiet night at home, a young lady came in. Mary stood and greeted her warmly. "Zaria, how nice to see you! John, this is Azaria Bankers. Zaria, my husband John Watson."

At the mention of my name, the young woman started. "Doctor Watson, the writer for the Strand?"

"Yes, that is I."

Miss Bankers smiled widely. "What good fortune! My sister is such a fan, she has read all your stories. I had come to see Mary, but to meet you as well is a marvelous surprise. My sister would be jealous."

"How is your sister?" Mary inquired.

Miss Bankers looked very sad. "Very unfortunate, I'm afraid."

Mary looked worried. "Is she ill?"

"Worse," Miss Bankers said with a sad countenance. "She's married."

"Why, that's wonderful news! When was she married?" Mary asked.

"She was married just last Thursday, and is yet on honeymoon, or I should have asked her assistance." At this admittance, the young lady looked highly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I had not meant to say anything."

"Nonsense, Azaria, I will do whatever within my power to help you. Now, what is your trouble?"

"I am afraid I very much need a place to stay," Azaria said. "May I stay here for a time?"

Mary looked at me. "John?"

What was I to say against two women looking at me so beseechingly?

Chapter Text

We would be very glad to have you here," I said. "Any friend of Mary's is a friend of mine."

"Thank you very much!" Miss Bankers smiled. "I am afraid I do not know where I would be without you."

"Come, you will stay in the guest room. This way, Zaria," Mary said. The two women disappeared down the hall, and I was left to reflect on our young guest.

Chapter Text

Mary and Azaria are in the sitting room, sewing and chatting quietly. Watson is out with Holmes for the night, and the women are enjoying a night to themselves.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and Watson enters, half carrying, half dragging Holmes.

"Mary," he calls. "Get my bag from upstairs."

Mary hurries upstairs and quickly comes back down, black doctors bag in hand. She hands it to Watson, then goes into the kitchen for warm water.

In a matter of minutes, Holmes's gash is cleaned and bandaged and he is resting on the lounge.

Azaria, slightly stunned, asks, "What happened?

Chapter Text

"Hey, hey! What's going on here!" Hopkins shouted as he entered the alley. He rushed up to the two men fighting on the ground, and pulled Holmes off the villain.

"What's this about?" Hopkins asked him.

Holmes drew himself upright and brushed off his clothing. "This," he said. "Is Rowan McCowling. He is the man who robbed and murdered Jim Lowell. Deal with him." He stalked off to another part of the alley.

Hopkins watched him, and saw him stop by a figure sitting up against the wall.

'Dr Watson,' he thought, no longer surprised that Holmes had fought McCowling.

Chapter Text

"Yer sure about this, missus?" Wayne asks doubtfully. "Oi don't think Mr 'Olmes would loike it."

"Well, he may not like it, but the Doctor would, and so would I," Mrs Hudson says, looking at the boy standing in her front hall. "This is a special day, it deserves a special celebration."

"Alright," Wayne reluctantly agrees. "What do I hafta do?"

The preparations are quickly made, and soon the house is filled with the scent of biscuits baking.

"They're coming, missus 'Udson!" Wayne says, hopping up and down in anticipation.

Mrs Hudson comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "The biscuits are baked, and lunch is ready. Now we just have to wait."

Just then the door opened, and Holmes and Watson come in.

"Another case concluded!" Holmes says happily. He heads up the stairs, calling after him, "Bring the lunch up, Mrs Hudson!"

Watson smiles apologetically at Mrs Hudson, then hurries up the stairs after Holmes.

After they have both disappeared into their sitting room, Mrs Hudson smiles widely at Wayne. "I will bring the lunch up now, and it will be the best lunch they've ever had! Come on boy, help me with the tray." When Wayne hesitates, she continues, "I have a few cookies left over, that you may have for helping me. But only if you're good, mind. No stealing pieces off the tray."

"Oi wouldn't do that, missus!" Wayne says indignantly.

Mrs Hudson looks at him sternly. "See that you don't."

Between the two of them, the food is brought upstairs, and laid on the table.

"Lunch is served," Mrs Hudson says and she takes a seat. The two men look at her, astonished.

"My dear Mrs Hudson," Holmes says. "What is the meaning of this?"

"It's quite simple, sirs," she replies, smiling. "Do you not know what today is?"

Holmes and Watson look at each other, confusion on their faces.

"And you a detective too," Mrs Hudson tuts, looking reprovingly at Holmes. "We are celebrating," she says clearly. "Because today, five years ago, two young men turned up on my doorstep, asking to hire my rooms. Seeing them now," she continues, looking around the room. "I'm not sure I should have agreed."

The two squirm under her gaze, then hastily take their seats at the table. "Let's eat!"

"Hey! What about me?" A small voice pipes up. "Oi helped! What about them biscuits, missus?"

"Of course! I am sorry gentlemen, I'll be right back." Mrs Hudson and Wayne go downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Thank you very much for your help today, young man," Mrs Hudson says, looking Wayne in the eye.

The boy shifts slightly under the attention. "That's alright. Yer nice, missus 'Udson. Yer like-" He falters.

"Like who?" Mrs Hudson asks.

He looks at the floor. "Yer a bit like me mum." Before Mrs Hudson can say anything, Wayne grabs the biscuits from her outstretched hands, and races out the door.

She makes her way back up the stairs to the meal waiting there, thankful for her two lodgers, and wondering what had happened to the boy who had been sitting in her kitchen, that he ended up on the street.

Chapter Text

"John, come quickly!" Mary cried from the nursery. Watson and Holmes, who had been talking by the fire in the sitting room, rushed up the stairs, fearing attack.

They stopped in the doorway, caught by the sight before them. The Watsons' son was stumbling across the room, his blond curls askew.

"He's walking, John," Mary said softly. "Sherlock is walking."

"Daddy!" An excited young voice came from the kitchen, "Daddy, you're home!" A brown haired blur propelled itself into John waiting arms. Young Anna, named after Mary's old employer, was a three year old blur of energy. She looked at her daddy with the blue eyes of her mother, and eagerly told him, "Mommy and me made biscuits!"

***
"How was school?" John asked his son as they sat around the dinner table. Sherlock grinned at him. "I liked it. They let me do experiments like I do with Uncle Sherlock."

John and Mary exchanged half amused, half fearful glances. Their son was growing up to be very much like his uncle Sherlock, and they were not yet sure what to think of that.

"Why can't I go to school, Daddy?" Anna asked John. "Sherlock goes to school."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but girls aren't allowed in school." John hated to say it, but even Mycroft's considerable influence on behalf of his pseudo niece had not wavered school policy.

Anna's pleading gaze turned to her mother. "Mummy, can't I go to school?" Mary shook her head, then brightened as an idea occurred. "What if I teach you instead, darling?"

The smile that lit up Anna's face was answer enough.

***
The years flew by, and Holmes retired, leaving a new detective to take his place. Sherlock Hamish Watson replaced him, to the delight of his godfather, and was in time accompanied by Dr Anna Watson as he solved crimes on the streets of London, with the occasional help from his uncles.

***
John had tears in his eyes as he walked his daughter down the aisle. The expression of the man waiting by the altar reminded him of his feelings when he married Mary, many years ago. She took her place by the altar, and he went to sit with his wife and both Holmes's, who had come into the city just for the wedding.

"Anna Martha Watson, do you take Robert Gregory Lestrade to be your lawful wedded husband?"

Looking straight into the eyes of her childhood friend, the son of her father's good friend, and the man she loved with all her heart, she said, "I do."

***
After many years, John and Mary retired to Sussex, to live in a small cottage, gifted by Holmes, that held a remarkable proximity to a certain beekeeper's cottage. They had many visitors, including their two children, and eventually grandchildren, and had many evenings spent by the fire with an old friend, remembering the remarkable lives they had led.

At Baker Street, the night after Holmes's return, John Watson slept on, a soft smile on his face, dreaming of a world death had not touched.

Chapter Text

"Doctor, is that blood?"

"Your deductive abilities are boundless. Yes, Holmes, this is blood."

"Were you not simply going out to see to Mrs Bryant?"

"Yes, but things went bad. Her daughter was playing in the backyard, a girl called Bella. Bella was playing with her brother. They climbed a tree, but Bella fell, and her arm broke."

"But what about the blood?"

"I'm getting there Holmes, give me a break! Bella's brother also fell, a boy named Brad. He was severely scratched, and that is the cause for the blood. I cleaned his scratches, and he sat bravely. I told him next time, not to disobey his mother so brazenly. Then I dealt with his sister's break. When I left, both children were in bed. They will have quite a story to tell their buddies."

"Yes, children do so like to brag. Watson, have you had breakfast?"

"No, Holmes, I have been too busy. Would you ring the bell?"

"I do not need to use the bell. Mrs Hudson, bring up breakfast!"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for breakfast. I do love eggs and bacon. Holmes, would you sit down and stop looking so black?"

"I will sit, Watson, but I do not want breakfast."

"Alright, Holmes, I am too tired for berating."

"Watson, I do suggest you go to bed."

Chapter Text

"I am insulted!" The King said, striding to the doorway. "You will regret this, Mr Holmes. I am a very influential man, and one day you will regret ever refusing me!" With that final remark, the man stormed out the door.

Watson turned to Holmes. "Why did you not simply take his case? There was no need to refuse on my account, I could have simply left the room."

"And what, proceed without my Boswell? No, my dear Watson, it is either both or none."

Holmes took up his violin and moved to the window, heedless of Watson's pleased smile.

Chapter Text

"Was this really what you had in mind, Holmes, when you said you needed more dirt for your disguise?" Watson asked in amusement.

Holmes scowled at him. "You know very well that it was not. I said I needed more dirt, not to be covered head to foot in coal dust!"

Watson snickered. "It was quite a sight. The mighty Sherlock Holmes, tumbling through the air, crashing through the roof of a shed."

Holmes deigned not to answer, choosing instead to glare fiercely at Watson.

Watson, entirely unaffected, continued. "Really Holmes, must you look so morose? You are almost as black now as you were covered in coal dust earlier!"

Chapter Text

"Then, the man moved toward me..."

A small group of boys watched me with awestruck faces. They had been listening eagerly to my story, and were now waiting breathlessly for me to continue, the silence unbroken but for soft breathing. Suddenly, a boy coughed, and the spell was undone.

"Ye can't stop there, Doc!"

"What happened?"

"Didja die? Did Mr 'Olmes die?"

"'Course he didn't die, idjit. He's here, ain't he?"

I cleared my throat and the boys quieted. "Thank you, Wayne, for pointing that out. Now, do you want more of the story?"

A chorus of yes's were heard.

Chapter Text

I've never believed in God, but He is all that can help now. I can hear the bombs coming down, hear the reports on the radio at night. I only wish Watson was here to listen to them with me. But he is fighting in a war far away.

My brother is far too busy at the moment to do anything to help. Even if he was not, I fear that this is beyond his reach. So can help one soldier among thousands?

If there is a God out there, I pray He keeps Watson safe. Only He possibly could.

Chapter Text

"No."

"Please, sir, you must eat something!"

"I do not wish to eat anything. Now, Mrs Hudson, leave me."

"How about some soup? I could bring you up some soup."

"I do not want anything, Mrs Hudson, and I do not appreciate you prying into my affairs."

"I know you miss the doctor, sir, but you need to eat something."

"I do not wish to eat anything, and please do not presume to know what I am feeling."

"Please, Mr Holmes, just eat something."

"I will not eat, Mrs Hudson."

"After this, Dr Watson will never go on holidays again."

I'm sure I'm not mistaken when I hear a soft "I can only hope" from the seat by the window. Poor Mr Holmes. I can't grudge the doctor his holidays, not when he has Mr Holmes to deal with all the time, but I wish he would come home soon.

Chapter Text

"I - think we can - make it," Holmes said. "Hold still, Watson!"

"It is not easy to stay still with you standing on my shoulders! How can you only eat enough to feed a bird, yet still weigh so heavy?"

How did we get in this position, you ask? We had been chasing Cole Roberts around the warehouse district of London, and he had trapped us in a cellar. Now, we were endevouring to escape before the Thames flooded the cellar completely. I was already up to my waist, and it was rising quickly.

"Holmes, can you go a bit faster? The water is coming in rapidly." I groaned with the effort of trying to keep Holmes steady on my shoulders.

Holmes glanced down at me in frustration. "I am trying, Watson! The water is making my lock pick rather slippery."

Suddenly, to our combined horror, the pick slipped from Holmes's hands, and fell with a splash into the water, now at my shoulders.

"We must try something else. Holmes, if I bent down, could you push the trapdoor?"

"Is there nothing else, Watson?"

"Nothing that will work in time. The water is at my chin already."

Holmes nodded, looking nervous. I grabbed his arm. "You can do this, Holmes. I believe."

Chapter Text

I furiously hammered the trapdoor over my head. Watson could only hold his breath so long, and when he could hold no longer, I should fall with him.

I could feel the water lapping at my feet. The water was now over Watson's head. I increased my efforts on the trapdoor, and finally it broke loose. I grabbed hold of the ledge, pulling myself up. Suddenly, I was hanging by my arms from the opening, as my feet dropped out from under me.

"Watson?" I called, despite knowing that Watson could not possibly answer me. I hauled myself out of the cellar, now mostly flooded with water.

I turned my attention to the room I now found myself in, and frantically searched the shelves for some sort of light. I discovered a lamp, hastily lit it, and returned to the open trapdoor. Watson was nowhere in sight.

I sat the lamp on the floor and dive back into the waters. The light only faintly penetrated the gloom of the cellar, and the murky water admitted no light. Blindly, I searched, and was rewarded by a figure sinking down. Quickly, I grabbed Watson and pulled him out of the water.

I pulled us out of the water, and onto the warehouse floor.

Watson coughed and spluttered, "Thank you Holmes."

"Just keep breathing."

Chapter Text

"I wanna be Mr Holmes!"

"No, I'm gonna be Mr Holmes!"

"Nu-uh! I am!"

"Must be nice to be so popular," Watson remarked to Holmes with a mischievous smile.

Holmes snorted. "I do not regard the play acting of children as popularity."

They continued their way through the park.

Chapter Text

"Run, Watson!" The cry comes from behind him, spurning him onwards. "Run!" Holmes sounds frantic, desperate, and quickly drawing closer. His limping run is no match for Holmes's frenzied pace.

He hears shouts behind him, and runs faster. The shouts grow louder, and seem excited. In sudden dread, he turns around, and sees that Holmes is no longer behind him.

He turns back, fear for his friend fueling his gait. As he draws near he pulls his revolver.

"Stand back, all of you!"

The men see his gun and run. He kneels next to Holmes.

"Never again," he whispers softly.

Chapter Text

"Is this what you were looking for?" Watson asks amusedly, holding out a bundle of papers.

Holmes scowls. "Yes." He snatches the papers, then collapses into his chair and glares at the fireplace.

After a few moments silence, Holmes has calmed enough to ask a question he has been pondering for some time. "Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Watson looks genuinely puzzled.

Holmes gestures with his pipe. "How do you know just walk into a room and know where things are?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Watson replies, looking slightly embarrassed. "I suppose I can just remember where things are."

"That will not suffice. You can find anything I am looking for, even when I have- let us say- rearranged, the room. That cannot simply be a matter of memory."

"I truly do not know, Holmes," Watson says. "I believe it may just be a matter of knowing you well enough to know how you have 'rearranged' the room, and remembering things were originally. It is simply instinct and practice."

Holmes dismisses the subject with a wave of his hand. Though he is not yet satisfied with Watson's answers, he can see that the subject is making Watson uncomfortable.

"Well, it is remarkably useful at times, my dear Watson, though I must confess, it is also your single most annoying characteristic."

Holmes is very amused by Watson's look of surprise at that announcement.

"But Holmes, why?"

"Tell my Watson, have you ever had someone come into the room and find exactly what you were looking for within moments, after you had spent the last two hours looking for it? I can tell you, it is most infuriating!"

Chapter Text

He is hurting.

I can see it in the way he walks into the room, shuffling in, favoring one leg. I can hear it in his voice, sounding far too tired. He looks older than I know he is. It isn't hard to deduce that he has been waking up at night, shouting names, of people and places, many that I don't know, and some that are far too familiar. The dark patches under his eyes make that much obvious.

I walk over and hand him my flask of coffee. He looks at me, and smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Lestrade."

Chapter Text

"Really, I'm fine, boys," Mrs Hudson said to her to worried lodgers. "I'm alright now."

"Mrs Hudson, a sprained wrist and bruising is not alright," Watson told her as he put a cast on her wrist. "This is serious." He stood back and looked at her warningly. "Now, you won't be doing any more housework for the next few days, but you should recover soon. Until then, please don't use that wrist."

He glanced at Holmes, who was searching the rooms for any trace of the intruders, furious at the injury to his housekeeper. "Holmes?"

"Three young men, most likely on a dare, inexperienced. Came from Campen Street, the dirt is distinctive. Left no more than an hour ago, they will not have had time to dispose of the evidence yet." Holmes spouted all this as he turned to the door, calling after him, "Coming, Watson?"

"I'll be right down," Watson called down the stairs. He turned back to Mrs Hudson. "I expect you to be careful, or Holmes might be making breakfast," Watson tried to joke, but Mrs Hudson could see that he was worried and disturbed by the break in, and her resulting injuries.

"I'll be fine, Doctor," she reassured him.

He nodded quickly, and followed after Holmes. She smiled. It was times like these, she loved her boys.

Chapter Text

"The axle is broken," Watson said in a clipped tone. "We'll have to walk."

They started on the six mile trudge back to town, the silence hanging heavy between them. After a vicious argument at the start of their journey, neither had spared an unnecessary word towards the other.

During their long walk, Watson turned to Holmes. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I shouldn't have said that. I hope you can forgive me."

"My dear Watson, of course," Holmes replied warmly. Watson knew he would never apologize, but as the tension was replaced by companionable quiet, he found he really didn't mind.

Chapter Text

"Holmes!"

Holmes looked up from the newspaper he had hastily snatched moments ago. "Watson?"

Watson glared at him. "Holmes, that is not a proper way to wake someone!"

Looking at him with amusement well hidden behind a mask of confusion, Holmes asked, "Watson, what are you talking about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about," Watson crossly replied. "Your innocent act doesn't work on me."

"Really, Watson, I believe your tiredness has caused you to imagine things," Holmes said. "Go upstairs to bed."

As Holmes heard Watson leave the room and head upstairs, he grinned secretly. Really, it was Mrs Hudson's fault for leaving the feather duster in the lounge room. He couldn't help it if Watson was ticklish.

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, please take a seat," Mycroft said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Sherlock disregarded the offer with a wave of his hand. "I'm not staying long, Mycroft. I have far too much to do today."

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment, then got down to business. "Why have you come to see me, Sherlock? Is this about Moriarty?"

"You know of him?" Sherlock's look of surprise quickly faded. "Of course you know of him." He hesitated. "Mycroft, I need your help."

"With what, my dear brother?" Mycroft was quite honestly startled by this. His brother had not asked for his help since Sherlock was 10. This must be a very serious matter.

"Moriarty is trying to kill me," Sherlock stated.

"You would not come here for protection, so it must be something else. Something to do with the doctor?" Mycroft theorized.

Sherlock looked abashed, but continued. "In the morning, I wish that you would drive Watson to the station. I fear that Moriarty may try to abduct him, before he can reach the station." He leant forward. "Please, Mycroft, you're the only one I can trust."

"Of course, Sherlock," Mycroft promised, shocked by the plea. As Sherlock left, he wondered about the deceptively ordinary man that had changed Sherlock so much, he would ask for help from his brother.

Chapter Text

"Quick Watson! Hide the glass!" Mrs Hudson heard Holmes mutter as she came up the stairs. She shook her head in despair. Those boys could never just learn to look after things. Oh no, she didn't blame the doctor for it. She knew he wasn't the one responsible.

It was Mr Holmes she blamed. Every piece of china she took upstairs came back down destroyed. She was now considering buying paper plates for their use, as it seemed anything else would be broken! Messing with chemicals, throwing cups at the walls, plates under the sofa cushions. It was simply unbelievable! Any other housekeeper would have given up and sent them away.

Yet Mrs Hudson knew she would never do that. Whatever their faults, these were her boys, and she would never throw them out of her home. It had become their home now as well. Instead she shook her head, opened the door, and asked, "Now what have you broken?"

Chapter Text

"John?" Mary paused in her knitting to look at her husband.

"Yes, Mary?" he enquired.

"What will Sherlock be doing for Christmas?" she asked him. It had been bothering her for some time, not knowing what John's closest friend was doing for the holiday. Mary strongly believed no one should be alone on Christmas, having spent it alone in the past, and not wishing the experience on anyone else.

"Mrs Hudson usually goes to her sister's for Christmas, so Holmes and I would celebrate together. Not that it was much of a celebration. I believe the only reason Holmes celebrated was that I coerced him into it. Otherwise he would have ignored it entirely." John stared into the fire with a wistful smile, remembering past celebrations with Holmes. After a moment, he shook himself out of his reminiscing, and turned back to Mary. "Why did you ask?"

"I was just wondering, do you think he would like to come here for Christmas?" Mary asked, half-shyly. "I would like to have him here, and I don't think anyone should be alone at Christmas."

John leant over and kissed her softly. "Where did I find such a wonderful woman as you?"

Chapter Text

He had been injured on cases many times. It was a part of his work. Some of his cases were easily solved from his armchair. Others involved leaving the flat and investigating around London. Most, however, included situations that were either dangerous, or would possibly become so. These cases became more frequent as the years passed.

Before he met Watson, if he was injured on a case, he would take care of injuries himself, and ignore them if possible. With his mental prowess, injuries were easily disregarded. He only ever went to the hospital if it was absolutely necessary, which he seldom deemed it to be. On a few memorable occasions, he had been injured while on official police cases. In those circumstances, the police surgeon on duty would take care of injuries.

It all changed when he met Watson. He had someone to watch his back, and look after any injuries that made it past Watson's formidable guard. He still tried to ignore injuries whenever possible, but Watson had an uncannily good eye for spotting any wounds or illnesses. With such a stalwart friend and companion, it was hard for him to imagine what life had been like before Watson. What had it been like before knowing when he woke from his sickbed, Watson would be sitting at his bedside?

Chapter Text

My brother has always been a lonely man, first by nature, then by choice. As a child, he was unpopular for his observations. Other children thought him strange, not understanding his deductive reasoning. He was very lonely, even more so when I left home at seventeen. He felt I had abandoned him, and never quite forgave me.

As an adult, he was still unpopular for his observations. As much as I argued with him, he would never see the wisdom of keeping some things to himself. Even the many injuries he gained were no deterrent.

I felt nothing but pity when I heard Sherlock had found a flatmate. Any man that tried to live with Sherlock would undoubtedly be driven out before the week had passed. It was, therefore, very much to my surprise that Sherlock's flatmate, a Dr Watson, had actually lasted an entire week. My surprise increased with every subsequent day. I even dared to hope that my brother had found himself a friend.

Impossible as it may have seemed, it appeared to be true. The man still lived with Sherlock an entire year later. Even after his wedding, Dr Watson continued to stay in touch with my brother. It seemed my brother had found the one man in London who would put up with him and his brilliance.

Chapter Text

"Mary?" John called as he walked in the door."Where are you?"

"In the kitchen, darling," Mary called from another room. John walked further into the house, looking around the room. "Have you been decorating for Christmas?"

Mary came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes. Do you like it?"

"I love it," John said, smiling at his wife. Mary looked up at him, then giggled.

"I think you missed a decoration," she said. He looked up, and saw the mistletoe hanging over their heads.

"Merry Christmas, Mary," he whispered, before leaning down to kiss her.

Chapter Text

"Holmes, are you well?" Watson asked concernedly.

"Quite well, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, keeping his gaze away from Watson.

Watson strode over to Holmes, and faced him. Holmes reluctantly lifted his eyes to look at Watson, and at once Watson was struck by how pale his friend looked.

"Holmes, you are sick! Why did you not tell me?" he cried.

"You have been busy of late, Watson. I didn't want to trouble you."

"It is no trouble at all, Holmes," Watson said softly, pressing his hand to Holmes's forehead. "You know it is my greatest delight to assist you."

Chapter Text

"I cannot just sit here, waiting to be dismembered!" Watson shouted, throwing his hands up in the air.

Holmes sat back in his chair and watched, smoking his pipe. "My dear Watson, sitting here is your only reasonable option. If you leave the house, you will immediately be caught. I'm afraid you cannot help but sit here."

"But what of my patients, Holmes?" Watson asked, pacing the room. "I must care for them, many of them cannot afford another doctor."

"I fear that there is nothing you can do about it, Watson. You cannot leave this room."

Watson whirled in Holmes's direction. "What if one of my patients dies, because I did not go and care for them, and instead remained here? I can not let that happen."

"And if you go to care for them, and are killed?" Holmes asked, springing up from his chair. "No, Watson, I cannot let that happen. You must stay here."

Watson, surprised by the uncharacteristic display of affection, sat down on his chair. "Very well Holmes, I will stay."

Holmes took up his violin and started to play. Watson heard the unspoken thank you hidden in the music.

"You're welcome, Holmes," he murmured.

Chapter Text

"Azaria?" Mary called out into the house. "Where have you gone? I thought we were going on a walk?" She stopped a moment, listening. "Don't you remember?"

She walked silently through the darkened building, looking for signs that Azaria was still inside. She came to a halt. 'What if someone has broken in?' Trying to hold back such dark thoughts, she continued on her way, but with more caution than before.

Spying a poker, she lifted it, feeling safer now she had a weapon. "Zaria?" She called softly. "Where are you?"

There was no answer to her call. The house was silent, with no lights showing. Mary started to tremble. Azaria was missing, and John had not yet come home. Was this to do with Sherlock's work? Was she next?

Quickly Mary stopped those thoughts. "I will not be scared," she told herself. "John does sometimes work late, and Azaria may have gone out. There is nothing to be frightened of." Suddenly, a noise came from up the hall.

Having resolved to face whatever comes bravely, Mary walked up the hall and stopped outside the door. She put her ear to the keyhole, and listened closely. There was the sound of muffled whispers, and someone silencing them. Deciding the element of surprise was best, she threw the door open.

"Happy Birthday!"

Chapter Text

Detective Smurf and Doctor Smurf were out for a walk one day in the forest, when they saw a smurf berry disappear under a bush.

"Look, Detective Smurf!" cried Doctor Smurf. "A smurf berry has disappeared under that bush!"

"I see it, Doctor Smurf," said Detective Smurf. "We should follow it and see were it goes. Follow me, Doctor Smurf!"

"What twaddle is this!" exclaimed Holmes, throwing down the paper I had given him. "Who are these little blue men, these 'smurfs'?"

"I believe they're part of a children's story, Holmes," I said.

Holmes snorted. "It will never catch on."

Chapter Text

"What are you doing, Watson?" Holmes asked, lounging in his chair.

Watson paused in the act of taking his coat off the hook. "I'm going on holidays, Holmes. I'll be gone for a week." He started to smile. "Have you really forgotten?"

Holmes drew himself upright, the very picture of offended dignity. "I've hardly forgotten, seeing as you neglected to tell me."

"I've told you twice already, Holmes," Watson chuckled. "Goodbye, now."

Watson walked out the door, calling goodbye to Mrs Hudson as he went. Holmes watched as Watson called a cab, thinking to himself, 'One week, Watson, no more.'

Chapter Text

"I'm back," Watson said cheerily as he opened the door of the sitting room. Holmes appeared not to notice.

Watson quickly opened the window, waving away the clouds of smoke that had permeated the room. Holmes had been smoking for hours, and was still sitting in his armchair with his pipe. Watson sat in the opposite armchair, knowing it was useless to talk to his friend just then.

Suddenly Holmes leapt up and paced the room. "Why did he not escape at once?" he asked himself. "What did he have to gain by remaining in the room? The girl was dead, he did not bother with evidence, what was his purpose?"

"Perhaps a memento?" Watson ventured.

Holmes stopped in his tracks. "A memento..." he breathed. "I do believe you've got it, Watson! Quickly, we must go back to the scene. Come along!" He spun around and headed to the door, throwing Watson's coat in his general direction. Watson smiled, knowing that in his own way, Holmes was saying 'Welcome Home'.

Chapter Text

Watson stared moodily into the fire, remembering Mary's words from a Christmas many years ago. Nobody should be alone on Christmas, she had said, with her soft, sweet smile. Not even Mr Holmes. That year, and every year following, Mary had insisted that Holmes come to join them for dinner on Christmas Day. Christmasses with Holmes and Mary were always amusing, and a time Watson had looked forward to every year.

When Holmes had died at Reichenbach, Christmas was very different. He and Mary celebrated the day together, but attended the Scotland Yard Christmas Party on Christmas Eve.

Then Mary had died, and Watson's world had been destroyed again. Now, he was spending his Christmas alone, the one thing Mary had hated for anyone to do.

Watson's musings were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Come in!" He called.

Lestrade looked hesitantly around the door frame. "Good evening, Doctor, and a Merry Christmas."

"Is it?" Watson said in a low biting tone. He continued more loudly. "Merry Christmas to you too, Lestrade. Please, take a seat."

"No thank you, Doctor." Lestrade gripped his hat, nervously twisting it between his hands. "I just came to extend an invitation to spend Christmas with my family."

"I really couldn't impose, Lestrade," Watson said, touched by the offer.

"It's no imposition at all, Doctor," Lestrade replied firmly. "I insist."

Watson looked directly at him. "Thank you."

As Lestrade called a cab, Watson thought, 'Merry Christmas, Mary. Now neither of us are alone.'

Chapter Text

"Face it, Doctor," a voice in the shadows taunted. "No one is coming for you."

"Holmes will," Watson breathed shallowly. "He always does."

"Even Holmes won't find you are doomed to die here, alone!" The voice screamed triumphantly. "Holmes will only ever find your body!"

Watson raised his head slightly then sunk back, too weak to look for the source of the voice. "Holmes will come," he repeated stubbornly. "He always comes."

"Fool!" The voice shouted again. "Listen to me! He will not come! You will die here!"

"He will not." A voice came from behind the man, and a thump was heard.

Watson blinked upwards as a familiar face came into view. "Hallo Holmes," he said with a hazy smile. "I knew you would come in time." Finally, Watson lost his battle with unconsciousness, and slumped into Holmes's arms. Holding his friend, Holmes whispered, "I almost didn't."

Chapter Text

"That is not what you use a cheese knife for," Mrs Hudson said faintly, transfixed by the sight in front of her.

"Did you say something, Mrs Hudson?" Dr Watson asked, coming up the stairs, Holmes behind him. She pointed wordlessly to the note hanging from their door, held there by a knife. Watson stepped closer. "Is that really - a cheese knife?" He asked, peering at it.

"Obviously, Watson," Holmes said. "It is also quite clearly from a cheese maker's apprentice, originally from York, and now residing in Mount Lane. As for the note, it is simply a pitiful attempt at intimidation. It is of little importance. Come, Watson, this may be just the clue we were looking for!"

Holmes ran back down the stairs, on the chase again. Watson followed him, limping slightly due to the wet weather.

Mrs Hudson pulled the knife out of the door and surveyed it critically, before going to the kitchen and placing it in her knife rack. "It is a good knife, after all, and I don't think its owner will be needing it back."

Chapter Text

"Here."

I look up to see a flask thrust in front of me. I grab it and take a long drink, the whiskey burning my throat, leaving me coughing and spluttering. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I nod my thanks to Lestrade.

"Does it ever get easier?" I ask him.

He shakes his head slowly. "No, Hopkins, and you should be worried if it does. All life should be respected, even a criminal's. If you can shoot someone, and feel no regret for it, you are as bad as they are."

We both stand. There is work to do.

Chapter Text

After my day of treating the sick,
I come upstairs and light my wick,
Open my book, wherever it falls,
And write of adventure, of one who knows all.

Stories and stories, no lack of cases,
A brilliant detective, the dangers he faces,
I, his chronicler, there by his side,
Watching for danger, where'er it may hide.

Together we stand, together we're strong,
Fighting the felons, righting the wrongs,
With all of our ventures, wherever we go,
Troubles are sure to follow, you know.

I close my book, and head to my bed.
No more writing tonight, but sleep instead.
I fall into bed, and soon I'm asleep,
To dream of adventure, and mysteries deep.

Chapter Text

"Thank you," the young woman said. "Thank you for looking after him. He means the world to me. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost him."

She paused to collect herself. "You were more than a friend to him, you were like a brother. I should have told you that. He valued your friendship so highly. Thank you for returning him to me. All the times that the two of you left on one of your cases, you always brought him back safely, whatever the cost to yourself. Thank you."

Mary Watson left the graveyard.

Chapter Text

"I've come to thank you," the man said, looking awkward. "You have done so much, I thought it only right to give you my thanks. You have looked after him for so many years. I know that the path we follow is not an easy one, but you never asked him not to accompany me on my various - misadventures. And for that-" The man broke off.

When he continued, it was in a much quieter tone. "Thank you for looking after him."

Sherlock Holmes walked away, leaving behind him a grave reading 'Mary Watson, Beloved Wife. She will be missed.'

Chapter Text

One April night, as the Watsons sat by the fire with their friend, Azaria Bankers, there was a knock on the door of the Watson residence. This was shortly followed by the entrance of Sherlock Holmes.

"This is a surprise, Holmes," Watson said, rising from his chair. "Please, have a seat."

"I'm afraid I am rather in a hurry, Watson. I have come to request the assistance of Miss Bankers," Holmes said abruptly.

Azaria startled. "I would be happy to help, Mr Holmes, but what would I be able to do?"

"It is a rather simple matter, Miss Bankers," Holmes said. "It so happens that you bear a striking resembalance to the Princess of Rygosia. All I want you to do is to dress yourself in one of the Princess's gowns, and attend the ball thrown in her honour, in place of the Princess."

"May I ask why?" Watson inquired.

"I am on the trail of kidnappers, Watson. I believe the Princess is the next target." At Watson's expression, Holmes hastily continued. "I assure you, there is no danger involved for Miss Bankers. The kidnappers will not want her injured."

Watson and Mary turned to look at their young friend, waiting for her response to Holmes's request.

Azaria stood up. "I will do as you ask, Mr Holmes," she said bravely.

Chapter Text

"Now, don't be anxious, Azaria," Watson said. He, Azaria and Holmes were in a hansom on the way to the hotel the Princess was staying at. "Holmes and I will look after you." He glanced at Holmes. "Well, as much as Holmes will do anything while he's on a case."

Azaria giggled softly, but soon looked away, her stomach churning with nerves. "Are we almost there?" she asked softly.

"This is it," Holmes said, as the hansom drew to a stop. He paid the driver as Azaria got out of the carriage, taking Watson's hand for support. The trio quickly made their way to the Princess of Rygosia's suite. Holmes knocked on the door. It opened, and a young woman peered out.

"This is the Princess's double for the night," Holmes said. "Her name is Azaria Bankers. May she come in?"

"I shall check with the Princess," the young woman said, looking suspicious.

As soon as the door closed, Azaria turned to Holmes. "Won't you be coming in with me?"

"I'm afraid, my dear lady, that we cannot," Holmes answered her. "Watson and I have preparations to make."

Before he could say anything else, the door opened. The young woman from before had returned, a smile replacing the previous suspicion. "Come in, miss. We must get you ready for the ball!"

Chapter Text

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, sending a warm light around the sitting room. The gentleman sitting at his desk nearby, however, paid no mind to it. He rose from his desk and took to pacing about the room, toying with a small object hidden in his hands.

The door opening below distracted him from his pacing. Footsteps followed, slower than as usual. The doctor had had a long day, he deduced, and the cold weather had caused his old injury to flare up again.

The door to the sitting room opened and Watson entered, his limp proving the detective right. Throwing a weary smile at Holmes, he collapsed onto his chair by the fireplace, warming his hands gratefully by the flames. "I'm very sorry to be so late, Holmes. The cold weather has caused an absolute flood of people at the surgery."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Accidents on the road are not uncommon this time of year."

Watson lifted up from his seat in surprise, then collapsed back down again, laughing softly. "I've no idea how you knew that, and frankly am too tired to ask."

Seeing Watson's eyes begin to slip closed, Holmes permitted himself a small smile, placing the object, Watson's present, on his desk and pulling a blanket over his sleeping friend. "Merry Christmas, my dear Boswell."

Chapter Text

Two figures were sprawled on the beach, the sun just rising over the grassy slopes ahead, and the faint marks on the sand behind them betraying their point of arrival.

"Holmes?" one of the men asked wearily, his head not raising from its position on the beach shores.

"Yes, Watson?" The other asked in return, his voice muffled by the sand.

The first man raised his head from the sand and turned a tired glare on his companion. "Next time you are asked to investigate murders on a steam ship, turn it down."

A soft chuckle came from the other man's general direction. "My dear Watson, I could not agree with you more."

Chapter Text

"You aren't sulking, are you, Holmes?"

"Sulking? How could you accuse me of sulking, Watson? Futhermore, what cause could I possibly have to sulk?"

"I don't know, Holmes, but perhaps the fact that my book has sold more copies than your monograph has something to do with it?"

"That is entirely irrelevant to this conversation. I would not sulk over such a small matter. In fact, I do not sulk at all."

"Of course you don't, Holmes. I don't know why I would have thought so. Curling up on the armchair and pouting all evening is in no way indicative of sulking."

"Exactly."

"In that case, I suppose it would be no consolation at all to know I could not have done it without you? After all, you are the principal character of my book."

"No, I suppose you could not have done it without me. Well, Watson, let us go out to celebrate your new status as a best selling author!"

Chapter Text

"Where is the boy?" the gruff inspector asked in his natural French.

"Here, monsieur," came a little voice from below. He looked down and saw a young boy, no older than twelve, with dark curly hair, and a very scared expression. The boy was trembling, yet bravely held his ground as the inspector called him into his office.

"What was your part in this?" the inspector asked the boy.

"A man came to the hotel, telling me to take a message to the doctor, up at the cliff. He told me to give the message to the doctor, and not to say a word about him, or I would die!" The lad looked at the inspector with frightened eyes. "I never wanted to lie. I just wanted to keep living."

"What happened after that?" The inspector continued, not swayed by the boy's plea.

The boy looked down at the ground. "I did it. I brought the message to the doctor, and he came back down to the hotel. He and his friend said I should stay up on the cliff, to be a guide for the monsieur. I would have," here the boy raised his eyes to the inspector again, to convey his sincerity, "but I saw the man from before, the one who had given me the message! I ran. I did not want to see him again, nor for him to see me."

The boy looked at the inspector. "I just wanted to live, monsieur."

Chapter Text

Wiggins and the Irregulars didn't work for Mr Holmes all the time, and when they didn't, they still had to survive somehow. When Mr Holmes didn't have work for them to do, they went to the man that had helped many of them to survive in the big city. His name was Fagin. He had taught many of the Irregulars how to pickpocket, nick from market stalls, and make the most of their quick fingers.

Wiggins was a special favorite with Fagin. In fact, his skills had granted him with the nickname, the Artful Dodger.

Well, they needed to earn a living somehow, and this was as good a way as any, and more convenient than most.

Chapter Text

Holmes's intimate knowledge of the streets of London had, for once, failed him. They were trapped in a dead end street, their escape halted by a high brick wall. The men that were chasing them slowed their pursuit, seeing that their was no escape for their quarry.

"We 'ave you now, mate," the leader said, hefting his stick and grinning in anticipation. "Yew can't get out o' here. No escape this time for Mr 'Olmes. And the doc too, o' course." He tipped his hat at Watson, still grinning widely.

Holmes and Watson glanced at each other. They knew their situation was dire. Facing a large group of men with sticks, with no chance of escape, was not a promising situation to find themselves in.

"Come on, mates! Let's take 'em out!" the leader shouted, spurring his men into action. The men moved forward, and the battle began in earnest.

Chapter Text

"My goodness, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed as he and Holmes walked home from a long and wearying case. "Is that Miss Adler further down the street?"

"I believe it is, my dear Watson, but do not forget, Miss Adler has been Mrs Norton for many years now," Holmes looked thoughtfully at the approaching figure. "It is certainly odd that she should be in London. I had believed her to have returned to America with her husband."

They had no more time to talk, for Irene was upon them, swaying with every step she took. "Hello there, Mr Holmes," she giggled. Both men took a step backwards at the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.

"Good evening, Mrs Norton," Holmes said, regaining his composure. "Are you quite well?"

"No, I'm not well, not at all." Her face fell. "I lost my dear Godfrey. He's gone, not here, and I want him here with me." She looked at Holmes, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can you find my Godfrey, Mr Holmes? You're a detective, can you find him for me?"

Before Holmes could reply, Irene wavered on her feet, and would have fallen, if not for Watson catching hold of her arm. She smiled at him, leaning on his arm and batting her eyelashes. "Who is your friend, Mr Holmes? He's very handsome?"

"Mrs Norton, this is Dr Watson," Holmes said brusquely.

"Is there something we could do to help?" Watson asked the woman hanging off his arm.

She seemed to regain some measure of sobriety, looking him straight in the eyes with a serious expression. "I'm afraid there is nothing you can do to help me, doctor. Even Mr Holmes cannot help me now."

"Perhaps we could escort you back to your hotel?" Watson offered, concerned at leaving the obviously drunk woman alone on the streets.

"Yes, let's do that!" Irene said happily, her sober moment forgotten. The men escorted Irene home, her holding Watson's arm the entire way. Upon arrival at the hotel, she finally released her grip in Watson's arm, turning to look at both men. "Goodnight Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! We should do this again!" She smiled at them waving goodbye, then swayed again, falling back towards Watson. As he moved forward to catch her, she leant and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, doctor!" Finally, she went inside, and both men made their way home. It was mutually agreed they would never discuss that night again.

Chapter Text

As Holmes and Watson sat by the fireplace, the lilting voices of carol singers drifted up from the street below.

"Carolers? On a night as cold as this?" Watson exclaimed, rising from his chair, wincing at the pain in his leg awakened by the bitter winter air.

"Not just any carolers, my dear fellow," Holmes said, not even bothering to open his eyes. "It is our young friends, the Irregulars, who are out tonight." He suddenly bolted out of his chair and strode to the door. Opening it, he shouted, 'Mrs Hudson! Tell our guests to come inside!"

Before long, a group of small boys had made their way inside, and were rapidly devouring the hot chocolate Mrs Hudson had kindly provided, to a chorus of approving noises.

"What about another carol?" Watson asked, as he noticed the boys finishing their mugs.

The boys exchanged glances, smiling and nodding, before bursting into song. "God rest ye merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay!" Smiling while continuing to sing, the boys made their way out the door, their song lingering behind them.

Chapter Text

A tug on his pants leg brought Lestrade's attention to the big brown eyes peering up at him. "Daddy? I can't find my dolly."

"I'm working, Molly," Lestrade said. He turned from his daughter back to Holmes and Watson, to continue discussing a newly finished case.

"But Daddy, I need my dolly!" Molly tugged on Lestrade's pants leg again, looking beseechingly up at him.

Lestrade sighed. "A few moments, gentlemen?"

"Of course," Watson replied, sharing an amused glance with Holmes.

Lestrade crouched down to his daughter's level. "Now, Miss Molly, where did you last see your doll?"

"On your chair, Inspector Daddy," Molly said, eliciting hastily covered laughter from the other occupants of the room.

Steadfastly ignoring them, Lestrade said brightly, "How about we look over there?" He took Molly's hand and led her over to his chair. "No dolls here, Miss Molly." He looked around the room, eager to have this matter done with as quickly as possible, and his eyes caught on a small figure laying on his desk. He picked it up and showed it to Molly. "Is this your doll?"

She giggled, clapping her hands in joy. "Yes! Yes, that's my dolly!" She cuddled it tightly, then reached up to give Lestrade a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Daddy."

Chapter Text

A small strand of brightly coloured metal dropped into a test tube Holmes was working on, landing with a soft plop. Concentration broken from his experiment, Holmes looked up to see a thread of tinsel adorning the space over his workbench.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted, fishing the strand of tinsel out of the tube.

He heard the soft sounds of someone coming up the stairs, followed by his landlady's voice saying, "What is it, Mr Holmes?"

"What is tinsel doing here?" He scowled, turning to face her, and holding up the strand of tinsel as evidence.

"It's Christmastime, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said, looking disapprovingly at him. "Christmas decorations make the house look cheery."

"I don't care if it is cheery or otherwise, just keep it away from my experiments!" Holmes turned back to his experiment as Mrs Hudson left the room, muttering to herself about sour lodgers and lack of Christmas feeling. Just as he was about to add the final ingredient to his experiment, there came a soft plop, as another strand of tinsel dropped into his test tube.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Chapter Text

It was a sad ending to a wonderful life, Watson thought as he made his way up the path to the small cottage. Such a great mind, and a great man, being defeated by the unconquerable time.

Watson opened the door, calling out, "Holmes, where are you?"

Holmes came out of the sitting room, looking suspiciously at his guest. "Who are you?" he asked, drawing himself up to his full height.

Watson sighed to himself. Every time he came, he hoped it would be different, but he always hoped in vain. "I'm your doctor, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," he said with a weary smile, knowing that the name would mean nothing to Holmes.

Holmes relaxed his posture slightly, but made no sign of recognizing his old friend. The visit proceeded as all his other visits had, with no recognition on Holmes's part, and much awkward silence on Watson's. Finally, the doctor could stay no longer, and departed the cottage, mourning for the dear friend he had just left, who now knew him as no more than a stranger.

Chapter Text

"Good heavens, Lestrade, why aren't you in bed?" Watson asked, rising from his chair as a bleary eyed Lestrade shuffled into the room, coughing into his handkerchief.

"It's just a cold, doctor, I'm fine. Is Holmes here?" Lestrade swayed in his feet even as he tried to look around the room, prompting Watson to quickly grab his arm and lead him to a chair.

"I'm afraid Holmes has gone out, Inspector, and may not be back for many hours yet." Seeing Lestrade rising from his chair as if to leave, he hastily continued, "He may also be back any minute, so you might as well stay for a cup of tea."

Watson prepared a cup of tea and brought it back for the Inspector, only to find Lestrade asleep. Watson smiled. He knew the man was too sick to be working, althought he wouldn't have expected him to fall asleep quite this quickly. Drawing a blanket over the sleeping man, he then sat back down in his own chair with the cup of tea. This cold weather really did make one sleepy, Watson thought. Just...a bit...

Five hours later, Holmes came in to see two men asleep in the sitting room, and one half finished cup of tea on the side table.

Chapter Text

"A most unusual case, Watson. Four children seem to have disappeared inside a wardrobe-"

"A wardrobe? How could they possibly have managed that?"

"I can only assume it was bigger on the inside. As I was saying, they seem to have disappeared inside a wardrobe, and the owner of the wardrobe wishes for me to find them, and retrieve them from the wardrobe."

"Well? Will you take the case?"

"I am afraid I am far too busy at the moment to take such a case. Besides, I'm sure they will be found before long. If they are not found within the next twenty four hours, then I may look into the matter."

"Very well, Holmes. If you are not going to be taking the case, perhaps you will have time to dine with me at Simpsons?"

Chapter Text

Holmes snuck into the room, trying desperately to remain unheard. His mission was a dangerous one, with dire consequences if he was discovered. Despite his best efforts, his foot caught on a table, making the vase on it wobble noisily.

"Who's there?" Mrs Hudson called. She came into the room, and smiled at her unexpected guest. "Mr Holmes, what brings you here?" Mrs Hudson caught sight of the pot in his hands and frowned. "Mr Holmes, are those my flowers?"

In the face of Mrs Hudson's displeasure, Holmes could only tell her the truth. "Yes, Mrs Hudson. I'm afraid I needed them for an experiment, and it did not go so well." Placing the pot of dead flowers on the table that had gotten him caught in the first place, he hastily made his way out the door and away from Mrs Hudson's disapproving frown.

Chapter Text

"You are not coming with me on this case, Watson!" I said, glaring fiercely at him.

"If I am not coming than you are not going, Holmes." Watson returned my glare, although the effect was diminished by the way his hand was clenched on the back of the chair as he struggled to remain upright. "This is much too dangerous for you to go it alone!"

"Look at you!" I scoffed "You can barely stand upright, how could you help me with this?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply, then suddenly swayed on his feet, his face turning grey. I sprang to his side, helping him into the nearby chair. He collapsed into it, his breathing heavy. "Oh, Watson," I murmured. "Please, just stay here."

"Only if you will, my friend." He stared at me, waiting for me to concede, or not.

How could I not concede in the face of such selfless devotion? "It will wait, my dear Watson. It will wait."

Chapter Text

"Achoo!"

"Holmes, are you alright?"

"Yes, Watson, I'm ferpectly fine."

"You are 'ferpectly fine', Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson, weren't you listening? Come, we have a case."

"No, Holmes."

"No? Watson, Lestrade came by not ten minutes ago with a new case for us. You were there. Surely you haven't forgotten already?"

"And surely you, master of deduction, have deduced you have a cold?"

"If I had a cold, I would still be out solving this case. As I do not, the point is moot. Come along, Watson, we're leaving."

"Holmes? Holmes! Blasted man, doesn't he know rest is the best cure for a cold?"

Chapter Text

One evening, not many months ago, I was dining at Simpson's on Holmes' instructions. Naturally, I was expecting him to meet me there, so imagine my surprise when the waiter who stopped at my table started speaking to me with my dear friend's voice!

"The young man serving the corner table has some kind of connection to the case of the disappearance of Lady Anne Roberts. Watch him, and see if someone passes him a hidden message, or some other means of secret communication." With that, Holmes left my table and continued taking other orders.

I watched the young man for the next few hours, but could see no secret communication of any sort. As his shift ended, I left my table and walked outside to observe the man further. I was soon joined by Holmes, and together he followed the young man back to his lodgings, in a surprisingly well to do part of town.

The man stopped at the doorway, and Holmes and I approached him. "Might we talk with you a moment, sir?" Holmes enquired.

The young man looked nervous. "Why talk to me?" he said in an obviously disguised voice. "I know nothing about anything."

"That, I'm afraid, is false," Holmes said. He turned to me. "Watson, meet the Lady Anne Roberts. Lady Anne ran away from home two weeks ago, and has been living with her uncle, disguised as a man."

Lady Anne stood up proudly. "Yes, I did. I wanted to see more of the world than my front lawn, so I decided to run away. I knew my uncle would let me stay. He knows what it is like to want to see the world."

"I'm afraid the adventure if over, Lady Anne. Your parents wish for you to come home, as they have been very concerned about you."

Lady Anne did agree to come with us, and we returned her safely to her parents. The next night, we celebrated the successful conclusion at Simpson's, and this time, Holmes was a customer, not a waiter!

Chapter Text

Watson walked in the door after a long day tending to patients, wanting nothing more than to relax by the fire with a hot drink. Unfortunately, that was not to be, as his eye was immediately caught by the sight of Holmes lying sprawled on the rug, not breathing.

Frantically, Watson dropped to his knees beside the prone figure, feeling at his neck for a pulse. Finding one, he took a quick breath of relief, then set to work. It would take many hours and much work before Holmes was out of danger.

He worked through the night, with Holmes's breathing failing twice more, though fortunately, his heart never stopped.

Finally, Watson was rewarded with the sight of grey eyes flickering open. "Never," he said, glaring fiercely at the owner of those eyes. "Do that again."

Holmes, too exhausted to do anything else, nodded in agreement.

Chapter Text

"I cannot think of a proper Christmas present for Lestrade!" Watson said, sitting in his armchair, notepad in hand. "Holmes, do you have any ideas? I'm afraid I can think of absolutely nothing."

"It's really quite simple," Holmes said, turning fromm the windowsill, where he had been looking out onto the street, hoping for a case. "Lestrade is of French background, and grew up in the poorer parts of London. As a child, his maternal grandparents from France visited he and his siblings, bringing with them an array of French treats. They died when he was young, and since then he has not been able to acquire any of those French treats, so I am giving him a basket of genuine French croissants."

"Amazing!" Watson exclaimed. "Have you done such deductions for anyone else?"

"Of course! What better way is there to find the perfect Christmas present? For Jones, he is in desperate need of new pair of glasses, as his current ones are too weak for him. Gregson has just bought a dog for his wife, but neglected to buy a leash to go with it, therefore I am giving him one. Mrs Hudson needs a new bonnet, as her current one is quite hideous. I believe she only wears it because it was a gift from her late mother. Mycroft doesn't deserve a gift, he never has."

Silence raised for a few moments, while Watson recovers from such a deluge of information from his normally secretive friend. "Splendid!" he said finally. "Splendid indeed! Might I ask," he added, looking innocent. "What did you get me?"

Holmes was not fooled. "No, Watson, I shall not tell you. I may not know much of Christmas traditions, but I do know that presents are meant to be a surprise!" In addition, Holmes mentally added, I do not have a gift for you yet. Somehow, I never seem to find a gift that fits just right.

Chapter Text

Watson's eyelashes fluttered open, to be greeted by the sight of three concerned faces staring down at him.

"Doctor, are you alright?" one of the faces asked. As his vision cleared, he could see that the face appeared to be that of a woman, a rather unusual sight on the battlefield.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the woman.

"I heard the crash and came upstairs," she answered, still looking worried. "Are you alright, Dr Watson?"

"He seems perfectly fine," another of the faces said abruptly. This one was a man, with sharp features and a rather beaklike nose. He moved away from the group, turning instead towards the window.

"He does seem fine," the third face agreed, sounding relieved. This one was also a man, with slightly shrewish features.

"Who are you all, and where are we?" Watson asked. Instantly, both faces in front of him were back to looking concerned.

"If this is a joke, John, it is in very poor taste," the second man said. "You must know who we are, you've known us for years."

"I assure you, sir, I've never seen you before in my life," Watson replied. "I don't know who you are, nor how you know my name, and I believe that if I had known you for years, as you say, I would recognize you now."

He sat up, and looked around the room. It was rather clutter, but still easily recognizable as a London room. "Where am I?" he asked. "I'm meant to be in Afghanistan, not London! What is happening?"

He turned to the two nearby. "Who are you?" he asked again.

"Bananas!" Holmes called out. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson turned to look at him in astonishment, missing seeing Watson drop back down to the floor. Hearing the thud, they turned back to him.

"What is going on?" Mrs Hudson asked, flustered. "First we find the doctor lying on the floor, with Mr Holmes not knowing how it happened, despite being in the next room, then the doctor can't remember us, now the doctor's out like a light again! This is madness!"

"Look!" Lestrade said, gesturing to Watson. "Dr Watson's waking up again."

Watson's eyes blinked open. He looked slowly around the room, then his eyes closed again, until he suddenly opened his eyes and shot to sitting position. "Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Did it work?"

"It did indeed, my dear Watson," Holmes said warmly. "I thank you for your cooperation."

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson watched this exchange in bemusement. "What is going on here?" Lestrade asked, confused and rather annoyed. "Was this all just a trick?"

"I needed to prove that it is possible to wipe a man's memory without touching him. With Watson's agreement, I hypnotized him into forgetting everything in his life from being shot onward, this proving that it is possible to make a man forget his history."

"And you couldn't have told us this?" Lestrade said angrily.

Watson looked at Holmes indignantly. "You didn't tell them? Really, Holmes. You should have told them that I was alright."

In the face of three angry faces, Holmes wisely took his leave. "Well, Watson, I must deliver this news to the duke. Good day!"

Chapter Text

Holmes looked around the store in dismay. There were people everywhere; purchasing special items for that special person, looking at knickknacks and this and that, and generally doing their last minute shopping. Not what he had hoped for when he had set out. Unfortunately, he had left his Christmas shopping to the last minute, and now had no choice but to venture forth into the shops, to buy presents for everyone before the shops closed.

Holmes raced through the shops, quickly buying whatever seemed like it might vaguely suit the recipient, simply so he could leave the shops sooner. Finally, his shopping was finished, and he was standing outside on the street with both arms full of presents. "Next time," he said wearily. "I'm buying presents in November."

Chapter Text

Every political campaign should start off with a pub brawl, and the 1885 election was one of them. An overly loud comment had been picked up on, challenged by the other side, and resulted in a fighting, brawling, writhing mass of people.

Holmes happened to have been caught in the pub that particular night, looking for information, and was caught in the mass. His considerable skill at boxing served him well, and he made it out of the crowd in one piece.

"And Watson wonders why I pay no attention to politics," he muttered to himself.

Chapter Text

A special quill pen, under a Christmas tree,
Given as a gift, here at 221B.

From detective to doctor, chosen with care,
Presented with modesty, no special flair.

Received with delight, and soon put to the test
The stories it pens, will be best of the best.

Chapter Text

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said sternly. "What did I tell you about stealing chocolate from my pantry? I only have a limited supply, you know, it is very expensive."

"Mrs Hudson, it certainly could not have been me who had been stealing your chocolate!" Holmes said, standing tall. "I would never do such a thing! I would suggest asking Watson, he's just such the rascal who would steal chocolate."

"Shame on you, Mr Holmes, for trying to pass this off on the doctor," Mrs Hudson said, waggling her finger at him. "Those aren't tobacco stains on your lips! Besides, I know the doctor is too honest to ever be able to steal from my pantry."

Watson, having just this moment come into the room, hastily tucked something into his inner coat pocket before speaking. "Mrs Hudson! Is something the matter?"

"Oh, Doctor Watson!" Mrs Hudson turned around to face him. "Mr Holmes here has been accusing you of stealing chocolate from my pantry when I know perfectly well he is the one doing it."

"Really, Holmes? How could you accuse me like that?" The expression of hurt on Watson's face was betrayed by the mischievious sparkle in his eyes. "You must know I would never steal chocolate out of Mrs Hudson's pantry, and even if I tried, I'd never manage to get away with it. I'm afraid I simply have no talent for deception. You've said so yourself."

Mrs Hudson nodded her approval at him, then turned back to Holmes, thus missing the impish grin that Watson could hold back no longer. Faced by his grinning friend, and the righteously indignant Mrs Hudson, Holmes conceded defeat.

Chapter Text

"It's so beautiful," Mary said, clasping her hands together as she looked around the newly decorated sitting room.

Watson came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. "You've done a wonderful job."

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said, leaning back into his embrace. "I could never have reached those high corners." They rested for a moment in silence, then Mary commented, "I never had anything like this growing up." Watson looked curiously at her, but let her continue. "As you know, my mother died when I was young, and my father sent me to boarding school in England. It was a good school, but they didn't believe in having decorations, or even a Christmas tree. We had a nativity scene instead, and on Christmas Eve, the teachers would tell us the story of the first Christmas. It was nice, but nothing like this."

"My Christmases were very different," Watson said, after a short pause. "My father's family is Scottish, so we always went to Scotland for Christmas and celebrated with them. It was a noisy time, with lots of uncles, aunts and cousins, and a big Christmas feast."

There was a moment of silence, then Mary let out a soft laugh.

"What is it?" Watson asked, turning her to look at him.

Mary smiled at him. "I was just wondering what kind of Christmas Mr Holmes would have had as a child."

Watson thought about that for a moment, then joined her in laughter.

Chapter Text

"My goodness, Holmes! What are you doing up there?"

"I am proving, my dear Watson, that Santa Claus does not exist."

"And how does climbing the chimney prove that, may I ask?"

"Obviously, Watson, if I cannot climb down the chimney, how could a much larger man, carrying a sack of presents, climb down?"

"A sound theory, Holmes, with one exception."

"And what would that be?"

"If you cannot climb down the chimney, how will you get out of it?"

"I'll simply climb back up, of course!"

"Of course. Please do forgive me for asking."

...

"Watson."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I believe I may be..."

"May be what, Holmes?"

"I may be...stuck."

Chapter Text

As the door opened, Holmes froze in place, Christmas baubles still in hand.

"What do you think you are doing?" Watson asked cautiously, coming fully into the room and taking off his coat.

"Taking down the Christmas decorations, of course!" Holmes said, recovering his imperious manner. "Christmas is over, therefore the Christmas decorations no longer need to be cluttering up our living space." He placed the bauble still in his hand carefully back in its box.

"Holmes, no!" Watson said, looking horrified.

"Whyever not?" Holmes asked indignantly.

"It's a long standing tradition, to leave the Christmas decorations up until twelve days after Christmas," Watson explained.

Holmes snorted. "That's ridiculous. Why would you leave the decorations up after the celebration is over?"

"It's tradition, Holmes," Watson said tiredly, running his hand through his hair. "Who knows when it started?"

Seeing Watson's weariness, Holmes decided not to press the point, and instead changed targets.

"At the very least, I must insist we take down the mistletoe," he said, walking over and pointing up at it from underneath, prepared to take it down the moment Watson gave his approval; or the moment his back was turned, whichever was easier.

At that very moment, Mrs Hudson walked in to check on her tenants. "What are you two arguing about?" she asked, hands on hips. Catching sight of Holmes pointing upward, she followed his finger to the top of the doorway, exclaiming,"Oh look, there's mistletoe!" Quickly, she kissed Holmes on the cheek, then went back downstairs, leaving him standing in shock.

Chapter Text

Cick!

"Mr Holmes, what do you think you are doing?" Lestrade looked down at the handcuffs now adorning his wrists, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes, and sighed. It was going to be one of those days. "Why did you handcuff me?" he asked, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose before he realized the handcuffs would make it supremely awkward.

"It is always a good idea for a policeman to be able to get out of his own handcuffs," Holmes looked condescendingly at him. "If you were captured, I'm sure you would appreciate the knowledge."

"And what is the real reason?" Lestrade asked. He had known Holmes for too long to accept such an explanation.

Holmes froze for a moment, then relented. "I have no cases, Lestrade, and my usual solace," here he glanced to his desk, "is unavailable."

"Why not go bother Watson, then?" Lestrade asked, curious as to the doctor's whereabouts, and trying to distract Holmes.

"Watson is out visiting patients," Holmes told him. He quickly strode over to the window and looked up and down the street, seemingly in hope of a new client. Seeing as he looked away moments later, Lestrade deduced that there were no clients on the street. Somehow, he didn't think Holmes would appreciate it if he shared that deduction.

A few moments later, and another click echoed through the room. Lestrade proudly held up the handcuffs, enjoying Holmes's rare surprise. "Next time you are bored, Mr Holmes," he said, relishing every word. "Try something a little harder."

Chapter Text

Mary sat on the side of the bed, brushing her long blonde hair in soft strokes, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotically soothing. John was out tonight, assisting Sherlock on a case, the way he had for their entire acquaintance. She could never begrudge him for it, seeing as without it they never could have met, and she knew that Sherlock was as dear to him as she was herself. For all that, there were sometimes nights like tonight, where she sat alone in their bedroom, readying herself for sleep, and knowing that there was some distant chance that she would wake a widow.

The clatter of boots and hush of quiet but jubilant voices brought relief to her heart, and a smile to her face. One night she may wake to find that her dear John had perished while she slept, and she was alone once again, but tonight? Tonight her boys were safe.

Chapter Text

"Holmes, don't you think you're being unreasonable?"

Holmes finished shutting the blinds, checking to make sure no light could be seen through them, before turning to look at Watson. "Moriarty is a very dangerous man, my dear Watson. I will not underestimate him."

"But a train?" Watson questioned, unconsciously pressing himself back from the windows even as he spoke. "Do you really think he could shoot at us through the train windows, while the train is moving?"

Holmes settled back in his seat, confident that their carriage was now secure. "The train will not always be moving, Watson, and for a man with Moriarty's connections, it would not be difficult to arrange for an accident."

Watson conceded the argument, not as sure as Holmes about Moriarty's capabilities, but willing to trust his friend, wherever that may take him.

Chapter Text

"Good heavens, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, entering the room and catching sight of the pile of of discarded books scattered haphazardly as if thrown against the wall - which, in fact, they had. "What offence have these books committed, to be treated such?

"Merely to be dangerously dull, my dear friend," Watson replied. "Your cases are far more interesting. For instance," he continued, smiling slightly at Holmes' peculiar costume, "whatever you have been doing. You've been at the docks, I can see, but what for?"

"I'll make a detective of you yet, doctor!" Holmes laughed. "Tell me, what did you notice for you to know it was the docks? The mud on my boots, unique to the waterfront? The slight stain on my sleeve, from brushing against one of the boats?"

"Nothing so unusual, I'm afraid," Watson said, looking slightly sheepish. "The smell of fish hanging about you rather gave it away."

Holmes sniffed hesitantly at his clothes. "Yes, I can tell. I suppose I had become rather used to it." He disappeared into his bedroom, and came out moments later, clothes changed and wearing a dressing gown. "Now, you had asked me what I was doing at the docks. Well, -"

The hours whiled past and the sky grew dim, as Holmes recounted his day's adventures to the eager ears of his biographer.

Chapter Text

The ice was too thin to bear Holmes' weight. It cracked, snapping beneath him and sending the detective plunging into the dark depths of the lake.

"Holmes!" Watson cried. He scrambled out onto the ice, heedless of the danger. His feet slipping beneath him, he ran towards the dark gash marring the pristine surface; as he came closer, he could already see ice reforming around the edges, crystals as pale and fragile as glass gathering around the edges of the hole. They were encroaching the hole on all sides - except where Holmes' gloved hands were clinging onto the icy edge.

Watson grabbed Holmes's hands, already soaked through and freezing from their encounter with the frigid water, and pulled. The ice creaked beneath him. Slowly, Watson pulled Holmes out of the lake, continuing until they were both sitting, shivering, by the edge of the hole.

Watson got to his feet, holding a hand out for Holmes to take. "Come, my friend. We need to get you home." Holmes, too cold and exhausted to argue, acquisced, and they headed off towards Baker Street and a cosy fireplace, leaving the lake behind them.

In the freezing cold of this December night, it would take only minutes before the lake had frozen over again, leaving no sign of the tragedy that had almost occurred.

Chapter Text

"If I was a penguin," Watson mused, "this cold weather would be far more tolerable. As is, I would much prefer to be somewhere more tropical for the winter season."

Holmes glanced up from where he was studying one of his record books. "I would have thought you'd had more than enough of the tropics in India."

"For once, Holmes, your deduction has fallen through." Watson smiled teasingly at his friend. "If anything, India has made me miss the warm weather. I do enjoy the snow, but this dreary rain and hail is tiring!"

Chapter Text

Wayne triumphantly held up a brown, soggy piece of gingerbread. 'Look! It's chocolate covered!" He took a bite, and his eyes widened. "It tastes even better!"

The other Irregulars clustered around the chocolate pot, dipping their biscuits and gingerbread in and exclaiming at the chocolaty flavour.

"It's delicious!"

"I've never had chocolate before. It tastes so good!"

"Everything tastes better with chocolate, dummy!"

"Hey! I'm not a dummy!"

Mrs Hudson broke up the brewing argument, coming in between and taking the chocolate pot from the middle of the mass of Irregulars. "Children! Chocolate is for drinking, not dunking biscuits in. You'll get crumbs through the chocolate!"

Suitably chastened, the Irregulars quietened down, looking penitently down at the floor. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson," they chorused.

She nodded firmly. "Good. Now sit down quietly and finish your hot chocolate. And no more chocolate covered biscuits!"

Chapter Text

"No!" Watson pushed Holmes out of the path of the knife, both stumbling and falling to the cobbled pavement with the force of the push. Their attacker, still just a youth and only wanting their money, ran, fearful of the consequences of his rash action.

Holmes pushed himself to his feet. "Come, Watson, that wasn't necessary. I am an expert in baritsu, remember; I would have disarmed him before he managed to strike again." He held out a hand for Watson.

"I suppose I - was taking one- for the team, then." Watson stumbled over his words, interrupted by harsh gasps for air. He reached for Holmes' hand, then cried out in pain.

Holmes immediately crouched to the street behind him, heedless of the street water seeping into his pants. "Watson! Watson, are you injured?"

Watson's arm, which had been clenched around his stomach, loosened, the dark red of blood showing dully in the light from the street lamps. "I'm afraid so, Holmes."

Holmes swore. "I will see that menace dead for this!"

Watson gathered his strength and barked, "Holmes!"

Holmes' attention swung back to him.

"Later. Right now, I - need you to - go for help." Holmes began to protest, but Watson interrupted. "Now. I need help - now."

"Very well." He took Watson's hand and gripped it tightly. "But you stay awake, Watson. You must still be here when I return."

Watson smiled slightly. "I will be here." A look passed between them, conveying everything they did not say.

Holmes squeezed Watson's hand a final time, then stood. Without a backwards glance, he left, hoping his friend would last until his return.

Chapter Text

Mrs Hudson has never given birth, never raised a child up from a baby, but she has plenty of children.

There's Sherlock, her oldest. He often makes a mess, comes and goes at all hours of the night, and has a terrible habit of staining her chin. Yet somehow, when she is having a day when everything seems to go wrong, without fail he will play her favourite song on his violin, and the world seems a little bit brighter.

John is her darling, the one who always brings her flowers on her birthday, the one to provide her with some comfort against the aches and pains of growing old. Some days, though, when the memories of Mary grew too heavy, she is the one to provide comfort to him, sitting down to remember the beautiful young woman they both loved so much.

Mary, Mary was her sweet daughter. From the moment she'd heard that Mary had grown up without a mother, she knew that she would look after this girl like she was her own. Mary was the one who came to her for advice about setting up her own household, to show her some pretty thing she had found at the markets, or to sit and chat for a while. Mary's funeral, seeing the wasted form of the bright and strong young woman she knew, had been nearly as painful as her dear Robert's death, many years before.

Of course, the Irregulars are her children too: recruited by Sherlock to help with cases, but as children, they need more than that. They need someone to bring hot chocolate to warm them against the cold, to tuck their mittens on tightly so they don't get lost, and to tell them they are wonderful, brave children, but could they please be careful tonight?

No, Mrs Hudson has never had a baby of her own, never felt that life growing within her. That is one gift she and her Robert never shared. Nevertheless, she has plenty of children, and though they may not call her mother, she loves them as her own.

Chapter Text

My dear Holmes, season's greetings!

And I hope the doctor is well too.

I know at our first meeting,

He always stayed by you.

We are very happy here,

Living in Paris,

This is my favourite time of year,

With the pretty Christmas trees.

I wish you well this year to come,

And to you both good fortune.

Sending this, with my love,

Signed, Irene Norton

Chapter Text

It walked slowly towards them, its white coat gleaming against the gloomy night. Power and majesty was in its every step as it made its way closer and closer.

Holmes and Watson stood still, feeling the quiet that had descended on the scene. Even the birds has stopped fluttering, the entire forest holding its breath as it waited for something to happen.

The horse stopped, just close enough to touch. This close, they could see the blood encrusted around its shining hooves.

"I do believe we have found our murderer," Holmes murmured, not willing to disturb the quiet of the scene.

Watson reached a hand out towards the horse, gently stroking down its soft nose, then across its back and down the legs. At this last motion, the horse flinched, prancing a few paces to one side and looking at them warily. "And you were right, Lord Warburton was trying to maim it. All to ward off his wife's imaginary lover." He coaxed the horse closer again by way of an apple brought from his pocket. "What shall we do, Holmes?"

"Lord Warburton is dead, and therefore cannot possibly want the horse. Lady Warburton is terrified of them. It seems justice would let us leave the horse here." Holmes allowed a very slight smile. "I think it will be well taken care of."

Watson patted the horse on the back, then stepped away. The horse huffed, shook its mane, then turned, disappearing back into the early morning gloom of the forest.

Chapter Text

Mary Watson has many treasures in her life.

Some of them are small treasures, like the way John smiles when he's had a good day at his practice, or the flowers in her windowsill that are blooming so prettily. When a cake comes out of the oven just right, and she knows that it will taste delicious.

Some of them are bigger than that, more important. Like the earrings passed down from her deceased mother. Like that feeling when Sherlock and John come home from a case, safe and sound. Like visiting with Mrs Hudson and trying a new recipe together. Like that Christmas party at Scotland Yard, when all the officers took turns to come up and earnestly tell her how much they appreciated her husband's presence on cases.

More than anything else, she treasures those lazy evenings at home, when she and John, and sometimes Sherlock if they can convince him, stay in and talk, sharing stories and lives by the light of the fire. Moments like those carry her through the darker days, the ones where she wonders if sending her husband off with Sherlock might be the last time she ever sees him, if she would always feel this useless just sitting at home and waiting.

Now, though, she might have something new to treasure. She pats her stomach, smiling softly, imagining the bump that will soon be there. This may turn out to be her biggest treasure of all.

Chapter Text

The Irregulars clustered at the front door of 221 Baker Street, eagerly awaiting Holmes' arrival. He had said today would be a special day, and they all anticipated a brand new case, with plenty for them to investigate.

Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Come on in, boys. Mr Holmes is upstairs. The doctor's not up yet, so do try to stay quiet."

As the Irregulars trooped through the upstairs door, Holmes was sitting before the fire, waiting for them. "Now, Irregulars," he said, looking at them seriously. "There is something very important I need you for today."

"Is it a new case, Mr 'Olmes?" Little Sam asked, and was hastily shushed by the others.

"No, not this time. This time...we are decorating." He gestured grandly to the boxes stacked up behind him, bright colours and bristly boughs just visible peeking through the top.

The boys' mouths opened in astonishment. "It's like a shop in here!" Wayne exclaimed.

Big Sam nodded enthusiastically. "One of the real pretty ones!"

Holmes let them have a moment to admire the decorations, then brought their attention back to him. "This is a task to be undertaken with the greatest secrecy and silence. No shouting, and certainly no one is to wake Dr Watson." He gazed sternly over all of them, and they nodded their assent. They all like the doctor, and if Holmes said not to wake him, they'd well make sure they didn't.

The decorating commenced. Ivy was hung from windows and mantels, and decorated with small ornaments and gingerbread men. Popcorn and cranberry strings were strung wherever the children could reach. Even Holmes' experiments were decorated, with a tiny ribbon tied neatly on each test tube!

Finally, all strings were strung, ivy was hung, and the whole room had a proper Christmas feel. The decorators, pleased with their work, were eating Mrs Hudson's generously provided refreshments, when footsteps began coming down the stairs. "Holmes, why did you let me sleep so late? The Irregulars were coming-" Dr Watson came into the room, and stopped short. He looked around the room, taking in all the decorations, and everything that had been done. Finally, his gaze rested on the Irregulars, biscuits still in hand. "Did you do all this?"

"Mr 'Olmes told us to," Little Sam said in his piping voice. "Do you like it?"

Watson smiled, taking one more admiring glance around the room. "I do like it, very much."

Chapter Text

The box was sitting by the side of the street, battered and drooping. The muffled whimpers coming from inside could barely be heard over the clatter of traffic and chatter of passers by. No one stopped to hear, no one cared. The box remained by the side of the street, growing more damp and battered by every passing hour.

A nose poked its way out of the box. It was a very small nose, black and wet. It had come out through a small hole in the side, just big enough for it to fit. It sniffed slowly, then retreated back inside.

Then it came out again. This time, the small black nose was followed by a small black face, with big eyes and a mouth with sharp little teeth. The little teeth bit into the side of the hole, gradually widening it. They bit further and further, widening the hole more and more, until the little black nose and the little black face was followed by a little black body, fluffy all over with a little tail curled up at the end.

With its whole body out of the box, the little puppy - for it was a puppy - started exploring the street. It dodged the people, running around their feet and under their skirts, following every interesting smell it could find. It found one particular smell, following it further and further, with more and more attention, until - bump - the puppy ran right into a pair of shoes.

"What's this?" a voice came from above. A large pair of hands came down around the puppy, lifting it high up into the air. The puppy yipped. This was exciting! He should have left the box a long time ago!

"It's a puppy, Watson, Schipperke most likely. Now, will you put it down? Mrs Hudson has supper waiting for us." That wasn't the same voice. It was a different one, not as friendly. The puppy growled at it.

"It's only a little puppy, Holmes. It will be cold out tonight. Puppies should not be out on the street." That was the same voice, the nice one. The puppy yipped at it again. It liked that voice. "It seems too dirty to belong to anyone. I'll just take it home with us tonight, and tomorrow I can make inquiries."

"Do hurry, Watson. Mrs Hudson will not be pleased if we miss supper again after last week."

The puppy found itself being wrapped in something soft and woollen. It sniffed curiously at the material, but shied away quickly. It smelt odd, something sharp that made its nose itch. Still, it was warm. The puppy cuddled closer, burrowing into the material and starting to drift off to sleep. It had been a long day for the little puppy. Adventures were nice. Maybe tomorrow it could have another one.

Chapter Text

"John? Have you seen my necklace?" Mary called through the house. She waited for a reply, then remembered John was out, staying overnight for a dangerously ill little girl. She sighed. It was always quieter without John here.

She looked for the necklace again, searching through the parlour and the bedrooms, but didn't find it. Perhaps it wasn't really that important, but it was her favourite necklace. She wore it everywhere, and now, not feeling its presence around her neck was unsettling.

Maybe Mr Holmes could help her? It was only a slight thing, but he'd investigated for less. The least she could do, she decided, was ask him. If he was out, or busy on a case, then she would have to accept the necklace was lost.

She made her way to Baker Street, stopping in front of the door just as she had years before. She knocked.

Mrs Hudson opened it, a smile breaking out on her face. "Mary! I didn't expect you today."

Mary accepted the older woman's embrace, following her inside. "I've come to see Mr Holmes, Mrs Hudson. I was hoping to request his help."

"Well, up you go up the stairs, then. He's in right now, just sitting up there with his pipe and his books." She leaned in and said confidentially, "I think he could use the distraction."

Mary went up the stairs as ushered, and entered 221B. Mr Holmes was waiting for her. "Mary."

"Mr Holmes." She stood awkwardly in the doorway. Suddenly this did not seem such a good idea.

"You have a case for me," he said. It wasn't a question. "You've come from home to ask me. Watson isn't home, or you would have asked him instead. Your necklace is missing."

She sat, stunned. Even after all the stories she'd heard from John, and the handful of times she'd seen it herself, Mr Holmes' deductions still left her confused and somewhat awed. "Yes, I lost it this morning, and have no idea where it may be."

"I would try the kitchen counter."

She didn't know what to say.

"You take it off while in the kitchen, possibly due to some notion of propriety, and this time forgot to put it back on again upon leaving," he told her with a smile. "It is likely still there waiting for you."

She thanked him absently, feeling almost disconnected. How had he known that? Almost without thinking, she found herself back at her home. She went inside, and on the kitchen table, just as he had said, lay her necklace.

Chapter Text

Watson looked up from his paper to find a bulky stablehand in his living room. "I do say, Holmes, that's the third disguise today! Are you going to use one of these eventually?"

"Of course, Watson!" Holmes said, fiddling with his blond moustache. "All these disguises will eventually be useful, but first I must experiment, to try which ones are best."

"I always believed you just decided them on the spot," Watson said, growing intrigued despite himself.

Holmes looked at him with an affectionate twinkle in his eye. "I didn't know you so well then, dear Watson. I thought it best to preserve some mystery of my profession."

Watson sat back in his chair, a warm feeling rising in his breast. "Carry on then, Holmes. Let's see those disguises."

Chapter Text

Today was the day Scotland Yard had been looking forward to all year. This was the day they all got to show off what they could do, holding their annual Contest of Strength. The stage had already been set up in the conference room, the biggest room and the only one able to fit all their police force. For the first time, Holmes and Watson had also come, and Watson had been asked to be one of the judges.

The contestants lined up at the edge of the stage, the judges took their seats, and the contest began. Each contestant showed off their strength, lifting weights and having rope pulls with each other. One by one, they were knocked out, overtaken by a superior opponent, until there were only two left.

Their final challenge was this: to bend a steel bar in half. Gregson went first. He took the bar in both hands, exerting all the pressure he could in his attempt to bend it. Panting, exhausted, he finally released, and looked down at it. The bar was as smooth and straight as ever.

The other contestant stepped forward, a tall young constable named Baker. He picked up the steel bar and began to push. For a moment, it seemed like nothing was happening. Then, millimetre by millimetre, the bar bent, until there was a visible bend in the steel. Baker let go, letting it clatter to the floor while he wiped the sweat from his face.

Applause rang through the room. Baker took a bow, grinning shyly. Watson joined him on the stage, shaking his hand and giving him the medal awarded to the year's winner.

Later that evening, when the room had cleared out for a celebratory drink and Holmes was the only one left, did he smile softly to himself, and bend the bar back into shape.

Chapter Text

It was a nasty scuffle. The Irregulars had seen a man coming out of Mrs Hudson's back window, and Wiggins had sent Little Sam upstairs for Mr Holmes before the rest of the group had mobbed the man.

The man, surprised at first, quickly realised he was being attacked and started fighting back. Being much bigger and stronger, he got a few good hits in, but the Irregulars were fast, and they knew how to work together. The fight was a stalemate, with neither side able to fully overcome the other, when Holmes' fist came out of nowhere, landing directly on the man's nose.

The man's eyes widened, then unfocused. He swayed backwards, then forwards again. Finally, he toppled over, his head hitting the ground with a hard smack.

The watching Irregulars cheered. "Timber!"

Holmes leaned down, rifling through the man's pockets. "As you thought, Wiggins. Filled with Mrs Hudson's good silver." He straightened up. "Well done, Irregulars. Wayne, run and find an officer to come take this rubbish" he prodded at the man with his boot, "away. The rest of you, clear out his pockets and bring it all inside. We would not want to distress Mrs Hudson."

Chapter Text

"Holmes," Watson asked without looking, rifling through papers on the desk, "have you seen my pocket watch?"

Holmes was curled up in the armchair like a cat, eyes closed, soaking in the weak winter sunlight. A case had finished just two days ago, and all Holmes' energy had gone with it. "No, Watson. You usually put it in the desk drawer."

"I've already looked, and haven't found it." Still, Watson checked the drawer again, lifting up the medical paraphernalia and souvenirs from cases that had somehow made their way in there. The watch did not show.

Watson slumped down into his chair. "That pocket watch was my brother's. It's all I have left of him."

Holmes' eyes opened, and he looked over at Watson with concern. "Perhaps you should ask Mrs Hudson."

Watson brightened. "Of course! She may have moved it to clean, or something of the like. I'll ask her at once."

As Watson left the room, headed downstairs to talk to Mrs Hudson, Holmes closed his eyes and relaxed into the armchair again. Hopefully Mrs Hudson had had it cleaned by now and wouldn't mind giving it a little early.

Chapter Text

Light shone through the stained glass window, sending blue and green beams dancing through the small chapel, seen by no one but heaven above. The wooden pews were old but sturdy, worn smooth with generations of kneeling parishioners.

The door was pushed open, and Mary entered, footsteps soft. She knelt in a pew near the entrance, and clasped her hands together. "Our Father," she began, "who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done..."

Her voice shook, and tears sprung to her eyes. "Thy will be done-"

A sob broke out. "Father, I'm afraid. I know I'm not well, and I've been getting worse every day. What if that's Your will? What if I die? I don't want to die! I want to live, grow old with John, raise our child, be happy! I don't want to die so soon! How can that be Your will?"

Mary lowered her head to the pew and wept.

Finally, what seemed like a long time later, she rose her head again, wiping back the tears. "I will have faith," she whispered to herself. She began her prayer again. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Amen."

She stood up, brushed down her skirts, and walked back to the door. Just as she reached it, she stopped, looking back into the small chapel once again. "Goodbye."

The door closed behind her.

Chapter Text

His brother has been gone for nearly three years now, and Mycroft knows things are going well. It may have started off a bit dicey, with Moran close on Sherlock's trail, but that trail has gone cold, and Moran is off the scent. According to some trusted contacts, he may even be on his way back to England, where Mycroft himself will be waiting for him.

With Moran caught, and Moriarty's network tracked down and disbanded, Sherlock could even return. Of course, his service to his country could not be shared openly, not yet, but he could see the Watsons again, and return to those little puzzles he so enjoyed. Not that Mycroft can understand why - triflingly easy, most of them, and requiring so much legwork - but he will not begrudge his brother's happiness after all he has done.

His brother's friends would also be pleased to see him alive again. The deception was regrettable, but also necessary, for Sherlock's wellbeing and their own. If Moran thought them to have any idea where Sherlock could be, he would have stooped to any level to get that information. Instead, Mrs Hudson has been able to live comfortably in her home without needing new lodgers, and the Watsons have moved on with their lives. Their son is two now, he believes, and looked to be growing up quite well last time he visited, though that was some months ago.

Once Sherlock returns, he'll visit again. Maybe at Christmastime. He's never been much for celebrating it himself, but surely the Watsons will, and if anyone can convince his brother to celebrate with them, it will be John and Mary. Sherlock could even finally meet his namesake.

A quiet knock on the door. "Sir, a message for you."

He opens the message, reads its contents. The rose-coloured glasses fall off.

'Mary Watson's funeral today. Son expected to follow.'

Chapter Text

Sebastian Moran was not a fanciful man. He didn't hold with curses or legends, fairytales held no sway over him. Yet still, there was one myth he had heard in his childhood and never forgotten.

Icarus, the man who flew towards the sun and fell when the wax melted off his wings.

That myth had stuck with him, a reminder that a man was capable of anything, as long as he had the right materials to get there. Icarus hadn't, falling down when his wings had failed him, but at least he'd tried. Moran also tried, joining the army, rising in the ranks, making his name known. Each time, he had the right materials, he had the ambition, and he succeeded. When he met Moriarty, he became the professor's right hand man, taking on each job the man gave him and succeeding again and again.

Then came Reichenbach. The Professor went over the waterfall, and Moran realised, he was not Icarus: Moriarty had been Icarus all along, reaching for something bigger and greater, and falling when his wings were destroyed.

Chapter Text

Crack!

I looked up from my notebook, alarmed by the sound, to find Holmes staring at his chemistry set with dismay. One of his beakers had cracked, the liquid inside slowly spilling out onto the wooden table.

"Holmes," I asked, "what was in that beaker?"

"A solution I have been working on for weeks," he told me, still staring at the dripping beaker. "I was very close this time, but now my work is ruined. I'll have to start again."

"That's not all that's ruined!" The mess from the beaker had grown bigger and bigger, enough that the table was no longer enough to contain it. "Mrs Hudson will never forgive you if that stains her carpets!"

Hastily, I looked around for something to clean up the liquid with. Holmes had gone one step further, immediately grabbing a nearby teacup and putting it under the table to catch the spill.

"I'm not sure spoiling her china is much better, Holmes!"

Mrs Hudson, seemingly summoned at the reference to her china, came into the room. "Gentlemen! What is this?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Hudson," Holmes said, with that sincerely charming air he could draw on when needed. "One of my experiments has gone awry, and your china teacup has been damaged."

Mrs Hudson swatted him on the shoulder. "Really, Mr Holmes! There's no need for that, I'm not one of your cases. Fortunately, I learnt my lesson long ago about what you will do to my good china. That was specially bought, just for you, the worst china I could find. For all your deductions, I dare say you hadn't even noticed!"

Chapter Text

Distracted by her baking, Mrs Hudson barely noticed the faint knock on her door. She stopped kneading and listened for the sound to come again. At the second knock, she wiped her floury hands on her apron, and went to open the door, already saying, "Mr Holmes isn't in-"

An Irregular fell through the doorway from where he had obviously been leaning on the door, immediately curling up on the floor of her front hall like an injured animal. "Mrs 'udson," he whimpered, head barely raising from the floorboards, "I don't feel too good."

"Doctor!" Mrs Hudson screamed. She crouched beside the poor boy, hand flying to his forehead. It was burning hot.

Dr Watson came rushing down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the front hall. "The boy?" he asked, already crouching down beside her. "He's very dangerously ill. We need to get him upstairs." He slid his hands under the boy's back and knees, starting to lift him up, then faltering.

"Your shoulder, doctor!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, also rising to her feet.

Watson waved her off with a distracted smile. "It will keep. We need this boy upstairs now." He adjusted his grip, and started up the stairs, Mrs Hudson following behind. Once they arrived, he laid the boy on the lounge, and went to fetch his medical bag.

Mrs Hudson sat beside the boy, one she now recognised as Little Sam. He looked even smaller than usual lying there, face red and sweat beading on his brow. She was just wondering if she should get a cloth to wipe it off when Watson re-entered the room, medical bag in hand.

He checked the boy over, searching for injury or other symptoms, as Mrs Hudson watched, and comforted Sam when he whimpered. Finally, Watson sat back. "It appears to be a very severe strain of the flu. The most worrying symptom is that fever: if we get that down, he should recover."

"My mother always used a cold bath," Mrs Hudson advised, stroking Sam's hair. "Said it froze the fever right out."

"Do you have one here?" Watson asked.

"I've got a tub." She got up, heading for the door. "I'll just go fill it up for you."

The tub wasn't a proper bath, being meant more for washing clothing than people, but Sam was small enough he should fit in. Once it was filled, bucket by bucket, Mrs Hudson called upstairs, "The tub is ready, doctor!" She waited for a few minutes, enough that she began to worry, but finally Watson came in, carrying Sam, and placed the boy in the tub.

Immediately Sam began to thrash, sending water spilling across the room. Watson held on tighter, keeping the boy in the water even as he struck out wildly. Over the next few hours, his thrashing gradually grew weaker and weaker, until he was once again still. Watson felt his forehead. "The fever has broken. He should be alright now."

Watson lifted him out of the tub, then nearly dropped him as his shoulder gave out. Mrs Hudson hurried over. "Dr Watson!" she scolded. "You must be more careful of that shoulder! Here, I'll help you carry him."

Between the two of them, they got Sam upstairs, lying on the lounge as he was before. Mrs Hudson sat down beside him. "I'll stay with him, if you'd like to sleep, Dr Watson."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but I wouldn't feel right leaving him alone now." Watson sunk into his usual chair. "Now that the fever's broken, he should recover, but he'll still need a few days until he's up and running around again."

"He can stay with me," Mrs Hudson said. "I could use another pair of hands while baking." She contemplated it, how nice it would be to have a child in the house, someone else there to keep her company and help her with all her holiday baking. It was a pleasant thought.

Eventually, she looked up, curious at the lack of reply, and smiled involuntarily. Watson had fallen asleep in his chair. Tonight, she would watch over both of them.

Chapter Text

Holmes and Watson had stopped in the park, resting after a long morning of walking through holiday crowds. Holmes was watching the people in the park, occasionally muttering small deductions under his breath, evidently enjoying the chance to practice his skills. Watson was watching his friend, stretching out his aching leg, and laughing softly as some of Holmes's more interesting asides.

Feeling a soft tap on his leg, Watson looked down into the face of a little girl, brown eyes wide, sneaking quick glimpses at his companion.

"'Scuse me, mister," she whispered, a soft lisp blurring her words. "Is that Mr 'Olmes?"

"Yes, he is," Watson replied, smiling at her. "What's your name, little one?"

Her eyes widened. Watson wondered if anyone had asked her that before. "Susannah, mister."

"That's a pretty name."

She nodded at him. "My mammy picked it." With childish carelessness, she switched topics. "Do you think Mr 'Olmes would - would say hello to me?"

Her eyes were big and brown, a very effective plea, and enough to stop Watson from asking any more questions. He smiled at her again, taking her small hand and enfolding it in his. "Of course, Susannah." He turned towards, Holmes, raising his voice slightly. "Holmes, you have a fan who would like to meet you."

Holmes turned, and seeing the little girl, a flash of discomfort was visible on his face, too quick for any but Watson to notice. "Good day."

Susannah stares at him, too awestruck to speak.

"Her name is Susannah," Watson prompted, beginning to enjoy this strange encounter.

"Good day, Susannah. Why did you wish to talk to me?"

She mumbled something, eyes transfixed on his face. Watson squeezed her hand. "A little louder, Susannah?"

She took a deep breath, then it all came out in one big rush. "You's in all the stories mammy tells us, about the mysteries you solve, and you knows things just by looking at people, and it all sounds so nice and I want to be like you."

Holmes looked startled by the outflow of words. "Anyone can deduce. The problem with most people, is they see, but they do not observe. Take that man over there, for instance." Holmes pointed out someone walking along the other side of the park. "What can you tell me about him?"

Watson sat back, feeling quietly contented, watching Holmes teach a little girl how to truly observe the world.

Chapter Text

Watson opened the door to his bedroom, then took a sudden step backwards. "Holmes?" he called down the stairs, eyes remaining fixed on what lay within the room, "why is there a python on my pillow?"

Still not daring to take his eyes from the snake, he heard, not saw, Holmes come up the stairs behind him. "This was not me, my dear doctor. All my snakes have remained safely in my room." Holmes made to move closer, but Watson held onto his arm.

"That python can stretch half the length of its body, Holmes," he informed his friend quietly. "I've seen it kill men in Afghanistan. Don't go any closer."

"A python does not end up on your bed by accident, Watson," Holmes told him equally quietly. "I must investigate."

"Very well." Holmes made to move forward again. Watson tightened his grip, stopping him. "Just, please. Be careful."

Holmes laid his hand over Watson's, a promise that needed no words. Watson let him go.

Chapter Text

The stars glowed in the night sky overhead, shining down on the little scene. A couple was walking home through the deserted streets, their little boy clutching their hands as he walked between them. All three of them were smiling in wonder at the beautiful constellations. They were on holiday, far from home, and this was the first time the little boy had ever seen the stars.

He dropped his parents' hands, running ahead with his eyes firmly fixed on the sky, laughing at how the stars stayed the same. His parents slowed down, enjoying his reactions. They had so little time to themselves most days, and even less time outside. This holiday was exactly what they needed.

A quiet whoosh sliced through the air. The man fell to the ground with a choked gasp. His wife screamed, falling to her knees beside him. Their son came running back and was gathered into his mother's arms. The stars looked down on the scene, no longer bright, but cold and distant.

Not far away, in the upper rooms of one of the nearby houses, Moran disassembled his air rifle, packed it into a bag, and left through the back door. He didn't look up to the stars. He didn't need them.

Chapter Text

Holmes' world was made up of many elements.

Fire was Mrs Hudson. Not a blazing bushfire, or a small candle flame, but a hearth fire, warm and homely. She was always there to come back to, made 221B a comfortable place for all. Even a hearth fire can bring down a house, though, and when Mrs Hudson brought down her fury about broken china or stained floors, her blaze crackled around the whole room.

Lestrade was Earth; dependable, and always there. With every case, he became more solid and sure, while beneath, strains of silver or gold were waiting to be discovered. One day, there could be something valuable there, but for now, it went beneath the surface, unseen and unknown.

Air was Mary. She was a gust that blew in occasionally, but was always there in the background, unseen but felt. When she came by, she disrupted things, sending Watson off in a tailspin, and

Watson, Watson was Water. Watson was steady, looking calm, but running deep underneath. He was necessary, a soothing presence, and hidden depths. In a moment, still water could be whipped into a storm, dangerous but fascinating, just as Watson was.

Every element Holmes had in his life was an essential part, something needed and necessary. Really, it was elementary.

Chapter Text

"I must say, Holmes," I said, crouching down and examining the body. "This is quite an unusual crime."

Holmes prowled around the crime scene, sniffing at some things, laying down full length to get a better look at others. "Indeed, Watson. I have not encountered anything quite like this before, nor even have a similar crime in my files. This crime seems to be absolutely unique." He paused his investigations, turning to Watson. "Cause of death, doctor?"

I gestured to the bloody imprint in the skull. "This would be the obvious cause of death, but from the bruising, it seems that this happened post mortem, though very soon after, no more than a few minutes. The actual cause would appear to be strangulation...with this." I pulled a long strand of aluminium off the body, showing it to Holmes.

Holmes looked uncharacteristically surprised. "Tinsel?"

I nodded.

Holmes began to pace across the alley, speaking out loud, as was often his wont when it was just the two of us. "The only inhabitants are the mother and her children, none of whom have the strength required to strangle a man of this size, and besides that, there is only one pair of footsteps besides our victim. The killer is clearly a heavyset man, taller than the average, and," he showed me a strand of white fur, held between his fingers, "wearing a fur coat. This fur is much finer than anything that would be found in this neighbourhood, but the footsteps disappear at the edge of the house, suggesting someone familiar enough with the area that they know a way up."

"This wound is an unusual shape too," I interjected. "At first I thought it had been made by a horse, but if it is, the horse was unshod. There are some small characteristic markings missing."

"I believe, Watson," Holmes said, after a moment of thought, "that this will be a three pipe problem. Let us return to Baker Street."

Holmes hailed a carriage, and we left the scene behind. Despite much thought, and a truly horrible quantity of shag tobacco, Holmes never did manage to solve the problem of the Christmas Eve Murder.

Chapter Text

Wiggins knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street, the Irregulars clustered around him. Mrs Hudson opened the door. "If you've come to see Mr Holmes, he's out."

Wiggins didn't move. "When will he be back? We've got important news for him."

"Not that he ever tells me, but in just a few hours, I should think."

"Can we see your Christmas tree?" A little Irregular interrupted. Wiggins hastily went to shush them, but Mrs Hudson smiled. "Of course. It's a cold day, I think you could do with some time indoors, away from that wind."

The Irregulars trooped upstairs after her, gasping in awe at the beautiful Christmas tree standing proud in the corner of the room. They clustered around, admiring the dripping tinsel and shiny ornaments. All except one.

Big Sam - rather a misnomer, as she still didn't reach Mrs Hudson's shoulder - was looking around the room, brow furrowed like she was searching for something. Finally, she turned to Mrs Hudson. "Where's the menorah?"

Mrs Hudson beamed. "That's downstairs, dear. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson don't celebrate Hanukkah. That one's just for me."

"Oh." Her brow was still furrowed. "But why?"

"Why do I celebrate? That's what my family always did. When I married Robert, we celebrated both." For a moment, she looked wistful, her smile fading. "We had hoped that someday, we'd have children to... but that never happened."

Sam looked hopefully at her, biting her lip. "Can I see your menorah?"

Mrs Hudson took her by the hand, leading her back towards the stairs. "Of course, child. Let's go have a look."

Chapter Text

Moran threaded the needle, reading himself to do repairs. Sewing was something any man should know, as far as he as concerned, and nothing to be ashamed of. An army man like himself needed to keep his equipment in perfect working order, and that required good skills with a needle.

Today, though, was not about fixing clothes. He was fixing soldiers, his companions. The ones who had always stayed with him. There had only been a few of them at first. They'd been by his side since childhood, and had stayed with him every since. He'd added on over the years, and now there was quite a number of them, all there with him to the death.

He laid the first one on the bed, examining the injury. There was a hole in his arm, one that would only get bigger if left to its own devices. He looked the soldier in the eye. "I'll need to fix this, but you're strong. You'll make it."

The soldier looked placidly back. Even as the needle entered into him, pulling the edges of the wound together, he didn't make a sound. Finally, the wound was stitched, and Moran moved on to the next.

This was a soldier he had seen many times over the years, his oldest companion. This friend had come under his needle many times before, but had carried on each time, never letting anything bring him down. He was looking older now, thinner than he used to be, more worn, but he was as steadfast a friend as ever.

Moran nodded to him, threading his needle again in preparation. This one also didn't speak, but his eyes were filled with understanding. Just as he was about to insert the needle, the telephone rang.

Only one person ever called that telephone, and only ever for one thing. Moran went to answer it immediately.

"Sir Gravesham. By three o'clock Wednesday," Moriarty's voice came over the phone line.

"Understood." Moran replied. He hung up the phone and went to retrieve his gun. On his way out, he stopped beside the bed, where the needle was still waiting to be used. "I'll come back for you later," he promised his little soldier, picking the teddy up from the bed and looking at him seriously. "This needs to be done first, but I will leave no man behind."

Chapter Text

"Mycroft?" Sherlock clambered up onto the bench beside his brother, tugging Mycroft's sleeve for balance. "Mycroft, what are you doing?"

Mycroft sighed softly, closing his eyes. Of course his little brother would insist on following him, even all the way to the park. Ah, well. While he was here, he might as well teach him something. "I'm observing, Sherlock."

"What's 'bserving?" One pudgy hand pushed back golden curls, the bright eyes underneath fixed on him.

"That's o-bserving, Sherlock, with an o," Mycrodt corrected. If he was going to do it, first he needed to know how to pronounce it. "Say it again."

"O-bserving," Sherlock repeated obediently. "What's observing, Mycroft?"

"Observing, in its simplest form, is looking at people," Mycroft began, all too aware of little grey eyes looking adoringly up at him. "However, it is also far more than that. To observe is not just to see, but to notice. If we take that man over there as an example," Sherlock's gaze followed his pointed finger to a man across the park from them, "what can you tell me?"

To any outside observer, it would have been a comical scene; the older boy, no more than twelve, sitting on the bench, his little brother beside him, both staring quite seriously out across the park. To the two boys, of course, this was a very serious matter, one that demanded all due attention.

"He's got a brown coat," Sherlock finally said, brow furrowed. "And he's walking really fast."

"Why might he be walking fast?" Mycroft prompted.

"Because he's late?" He looked up at his brother, and received a nod of approval. A beaming grin lit up his face. "You do one, Mycroft, you do one!"

"Alright. See the woman over there with the little girl? Well..."

As Mycroft explained his observations to his brother, who was soaking up every word, he had no idea that this moment, and this lesson, would be the foundation for what his little brother would one day become - the World's Greatest Detective.

Chapter Text

"I do say, Mr Holmes," said the little white rabbit, rising up on its hind legs. "This is not why I asked you to come here!"

The fox took no notice, slinking between the bushes, nose against the ground. It raised its head, stopped, then let out a little sneeze. "Watson!" it said, disgruntled. "You have a better nose than I. What was here?"

The black terrier came closer, lowering its head to the ground and sniffing. "Smells like otter. Only a very young one, though. Odd, otters never usually travel this far from the river."

The fox looked thoughtful. "Unless it was on the trail of something very particular."

"Mr Holmes!" The rabbit interjected again, hopping up and down with agitation. "I asked for your help with a murder investigation, not to sniff out a missing otter!"

The fox took no notice. "Watson, I believe our next step will be at the riverbank. I know a frog there who may have more information for us. And Lestrade, your murder is simple. Look for the water droplets on the wall."

The fox and terrier took off through the underbush, side by side as ever, leaving the indignantly hopping rabbit behind them.

Chapter Text

"Well, my dear," Mrs Hudson called, being pulled along by a very hurried Mary, "this is not how I thought I would be spending my evening!"

"Quickly, Mrs Hudson!" Mary pulled the older woman around a corner and kept running, flinching as gunshots rang out behind them. "We need to get those keys back," she said, voice whipped away by the wind.

Mrs Hudson didn't need to hear her to know how important it was to retrieve the keys. That was their entire reason for being out here tonight, and how they ended up in this precarious situation.

Their race was brought to an abrupt halt by the river, and the long drop down to it, spanning across their road and leaving no place else to run. Mrs Hudson turned to look behind them, watching the light of the man chasing them draw closer and closer. "Mary," she whispered, transfixed by the sight. "I think you should know, I'm very glad you came to see Mr Holmes all those years ago." She turned to Mary, feelings of love overtaking her fear. "You've been like a daugh- what are you doing?!"

Mary, expression determined, had stepped up to the edge. "This will not be the end. We've still got a chance." With a wild leap, she jumped from the edge, skirts billowing out around her. Mrs Hudson took a moment to pray for their safety, then jumped after her.

Both of them landed in the river with a splash, struggling to stay afloat with their heavy skirts weighing them down. Their pursuer came to a halt at the edge, peering down at them, then laughed. He walked away, not noticing the boat that came up beside them.

"Help!" Mrs Hudson called, spitting out river water. "We need help!" Mary joined the cry, and together they caught the attention of a passenger on deck.

"There's two women down there!" he cried. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to throw down a life buoy, and within a few minutes, both women were standing on deck, dripping water, shivering wildly, and surrounded by a crowd of wealthy party-goers.

"Mrs Hudson? Mrs Watson?" An unexpected voice came from the crowd, and a man stepped out of the crowd and toward them.

"Mr Holmes, do you know these two ladies?" Another man asked, also stepping forward from the crowd. From his dress, he appeared to be the host of the party.

"This is my brother's landlady, and his companion's wife," Mycroft said smoothly, taking in their condition at a glance. "They appear to have been chased by a gunman this evening, likely the same man that has been robbing houses around West London, and only escaped him by jumping into the river. Very forward thinking of you, ladies."

Mary, overcoming her surprise, murmured her thanks.

"Of course, after such a stressful evening, I should escort them home," Mycroft continued. "If you'll excuse me, your Grace?" He addressed this to the host, who waved his hand obligingly, still looking rather confused.

Mrs Hudson and Mary were similarly confused, but followed Mycroft off the boat once it had docked, and into a nearby carriage.Their wet dresses were quite uncomfortable by this time, and they were keen to return home and change into something else - once the essential keys had been retrieved.

"I thought you didn't like parties, Mr Holmes?" Mary ventured, in an attempt to break the awkwardness of the silent carriage.

"There are some invitation that, for the sake of diplomacy, are impossible to refuse, however unpleasant." Mycroft gave a delicate shudder, one almost unsuited to his great girth. "Now, ladies. What was the item that you were trying to retrieve when the thief began chasing you?"

The two women looked at each other, shocked. "A set of keys," Mrs Hudson finally replied.

"Of course. Then I shall send someone to retrieve it for you."

They just nodded. The rest of the drive to Baker Street was silent, as they worried about the keys, and tried to ignore how their dresses were clinging uncomfortably.

Next morning, the keys were sitting on the kitchen counter.

Chapter Text

"It's f-f-f-freezing!" Wayne's teeth chattered loudly as he huddled into his tattered coat. "I ain't ever seen a winter this cold before!"

"Me neither, and I'm older than you!" Big Sam said, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

"We're almost there," Wiggins said, bravely striving forward against the freezing winds. "Then we can go home, out of the wind."

The Irregulars nodded gloomily. For some of them, they didn't have much of a home to go back to - this trip would be the warmest they were going to get.

They reached Baker Street, and Wiggins knocked on the door. Mrs Hudson opened it and ushered them inside. "Goodness, you must be freezing out there! Come on in, children. Go sit by the fire upstairs, it's warmer in there."

The Irregulars went upstairs. Opening the upstairs room, each one of them let out a sigh of relief as they crossed the threshold into the warm and cosy room.

"There's plenty of room by the fire," Watson advised them, smiling brightly enough to warm the room himself. "You can sit there and rest for a minute."

They sat down, apart from Wiggins, who went over to Holmes to report their findings. Even he, though, was affected by the cosy room, as his eyes blinked more and more frequently, trying to stay open.

"Sit down, Wiggins," Holmes finally told him. "I may need you in the morning, so you and your band should spend the night here."

Wiggins nodded, and sat by the fire, completely missing the fond look Watson gave Holmes behind his back. Amongst the huddled pile of warm bodies, with the fire crackling merrily in the background, Wiggins finally gave in, and fell asleep.

Chapter Text

"It's been a long time, my dear friend, hasn't it?" Holmes remarked, looking fondly at Watson, in a way he would have thought unthinkable when they first met. Now, though, as an older and wiser man, he did not bother to hide how much their friendship meant to him, especially on an occasion such as this.

Watson returned the look, feeling his own wave of affection for his oldest and dearest friend. "It certainly has. I just wish it had been a happier event that brought us back together again."

Their gazes travelled over to the church, where a large crowd were already gathering for the funeral. Some were crying, while some just stood there stoically; others just seemed happy to catch up with their old friends who were also attending.

"He lived a good life," Watson continued, eyes still on the gathering. "His death will be a loss to the whole of London. So many people have reason to be grateful for his efforts. I must confess, however," he continued, turning to Holmes with a wistful smile, "that what I will always be most grateful for, is that he introduced me to you."

Holmes and Watson joined arms, and walked into Stamford's funeral together. For this man, who had introduced them many decades earlier, they would always count themselves blessed.

Chapter Text

"Mycroft?" Sherlock tugged on his older brother's sleeve, short legs stumbling in their attempt to keep up. "Mycroft!"

Mycroft stopped with a long suffering sigh. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Wide grey eyes looked up at him earnestly. "Will you play with me?"

"No." Mycroft shook off his younger brother and kept walking. Sherlock ran after him, quickly losing ground against Mycroft's much longer stride. "Mycroft! Please? Mummy's busy, and nanny's in the kitchen talking to cook, and I need someone else to play with!"

Mycroft slowed, but didn't stop. "Why can't you just play by yourself?"

"It's no fun playing by myself. I want to play with you!" Sherlock finally got in front of his brother, standing directly in Mycroft's path with his arms crossed, stopping Mycroft from going any further.

Mycroft stopped in front of him and crossed his arms, a near perfect reflection of the younger, even down to their stubborn scowls. "I'm too old to play with you, Sherlock. I'm twelve now. That's practically grown up."

"Mummy plays with me, and she's grown up," Sherlock countered.

Their gazes locked. Stalemate. Mycroft looked away first. "I'm not going to play with you, Sherlock. You'll have to find someone else."

"But there is no one else!" He came closer, tugging again on Mycroft's jacket. "Please?"

"Alright, fine!" Anything for his baby brother

Chapter Text

"A neat little mystery," he said, sitting back in his chair and lighting his pipe. "Quite clever in some aspects, though not so clever as to be unique. The springbox, for example. I have heard of very few of them, but I have still heard of them."

"How can you be so casual, Holmes?" Watson burst out, pacing up and down in front of the mantelpiece. "You could have died! What if you had not noticed the spring, and it had pricked you? You could have been lying here these past three days, dying, with no help to be had!" He collapsed onto the sofa, the day's emotions crashing over him.

Holmes looked over at him with concern. "My dear Watson, I apologise. I had not considered the affect my possible death would have on you, beyond the necessities of the case."

Watson wiped a hand over his forehead. "I know, Holmes. But this has been a trying day for me... do you think Mrs Hudson would mind if I spent the night in my old rooms?"

Holmes offered him a fond smile. "I do not believe she would mind at all."

Chapter Text

"What has you so dour this evening, Watson?"

Watson continued to stare dolefully out the window, looking out on to the dark and rainy street below.

"Watson?" Holmes moved closer, careful not to startle his friend. In the early days of their acquaintanceship, there had been more than one occasion a hand on the shoulder had led to a violent takedown, and Holmes had had the bruises to show for it.

This time, fortunately, no further effort was needed. Watson turned from the window, looking up at him with forced cheerfulness. "I'm terribly sorry, Holmes, I must have been distracted. Did you need me for something?"

"I was simply inquiring about your unusually subdued mood, Watson."

Watson's cheer faltered. "It's nothing really to worry about, just... Mary was supposed to stop by this evening. Of course, in this rain, that would be impractical, but..." He trailed off, gaze drifting back to the window.

"Ah." Holmes retreated in the face of unknown sentiments, but could not resist offering some form of consolation to his disappointed friend. "Perhaps some music would be a good distraction here?"

Watson glanced again at his friend, his smile smaller but more genuine than before. "If you wouldn't mind, Holmes, I would enjoy that very much."

Chapter Text

The wind howled outside 221 Baker Street, rattling the windowpanes and sending scraps of litter blowing down the street.

Watson shivered, moving closer to the fireplace. "That is quite a night out there, Holmes. A night for ghosts and ghouls, I dare say."

"It's just wind, Watson," Holmes replied. In previous years, such a response would have been barbed, edged with disdain for such romantic notions. Now, after such long acquaintance, it had softened, more fond reproach than anything approaching harshness.

"I have not heard a wind like that for quite some time." Watson huddled closer to the fire, gaze drifting as he recalled a crisp Afghanistan wind, heavy with the scent of blood. However long he lived, some things were unforgettable.

Holmes, sensing the turn he had taken, retrieved his violin from its case. "Tonight, my dear Watson, I have a better sound for you." He took a few moments to tune the violin, then began to play, a happy jaunting tune quite at odds with the wind outside.

Watson sat back, a smile slowly growing as he watched Holmes and his violin. By the time the song had finished and Holmes had started the next one, the roaring wind outside was forgotten in favour of lighter pleasures. For the two in Baker Street, tonight would have no more blood.

Chapter Text

“Really, Holmes,” Watson said, watching his friend pace restlessly across the floor. “It could be worse.”

Holmes whirled, turning on his companion. “Worse? We are snowed in to this cabin, unable to escape and stop our thief, who even now could be returning to London with his gains! Pray tell, Watson, how could this be worse?”

“To start with, we could have been left without any supplies.” He swept a hand towards the cupboards, indicating the generous store of canned goods and brightly blazing fire. “And if we are snowed in, our thief likely is as well. Didn’t you say that he must have a cabin in these woods for him to store all that he steals?”

“Turning my words against me, Watson,” Holmes muttered, but he came to sit on the other chair, staring bitterly into the flickering flames.

Watson handed him his pipe, and they smoked for a few moments in peaceful quiet.

“I suppose it really could have been worse,” Holmes finally spoke, mood mellowed by a good pipe and quiet company.

Watson nodded. “In the morning the snow should have stopped, and we can start digging ourselves out.”

He turned to empty his pipe, and Holmes caught his wrist. With quiet sincerity, he said, “There is far worse company to have for a night such as this.”

Chapter Text

“Will ‘e be alright, Doctor Watson?”

Watson closed his bedroom door softly behind him, sighing as he looked down into the small fearful faces clustered around him. “I will watch him tonight,” he said, voice weary. “If he can hold on ‘til morning, he should recover. Now, all of you, off to bed.”

After a momentary hesitation, the boys drifted away towards the study, talking quietly amongst themselves, and some sneaking fearful glances back at the bedroom door.

Watson leaned against the door, sighing agin, more deeply than before. It was hard to believe that something as simple as a snowball fight had led to this. Really, it should have been harmless, but one slipped foot, a young face frozen in terror as Jamie careened backward, followed by a terrifying crack as the ice broke beneath him... Watson shook the thoughts away, unwilling to recall again that petrifying moment when Holmes had pulled the boy out the ice, lips turning blue from cold and lack of air.

Reentering the room, he pulled his chair over to the bed, settling in for a long stay. Until morning... if Jamie could only survive until morning.

Chapter Text

The Irregulars grouped together

On a cold and windy day,

To solve the mystery of the feather,

Which had fallen in their way.

It was long and it was bright,

A beautiful shade of red.

But when they held it to the light,

It looked almost brown instead.

"Where could this come from?" they all cried.

"We have never seen its like."

"Why don't you find out?" Mrs Hudson replied.

"You never know what you might strike."

So they set out, an intrepid group,

Wandering to and fro,

Only to find a chicken coop,

Before they had far to go.

The chickens clucked all around the space,

As Mrs Hudson stood by.

The chicken coop was her own place,

That she watched with an eagle eye.

"Excellent work," she told the boys.

"And now if you don't mind,

That feather is my nephew's toy.

But I have a reward of greater kind."

She took the boys in to her table.

Where a chicken feast lay prepared.

The boys ate as much at they were able.

Not a single dish was spared.

Mr Holmes had solved greater mysteries,

the boys agreed as one.

But in all his varied histories,

their reward was second to none!

Chapter Text

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hudson," Dr Watson said, a flush beginning to rise in his cheeks as she helped him back towards his chair. "I would have loved to dance with you, however-"

"Don't worry, doctor." She patted him on the arm. "I am very grateful for your offer, but you just sit and rest that leg of yours. It won't do me any harm to sit out a dance."

"Perhaps Holmes would dance with you?" Watson suggested, lines of pain easing as he settled into the chair, no longer putting pressure on his leg.

"I believe my brother has already returned home," a deep voice interrupted them. "Social gatherings have never been his forte." Mycroft nodded at the two of them. "Good evening doctor, Mrs Hudson. Doctor, I hope you will not mind my stealing your company. I would be honoured to dance with Mrs Hudson in your place, in gratitude for the two of you managing to persuade my brother to attend this event even for the short time he remained."

Mrs Hudson blinked. "No gratitude is required, Mr Holmes. I shouldn't like to trouble you."

"It is a trouble I am more than willing to take." He held out a hand.

Mrs Hudson, with one confused glance back at Watson, took it.

Chapter Text

“Mr Holmes, I have an update to the case you may– what in heaven’s name is that?!”

Holmes looked up, entirely unperturbed by Lestrade’s dramatic cry. “This is a garden snake. Don’t worry, it’s quite harmless. Garden snakes are not poisonous.”

Lestrade did not move away from the doorway, staring at the snake with wide eyes. “But what is it doing in your living room?”

“I believe this snake may be the clue to our murder weapon."

Lestrade’s face grew impossibly paler. His fingers began to shake. “You said th-that thing wasn’t poisonous!”

“Of course it isn’t,” Holmes agreed. “Do try to keep up, Inspector. I did not say the snake was our murder weapon, simply it was the clue. Now come with me, I must return to the scene.”

For every step closer Holmes took, still carrying the snake, Lestrade stepped back, until he reached the bannister and could go no further. Desperately, he tried to protest. “Wouldn’t you prefer to have Watson?”

“Watson is at out on a call with a patient, and will not be back for several hours,” Holmes informed him. “You, inspector, are right here. Now do come along.”

Lestrade instinctively closed his eyes as Holmes swept past, unwilling to see even a hint of the snake. Then, after a firm reminder to himself that he was a police officer, and there were greater things at stake here than his own silly fears, he continued out after Holmes – remaining, however, several long steps behind.

Chapter Text

Drip.

He stood in the dark, all alone.

Drip.

He had come here with four. Now there was just him.

Drip.

One had run from the danger.

Drip.

Two had died protecting him.

Drip.

One had been the betrayer all along.

Drip.

No one knew where he was.

Drip.

This would be the end.

Dri-

“Holmes, I can hear something!”

“Mycroft, if you can hear me, shout!”

Maybe the end could wait another day.

Chapter Text

"John, you know I don't mean to dampen your enthusiasm, but doesn't this seem... a little trivial?"

Instantly, Mary wished she hadn't said anything. John visibly deflated, the light leaving his eyes to be replaced with the all too familiar look of deep unhappiness that had been lurking there since he'd returned from Reichenbach. "You're right, Mary. I'll go put them away." He moved to gather up the little mittens that he had brought in that evening, when he had been eagerly exclaiming about the tiny differences in embroidering between them.

"Darling, no." Mary reached out a hand to grab his arm. "I love that you're so excited about this, really, I do. It's nice to see you looking so lively again. Just, does it really matter so much whether the flowers are yellow or white? The baby's not even born yet."
Both their gazes were drawn to Mary's stomach, which was only just starting to swell. John's smile returned, a soft, fragile thing. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I, Mary? She won't care what colours the flowers are." He ran a soft hand over her stomach.

Mary covered it with her own hand. "No, he won't care at all."

John embraced her, the two of them standing silently for a moment.

"John," Mary whispered into his shoulder. "If it is a boy..."

He hummed softly in acknowledgement.

"I think we should name him Sherlock."

Chapter Text

"Gregson?"

"Hmm?" The other detective looked up from his snack to see Lestrade watching him suspiciously.

"What have you got there?"

Gregson sat up and tried to look innocent. "Just a small gift. It was brought into the station for me, you know."

"For you?" Quick as a flash, Lestrade snatched the sweets box off the desk, reading the label aloud. "For the Scotland Yard Detectives, for bringing my mother's necklace back to me. Te-" He mumbled through the next part, before finishing, "Mrs Badem!" He waved the note around triumphantly. "This is for all the detectives, Gregson!"

Gregson licked the powdered sugar off his fingers. "Then I guess you can have the rest."

Lestrade rifled through the box, only to come up empty. "You ate them all already! And-" he sniffed the box, "they were those jellied ones, my favourites!"

"It seems only fair, the best detective got the reward," Gregson replied. "You were barely more than a nuisance on that case."
Lestrade bristled. "And who solved that mystery about the dead body in a kitchen just last week? Where were you then?"

"I was busy finding who had kidnapped young Tom Smith! And I found him alive, too!"

As they continued to bicker, the empty sweet box fell to the floor, forgotten.

Chapter Text

"Murdered?"

This was always the most difficult part, telling the family. I nodded. "Yes, murdered. We believe the weapon used was a candelabra."

"Murdered? With a candelabra?" The young heiress sounded distantly shocked. Well, I supposed, the murder of your dear brother was a rather shocking subject. It was no surprise she was having trouble processing the information.

"Yes, murdered with a candelabra." I confirmed. Maybe hearing it again would help her to understand what had happened.
"But it's Christmas!" Tears started to form in her eyes.

"Yes, miss." I wanted to comment on how murder doesn't stop for the holidays, but I feared making her cry harder.

"Richard doesn't even like candelabras!" She started to sob.

I sighed, handing her my handkerchief. Next time Mr Holmes says, "Lestrade, you can take all the credit for this, leave my name out of it," I will remember this moment, and tell him, "No thank you, Mr Holmes. Give it to Gregson instead!"

Chapter Text

Dirt thudded down on the coffin lid, covering up the pink carnations that had been carefully placed on top. Only glimpses of pink remained, the rest choked out by the unforgiving soil.

A couple approached Watson, distracting him from his brooding thoughts. "Sorry for your loss," Lestrade said, his wife's hand clasped firmly in his. "Your missus was quite a woman."
"Mary has been one of my very best friends," Eliza agreed, damp handkerchief clutched in one hand a testament to her grief. "I remember so many evenings spent together, sewing and chatting. She was the first one I told about Thomas, you know. Even before this one!" She leant her body into her husband, a small smile coming to her face. "It's just so hard to believe she's..." A sob escaped her, and she brought her handkerchief up to cover her face.

Lestrade pulled his wife closer, letting her sob into his shoulder. "We'll miss her," he quietly told Watson, before leading his wife away.

Watson returned his gaze to the coffin, vision blurring. It seemed too impossible for Mary to be gone. Just two weeks ago he'd been watching her as she sorted through her jewellery, the two of them laughing together at some small trinket Holmes had bought her as a misguided apology for her getting involved in a dangerous case, and for once, the memories hadn't hurt. Now, she was lying in a box, and he would never laugh with her again.
A hand came up and clapped him on the back. "Hey, doc."

Watson wiped his tears, and turned around. "Murray! I didn't think you'd make it."

"Course I came, doc." He let his hand fall. "Just wish I'd come in time to meet her."

The two of them stood a moment in somber silence.

"She'd been fighting for a long time, mate," Bill finally said. "Maybe it was just the right time."

Watson swiped at his eyes. "Maybe it was," he agreed. In his heart of hearts, however, he could not imagine any time when Mary's death would be right.

Chapter Text

"There we are, dear, a nice warming cup of hot chocolate for you."

Mary gratefully accepted, the warmth of the cup banishing some of the numbness from her fingers. "Th-thank you, Mrs Hu-Hudson. I'm so-sorry to be such a b-bother."

"Nonsense!" Mrs Hudson bustled about, taking blankets from the cupboard and settling them around Mary's shoulders, until Mary was swathed in a cocoon of warmth. "Though really, I'd thought better of the doctor, leaving you out in the cold like that. I will be having words with him, I assure you!"

"Oh, no, John did nothing wrong!" Mary protested. "I came to surprise him, he didn't know I'd be coming. John would never leave me out in the cold."

Mrs Hudson gave Mary a warm smile. "That's good. It didn't seem very like him, but I've been long enough in the world to know that even the nicest seeming men can do some very terrible things."

Mary held her gaze firmly. "Never John."

"Alright then, dear," Mrs Hudson said, her smile taking on a peculiar twist. "Never John."

Chapter Text

"That's all it says: exactly what it says on the tin."

Watson frowned in confusion. "Exactly what it says on the tin? And that is all that the tin says?"

"Exactly," Gregson confirmed. "You see my problem, Mr Holmes?"

"Quite an interesting dilemma you have there, Inspector," Holmes mused. "May I?" Upon Gregson's nod, he took the tin, turning it around in his hands, examining it from all angles. "It is a former sweet tin, that seems to have been repurposed for this new cause. Much loved by its owner, and several years old. Beyond that, I cannot tell."

"You can't know if the owner loved it!" Gregson protested, snatching the tin back and examining it for himself. "What, did they scratch a message on it with little hearts?"

Holmes drew himself up to his full height, scowling at Gregson. "If you will not accept the truth of even the simplest deductions, you are perfectly able to leave, and solve this mystery for yourself."

Gregson looked alarmed. "Of course not, Mr Holmes. Just curious, that's all. Seems like more than you can tell from a glance."

Holmes relaxed his posture again. "The scuff marks around the edges of the tin show that it has been much used, and opened time and time again. Why would someone not simply buy a new tin, rather than carry around the old one, unless it was much loved? As for it being a sweet tin, and several years old, I have penned a short monologue on the different types of sweet tins throughout the last decade. This one was last produced four years ago."

"And what of it being repurposed?" Watson asked.

"If there were sweets inside, the weight would be spread more evenly, and it would rattle as it was moved. Instead, the weight is concentrated in one space. Whatever is in that tin, it is no longer sweets."

"So, what, exactly," Gregson asked, "is in that tin?"

Chapter Text

"Mr Holmes!" Our landlady's irritated voice came drifting up the staircase, inciting the attention of both Holmes and myself.

"What have you done now, Holmes?" I asked, a smile coming to my lips. Only the day before Holmes had been berated for accidentally singeing Mrs Hudson's Christmas stockings, and again last week for not stopping the Irregulars from eating the popcorn garlands. As amusing as it was to me, Mrs Hudson had been quite upset.
An irate Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. "This is the last straw, Mr Holmes, really it is!"

"I have been in this very room all day, Mrs Hudson, as Watson can attest," Holmes declared. "Whatever has happened to your Christmas presents, I was not involved."

Mrs Hudson looked to me, and I confirmed, "Yes, Mrs Hudson, Holmes has not left the sitting room all day. What has happened?"

Her ire now dispersed, Mrs Hudson collapsed onto the nearby chaise. "I have been wrapping presents all day, and I had just finished wrapping the final one, when I turned around and saw one was missing!"

"Which present was missing?" I inquired. "Perhaps that would provide a clue as to where it went?"

"Yours, doctor! And that was why-" she blushed, eyes cast down. "Not to be rude, Mr Holmes, but I had thought that you may have taken it, for ideas on what you might get the doctor for Christmas."
"Of course, Holmes did nothing of the kind," I forestalled his indignant protest. "Perhaps someone else may have taken it?"

"I would propose a much simpler solution," Holmes said, looking marginally less offended now that I had defended his good character and gift-giving ability. "You had care of Miss Reilly's cat today, did you not?"

"Yes, I did!" Mrs Hudson looked shocked. "How did you know?"

Holmes did not answer, though I could see from the black cat hairs on Mrs Hudson's skirt where he drew his deduction from. "Is it possible that the cat found the presents, and chose to play with them? In my experience, cats are often attracted to shiny things like wrapping paper."

"I suppose it might have," Mrs Hudson said. "But where is the present now?"

"I have a theory." Refusing to elaborate any further, Holmes led the way downstairs, and, to my and Mrs Hudson's mutual bemusement, towards the chimney. He poked around with the fire poker, sending ashes scurrying across the room, until a small black box wrapped gaily with a ribbon dropped to the ground. "Would that be the present?"

Mrs Hudson picked the box off, wiping off some of the ash with her sleeve to reveal bright red wrapping paper underneath. "Yes, this is it! Thank you, Mr Holmes." She wrapped one arm around him in a, from his alarmed expression, entirely unexpected hug. "I should have known you would never take one of my presents."
Mrs Hudson returned to her presents, and Holmes and I returned upstairs, Holmes still looking a bit bemused. "Next time, I believe," he said, "I will let the present stay missing!"

Chapter Text

“But what about the bag?” I asked. The million dollar bag had been my first introduction to this mystery, and Holmes had not mentioned it at all. It seemed unlikely he had forgotten it, both as he was not a man prone to forgetting, and a stolen bag, valued at one million dollars and which the police force had been hunting for the last two days, was a very difficult thing to forget.

“The bag is meaningless,” Holmes said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Meaningless?” Lestrade blustered. “That bag has been at the very centre of this mystery, and still has not been found! I don’t know what a million dollars means to you, but to me and Scotland Yard, it is very far from meaningless!”

“It is meaningless because it never existed.”

Lestrade gaped.

“The million dollar bag was only ever a ruse,” Holmes elaborated. “A red herring, meant to distract us while the young man searched for his bride.”

Wilson loosened his grip on his young lady long enough to look at us, tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t lose Elsie, I just couldn’t!” he choked. “I knew if I said there was a million dollar bag missing, the police would be too busy searching for it to question where Elsie went.”

“My father has been looking for me,” Elsie continued, wiping at her eyes. “He has been trying to take me back to America, away from my Richard. I said I wouldn’t leave my husband behind, but he seemed so determined to take me, I was afraid of Richard getting hurt, so I ... I ran.”

Lestrade gave the young lady a sharp nod, collecting his wits in the face of a tearful woman. “You’ll be safe now, miss. You and your husband can return to your store, and if there’s any more trouble with your father, the police can handle it. As for you,” he turned to Wilson, “you’ll need to make an announcement about that bag. It has caused rather a lot of fuss.”

Wilson nodded, blinking rapidly. “Of course, of course I will, whatever you say.” He turned to his wife joyfully. “We’re free, Elsie! It’ll be just the two of us from now on, no father, no running, just us!” He picked her up and twirled her around as they both laughed in joy and relief. “We’re free!”

Chapter Text

"Look," Jamie said, tugging on Wiggins' sleeve. "Look at her, over there."

Wiggins turned to look. His mouth dropped open. "She's gorgeous," he breathed.

The boys wandered closer to the store window, breath fogging up the glass. "She looks like she's asleep," Wiggins said. "D'you think she might be?"

Jamie nodded, curls bobbing up and down. "She's a sleeping beauty, just like the story in the book." His nose scrunched. "I don't want to kiss her, though."

"What abut if she kissed you?" Wiggins teased. "Lots of kisses, all over your face, with her tongue all over you! Like here, and here, and here-!" For each 'here', he poked Jamie's face, causing the younger boy to push his hands away, protesting loudly.

In a few minutes, Wiggins stopped, too busy laughing to continue. Jamie wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to keep frowning. "Look, you woke her up!"

He crouched down in front of the window. The puppy barked happily at him, pushing her nose up against the window. "Hello, sleeping beauty," he told her. "Sorry we woke you. But at least it was better than a kiss!"

Chapter Text

“Mrs Hudson, what have you been doing?” Watson exclaimed.

“I’m afraid it was very confidential, doctor,” Mrs Hudson told him, turning away to carefully place her bejewelled necklace on the mantle. The firelight made the gems inlaid into it sparkle brightly, almost as though they were real diamonds. “All I can tell you is that I was doing a bit of undercover work for Mr Holmes.”

“For Holmes?” Watson’s brow furrowed. “I must admit, he had me quite convinced he was Christmas shopping today. I never would have suspected he was on a case.”

“Oh, he’s not, dear,” Mrs Hudson said airily. She shrugged out of her wrap, and Watson helped her without even thinking, marvelling at the softness of it. Surely it wasn’t real silk? “It wasn’t our Mr Holmes. It was Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft?” Watson carefully folded the wrap, placing it on the mantle beside the necklace. “I mean no offence, Mrs Hudson, but why...?”

Watson trailed off onto silence, unable to think of a suitably delicate wording.

“Why me?” Mrs Hudson finished for him with a laugh. “I can’t be sure, it was all very secretive, but I think it may have been a training for some of his new staff.”

“Nothing too dangerous, then?”

“No, doctor.” She laid a consoling hand on his arm. “I’ll leave the danger to you and Mr Holmes.” She patted his arm, then took her hand away. “Now go on upstairs, and I’ll be there in a few minutes to bring you a nice cup of tea. It’s a bit late for it, but I think we can make an exception.”

Watson looked at Mrs Hudson, puttering around the kitchen with her apron tied around her waist, a far cry from the regal and imposing woman dressed in fineries he had seen when he came in. “I’m glad you enjoyed your undercover work, Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson’s voice made him pause as he was climbing the stairs up to apartment B. “Thank you, doctor. I really did.”

Chapter Text

"But what can I get for Mrs Hudson, Holmes?" Watson paced across the floor, stroking his moustache in agitation. "We have caused her such a lot of trouble this year, and she has been very understanding through all of it. It must be something special, but what?"

"Watson, do you really think I, of all people, will be able to suggest the perfect gift?" Holmes asked, raising one wry eyebrow.

Watson stopped and turned towards Holmes, slightly embarrassed. " I was hoping you could deduce something."

"I can tell you that she burnt the little finger of her left hand baking shortbread this morning, that she expects her niece to come visiting next Tuesday, that the milkman was late this morning and she is upset about it, and that she has finished her own Christmas shopping, but I am afraid none of that will help you find the perfect present."

"How did you..." Watson marvelled, before shaking his head and returning to his pacing. "You are right, Holmes, none of that will help."

"Mr 'Olmes! Mr 'Olmes!" A young Irregular came racing up the stairs, feet thundering, and sent the door flying open. "Mr 'Olmes! 'E's moving!"

Holmes jumped to his feet, moving towards the door in quick paces. "Towards the river?"

The Irregular nodded, breathing fast from his run. "'E's got a big bag with him!"

"Thank you, Thomas, excellent work." Holmes was already halfway out the door. "Wait here, catch your breath, and the doctor may have something for you."

As the door blew shut behind him, the little Irregular turned to Watson. "Do you, doc?"

Watson smiled at him. "I think I have a jar of sweets here somewhere. Would you like one?"

Thomas nodded, and within minutes was seated on the lounge, sucking away at a boiled sweet, telling Watson all about his day.

"-and then I followed him all the way up the street, so I could see where he was going. I didn't even stop to look at the chocolate shop! I smelled it, though," he confided. "I could of stopped, it smelled so good. But I'd got a job to do, so I didn't. Didn't even look in the window! I just followed-"

"Chocolate!" Watson cried. "That would be perfect!" He turned back to Thomas. "I'm so sorry, Thomas, I've just had an idea for a Christmas present. I promise, I will listen to the rest of your story, just give me a moment to write this down."

He quickly located a piece of paper from his desk, and scribbled a short note, before sitting back down beside Thomas. "Now, what happened after you passed the chocolate shop?"

Chapter Text

"It's been rather a long time since we've done this, hasn't it?" Watson remarked, sipping from his glass.

Holmes nodded slowly. "I suppose it has. That was to be expected, though, with your marriage, and moving out of Baker Street."

There was a moment's silence.

"The food is still as good," Watson ventured, breaking the quiet that had fallen between them. It felt somewhat awkward, sitting here with just the two of them. For a moment, Watson wondered if his marriage had changed everything, if they would never be able to go back to their previous comfortable friendship.

"Yes." Holmes seemed just as awkward, and Watson was not sure if that made him feel better or worse.

He decided he had had enough. He loved Mary with all his heart, and would never regret marrying her, but he would not lose Holmes' friendship because of it either. "Holmes."

Holmes turned his eyes from the window. "Yes, Watson?"

Watson hesitated for a moment, considering if Holmes, as the very private person he was, would appreciate his words. Then he forged ahead regardless. "Holmes, you are my very closest friend. I love Mary very much, but just because I have Mary now does not mean I do not still value our friendship. I just," he stumbled over the words. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that."

Holmes gave him a soft smile. "Thank you, Watson."

The waiter came, and they thanked him as he took their plates away.

Watson settled back in his chair, glass in hand. "So, Holmes, tell me about your latest case..."

Chapter Text

It sometimes happened, during the course of my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, that a case would take longer than expected. A witness would be unwilling to cooperate, evidence would be disturbed or unreliable, or there would be a sudden complication that eluded even Holmes' formidable mind. Of course, on most occasions, the most trouble this caused was a restlessness in Holmes' mind at the delay, and frustration on the part of the Scotland Yard detectives who bore the brunt of it. Rarely did it have any greater effect.

One on occasion, however, the effect was quite more dire. Holmes and I had been in France on a case in late December. The case had taken longer than expected, only finishing on Christmas Eve. Of course, at such a time, there were no rooms to be had anywhere in the city, and no way of returning to London until after Christmas. In these circumstances, with Christmas only a day away, and having fully intended to be back in Baker Street days earlier, Holmes and I sought other accomodations.

"Watson!" I turned to Holmes, trying to see him through the busy crowd. I eventually spotted him, his height standing out amongst the mill of people.

"Watson!" Holmes made it through the crowd to my side. To my surprise, on his arm was a woman, small and slight of build, and very fashionably dressed, a hat with a feather covering her white curls. The lines of her face spoke to her many years, and she held Holmes' arm with a gentle but stately air.

Holmes stopped before me, gesturing to the woman with his free arm. "Watson, this is my grandmother."

His grandmother? Whatever I had expected, it was certainly not that. I took the woman's hand and kissed it. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

As surprising as that was, that was nothing compared to what he said next. "She has agreed to let us stay with her until we can return to London."

This was going to be a very interesting Christmas.

Chapter Text

"This is not right." Holmes paced back and forwards across the doorstep, note clutched in his hand. "It is entirely unlike Watson to leave so suddenly. Something is off with this."

His audience of one leant against the door, watching him. "Really, Sherlock, it isn't that strange."

He stopped, turning towards her. "Some of our cases have been quite dangerous, you know. Even if Watson has felt it best not to inform you, you should know that I have enemies, some of whom may use Watson against me. Perhaps even kidnapping him."

"John tells me everything," Mary informed him. "The only cases he does not tell me about are the ones he cannot."

"Then you know he could be in danger this very minute? The way these letters slant suggests that it was written in a hurry, perhaps by men desperate to move their hostage to somewhere more secure." He shook the note for emphasis, then returned to studying it, looking for further clues of what had happened to his Boswell. "I know Watson's writing as well as my own, he would not write so sloppily without the most serious provocation."

"Like his best friend coming to the door just as he is leaving to buy him a Christmas present?" Mary asked, a mischievous smile rising to her lips.

Holmes looked up from the note, uncharacteristically stunned. "Oh."

"This is the first year since you've met he has a chance to actually surprise you, and he's been looking forward to it for months." She held the door open behind her. "Now, would you like to come in for some tea?"

He looked stunned all over again. "Oh- Yes, Mrs Wat- Yes, Mary. I would."

Chapter Text

"Why are we on this planet again?" Ensign Giles muttered to her companion.

Ensign Hughes elbowed her side. "We're picking up the spy, remember? Starfleet's undercover operative, keeping an eye on the Klingons? Now we're at peace, we're bringing him home."

"Then why's our CMO coming?" Both officers looked over at Chief Medical Officer Watson, striding along at the front of the group. Hughes turned to Giles and shrugged.

They came to the designated meeting point, where a man was already waiting, cloak shading his features. The rest of the group came to a stop, but Watson kept moving forwards, a smile growing on his face. "Holmes!"

The man threw back his hood, revealing aquiline features transformed by a large smile. "Watson!"

The two embraced.

Giles turned to Hughes. "Seriously? How does the mildest CMO on the planet possibly know an undercover spy?" Her voice grew, hands gesturing wildly, until she noticed the way Hughes was staring at her. "What?" She looked around. Silence had fallen in the clearing, as everyone had turned to stare at her. She blushed. "Uh, no offence?"

Hughes facepalmed.

Chapter Text

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Tell me; over there, is that what it looks like?"

"If it looks to be a snowman walking towards us, than yes."

"But - surely it must be an illusion! Snowmen cannot walk! Could it not be the Irregulars, acting out some kind of joke?"

"The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise, Watson. We can see quite clearly all around the snowman, and there is no one close enough to be moving it."

"What about someone inside the snowman?"

"If someone was inside the snowman it would be moving differently. There would also be footprints left in the snow, or drag marks. Instead, the snow is pristine. No, in this case it appears that the obvious solution is the correct one, no matter how impossible it may seem. The snowman is moving."

"And moving towards us."

"Really?...yes, so it is."

"It's almost at the door now."

"It won't be able to get in."

"Are you sure? It does have hands."

"But they are made of snow!"

"If we are accepting that a snowman has come to life and is walking down Baker Street, is it really so much more to suggest that it can open a door?"

"I suppose not... Has it come inside?"

"I can't see it out there."

"The door looks to have been left open."

A knock came from the door to 221B. Watson and Holmes exchanged a long glance.

Chapter Text

It was the night of Christmas Eve, and all of London was sleeping softly in their beds, awaiting a morning of presents and joy. Even the children of the street, presents exchanged, had curled up somewhere safe for the night, waiting for morning to come, and bring whatever new fortune it may.

There was just one window still alight. One second story window, on Baker Street, most commonly known as the home of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Those who had met him would remember his companion, Doctor Watson - his companion, it so happened, who was the very one who had lit the lamp that night.

"Watson?"

Watson startled, turning from the window, at Holmes' sleepy voice coming from behind him. He mustered up a smile. "I'm very sorry, Holmes. I didn't mean to wake you. You should go back to bed, I'm sure you need the sleep."

"As do you, my dear doctor." Holmes padded over to his favourite chair, curling up on it like a lazy cat and staring at Watson. "Was it a dream?"

"No, not a dream..." Watson's gaze turned back to the window, looking out on the quiet city. Not a soul was stirring this Christmas Eve, and a low fog lay over the city, giving it a misty, dreamlike air. "Just a memory... more of a thought, really, of another Christmas Eve..." Watson's voice trailed off again, the dim streetlights flickering across his face.

Holmes slowly stood up, unwilling to disturb the pensive air that had fallen over his companion. Quietly, he retrieved his violin from its case, and began to play.

The gentle strains of a violin drifted through the quiet London streets. At the window, a doctor dreamed.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Mr Holmes!” Mrs Hudson bustled in, a tea tray in her hands.

Holmes, like he had been every day since the wedding, was curled up in his favourite chair, eyes closed. Despite his usual tidy habits, his hair was dirty and uncombed, and his attire sloppier than she had ever seen it outside of a case.

She placed the tray loudly down in front of him. “You have to eat something, Mr Holmes. It’s been days, and I’ll not be having the doctor come back to find you half-starved.”

“But the doctor’s not coming back, is he?” Holmes turned away from her. “He and Mrs Watson have already chosen their new house, and moved all their things. He won’t be coming back here.”

“Of course he will!” Mrs Hudson raised the lid of the cake tin, letting the smell of freshly baked bread fill the room. “Dr Watson is your friend, Mr Holmes. He’ll be back. After all,” she called behind her as she left the room, “he hasn’t put up with you through all your adventures and moods just to abandon you now!”

Downstairs, she picked up the mail, quickly sorting through it. One postcard stood out, addressed to Mr Sherlock Holmes from an inn in Scotland. Mrs Hudson smiled. Hopefully Mr Holmes would pass on if the Watsons were enjoying their honeymoon.

Chapter Text

Watson looked up as the book was dropped on to the table. "What's this, Holmes?"

"I happened to meet with a friend of yours today," Holmes told him. He retreated to his chair and perched there, watching Watson intently.

"A friend of mine?" Watson's eyebrows rose, and he picked up the book curiously, turning it over in his hands. "Captain of the Pole Star? Holmes, surely you know I already-" He opened the cover, and his voice cut off. Written neatly on the inside front over were the words, 'To John Watson; most pleased to know you are a fan. Enjoy! Arthur Conan Doyle.'

Watson's mouth dropped open, a gentle "Oh!" escaping his lips.

"I did know you already owned a copy, but I thought you mightn't mind having this one as well." Holmes reached out to take the book. "Of course, I-"

"Thank you!" Watson burst out. "Holmes, this is an incredible gift. Thank you, my dear friend." He ran his fingers over the cover. "I will treasure this."

Chapter Text

"Brrr!" Wiggins shivered. "It's cold out tonight, guv."

Holmes barely spared him a glance, intently watching the door across the street. "We won't be here much longer, Wiggins."

Wiggins subsided, tucking his hands even more closely around himself. He didn't have any gloves to wear - the pair Dr Watson had given him for Christmas last year had gotten too small, and he'd given them away to Charlie.

"Wiggins, watch that man coming out now," Holmes crouched down, breathing the words into his ear. "He's not Palmer, but he may be connected."

Wiggins nodded, and watched the man closely. The man walked up the street, then, with a furtive glance behind him, took something from his pocket and laid it next to a streetlight. Once he stood up again, he continued down the street, and disappeared around the corner. Wiggins peered closer, trying to figure out what the item he had dropped was. It didn't look very big; only about the size of an envelope. Whatever it was, it may be their best lead.

"Mr 'Olmes!" he whispered. "'E's d-d-dropped s-something on the street up th-there. Might be a c-clue."

Holmes stood up abruptly. "Yes, we'll see what it is, then head home. Palmer seems set to stay in tonight."

Wiggins nodded, teeth chattering, then followed after Holmes as they made their way up the street to the streetlight. Holmes picked up the package, unwrapping it to find an envelope inside. He opened the envelope and read the contents, before turning to Wiggins with a nod. "Excellent work, Wiggins. This is a solid lead on Palmer's organisation."

"Are we going somewhere else, then?" Wiggins asked. He shivered again. It seemed even colder now than it was before.

"Back to Baker Street. I need somewhere to think, and you need to warm up." He started striding back towards the main street, Wiggins struggling to keep up with his long legs. "And tomorrow, I will go out and buy you a new pair of gloves."

Chapter Text

"Mrs Hudson?" Watson called. His voice echoed through the lower part of the house. "Mrs Hudson, are you in?"

"In the back room, dear!" Mrs Hudson called back.

Watson made his way through to the back room to find Mrs Hudson sitting in an armchair, fingers gently rubbing over the painting in her lap. The painting was a portrait of a young couple, holding each other close, with wide green fields visible behind them.

"Did you know I used to live in Ireland?" Mrs Hudson asked, voice shaky. "That's where I grew up, a little town outside of Cork. Then I met Patrick." She stroked the cheek of the man in the portrait. "He was a sailor. He loved the sea, dear man. Always talked about the smell of salt on the air, the wind whisking through his hair. I thought he was mad, at first. I only knew fishermen, but he was a tradesman."

Watson murmured a response, not wanting to disrupt the story.

"His ship had docked in at our village, needing repairs. They stayed for months. Each day, he would come to see me, and we talked, and started courting... it was wonderful. My family loved him, and so did Laura- I was a nanny to her little daughter. Laura's the one who painted this." She gestured to the painting, running her finger over the small white signature at the bottom.

"Eventually, his ship was repaired, and he had to leave. But I wouldn't let him leave alone. We got married, and that was that, I suppose." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I never let him leave alone again. Not until..." She wiped her eyes again.

Watson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I understand."

Mrs Hudson leant back into it. "Yes. I suppose you do."

Chapter Text

"Really, Holmes, you can't see the artistic merit in this?"

"Watson. This is a child's colouring picture."

"But look at the way they coloured it! Beautiful blue skies, the rolling green fields, with specks of white to represent the daisies. You must admit it has merit."

"I must admit nothing, my friend. It is tolerably well done, but nothing special."

"Nothing special in an adult, perhaps, but this is a child of only nine."

"A child of nine has all the opportunity to be creative, add their own touch to their pictures. No, Watson, my opinion holds true. This picture is merely adequate."

Chapter Text

"Slow down!" Watson shouted.

"It's not me, it's the horses!" Mary shouted back over the storm. The wind whipped through her hair, spattering golden curls with snow. "They're running for their lives!"

"That doesn't help if we don't survive this!"

Rocks reared up ahead of them.

"Mary! Steer around!"

Mary pulled on the reins, guiding the horses around the pile with only centimetres to spare. Watson winced at the sound of the wooden sleigh scraping against stone. "Mary! We need to stop!"
"I know!" Mary spotted something up ahead. "Wait! I have an idea." She steered towards the slope that had appeared off to their left. The horses, now having to pull a sleigh up hill, slackened their speed, slowing from their frantic gallop into a more relaxed trot, before coming to a halt entirely.

The Watsons got out, rearranging their clothes and smoothing back their disordered hair.
"Whatever Sherlock tells you," Mary told Watson. "Next time we investigate something for him, maybe not on our honeymoon?"

Chapter Text

"Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind

Should all acquaintance be forgot

And auld lang syne..."

As the familiar tunes of the old folk song rang out from across the street, Holmes and Watson settled further into their chairs.

"I do love this song," Watson said wistfully. "I remember singing it with James when we were boys, running about with the other fellows. I didn't care much for the lyrics then, just the sound, but it was still so beautiful."

"It was Mycroft's favourite too," Holmes murmured, caught in the music. Watson turned to him at the uncharacteristic admission, but didn't interrupt. "He taught me how to play it. I never liked it much, but I played it for him for his birthday."

"You're a good brother," Watson said softly. Such personal discussions were not something familiar to them, more used to quiet companionship, but this was a special night. "I'm sure Mycroft must have appreciated that."

"He did."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the song, still being carried along on the gentle breeze.

"But the seas between us broad have roared," Watson sang quietly along, "From auld lang syne. Very true, isn't it?"

"More true than I would like," Holmes replied. He looked down at his pocketwatch. "I can't stay much longer."

"Not even until the end of the night?" Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry, I know you would stay as long as you can. I'm very glad we've had even this much time."

Holmes reluctantly left his chair, standing up to leave. "I wish I could stay longer, Watson. But the work is never done." He held out his hand.

Watson, with a choked sob, pulled him into a hug. "I'll miss you, Holmes," he choked into his friend's ear.

Holmes' own eyes filled with tears; he gripped Watson's coat tight. "I will miss you too, my dear Watson. Stay safe." He forced his fingers to let go, and stepped back.

Watson met his gaze, composure slowly returning. "Goodbye, my friend."

"Goodbye." Holmes turned to leave.

"Holmes!" Watson's voice turned him back. Watson, smiling shakily, called out, "Happy New Year, Holmes. Have a good 1918."

Holmes swiped at his eyes. "You too, my friend." He turned to leave again, resisting the instinct to turn back just one more time.

The final words of the song followed him down the street.

"We'll take a cup o'kindness yet

For auld langs syne."

Chapter Text

It was said that clothes maketh the man, but Holmes had long since found that the saying applied to more than just men. In his years of practice with the art of disguise, he well knew the value of a good costume and all it could conceal. The Woman was a perfect example of such. When she had dressed as a young man, he and Watson had not recognised her, passing her by with nary a thought. Even knowing she was an actress, and a very clever one at that, a simple switch of gender had hidden her completely from their sight.

Of course, even within the clothing options of his own gender such variety could apply. It had always been a particularly point of fascination to Holmes that by changing one’s manner of dress one could so drastically impact their effect on the impressions of others. In fact, he had even considered writing a treatise on the subject. A sailor was viewed in quite a different way to a butcher, and both were seen very differently in comparison to the gentleman. Many of his cases would not have ended as successfully as they did if he had not used his skill with disguises to reach across lines of class, gender, and identity to become the person that was needed for the situation.

Often even when there was no such case to cause it, he would still choose to go out in disguise and spend some time in the persona of someone else. When Watson asked, Holmes told him that it was good practice, and it was, but that was not the entirety of his reasons. Sometimes, it was freeing to be somebody else, and view the world from a different perspective. After events with the Woman, ladies’ clothes had entered his regular wardrobe of disguises, and one most useful fact had been discovered: ladies’ sleeves were the ideal size to hide all manner of things, up to and including his pipe.

Chapter Text

Watson grimaced, pulling the tourniquet more tightly around his arm before tying it off. This case had not turned out like they had thought.

It had seemed like a fairly straightforward case of a man trying to cheat his daughter out of her inheritance, something so simple that Holmes would not have bothered with it if it had not come after many long weeks without a case. Even then, it was only at Watson’s exhortation that he had agreed at all, something that Watson was now regretting.

As it had turned out, when they had gone to the house of the man, Mr McCline, he had not handed over the papers as Holmes had supposed he would. Instead, he had drawn a pistol from the table nearby and begun to wave it around, ranting about his deceased wife and how heartbroken she would be for her daughter to be running away from her loving parents. In his delusions, he seemed to have forgotten that his daughter was now twenty six, and far from running away, was leaving to marry a man who lived just three houses down the street.

Holmes had tried to talk to him, and point out the many signs that his daughter loved him, but was now grown with a life of her own, only the man wouldn’t hear a word of it. Each word only distressed him more, until he aimed the pistol in Holmes’ direction, and fired.

Watson had barely managed to push him aside in time. The bullet ended up missing Holmes entirely, but did catch Watson in the upper arm, causing the very wound that Watson was now bandaging.

“At least this should almost be over. Surely the sound of the gunshot should alert the neighbours that something has happened here,” Watson whispered to Holmes, who was hovering at his shoulder with something very close to anxiety.

Holmes shook his head, eyes sparking with fury. “Letters were piling up at the doorways. There’s no one home, most likely due to the awful heat in this neighbourhood. They would have gone to the seaside.”

“And not Mr McCline?” Watson whispered back, trying to distract himself from the pain in his arm. The bullet had hit him in the same arm as his previous bullet wound from Afghanistan, which at least meant he still had one good arm, but also left him with an ache in his shoulder to match the shooting pains radiating out from the new injury. As a doctor, he knew that he needed help soon or he would run the risk of losing use of that arm entirely.

“He would not have wanted to leave his daughter alone so long, in case she find the papers and leaves him.”

“His wife is already gone, he will not accept his daughter leaving too,” Watson breathed, a feeling of kinship rising within him. He knew the pain that losing a loved one could bring. Holmes nodded to confirm his hypothesis. Watson struggled to his feet. “Then let me talk to him.”

Holmes aided him upright, concerned. “Watson, this man is dangerous.”

“I’m not dangerous!” McCline said loudly, obviously overhearing Holmes’ less than careful words. “I would never hurt Eliza, I just want her to be safe! That’s what Sophia would have wanted.”

“And you want Eliza to be happy, don’t you?” Watson asked. “Because that’s what Sophia would have wanted. I’m sure Sophia must have loved your daughter very much.”

McCline’s pistol wavered, the man blinking heavily. “There was no better mother than my Sophia. She loved Eliza more than anything.”

Watson took a careful step closer, Holmes shadowing him. “And now she’s gone, and you don’t want Eliza to leave too. When my Mary died, I would have done anything to keep some part of her with me. But will this make Eliza happy?”

The pistol dropped further. “She’s all I have,” McCline pleaded. “I can’t lose her.”

Watson took another step closer, blinking back the darkness that was beginning to encroach on his vision. They needed to end this quickly. “You won’t lose her, not unless you continue like this. You need to put down the pistol, Mr McCline. You won’t lose her as long as you put that down.” He held out his hand for the weapon.

McCline hesitated for a moment, then handed the pistol over to Watson. Watson smiled at him. “Your daughter loves you, Mr McCline. Even getting married won’t change that.”

McCline nodded, wiping roughly at his eyes.

Watson turned back to Holmes, who was still standing just a half-step behind him. He handed Holmes the pistol. “My dear friend, could you hold on to this for a moment? I need to sit down.”

Chapter Text

Holmes looked away from the stage with a snort of disgust. “Really, Watson, I do not know why you dragged me here.”

“My agent granted us the tickets,” I replied, my own good humour sorely damaged by the events of the first act. “He said it was based on my stories, though I did not picture it quite like this.”

“At least your stories are tolerable,” Holmes said, which was an admittance I had not heard from him before. “Even that illustrator, despite his insistence on that hat, has some degree of accuracy. This is merely drivel.”

“It’s not all bad,” I weakly defended. Even though I did not like the play much myself, I felt it to somehow be my duty as a fellow writer to defend it from Holmes’ critique. After all, it was still nominally a play about us, and it was an honour to have inspired that.

Holmes dismissed my words with a wave. “Their crime is trite and obvious, and any true disciple of logic should have found the criminal within thirty minutes. You could make better deductions than the ones portrayed here.”

I was not offended, my long friendship with Holmes securing me in the knowledge that he had not meant it as an insult, but rather a simple comparison. “Still, even if the crime is obvious, the adventure is interesting. Surely you must wonder how the characters will find each other again.”

“There was no need to separate them in the first place! You would not be so easily tricked as your stage counterpart, and have demonstrated your deftness with a pistol on many of our cases. A kidnapping makes nearly as little sense as that abominable romance!”

At that I laughed, finally letting go of my inclination to defend the play. “Very well, Holmes, you have defeated me. I must admit, I do not see where any of my readers could have imagined a romance between you and Mrs Norton.”

Holmes stood, a twinkle in his eye. “Now that you have admitted this play is not worth watching, there is supposed to be a symphony tonight at a park not ten minutes walk from here.”

I gathered my coat from my chair and stood, favouring my friend with a smile. “By all means, Holmes, lead on.”

Chapter Text

“Alright!” Wiggins clapped his hands, gaining the attention of every merrily chattering member of the Irregulars. This was their annual tradition, and every one of them was excited to be there. “We have four gifts to get this year. Mr Holmes, the doc, Mrs Doc, and Mrs Hudson.”

One of the Irregulars hesitantly spoke up, pushing her dirty blonde hair further into her knitted cap. “Can’t we get a gift for the doc and his missus together?”

“Naw, Lucy, that’s cheating!” One of the boys scoffed. “We can’t give gifts together!”

“Mrs Doc fixed Tabby,” another girl, even smaller than Lucy, said with a frown. “She should get something all her own.”

“She never lets us leave without a meal, neither.” This boy followed his words by wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “She even gave me cookies.”

The group broke into clamours as each of them tried to share a story of something ‘Mrs Doc’ had done for them. Finally, Wiggins shouted, calling them back to order. “We’ve decided then, Mrs Doc gets her own present. Now, bring out the money.”

The crowd parted to let a little boy come to the front, clutching a box to his chest with a beaming smile. Wiggins took the box from him, ruffling his hair. “Thanks, Petey.” Ceremoniously, he counted out the money as the others waited with bated breath. When all the money had been counted, he looked up with a smile. “We’ve got more than last year.”

A cheer went through the crowd. As Wiggins began to shout out orders, small groups of them would scurry off to do as commanded. “You five! You’re finding something for Mrs Hudson. She likes brooches and fancy teacups, so look for something like that. Over there! No, just you three, not you Jimmy. Find something for the doc. Listen to Rosie, she has good ideas. Jimmy, you’re in the group over there, something for Mrs Doc. She likes pretty things, try the markets near Wellington Avenue.” As the park gradually emptied out, he turned to the four Irregulars standing in front of him. “You lot have the hardest job of all. You need to find a present for Mr Holmes.”

They beamed at him, shivering in the cold night air. “We’ll do it, Wiggins. We’ll find the perfect present!” They waited for his nod, then scampered off into the night.

Wiggins watched them go, then turned back to pick up the box of money. Once the groups had scouted out some appropriate presents, they’d come back to him, and he’d figure out what they could afford to buy. This year they were a bit better off than the last, partly because of Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson’s determination to keep them all fed, meaning less money needing to be spent on food. Hopefully they’d manage to find presents good enough to thank all four of them for everything they’d done.

A smile broke out over Wiggins’ face, and he began to whistle a jaunty tune. It may not be quite like other people’s Christmas shopping, but for him, this was the best part of the season.

Chapter Text

“Mummy, I want to hold the gingerbread!”

Beth Lestrade smiled at her daughter, eyes flickering away from the gentle snow falling outside to focus on the little face staring pleadingly up at her. “Let’s move it down to the table, Cathy. Then there will be room for you and your brother.”

Cathy screwed up her face, nose crinkling with displeasure. “But Ben’s too small! He can’t help!”

“You helped last year, didn’t you?” Beth reminded her as she carried the first tray of gingerbread pieces over to the kitchen table. “And Ben’s the same age as you were then. This gingerbread house is for both of you.”

“No it’s not!” Cathy protested, following behind her mother. “It’s for daddy!”

“Daddy!” Ben squealed, running into the room. “Daddy here?”

Beth leant down to caress his dark curls, an inheritance from his father’s side of the family. “Not yet, sweetheart.” She stood upright again, returning to the kitchen counter for another batch of gingerbread. “Now, shall we build this house?”

“Yay!” Both children cheered, running around her to the table and climbing onto the chairs surrounding it.

Beth laid down the last tray of gingerbread, and within moments the little family was hard at work. Cathy, having made a gingerbread house the previous year, considered herself an expert, helping her little brother to glue his pieces into place with the sticky icing. Beth intervened only when one of the children were at risk of falling or when an argument seemed inevitable, which fortunately was not often. Soon, they had a pretty little gingerbread house sitting in front of them, sticky with icing, and crumbling on the edges, but otherwise intact.

“Eat time!” Ben cheered, reaching for a piece.

Cathy slapped his hand away. “No, you can’t eat it yet! Now we need to decorate and make it pretty.”

“Don’t hit your brother, Cathy.” Beth stood up and brought another tray from the kitchen counter, this one with coloured sugar, more icing, and some little squares of fudge. “And don’t use all the fudge yet, save some of the fudge for later. That’s daddy’s favourite.”

“Daddy here?” Ben turned big brown eyes up at his mother.

She smiled at him. “Not yet, sweetheart.” Still, she couldn’t stop her eyes from flickering over to the door.

“But it’s so dark, and this is his favourite part!” Cathy crossed her arms. “I want to wait for Daddy.”

“Daddy won’t mind,” Beth told her. “Go ahead and start decorating.”

“No!”

“No!” Ben echoed.

“Well, I’d like to decorate, so I’m starting now.” Beth sat down at the table and picked up one of the little bowls of sugar.

The front door creaked open, letting a flurry of cold wind into the house, followed by something – or someone – else. “I can see you’ve been busy!”

“Daddy!” Cathy and Ben jumped off their chairs, taking off across the dining room to wrap their arms around Lestrade’s legs. Beth wasn’t moving slowly either, getting up to kiss her husband before he could even take off his coat. She then chivvied the children a little further back, giving Lestrade just enough room to take off his wet outerwear before they were on him once again.

After a few minutes more, Ben and Cathy finally released Lestrade for long enough that all of the little family could take a seat at the table. “You’ve done excellent work,” Lestrade told the children seriously. “There’s just one thing left to do.”

Anyone looking in the Lestrades’ window that cold winter night would have seen the small family lit by lamplight, laughing and smiling as they sat around the kitchen table, decorating the prettiest gingerbread house their family had ever seen.

Chapter Text

As I sat in the carriage taking me to prison, I knew there would be no return journey. This would be my final resting place.

This wasn’t the first time my life had collapsed around me, but now I was much older, with a far greater list of sins against my name. After I’d been dismissed from the army, I thought things would finish there, that I would lose myself inside a bottle within the year. Instead, I found someone else, the man who became my best friend, and ultimately, my downfall.

James had been the most brilliant man I had ever met. He was a Professor, a genius who all his colleagues thought to be living in his own little world, when really, he had formed a kingdom instead. There was not a single crook in London he didn’t know of, and his name was feared across the dark underbellies of Europe.

But for all that, he was my friend. We spent long nights philosophising on the nature of man, and how the hunter can become the hunted. He didn’t tell me everything, he was too private for that, but he would share many of his dealings with me, and trusted me with those secrets. Really, trust was the iron core that lay beneath us. I trusted him with my true nature, and he trusted me with his.

Then James died.

The papers said he took that cursed Holmes down with him, and I could live with losing him if that was the price he had chosen to pay, but then reports started coming in. All over Europe, even into Asia and Africa, Moriarty’s spiderwebs were coming undone. Someone was slashing through them all, and no one would know better how to do that than Sherlock Holmes.

I had no proof, no way to track him, or I would have hunted him down and skinned him for destroying James’ legacy. Instead, I continued to live the life of petty crime I had fallen into after James’ death, but kept my eye on the doctor. The bait was set. All I needed was patience, and the prey would come sniffing.

I did succeed in drawing Holmes back to London, but my attempt on his life did not go as smoothly as I hoped. Instead, I was arrested, charged, and was now on my way to a prison cell. I had wanted revenge for James, and instead I would join him in death.

The carriage drew to a stop, and I was escorted out. A pair of prison guards stepped forward to meet me, leading me inside as the guards in the carriage reboarded and drove away. Just before entering the prison gates, we came to a stop. One of the guards looked away, and I knew, this was it. The time had come to pay the price of my sins.

The other guard leaned in close to me. I could see the freckles on his nose, and the oddly pretty, almost girlish face. He looked a bit familiar somehow, though I couldn’t place why. “This is for Ronald.” Face screwing up, he made a quick jabbing motion, and as he drew back I saw a glint of metal.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Holmes sank to the ground for a moment, weary from the long climb up the mountain. Finally he had reached a sheltered spot where he could sit long enough to check his direction and catch his breath without the biting wind ripping the compass from his fingers. With hands stiff from cold, he drew his notebook from his pack, cursing as he nearly dropped it. He’d been using his notebook to keep track of his journey, and if he lost it now, he’d never make it back down.

Opening the notebook, his eye was caught by the date in the top left corner: 24 December. It was already Christmas Eve. Watson had thought him dead for months already.

For a moment, he let himself remember the previous Christmas Eve. Watson and Mary had insisted he come for dinner, and that he dressed in his seasonal dress. He’d shown up without it, not owning any, and Mary had just laughed and brought out a sweater then she’d knitted just for him. He’d spent the whole evening there, and then the night as well, eating good food and enjoying the company of friends. Even the memory was enough to bring back some of the warmth of the fireplace, and he momentarily wished that he had never even heard of James Moriarty.

The memory faded, and he wearily struggled to his feet, hefting the pack on his back higher. Moran was still behind him, and he had hours left to travel before the dawn.

Chapter Text

“Mary?” Watson enquired, opening the door to their bedroom. “You’ve been up here all day. Is something wrong?”

Mary looked up to greet him with a watery smile, wiping at her eyes. “Just feeling a bit blue, John dear.” Her chest rose with a hitching sob. “It hasn’t been a very good day.”

He sat down beside her on the bedspread, taking her hand in his. “Tell me.”

She gestured aimlessly with one hand. “Well, this morning my favourite necklace broke, and I was in such a hurry to leave I couldn’t find all the pieces, so I don’t know if it can be fixed. Then the ladies in my sewing circle had a small Christmas party, where each of us brought a present for someone else, except no one brought a present for me!” Tears started to come to her eyes again, her voice wobbling. “They were all so very sorry, but I still left early because it was so hard to watch them with their presents when I didn’t have one. Then,” he voice hitched, “then I met one of my friends on the way home, out buy a silk scarf for another friend of hers. She was so happy to talk about it, saying that it was what she does for every friend for their first Christmas knowing each other, and wasn’t it wonderful that I was there to help her shop?”

Here Mary paused, smiling slightly even through her tears. “It’s silly, I suppose, to begrudge a friend a present, and I don’t really, it’s just–“ Her smile broke. “It’s my first Christmas knowing her too, and I don’t even know if she remembers.” She began to sob, collapsing into Watson’s arms as he pulled her closer. He held her tight, murmuring comforts into her hair, and wondered bleakly why it was that sometimes those dearest to us could cause the worst hurts of all.

Chapter Text

For Queen and country.

I work to slow the gushing flow of blood, the mantra running through my mind.

For Queen and country.

We’re all out here at Her Majesty’s pleasure, serving to defend her realm, or in some cases, to care for those who defend it. It’s a time-honoured profession, with three square meals a day, chances for honour and prestige, all in the name of Her Majesty.

For Queen and country.

But does Her Majesty know the strife we live with every day? To have a friend’s body under my knife as I fight to save him? To wonder how many of the men I chatted with at mess tonight will live to see their families again? Sometimes I wonder what I’m even doing here. This desert isn’t my country.

For Queen and country.

Finally, the man on my table is all patched up. I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to use that shoulder fully again, but at least John Watson will survive, and someday may even be able to serve Queen and country again.

Chapter Text

Holmes begins his journey
Of buying presents for his friends
By leaving home, 221B,
To see the brightness Christmas lends.

Christmastime in London Town,
Has always been quite grand.
Streets that other days are brown,
In this time are far from bland.

Holmes searches windows, shops and stores,
Looking for the perfect gifts.
He finds the first one, then two, three, four,
But with the last, is left adrift.

His Watson now has a young wife,
Who would need a gift of her own.
Though Holmes has solved plenty of strife,
At this, his prowess is unknown.

He thinks, considers, ponders,
This is quite a challenging case!
At last, now worn out, he wanders
Back home, at a wearied pace.

Finally, something catches his sight,
And he enters the store’s welcome heat.
To have found the right present brings such delight
For what gift can be better than sweets?

Chapter Text

“Evenin’, Inspector,” the officer at the scene called out to him, doffing his cap. “It’s a right gory one, tonight. Only mercy is the cold keeping the stench away. ”

Inspector Wiggins nodded in return. “With any luck, all the gore should make it an easy case. That’s what Mr Holmes used to say, anyway – the special ones are easy, it’s the dime a dozen ones that are the real hard cases.”

“Yes sir,” the officer replied, obviously more out of respect than any real comprehension. He held up the tape for Wiggins to come through.

Wiggins ducked under and made his way into the house, holding back a sigh. Time was when every policeman in London had known the name of Sherlock Holmes. Now, there were so few left who had known the man personally, and for the rest he was a legend at best, only known from the doctor’s stories. Some, like the officer outside, had never even heard of him at all.

“What have we got?” Wiggins asked, stepping into the room with the body. He took a glance around, soaking in information the way he remembered from his years watching Mr Holmes.

His sergeant stepped forward, notebook in hand. “Looks like murder, sir, a simple brawl gone wrong. Pretty gory, but more likely heat of the moment than anything.” He indicated a blood-encrusted poker lying by the hearth. “Must have had an argument, other man grabs the poker, beats our victim, gets the blood everywhere, then realises what he’s done and scarpers. Clear-cut case.”

Wiggins crouched down beside the poker, examining it carefully. “Not quite, Tolston. This poker doesn’t belong here. It’s much better quality than anything you’d find in this house. More likely the murderer brought it with him.” He stood up, walking around the room. “Brought his own weapon, so this was planned, but this is messier than you’d think a planned murder would be. Lots of gore, lots of blood.”

“Maybe it’s an example? One of the gangs showing what happens if you don’t pay up?” Tolston suggested.

Wiggins shook his head. “Still would have been clearer than this. All this mess, that’s someone who’s angry. More likely they came to threaten, but something made them furious.”

He scanned the room, waiting for something to jump out at him. It was times like this he wished Mr Holmes was still around, or even Doctor Watson. They would have spotted something by now. But they were both long gone, the doc never having made it back from the war, and Mr Holmes following shortly after. Neither could help him now.

The door slammed open as a constable rushed in, before being hurried back out again by Tolston. Still, the gust of wind brought in from outside caused a flickering from the grate, catching Wiggins’ eye. He knelt down, brushing off the ashes of the letter. Quickly, he scanned the page, and the dark stains splattered across one corner, before turning to Tolston and handing it over. “Get men to this address immediately, and bring in the husband of Anna Canavry. And while you’re there, check for a poker. Actually,” he snatched the letter back, striding towards the door. “I’ll come with you.”

As he stepped outside and hailed for a carriage, he let a smile drift over his face. Mr Holmes may have been gone, but his legacy lived on.

Chapter Text

“Holmes!” I pushed through to the front of the crowd, fighting against the cheering people surrounding me. Several shot me black looks, turning away with their betting papers clutched in their fists.

Finally, I managed to push through, bursting through into the loose ring of space left around the brawlers. Just as I suspected, one of them was Holmes, wearing a mad smile as he and his opponent circled each other, panting. They were both bruised and bleeding, yet to my medical eye I could see nothing serious enough to stop the fight. I would simply have to wait.

As it turned out, I did not need to wait long. With a flurry of moves too quick for the crowd to follow, Holmes brought his opponent to the ground. The crowd rushed forward to congratulate him and collect their winnings, and in their rush I could finally come close enough for Holmes to hear me. “Holmes!”

He looked over at me, eyes still bright from the thrill of the fight. “Watson! You should have come earlier, you missed the finest part!”

I brushed his words aside. “Holmes, I saw Warberts entering the Iron Dragon. We may have a chance to follow him, if he is still there.”

Holmes rushed forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me with him towards the pub. As he strode, the crowd around him melted away by the force of his presence. “Then come, Watson! We have a villain to catch!”

Chapter Text

“That’s it, John, just hold on to me.” John gripped my arm tightly as I skated slowly beside him, his movements hesitant and stilted. He’d told me about the fun he and his brother had had as children, skating on their local pond, and so I had thought it a fine idea to go skating together as a surprise. It was only when we had arrived that John confided to me that he had not been ice-skating since he had received his leg wound, and did not know if he could still do it. I had offered for us to leave, but he had insisted it was worth a try, thus leading us to where we were now.

I pulled John gently forward, still holding his arm tightly. It was taking some time for John’s skills to return, but he was still improving much faster than a beginner would have. It would not be much longer, I hoped, until we could take a proper turn around the ice together.

In my eagerness, I pulled slightly too hard, and John lost his balance, pulling me to the ice with him. I lay there for a moment, quite frozen with surprise, while John worriedly asked me if I was hurt. Once my shock had passed, I began to laugh. It seemed John was not the only one who far from an expert skater!

Together, John and I stumbled upright, still laughing. “Maybe we should stop now,” I giggled. “It seems I am not such a good teacher as I thought!”

“Nonsense!” With a bright smile, John turned to me. “I’m sure we’re almost there, Mary. Let’s have one more try.”

I nodded my agreement, finally reigning in my giggles, and took his arm in mine. “Let’s try.” Arm I’m arm, we took off. At first, John’s steps were wobbly, just as they had been before we crashed, but they then grew smooth, lengthening our, until the two of us were gliding side by side across the ice. I laughed from sheer exhilaration. This feeling was worth every moment it had taken to get there.

Chapter Text

Moriarty accepted a glass of mulled wine from a passing waiter, eyes drifting over the crowd. It was always interesting watching the people who came to a ball such as this. Everyone wanted to be seen, except for those who knew they didn’t need to be. Those, however, were in the minority, far outdone by the flashy tuxedos and sparkling dresses of England’s elite, wishing to show off their presence at London’s most prestigious Christmas ball.

A tall figure making his way through the crowd caught Moriarty’s eye, and he raised his glass in acknowledgement. Once the man was close enough, Moriarty greeted him. “Welcome, Colonel. I trust you are in good health?”

“Well enough,” Moran said gruffly. His shoulder were pulled back with tension, and when the waiter returned with another platter of drinks, Moran quickly shooed him away. “Let’s just get on with it, then. I don’t want us to be here any longer than we have to be.”

“Does being here make you uncomfortable, my dear Colonel?” Moriarty’s penetrating gaze rested on Moran.

“It’s not the party,” Moran growled. “You know I like these parties, when I can have a proper time. This would have been fine if I was just having a drink, or even out on the dance floor, but why the deuce would you make this the place to discuss-“ he looked furtively around the room, “- your operation?”

“It was the natural choice.” Moriarty sipped his mulled wine, turning back to the festively decorated dancers waltzing across the floor. “For who would expect a Christmas ball to be the place of a clandestine meeting?”

Chapter Text

“No thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Wiggins said politely. “We don’t want more Christmas pudding.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs Hudson questioned sceptically, still holding out the plate of pudding. It glistened richly on the plate, studded with dried fruits and iced on top, looking like it had descended directly from the dreams of sleeping children waiting for Christmas. She waved the plate enticingly, allowing the freshly baked aroma to drift under their noses.

Several Irregulars clapped their hands to their mouths. One looked faintly green. Wiggins swallowed heavily, face briefly betraying a grimace of discomfort before, with clear effort, he regained his polite demeanour. “Really, missus, we don’t want any more. We’ll just go now. Please tell Mr Holmes about the German man.” With that, Wiggins chivvied the other Irregulars off the steps and onto the street, all of them disappearing into the crowds before Mrs Hudson could say a word.

She closed the door, shaking her head. Whatever was wrong with those boys that they didn’t want her pudding, it wasn’t her business. She’d just tell Mr Holmes their report and forget about it.

When Mr Holmes came home several hours later, however, she found it wasn’t that easy. After delivering the Irregulars’ report, she hovered in the doorway, unsure whether it was worth mentioning. It was too small a thing to be bothered with, surely, and yet weren’t the small details always what Mr Holmes looked for?

Finally Mr Holmes ended her dilemma. “Mrs Hudson, it’s bothering you that the Irregulars did not want any Christmas pudding?”

“It’s just not right!” she burst out, too relieved that he had mentioned it to care how he had figured it out. She had long grown used to his deductions and how he seemed to know things without ever being told. “Young boys like that, I’ve seen enough to know they wouldn’t get much food at home. Certainly nothing home cooked like mine! Why would they suddenly turn down my cooking?”

Mr Holmes surprised her with a laugh. “It’s not your cooking that’s the problem, my dear Madame. It’s the pudding!”

“The pudding?” she asked confusedly. “What’s wrong with pudding?”

“Nothing, except that it is the choice treat to give to Christmas carollers, especially for those who sing ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’. Which so happened to be what my Irregulars were doing last night to track down Herr Gueller.” Mr Holmes said. “I believe that after last night it will be a long time before my Irregulars eat any more pudding at all!”

Chapter Text

“A dragon, Holmes, really?” Watson sat back in his chair, incredulity obvious. “If I did not know you better, I would think you were mocking me.”

“Have I not told you, Watson, that when you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” Holmes calmly lit his pipe, seemingly unbothered by the fantastic nature of the tale he was relating. “And when a large reptile is flying at you, fire billowing from it’s mouth, dragons suddenly seem far less improbable than they once were.”

Watson stared at him quizzically for a moment, then shook his head. “I just confess, Holmes, I cannot tell if you are lying, or to what purpose you would do so. You seem to believe it, but how can I know this is not the result of a madness, like with the Devil’s Foot root?”

Holmes jumped to his feet. “Quite simple, Watson. I can prove it. I will take you to the dragon, and you can see it for yourself. Then you will know it is not madness, but reality.”

”If this is false,” Watson warned, “you have lost all privileges of referring to my writing as romantic drivel.” Despite his words, he was already clambering to his feet, willing to follow Holmes into this danger just as much as he had every other.

Chapter Text

“What on earth are you looking for, Holmes?” Watson twisted around in his chair to look at Holmes, who was pacing up and down the room, hunting for something with increasing desperation.

“I need a sock,” Holmes told him distractedly, still searching. He began lifting up items on the mantelpiece, moving them and then replacing them with a frustrated expression.

“Wouldn’t your bedroom be a better place to look?” Watson asked.

Holmes ignored him, carrying on searching.

Watson blew out a breath of frustration. “If you really need socks, you can get some from my bedroom. I’m sure you already know where I keep them.”

Holmes still ignored him.

“Or I can get a pair.” Watson groaned internally at the thought of leaving his comfortable spot by the fire, particularly in this cold weather. The cold had always made his old injuries particularly painful, but when Holmes was in a mood like this, he often needed an outside distraction to break him out of it.

Slowly, Watson began to struggle to his feet, but almost immediately Holmes interrupted him. “No, not a pair of socks. A sock, singular. In particular, the sock of the late Duchess Albright.”

Watson slumped gratefully back into his armchair, looking at Holmes with interest. “Was there something particular about the sock?”

“One or two points of interest,” Holmes said, stopping his search to look at him, “on which, if my suspicions are correct, the whole case may rest.”

“Then we will find it. You are the world’s greatest detective, Holmes,” Watson teased, eyes sparkling. “I’m sure you’ll manage to find a sock.”

Chapter Text

“This way, Holmes!” Lestrade beckoned down the alley, where he could see the consulting detective’s tall frame coming slowly toward him. As the detective drew closer, however, Lestrade could see his flushed features and overbright eyes, and more tellingly, the absence of Dr Watson. “You didn’t say you were ill, Holmes!”

“I most certainly am not!” Holmes indignantly protested. In direct contradiction to his words, he sneezed loudly three times in succession. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he conceded, “Besides, even if I did happen to be unwell, there would be no need for Watson to know.”

Lestrade raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you sure, Holmes? That seems like-“ He was interrupted by Holmes sneezing again. His eyebrow rose further. “As I was saying, it seems like something Watson would prefer to know.”

“I am perfectly sure, Inspector. Watson does not need to know.” Putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, Holmes strode forward, weaving only slightly. “Now, where is the body?”

Lestrade reluctantly let the subject go, moving further down the alley to show Holmes where the body lay, nearly hidden under a pile of rags. Holmes stalked around the body, then crouched down to look at it more closely, staying stock still for several long minutes.

Finally, Lestrade could stand the suspense no longer. “What have you found, Holmes?”

Holmes abruptly sat back, almost as if he had been startled. “Young man from Scotland, came down here to spend Christmas with his fiancée. They had only communicated through letters, never in person. They were meant to meet here, but her father found out and followed her here, where he killed the young man. There are clear footsteps here and there,” he pointed to one side of the alley, “to show where the father dragged the body under the rags.”

Lestrade closed his gaping mouth, afraid of looking foolish in front of his men. “Right then, and where would we find the father?”

“The fiancee’s name will be on the letters in the man’s coat pocket. The stains on his fingers showed he was handling them all day, likely looking forward to their meeting.” Holmes rose to his feet, then wobbled. Lestrade reached out to him, but was quickly shaken off. “Look at the alley entrance for a green coat, slightly worn. There you’ll find the letters.” Nearly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Holmes broke into a fit of coughing. This time, when Lestrade reached out to steady him, he did not move away from the touch.

As Holmes continued to cough, Lestrade sent two men to the entrance of the alley to look for the coat, and after a moment’s thought, sent a man off to Baker Street. Whatever Holmes thought, Watson would want to know.

Finally, Holmes’ coughing began to ease, and he could stand without assistance. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade interrupted him. “Before you say anything, Holmes, I’ve already sent men up to look for the coat, and I’ve sent a man for Dr Watson as well. Your part is done now, you can just wait here until Watson arrives.“ To soften his words, he continued, “If I let you die of pneumonia on my crime scene, I think Watson would kill me!”

Holmes, who had been looking mutinous until that moment, burst out with a short barking laugh. “Then in the interests of preventing a murder, I will stay put.”

Chapter Text

“Mornin’, Inspector.”

Inspector Wiggins stopped, turning to look at the small boy who had just run up to him. “Sun’s gone down, Bill.”

Bill shrugged, torn shirt collar slipping down to reveal one skinny shoulder. “Still morning if you just got up.” He jerked his thumb towards a nearby alleyway. “Boss wants a word.”

Wiggins followed the boy into the alleyway. He knew the boss Billy was talking about, and had a feeling what the conversation was going to be about. With his new promotion to Inspector, their relationship might not be quite so easy to maintain as it used to be.

A little way down the alley, nearly hidden in the evening gloom, was a short red headed man who greeted Wiggins with a familiar smile. “Hey, Wiggins. Heard about the upgrade.” He eyed Wiggins up and down, nodding slightly. Wiggins stared at him in return, trying to figure out what this was about, now that his initial suspicions had been disproven. “Looks good on you. Hope it won’t change things, though.”

“As long as your pickpocketing doesn’t become something more serious, don’t see why it should.” Finally it clicked, and Wiggins’ mouth turned down. “You have bad news. Is it Holmes?”

The man’s eyes grew wide, and he chuckled slightly, before it faded away into a sad smile. “Nearly as good as he was. Yeah, it’s Holmes. Day before yesterday.”

Wiggins closed his eyes in grief. He’d seen it coming, all the old Irregulars had. After Dr Watson had died in the Great War, then Mycroft Holmes just a few months later, they’d all known it was only a matter of time until Holmes followed them. “Did he leave anything behind?” Wiggins asked, although he already suspected the answer.

“Nothing much,” the other man confirmed. “Left some papers to Watson’s daughter, and his bees to a friend. There was some money, but not a lot. You might be getting a telegram next week. He knew you were good.”

Wiggins smiled at him. “Thanks, Charlie. You’ll let the others know?”

Charlie nodded, slipping back into the shadows of the alley. Wiggins left the alley and continued his route home, thinking on the news. He might end up getting a telegram, but even if he did, nothing could mean as much as the words Mr Holmes had given him when he‘d left Baker Street for the country, where Dr Watson had already departed. ‘This city is yours now, young Wiggins,’ Mr Holmes had said, looking solemnly at him. ‘Take care of her.’ He had only been able to nod, overcome with the responsibility being entrusted to him. Those words meant more to him than any amount of money ever could.

Chapter Text

“I simply don’t understand it, Holmes!” Lestrade paced up and down the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, pulling distractedly at the ends of his moustache. “It doesn’t make sense! How could he have been killed if they were all in the room with him at the time?” He turned to Holmes, stopping his pacing long enough to look down at the detective lounging on the sofa. “Surely you must have some idea.”

Holmes pointed to his throat.

“Strangulation?” Lestrade brushed the idea aside. “No, impossible! Someone surely would have noticed. You must have a better idea!”

Holmes pointed to his throat again, more vehemently than before.

Lestrade snorted at him. “Please, Holmes. I would have noticed if he’d been stabbed in the throat! I know you don’t think much of Scotland Yard, but we are certainly capable of that.”

Holmes closed his eyes for a long moment, long enough that Lestrade wondered if he had simply fallen asleep. He then opened them and pointed to the mug of tea that was sitting in the nearby table.

Lestrade’s eyes lit up. “That’s it! It must be poison! Holmes, that was just the idea I needed!” He raced down the stairs, brushing past Watson as he came in from a long day at his practice.

Watson stared after him in bemusement, then shrugged, making his way up the seventeen stairs to his own comfortable sitting room. “I’m back! Has your voice returned yet, Holmes? I know it must be very boring for you, not being able to solve cases right now, but hopefully the honey tea will get you better soon!”

Chapter Text

“You know it won’t be long now, John,” Mary said softly, face drawn and gaunt against the pillow. She knew that this was one of the few periods of lucidity she’d had over the last few days, and she may not have another before the end. This was her last chance.

John nodded, throat too tight to speak. He tried for a reassuring smile, but Mary could see right through it.

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t. I know I won’t make it. I don’t need you to be my doctor, or to tell me it will be alright. I need you to be my husband. Just be here with me.”

John’s smile this time was more watery than reassuring, but managed to last a few scant seconds longer. “Of course, Mary. I’ll stay with you. Til death do us part.”

Mary tried to smile back at him, but could already feel her strength slipping away, fog creeping into her mind just as exhaustion filled her body. Only half-conscious, thoughts already becoming confused and scattered, she managed to say, “Thank Sherlock for me, would you? For sharing you with me.”

Her last thought before she faded away completely was to wonder why he was crying.

Chapter Text

“Amazing.” Sherlock pressed his face against the glass, the vibrations of his voice making the bees startle.

I restrained a sigh. I had told Mother I would look after Sherlock for the afternoon, but I had not thought Sherlock would so easily become distracted by our favourite game of Deductions by something as simple a case of bees. I was sure when I was six I had not been so easily distracted.

“Where are you taking them?” Sherlock asked the beekeeper, face still mashed against the glass.

The beekeeper laughed and tousled my brother’s dark curls. I pursed my lips, fingers tightening on my umbrella. As much as I hated unnecessary action, I would not allow this man to do anything to my brother. “I’m taking them up to Lord Hoyton’s estate. Lady Hoyton wishes to have fresh honey on her toast every morning, so the lord ordered for some bees, and I’ll be keeping them.”

Sherlock finally turned away from the glass to look up at the man, then twisted look at me. “Mycroft, could I keep bees?”

I shook my head sharply. “We don’t need bees, Sherlock.”

“But we could have honey on toast!” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and pleading, but I remained unmoved. Sherlock was prone to occasional short-term interests, quickly investigated and just as quickly abandoned once he felt he knew enough. This interest in bees would no doubt be similar.

Sherlock‘s shoulders slumped as he apparently recognised my firm stance on the issue. “Alright, Mycroft.” He turned back to the beekeeper. “Thank you, sir, for letting me see your bees.”

The beekeeper doffed his cap at him. “My pleasure, little gentleman. Hope you’ll get your own some day!”

I nodded at him, but didn’t say anything. The man had managed to keep Sherlock occupied, which I was grateful for, but I found it unlikely Sherlock would ever keep bees. His mind would be wasted on such a thing.

Chapter Text

Christmas Island.

One of the Irregulars had heard Dr Watson mention it, and since then, it had captivated all of their imaginations. On Christmas Island, they whispered to each other, it was Christmas all the time.

“Christmas Island is where Christmas trees come from,” Sally whispered to little Charlie as they watched in awe through the window while a happy family dressed their Christmas tree. “And everyone on the island decorates them together.”

“They serve hot chocolate with every meal on Christmas Island,” Moh told Will as they huddled together for warmth, blowing on their frozen fingers. “With shortbread too.”

“On Christmas Island, it’s always Christmas,” Wiggins told the shivering Irregulars huddled around him as they looked up at him with faces thin from the cold. “And no one is ever cold and alone.”

Every Irregular had heard of Christmas Island, and on nights when they were cold and hungry, staring at the Christmas celebrations in the city while they hoped they would survive the night, they all wished they could be there instead.

Chapter Text

“John, did you hear something?” Mary asked me late one December night. It was only a few days before Christmas, and we were enjoying a quiet night in by the fireside, she with her knitting, and me with a copy of the latest medical journal.

“Not a thing, dearest,” I assured her. Still, there had been several burglaries in our area lately, serious enough that I had even gone to Holmes for assistance, so I put down my journal, asking, “What did it sound like?”

“It sounded like something on the roof.” She startled, dropping her knitting, then twisted to look upwards. “There it is again! Something up on the rooftops!”

I opened my mouth to ask her for more details, when I heard the sound as well. It sounded like something scrabbling on the rooftops, but was a much heavier sound than any small animal that may normally reside there would make. I grabbed a poker from the fire, and with a warning at Mary to stay inside, I ventured up to the rooftops.

To my surprise, there I found Holmes, lying on the ground with blood running from his forehead. “Holmes!” I exclaimed.

He stirred with a groan, and I helped him to sit upright. “What happened?” I asked.

“The last thing I remember was a man in red appearing from behind the chimney. We tussled, and I had him at my mercy when he slipped my grip and slammed head against the rooftop. After that, I do not know.”

After a brief search of the rooftop for clues, which Holmes insisted on, I brought him back inside to tend his injuries. He ended up staying the night as I watched him for a concussion.

After that night, the burglaries stopped. While Holmes maintains that the man was an amateur, scared off by meeting opposition, I am not so convinced...

Chapter Text

It’s Christmastime on Baker Street
Mrs Hudson cooks, so her boys can eat.
While she’s downstairs baking this thing and that,
Watson and Holmes decorate the flat.

A hook goes there, and it hangs like this.
Mistletoe here, as it’s hung for a kiss.
Presents for the tree, with bright red bows.
What they contain, only Holmes can know.

Candles flood the room with their light,
As Mrs Hudson surveys the room with delight.
“Boys!” She exclaims, “what a job you’ve done!”
And now I am sure Christmas has begun!”

Chapter Text

Things used to be very different in the office, Williams mused in a fit of nostalgia. When he had started out, it was practically expected that officials would have a little extra on the side. There were so much to get done, so many people with expectations, it was easy enough to let something slip to the bottom of the pile in exchange for a small donation. In those days, a man could get rich working in government, as long as he was careful.

Now, with sharper eyes keeping lookout, all the old traditions were fading away. Even his small indiscretions, nothing compared to what his predecessors had done, would eventually be sniffed out and punished.

Mycroft Holmes‘ assistant appeared at Williams’ side. “Mr Holmes would like you to see him in his office. Now.”

Williams gathered his things regretfully, knowing he most likely would not be coming back here again. Yes, things used to be very different around here.

Chapter Text

Blood welled from the wound, quickly soaking through the thin fabric. Watson looked down at Holmes in horror. He opened his mouth, but then had to shut it against a grimace of pain as he fell to the ground.

Holmes crawled over, broken leg dragging behind him. “Watson? Watson, tell me what to do! How can I fix this?”

“Pressure,” Watson gasped, breathing ragged. “Pressure... on the wound. Don’t-“ He bit his tongue against a cry of agony. “Don’t stop.”

Holmes nodded, pulling himself upright to press against Watson’s blood-soaked side. Watson’s hand clamped around his wrist, and he looked down to meet Watson’s steely gaze. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Holmes vowed. He pushed against Watson’s side, keeping the pressure.

Even as Watson moaned with agonised pain, struggling to get away, until his struggles died away and he was no longer conscious, even as Holmes’ own leg sent searing shoots of fire up his thigh, Holmes did not stop. When Lestrade, warned by one of Holmes’ Irregulars, raced into the alley with a squadron of officers at his back, still Holmes had not stopped.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but there will simply be no going out today. The snow is too thick, especially considering your injuries.” Mrs Hudson gestured to Holmes’ heavily bandaged leg, and the crutches leaning against the wall nearby. A case gone drastically wrong had left Holmes with a broken leg, as well as nearly causing Watson’s death.

“I will manage,” Holmes said brusquely. “Call me a hansom, I will be down there shortly.” He began to leverage himself to his feet, but almost immediately sank back into his chair with a wince. “Mrs Hudson, the crutches?”

Mrs Hudson brought the crutches to Holmes, who quickly snatched them out of her hands. She followed him across the room, saying, “All of Baker Street is snowed in, Mr Holmes! There aren’t any hansom cabs out today.” More softly she added, “Dr Watson will understand. You can still visit him once the snow clears.”

Holmes stopped only long enough for her to be sure he had heard her words, then changed course to his bedroom, closing the door abruptly behind him.

Mrs Hudson sighed. Clasping her hands, she prayed that Dr Watson would be well enough to come home soon – not just for his own sake, but to save her from Holmes’ temper!

Chapter Text

“A murder mystery ball?” Beth turned to her husband, eyes bright with excitement. “What a brilliant idea, don’t you think?”

Lestrade hesitated. He hadn’t had any idea this Christmas ball was themed, or he would not have come at all, especially for a fake murder. He saw enough death in his regular days. But now that he was here, and faced with his wife’s enthusiasm for the idea, he couldn’t really back down now. Besides, as a police inspector, surely he would have an advantage in any mystery game, and at least the body wouldn’t be real.

“Of course!” he agreed, nodding at their host. “Though I hope costumes are not required?” He half-hoped that costumes were required, and they would have to leave, but those hopes were dispelled when their hostess shook her head, beaming at them.

“No costumes at all!” she laughed. “I wanted it to feel as real as possible.” She led them inside, talking all the way. “I’ve always been fascinated by mysteries, especially since reading all of those stories in the Strand about the detective, Sherlock Holmes. It’s just so fascinating, how he can see so much! I did try to invite him,” she confided, leaning in close, “but I received word back that he was on the continent for a case. He must be so dedicated, not even taking time off for a party.”

Lestrade, who had seen Holmes in Baker Street that very morning watching Watson tell stories to the Irregulars, couldn’t stop himself from snorting.

Beth elbowed him in the side. “So how is this party set up?” she asked, gracefully distracting their hostess. “I’ve never been to a mystery party before.”

“I do hope there is no real body,” Lestrade added with a warning look. If she had taken a body from the morgue just to have as a prop for her game, he would be arresting her for it, no matter what protests she tried to give.

Their hostess brushed him off. “Of course not! No, I hired someone to play the body. As for everything else, it will all be revealed in time...”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. What was the point of going to a party if he had to deal with all the mystery and dramatics he normally had at work? Holmes’ occasional dramatics were a small price to pay for the feats he was capable of, but this hostess had not even that to recommend her.

Their hostess interrupted his thoughts with a sudden shriek. “My vase! That was hiding the first clue!” She turned to look at Beth with devastated eyes. “My mother gave that to me.”

“Don’t worry, Marie,” Beth said firmly, putting a comforting arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “My husband is the best detective at Scotland Yard. He’ll find it for you.”

Lestrade held back a smile, not wanting to appear to be taking this lightly, but inside he was buoyed with confidence and excitement. This was much more interesting than a murder mystery party!

Chapter Text

At the opera
For a new show:
Exciting
Rare and
New.

About Sherlock Holmes,
Ace detective,
The city’s
Newest
Tale.

The posters promise
A night of song.
Mystery!
Danger!
Love!

Excitement rises.
Tickets sell out.
Everyone
Wants to
See.

Audience settles.
The show opens.
Curtains rise.
Applause.
Sing.

Chapter Text

“My, Mrs Hudson, you have certainly outdone yourself!’ Watson exclaimed, looking at the long table laden with goodies of all kinds.

Mrs Hudson beamed happily at him. “It’s just so good to see you and Mr Holmes in the house again! It’s felt so strange these last few years without you two, I wanted to see in the New Year in style.”

“Besides, we do have quite a party coming,” Holmes mentioned, getting up from his armchair to inspect the feast himself. “The Irregulars alone will polish off most of this, and my brother has no mean appetite either.”

“Not all Irregulars anymore,” Watson reminded him. Holmes had been both pleased and dismayed to find that in his absence, Wiggins had joined the police force, and was currently working at Scotland Yard as a Constable. “Though it is nice to be here, after all these years.” Still, the smile faded from Watson’s face as he thought about where he had spent his last few New Years - or more precisely, who he had spent them with.

A knocking on the front door saved Holmes from having to reply. Mrs Hudson bustled to the front door to open it, letting in Inspector Lestrade. He thanked her, brushing the snow off his hat and coat before hanging them up in the entranceway. “That’s quite a spread,” he remarked, eyes widening at the many dishes laid out before them. “It’s been a long shift today, I’ll be looking forward to getting into some of that. New Years seems to drive all the crazies onto the streets.”

Gradually, the other guests filtered in, each one marvelling at the food set before them. Still, until the final guest could arrive, they had to satisfy themselves with drinks and conversation, even as the clock struck steadily forwards.

Finally, at only an hour to midnight, Wiggins hurried through the door, slamming it closed behind him. “Sorry, guv,” he said breathlessly. “O’Neill wanted me for a case, wouldn’t let me go. Had to run here from the Yard once we finished.”

While Lestrade muttered grumpily about what he would do to O-Neill tomorrow, Mrs Hudson pushed Wiggins into a seat, chivying them all to the table after him. “Now, we can finally begin. Happy New Year to you all!”

“Happy New Year!” The crowd chorused, and then the meal began.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped his coat. “Holmes!” he cried against the howling of the storm. “Holmes, are we close yet?”

“Nearly, Watson!” Holmes shouted in return. He was barely visible through the heavy sleet, just a tall, dark-coated figure some distance ahead. “The pond can’t be far now!”

Watson hurried along in Holmes’ wake, knowing if he lost his friend now, it would take far too long to find him again and the effort could very well kill them both. He pulled his scarf tighter, fighting against the cruel winds snatching it away. “Will you even be able to see the evidence in this?”

His words must have disappeared into the storm, as Holmes did not reply.

Holmes was correct, as always, and a few minutes later Watson was stepping on the icy edge of the frozen pond. “Holmes!” he shouted. “It’s here!”

Holmes was at his side in moments. Watson relished in the warmth, as the storm had only grown worse in the last few minutes, and his fingers were starting to grow numb. It was dangerous to stay out in it much longer, he knew, but he knew equally well that he had little hope of convincing Holmes to return to their accommodation until the evidence they sought for was found.

Holmes stepped out onto the ice. It creaked beneath him, barely audible over the howling gale, but held. He took a further step, Watson watching the ice underneath his feet carefully so as to catch the very first sign it would crack. If Holmes fell through, he would go after him, but he knew it would do little good.

At Holmes’ next step, the ice gave. It was only the merest fraction, but it was enough for Watson to call, “Holmes stop! The ice won’t hold!”

“One more, Watson!” He thought he heard in reply, but he couldn’t be sure.

Holmes took another step.

The ice cracked beneath him.

“Holmes!”

Holmes took a step backwards, but it was too late. Cracks were already spiderwebbing across the ice, water leaking up through the narrow gaps. Suddenly, it was a race back to the shore between Holmes and the steadily cracking ice.

Watson stepped out onto the ice, relying on the thicker ice near the edge to keep him safe, but even that was thinner than anticipated. Thin cracks appeared, and water started to puddle around his shoes, but he didn’t step back. With the rate the ice was cracking, he would need to grab Holmes and pull him ashore or watch him disappear into the freezing depths.

Finally, Holmes was close enough to grab, and he reached for his friend’s coat, pulling with all his strength and sending the two of them careening backwards into the snow, safe.

“Next time, Holmes,” Watson said, the storm still carrying on around them and dampness from the snow slowly sinking into their clothes, “perhaps we can wait until after the storm before looking for evidence.”

Chapter Text

Watson looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, sorting through clothes, to spy his dearest friend and companion standing in the doorway, a very familiar object in one hand. “Holmes, where did you even find that?”

“My apologies, Watson,” Holmes said, crouching down beside Watson and holding out the framed drawing. “It fell out of one of your boxes while I was moving it upstairs.” He hesitated, then continued more quietly, “I didn’t hear of her loss until I returned to England. She was a good woman.”

Watson took the photo with a sad smile. His own former self smiled blissfully up at him, arm in arm with his new wife. “She was a wonderful woman, and I still miss her every day.”

Chapter Text

“Enola, this is Dr Watson. Watson, my sister, Enola Holmes.”

Miss Holmes’ sharp gaze raked me up and down, but all she said was, “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Holmes,” I told her. I was almost as curious about her as she apparently was about me. I knew Holmes was reticent about his family, and after I had met Mycroft I understood, but Miss Holmes was something else altogether.

“Enola has kept copies of all your stories,” Holmes said, smiling quietly at her. He had a look on his face quite unfamiliar to me, though on anyone else, I would have called it pride. It didn’t take Holmes’ deductive ability to see that Holmes was quite fond of his younger sister.

I turned my gaze to Miss Holmes. “Then please tell me, Miss Holmes, what do you think? Do I represent him accurately? You’ve know him longer.”

“Longer, but not better,” she said bluntly. “I lived with my mother until last year, and Sherlock and Mycroft never came to visit. I knew him more through your stories until my mother disappeared.”

I glanced at Holmes, and to my surprise he seemed almost ashamed. I turned back to Miss Holmes. “I’m glad you could have some kind of connection. Please, if there’s anything you’d like to know about my stories, ask away. I’m sure I have a few stories you’d enjoy hearing about your brother.” I grinned at her, trying to convey the sincerity of my offer.

Fortunately, she seemed to understand, as she grinned at me in return. It was an unexpectedly wild grin, and suited her much better than her previous ladylike manners. I had the distinct impression that Miss Holmes was much less restrained than she had first appeared. “That sounds excellent, Doctor.”

Chapter Text

I’ve never believed in ghosts.

Living on the streets, there’s not much time for fancy imaginings. Them’s for the upper class lot, the ones who can sit around the fire at home on a stormy evening and tell each other stories, shivering with the thrill of the unknown. Out here, I shiver because I’m cold, and the only time I have a fire to sit by is when the boys and I manage to find a quiet enough spot no adults are coming in and muscling us away from it.

Working for Mr Holmes made my disbelief in ghosts even firmer. He doesn’t hold much with the supernatural, and the doctor, though he’s fond of a good ghost story, doesn’t either. As Mr Holmes has said before, he’s busy enough with regular work: no ghosts need apply.

Only once did I ever come close to changing my mind.

It was 1894, three years after Mr Holmes had died at that waterfall. I hadn’t spent much time at Baker Street after his death, but sometimes we Irregulars liked to look in on Mrs Hudson, and if she had any hot chocolate or biscuits around she’d give us some. She always looked happy to see us, but a little sad too.

I’d meant to knock on the door, but a shadow on the windowshade distracted me.

A chill crawled up my spine, even colder than the already freezing weather. The shadow looked like Mr Holmes. Either that, or someone had made an uncanny likeness.

As I said, I don’t believe in ghosts. It seemed unlikely that anyone would have made a likeness of Mr Holmes and stuck it in the window, but I remembered what Mr Holmes said about eliminating the impossible and took a step closer, trying to look for any details that could prove it was not a ghost. It did look remarkably like Mr Holmes, and I shivered, trying to remind myself that ghosts weren’t real.

The shadow turned, facing towards me. At the same time, a bitter wind blew through the street, sending my hat flying.

That broke my last nerve, and I ran. If Mr Holmes had unfinished business, I didn’t want to stick round and see what it was!

Chapter Text

Mycroft sipped delicately at his hot chocolate, eyes closing in pleasure at the Diogenes Club's well-chosen mix of spices and chocolate.

Today would be a busy day. A minor crisis had erupted in India, a scandal was rumoured amongst the personal staff of the Prime Minister, and worst of all, his brother had sent a message, asking to see him.

Mycroft did enjoy seeing his brother, relishing in the opportunity to hold a conversation with someone who shared his skill in deduction, but Sherlock invariably was accompanied by some mystery or danger that required far more movement than Mycroft was comfortable with. Since he'd met Dr Watson, as much as Mycroft appreciated his brother's friend, that tendency for adventure had only grown worse.

There was a sound at the door, disturbing the stillness of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft took another sip of his hot chocolate, savouring it while he still could.

His brother had arrived.

Chapter Text

Watson was tired. After several long days at his practice dealing with a sudden flu outbreak, he’d hoped that tonight he’d be able to rest, but when Holmes had asked for his company on an adventure, Watson couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He’d brought his gun in case the adventure turned dangerous, but at the last few hours had been more boring than anything else, waiting to see when a particular character would arrive at the house they were watching.

Despite his tiredness, the snow gently falling through the window was still enough to make him smile. “Doesn’t the snow look nice tonight, Holmes?”

Holmes didn’t look away for a moment, gaze intent on the house opposite. “By morning, the snow will be nothing more than grey slush, more suited to sending patients to your door with fall injuries than anything else.”

Watson didn’t take offence at his friend’s pessimism, knowing it came from frustration at the continued absence of the man they were watching for. He should have arrived over an hour ago, yet they continued to wait, Holmes unwilling to miss him if he was simply late.

Watson’s eyes fluttered closed, and he opened them again with an effort, casting his mind about for something to distract him from how much he wanted to be in bed. His eyes landed on the fog creeping in across the London sky. “No stars will be visible through that fog coming in.”

Holmes looked at the weather and scowled. “And neither will our man.” He jumped up, extending a hand to help Watson up, his old war wound having grown stiff with the cold. “Let’s go, Watson! We’ll have to return tomorrow night.”

Watson groaned internally at the thought of another long night, but knew he would come anyway. Perhaps tomorrow night he could persuade Holmes to play his violin, and finally get some sleep.

Chapter Text

Lestrade examined the streaks on the wall, humming thoughtfully.

The officer at the entrance, a fresh faced young man who’d only been on the job a few weeks, was watching him eagerly. “Should we call in Mr Holmes?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Not every mystery requires Mr Holmes, Officer Parks!” Lestrade scoffed. “We can do our jobs perfectly well without him.” He stood up, leaving his examination of the wall. “Besides, I already know what happened here. Chicken as a projectile weapon. Not the first time I’ve seen that.”

Officer Parks stared at him, wide eyed. “You already know what happened, Inspector? How?”

“Just takes a bit of good, solid police work. We’ve got witnesses who said the couple were arguing. The streaks on the wall say she threw the chicken at him, but he evaded it. He must have retaliated and thrown the salt cellar, hitting her in the head, killing her and leaving grains of salt in her hair. Open and shut case.”

Parks broke into a grin. “That’s amazing, Inspector! Not even Mr Holmes could have done better!”

“That’s just good police work!” Lestrade argued, but he couldn’t help puffing up slightly with pride. He understood better now why Holmes always liked having Dr Watson around!

Chapter Text

Winter was cruel that year.

It was even worse in the countryside, far away from the warm lights of civilisation, surrounded only by fields of unbroken white.

Mary shivered. She and John had come to this ramshackle cottage far from the city to meet Sherlock after he’d sent a message from here asking for John’s assistance on a base. Mary had invited herself along, not wanting to be so far from her husband with Christmas coming so soon, and Sherlock had welcomed her just as warmly as he did John - that was to say, with little open affection or surprise, but with a warmth she was slowly growing more to recognise.

Now, she was beginning to regret her insistence on coming. She was still very glad to have the time to spend with John, but the howling gale outside worried her, particularly as the cottage they were staying in tended to be draughty. The wind whistled through the shutters, making the flames in the fireplace flicker, and Mary shivered again, wondering when John and Sherlock would return.

The depths of winter were cruel and cold, but surely they could not be so cruel as to leave her all alone.

Chapter Text

“Holmes,” Watson groaned, having just been dragged from his warm bed out into the cold. “Must we do this today?”

“You must practice if you want to improve, Watson,” Holmes said sharply. “Even if you never reach my level, deduction is still a useful skill to have, and people passing by make for excellent practice material.”

Watson sighed, already resigned to the fact that he would not be able to go back to bed.

Holmes gestured to a man just coming out of a cab across the street. “He’ll make a puzzle for you.”

Watson looked at the man, then smiled slightly. “Very well. He’s around my age, also a doctor, and owns a current practice in Kensington, where he’s been for… around five years, I should say. He’s married, with two children, and a pet dog. Doesn’t like to travel, has a fondness for cigarettes, and,” he leaned forwards, as though trying to ascertain a particular detail, “has a tattoo on his left ankle.”

He turned to Holmes, who looked absolutely shocked, and grinned. “I think that’s enough improvement for today. I’m going back to bed!”

As he made his way back up the stairs, leaving Holmes staring after him, he vowed that next time he wrote to his old classmate James Bridgens, he’d thank him for coming to town today!

Chapter Text

"Chickens?" The Irregulars looked at each other in shock, then looked back up at Mrs Hudson. "Why would he give you chickens for Christmas? You can't eat that many chickens at once."

"I could!" piped up little Sam.

One of the older Irregulars tossed a scornful look. "I could, but you're too little."

"Am not!"

Wiggins shushed them both.

"They weren't for eating," Mrs Hudson explained, laughing. "We'd just gotten married, and were living out in the countryside, not far from where I grew up. Chickens can be very useful, you know, especially for a young couple. We ate the eggs, and I used the chickens feathers to stuff cushions. Not as comfortable as goose feathers, but we were glad for what we had."

"But you really didn't eat any of them?" Sam asked, eyes wide with surprise.

"Well, we ate some. But we wanted to use them for eggs, so we couldn't eat them all or they'd be gone. Eventually we got a rooster, and then there were enough new chickens we didn't need to worry, but to start with we were very careful. It's still been my favourite Christmas present." She sighed, thinking of those days long ago, when it was just her, her true love, and eight noisy chickens.

Chapter Text

“Watson, what are you looking for?”

I did not look at him, too busy lifting up piles of papers on my desk to search beneath them. “My watch, Holmes, have you seen it?”

“Your brother’s watch?”

“Yes, you have seen it then?”

I looked towards him in hope, but he met my look with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear fellow.”

I sank into my chair, distraught at losing an object I valued so highly. My brother and I had not got on, but the watch was my last remaining link to him or our father, and I valued those memories highly. Even more than that, that watch was the very thing Holmes and I were discussing when we first met my dear Mary, now gone for several years. I had other mementos of her, of course, but the watch still held a special place in my heart.

Holmes watched me, sharp eyes noting my distress at the loss. As much as I knew the attention came from the kind heart Holmes rarely showed, at that moment, it felt suffocating. Holmes had never met my brother, and I rarely talked about him; he could not share in all the memories lost with the watch. Even the memories of Mary, though she and Holmes had become quite good friends, he could not know them all.

Sinking into a gloom more characteristic of my friend than myself, I barely noticed Mrs Hudson entering the room. “Is something wrong, doctor?” She inquired.

I roused myself enough to smile weakly at her. “Just a loss of a watch, Mrs Hudson, and of memories.”

“Not the battered old pocket watch you keep on your desk?”

I sat upright, suddenly alert. “You’ve seen it?”

“Mrs Hudson seems to have not only seen it, but was the one to take it in the first place,” Holmes said. “Where is the watch now?”

Mrs Hudson looked distraught. “I’m so sorry, Dr Watson! I saw it out on your desk and sent it away to be cleaned as a birthday surprise for you. They told me it should be back on Monday.”

I laughed at the sudden relief of knowing the watch was safe. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Knowing my watch is safe and will be returned is all that I wanted.”

Chapter Text

Holmes looked up from the telegram, clearly delighted. "A case, Watson, and it looks to be a most fascinating one!" He bounded out of his chair and over to the door, only stopping long enough to grab his coat, not even bothering to put it on. "Come along, Watson! I'll explain it all on the way!"

I admit I was disappointed at the idea of being out on the cold streets of London on New Year's Eve, rather than being at a party with friends or even just comfortably at home with Holmes, but I did not let my disappointment stop me. I knew Holmes cared little for such occasions, and accompanying him in a case was one of my greatest pleasures. "I'll grab my coat and be right behind you."

Several hours later found us down at the docks, searching for a man who had kidnapped his employer's young child, a connection only discovered when Holmes had observed the faint streaks of plum jam on the mantlepiece and the faintest imprint of a shoe at the servant's door. We did not believe he would harm the child, but the child's parents were very anxious to have him returned, and so, at nearly midnight on New Year's Eve, we were far from home and busily searching for any trace of man or child.

As we searched, I kept a keen eye on my watch. Even if I was doing nothing in particular to celebrate it, I still wanted to mark the moment to say goodbye to the old year and welcome in a new one.

I watched the seconds hand tick around for the final minute of the year, counting under my breath, "Five, four, three, two, one, and a happy new year."

Holmes appeared at my side and I stumbled, caught by surprise. "Did you see something, Watson?"

"No, just counting off the seconds." His expression hastened me to explain, "It's just turned midnight, Holmes. Happy New Year."

"Of course." He did not return the felicitations, and I did not expect him to. I did expect we would return to searching, but he hesitated. "Did you have plans, Watson?"

"Nothing that couldn't be missed." He still looked slightly discomfited, and the rare show of emotion brought an immediate burst of fondness to my heart. I smiled at him and said, "They do say you should start the year as you mean to continue it, and I can't think of anything I'd rather do more than spend the rest of the year here in London with you."

Chapter Text

“What’s happening?” The screams rose up from around the carriage as it jerked, then began to roll backwards.

“John, can you see anything?”

I pulled Mary closer to my side. “I think the carriage has come loose from the train,” I told her, willing my voice not to tremble. “We’re going back down the slope.”

The carriage began to roll faster, the thump of the railway ties coming with increasing frequency. The screams were louder now. The door to our compartment slammed open with the force of the train’s passage, and I stood to close it, but stumbled.

“John!” Mary cried.

“I’m alright, Mary.” I reached out and closed the door, then returned to her side, keeping my balance as best as I could. “We’ll have to stop soon, we weren’t going up for that long.” Mary’s hand snuck into mine, and I held it tightly. This was not what I had hoped our honeymoon would be like!

The train slowed a few minutes later, all of which were spent with Mary’s hand clasped in mine, both of us drawing comfort from the other’s presence. It eventually slowed to a stop, and our hands released as we grabbed each other in a tight embrace.

Mary mumbled something, and I pulled back far enough to ask her, “What was that, darling?”

She looked at me and laughed, and I could see the relief sparkling in her eyes. “I was just saying it's a mystery how the carriage ran away, and wondered how it would suit your friend Mr Holmes!”

Chapter Text

“Holmes, have you seen what’s in the paper this morning?” I flicked the newspaper up to read out the article that had caught my attention. “ ‘The Diogenes Club, a gentleman’s club for those gentleman who prefer silence over all else, was set aflame last night after an arsonist attacked. The fire lasted seven hours before firemen could put it out, with four members injured and two casualties. The arsonist has not yet been found.’ ” I let the paper fall to my lap. “That’s your brother’s club, is it not?”

Holmes quickly grabbed the paper, scanning for the article. “Yes, it is.” He read the article with furrowed brow, slowly sitting down in his chair.

“I’m sure someone would have come tell you if something had happened,” I tried to reassure him, but he hardly seemed to hear. Even as I finished my breakfast and got out my pen and notebook, foregoing my usual volunteering at the charity hospital until we had more news, Holmes sat pensively in his chair, alternately rereading the article and staring at the doorway as though waiting for someone to arrive.

It was not until midday that we had a visitor. The sound of boots on the stairs had us both sitting upright, exchanging nervous glances. Although I had known Mycroft some years at that point, I must confess my worry was more for Holmes’ reaction to the news than what the news would be. I remembered the pain of losing my own brother, and would never wish my friend to suffer the same.

The man who came through the door was not a police officer, as I had secretly feared, nor anyone I recognised. He was perfectly nondescript, to such a degree it surely must have been planned. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he said, tipping his hat politely. He held up a letter. “I have a message from Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

Holmes nearly snatched the letter out of his hand, opening it and skimming through it with all haste. I was scarcely less impatient, but did my best to reign it in, relieved that at least Mycroft was alive and in well enough shape to be writing letters.

Holmes looked over at me, a broad grin lighting up his face. “Mycroft was not at the club last night, he had already gone home. And now he wants us on the case!”

I answered my friend’s grin with my own. “I’m sure I already know your answer.”

Chapter Text

"The stars are amazing up here, Holmes." Watson turned away from his telescope and laughed. "Not that you care, I'm sure, but I enjoy seeing so many constellations in the sky. The skies over London are never this bright."

"My knowledge of astronomy may be nil, but I do still enjoy the view, Watson." His eyes twinkled with the shared joke. "You are always welcome to bring your telescope up here."

"Thank you, Holmes." Watson turned back to his telescope, staring up at the stars above. Once, they'd brought back memories of his time in Afghanistan, and the stark beauty of the stars in the desert sky. Now, it made him think of other nights like this, in the small country cottage Holmes had retired to, and the thought was always enough to make him smile.

Chapter Text

Holmes paced back and forth, muttering furiously. Watson had been missing all day, and Holmes could find no trace of him. Normally, this would not be a matter of concern, but Holmes was currently in the middle of a rather dangerous case, and was afraid the men he was trying to track down may have done something to harm Watson.

He paced back towards Watson's desk, keen grey eyes scanning the contents. Everything was as usual, with the exception of a single petal of what looked to be a marigold.

An idea struck him, and he turned to his shelf, rifling through for a small book he had picked up on a previous case. He looked through for the correct entry, and took a sharp breath. Marigolds, in the old flower language, could mean creativity and passion, or they could mean cruelty, jealousy, and grief. If someone had taken Watson and left these as a sign, that could only be a bad thing.

His only relief was that he could see no impressions on the carpet or unusual scents to suggest someone had been in the room, but that alone was not enough to be sure it hadn't happened. An absence of something was not enough to rule out its existence.

He heard clomping footsteps on the stair, and soon Lestrade came into the room. "Any progress, Holmes?"

"I fear they may have escalated beyond my suspicions." Lestrade didn't seem to understand, so he spoke more plainly. "Watson is missing."

Lestrade's eyes glanced over Watson's desk, and settled on the petal Holmes had been examining earlier. "Have you checked Mary's grave?" He looked back at Holmes. "It's the anniversary, after all."

"No," Holmes said quietly, his pacing stilling. He had known Mary died, but he had not been there to know the date it happened, and Watson had not told him. "I will send someone to check. Thank you, Lestrade."

"Not often I get to solve a case before the great detective." Lestrade smiled sadly. "Don't bother sending someone. I'll go myself."

Chapter Text

"Did you see in the paper about the new child detective who found Lady Abgnale's diamond?" Watson asked Holmes as they sat in the sitting room after breakfast. Watson was perusing the newspaper while Holmes smoked his pipe, both of them enjoying the quiet morning. "Even you hadn't found an answer for that one."

Holmes continued smoking, unperturbed. "Lady Abgnale did not ask for my assistance, and without access to her house I did not have enough information to find the diamond."

"This boy didn't have access either," Watson said, reading on. "Apparently he was passing the house on the day of the robbery, and saw something curious, though the article is frustratingly unclear as to what."

"Newspapers are far too often focused on sensationalism rather than journalism these days," Holmes remarked.

Watson didn't respond, instead continuing to read, "When asked how he'd figured out where the diamond was, he said–" Watson put down the paper and smiled at Holmes. "He said he used deduction, like his hero, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes smiled slightly in return. "As I've said before, Watson, my methods are simple. Apparently, so simple that even a child can use them."

Chapter Text

My eye caught on some papers on my friend's desk. It was not the content of the letters that occupied my attention. Indeed, I scarcely noticed what the letters were about. Far more importantly were the handwriting the letters were written in – the handwriting of my dear wife Mary, dead for just slightly over a year.

"Holmes," I asked, a burst of hope rising in my chest, "where did you get those letters?" I had thought I had found all correspondence between my wife and Holmes when sorting through the personal effects of each after their deaths, but perhaps Holmes had carried them with him while he was away. Any word that Mary penned would be something for me to value, another piece of her that could carry on even after her own death.

The next moment, my hopes were dashed. "Ah, you noticed!" Holmes said delightedly. "I have been experimenting with different styles of handwriting, and Mary's made for a quite beautiful example. Tell me, how accurate is it?"

Unable to answer, I sank into my chair with a cry, my heart aching as if I had lost Mary for a second time. I had known Holmes had not taken anything with him after Reichenbach, that he had not even expected to survive, yet I had let myself be carried away on a dream. Mary was gone, and however well Holmes copied her handwriting, it could never be her words.

Chapter Text

Watson snuck into Holmes' bedroom, giggling slightly. It was childish, that was certain, but after one of Holmes' experiments gone wrong had turned his hair bright red the day he was due to speak at a medical conference, Watson felt he deserved a little revenge.

Holmes was out investigating something for a case, and, as he had gone in disguise, Watson had not accompanied him. Instead, Watson had taken advantage of the excellent opportunity and had his revenge.

When Holmes returned some hours later, Watson was at his desk, writing away busily at his newest story. He didn't given in to the temptation to look up as Holmes went into his room, knowing Holmes would be sure to spot any signs of guilt.

Only moments later, Holmes reappeared in the sitting room, looking at Watson suspiciously. "Have you seen my magnifying glass?"

Watson still didn't look up, afraid his expression would give everything away. "Not recently. Has something happened to it?"

"It's not on my dresser where it was earlier. Have you moved it? I know you've been in there."

"Just to get a book." He held up the book he had grabbed earlier, knowing Holmes would deduce his presence in the room. "I needed it as a reference."

Holmes still looked suspicious, but disappeared back into his room. Soon after, sounds of things being moved came from the room as Holmes tried to find his misplaced magnifying glass.

Watson pushed away his writing and grinned widely, enjoying how he had befuddled the great detective. He knew Holmes would find the magnifying glass soon enough, but for now, Watson sat back, and enjoyed the Christmas tree's fine new ornament.

Chapter Text

Holmes sat back in his chair, placing his silverware by the side of his plate. He had eaten uncharacteristically heartily, as his clean plate showed. "The dinner was delicious, my dear brother, but what is the occasion that caused you to invite Watson and myself to join you for dinner?"

Mycroft took a sip of wine, and calmly announced, "I'm getting married."

Holmes' silverware clattered as he dropped it. Watson, taking his own sip of wine, spluttered.

"Married?" Holmes asked, astounded. "To who? And why?"

"To a longtime friend of mine. She suggested it, and I had no cause to disagree, so I agreed and proposed to her immediately."

Watson twisted his own wedding ring, the one he still wore even years after Mary's death, and asked, "Do you mean to say you do not love her?"

Holmes was visibly uncomfortable with the turn towards the emotional, but Mycroft maintained his equanimity. "I have no particular affection towards her, but I have no objection either, and her logic was quite unassailable."

"Does the young lady know you don't return her feelings?" Watson persisted.

"Oh, yes. She maintains that it does not bother her, and though she hopes such affection will grow in time, she wishes to be my wife regardless."

"And her wish has no connection to the advantages that could come from being the wife of a rather important government official?" This came from Holmes, grey eyes sharp as he turned the conversation back towards the more familiar concepts of motivations and power.

Mycroft cast his brother a scornful look. "You should know better than to ever think I would fall for such an elementary scheme, Sherlock. My fiancée, though quite aware of the advantages, has no need of them. She is herself in a position of some influence. Now, have you finished with your interrogation, so we can have dessert?"

Holmes and Watson were unable to think of a response.

Watson was the first to rally, giving Mycroft a rueful smile and saying, "I can't say I understand, but congratulations on your engagement. I hope you're both very happy." He lifted a glass to Mycroft.

Holmes lifted his as well. "I look forward to meeting my sister-in-law."

Finally, Mycroft lifted his as well, and the clinking of glasses rang out across the table.

Chapter Text

"What have we got here?"

I looked up at the strange creatures staring down at me. They were of the big, dangerous type, the ones that like to take the furs of other animals and wear them because they don't have their own, and they don't just hibernate instead like we sensible amphibians.

I should have been hibernating already, but one of the big creatures had dropped something into my hole earlier, waking me up from my nap. Now, the big unnatural animals that ate the fur-wearing creatures and spat them out later were running right over my little hole and I couldn't get back to sleep, especially while the cold round thing was still on top of me.

I croaked at the creatures, telling them to go away. Then I snuggled further into my little hole. Avoiding the round thing as best I could. It wasn't very comfortable.

"Do you see it down there, Watson?"

"I don't believe it, Holmes! Lady Billington's diamond, right where you said it would be! How did you know the thief dropped it here?"

"Elementary, Watson. The mud on his trousers was unique to this particular part of London, and was spattered in a way that could only have come from passing by a busy street. It was simply a matter of coming to this part of the street, and looking for the hole he would have chosen."

"And you knew it would be this one? You do amaze me, Holmes."

I croaked again as one of the creatures extended its paw towards me. Fortunately, it didn't touch me, just removed the round thing. Finally, I would be able to sleep!

As I drifted off, I heard the taller creature say to the other, "Now let us return to Lady Billington's house, and leave our little friend to his winter sleep."

Chapter Text

"John, isn't it time to carve the turkey?"

"Not yet, Mary, not all our guests have arrived."

"John, if you don't carve it soon, it will go cold."

"Just give it a few minutes more."

"Alright, John. Just a few minutes."

Knock. Knock.

"Lestrade! And Beth! I'm so glad you could make it!"

"Thank you for inviting us, Mary! The children are already at my mother's, but with my husband here still working until this afternoon, and now all this snow, we won't be able to get there until tomorrow. I'm so glad you offered for us to have our Christmas dinner here with you!"

"Of course! Please, come in and sit down. John will cut the turkey soon, we're just waiting on a few more guests."

Exeunt.

Knock. Knock.

"Mrs Hudson, come in! Mary and I have been waiting on you."

"I hope you haven't been waiting too long! I know how hard it can be, spending all that time cooking the turkey, then a guest is late and all that efforts is wasted. I'd hate to be the reason for a cold turkey."

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, Mary's done an excellent job with the turkey, and I'll be carving it soon."

"Really, Martha, you're not even the last guest to arrive. Please, go in and have a seat."

"Well, if you're sure, dear."

Exit.

"You really will need to carve that turkey soon, sweetheart."

"I know, Mary. I know. I just–"

"He probably had a case, and couldn't send a message. He'd be here if he could."

"This would be my first Christmas without him as long as we've known each other."

"We can wait a while longer. The guests won't mind."

A sigh. "...no, you're probably right. If he has a case, he won't be coming. Let's go carve the turkey."

Knock. Knock.

"Holmes!"

"Hello, Watson, Mary. My apologies for my tardiness, there was an urgent matter to attend to. I will need to be off immediately after dinner, a case is afoot."

"Are you sure it can wait until after dinner, then, Sherlock?"

"Do you need me to come with you, Holmes?"

"No, Watson, it's not dangerous, and yes, it can wait. After all," a smile, "I wouldn't want to miss you carving the turkey."

Chapter Text

"John, what have you got there?"

I started guiltily, instinctively putting the hat behind my back. "Nothing, Mary dear."

My wife's knowing smile made me blush, and I brought out the hat to show her. "I'm just trying to practice my deduction skills. I'll never be as good as Holmes, I know, but I would like to not look such a fool next to him."

Mary sat beside me and kissed me on the cheek. "You know you're not a fool, John, even if you sometimes write yourself that way. Show me what you can do."

"Alright, but it won't be as good as Holmes," I warned her. "This was a hat left in the waiting room of my practice today. I know it belongs to an older gentleman, because the style is out of fashion by several years. He had a wife at some point, as there are some signs of mending around the brim, but there are also some tears left untended, so he doesn't have a wife anymore. I can also say his hair is black, but slowly turning grey, but that's all." I slumped back in my chair, staring at the hat. "Holmes would be able to say what happened to his wife, how much of his hair turned grey, what he did for a living, where he lived, and probably his favourite colour."

"Whereas I could only have told you that the hat wasn't the current style! John, you underestimate yourself." Mary placed a hand over mine, then winced, drawing it back.

"Mary, what happened?" I took her hand in mine, gently moving her wrist around. "You sprained your wrist this afternoon. Was it the snow on the steps? I told the maid to sweep them this morning, but she must have forgotten."

"Yes, it was the steps!" Mary laughed. "You're comparing your deduction skills against Sherlock's, my darling, but when it comes to medical matters, you're already excellent."

Chapter Text

"Now, Watson, don't you think that man looks like a sailor?"

"Nonsense! As a former soldier yourself, doctor, you'd surely recognise a fellow military man when you saw one. The man works on the docks, but he's not a sailor. A tug boat pilot at most."

Despite both Holmes brothers having ostensibly directed their comments at me, neither seemed to care to listen to my opinion on the matter. If they had, I would have told them I could see no sign of him being a sailor, and though I admired their abilities, I had no wish to take part in their game and become arbitrator between two men who really should know better. Instead, they carried on arguing, talking over any attempt I made to speak.

"Surely you cannot think that hair to be natural, Sherlock! It has clearly been dyed, and if we were any closer, we would be able to see the evidence at his roots. Naturally blonde, most likely, for the red dye to have taken so well."

"I assure, Mycroft, that shade of red is entirely possible to come by naturally! One of my clients had hair in just such a shade, as Watson can attest."

Both Holmeses turned to look at me expectantly.

I shook my head emphatically. "You figure it out. I'm NOT getting involved."

Chapter Text

"Don't even try it."

Holmes turned back to look at me.

"It's a labyrinth, Holmes. Even you wouldn't be able to get us through there safely."

"Do you have a better idea?" Holmes snapped, but I took no offence. I knew he was frustrated that our quarry seemed to be on the verge of escaping. We'd been tracking Harry Chambers for several days, and just when we were on the cusp of finding him, he had disappeared into the depths of the labyrinth.

"He may have no better idea of how to move through the labyrinth than we do," I suggested. "Perhaps we should simply wait him out."

Holmes shook his head. "If he did not know how to navigate the labyrinth, he would not have entered it. He must know the way through."

"For a labyrinth as impenetrable as this, there must be some way to indicate safe passage." I stepped closer, running my hands along the walls. Near the ground, so low I only noticed it because I had been searching, I found a rounded engraving, neat lines bound in a circle like a ball of string. One line was leading away, continuing deeper into the maze.

The sight struck an old memory, and I turned back to Holmes with a grin. "I know the way through the labyrinth. We simply follow the ball of string."

Chapter Text

"John, why don't you ever include anything about your past in your stories in the Strand?"

"I've talked about Afghanistan before." His eyes darkened in a familiar way, and he rubbed absently at his shoulder where his old war wound lay.

Mary diverted the conversation before he could be drawn into those old memories. She knew it was still a difficult subject for him, and she'd been woken before by his nightmares about it. She'd never told him, but very soon after their marriage she'd gone to Holmes, asking him if there was anything that had helped John in the past. It was one of the first real conversations they'd ever had. "What about before that?"

His expression cleared, turning into something more wistful. "Nothing particularly remarkable. Of course, Harry and I considered our adventures remarkable at the time, but we were just two boys in a small village, playing games out of want for anything better to do. He was older, but I was the one who came up with all the adventures, spinning it out into a story. Once we got half the village involved, helping us hunt for treasure!"

Mary smiled, glad to see the dark mood had been warded away. "Why didn't you become a writer, rather than a doctor?"

Watson sighed. "My family was struggling, and I knew I'd need to make my own way in the world. I liked medicine and healing, and the army would pay for me to be a doctor, not a writer. So I put my ideas of becoming a writer aside as a childhood dream, and signed up to the army." He took Mary's hand in his own, rubbing his fingers across the back of it. "So you see, not really remarkable enough for the Strand's readers."

Mary bestowed a kiss on his forehead. "This reader will always find you remarkable enough."

Chapter Text

"Holmes!" I rushed down the stairs from my bedroom at the sound of the great crash and sudden cry that had come from the lower stairs. Holmes had been doing a favour for Mrs Hudson by helping her decorate her Christmas tree,

I came to the top of the lower stairs and stopped in shock. Somehow, Holmes had managed to tangle something around his leg and then tripped on it, and was now hanging upside down off the stairway bannister. On first inspection, the situation seemed impossible, yet it had clearly happened. Whatever Holmes likes to say about ruling out the impossible, it doesn't do much good when the evidence insists otherwise!

"Holmes," I asked, striding over to where he was trapped, "how did you manage this?"

He scowled furiously, bending at an awkward angle to look directly at me. "These ribbons are a menace. Next year, we should keep them off the tree entirely."

I leaned around Holmes to examine where his leg was tangled, and once I was out of his sight, I was unable to hide a smile. As ridiculous as it was, he didn't seem hurt, and I was rather enjoying seeing my friend in such an undignified position.

"It doesn't look very easy to untangle," I told him, tugging at the ribbon. "For a ribbon, it's surprisingly sturdy. I may have to cut it."

"Do what's necessary, Watson, just get me off here."

"Alright, Holmes, but be warned, this is likely going to hurt." I went back into the sitting room and pulled a knife from my desk drawer, then returned to the stairway and began sawing at the ribbon. It resisted at first, the tension of Holmes' weight making it difficult to cut, but then it gave way, tearing apart almost before my knife could cut it. "Look out, Holmes!"

I heard a crash, and peered over the bannister to see Holmes looking up at me, rubbing his head. "Next time, doctor, I would appreciate more warning."

With such a perfect opening, I couldn't resist asking, "Oh, so there's going to be a next time?"

Chapter Text

"Dr Watson?" Lestrade rapped on the door.

The door didn't open.

Lestrade rapped again, harder this time. "Dr Watson, I know you're home."

The door remained closed.

Lestrade let his closed fist rest on the door. "Doctor – John, I know you're still grieving Mary, but you shouldn't be alone on Christmas. Please, come have Christmas with me and Beth and the kids." He tried a smile, hoping it would carry through in his voice. "Let us return the favour for all the times you and Mary looked after our kids."

He heard the muffled sound of a choked sob through the door, and winced at his tactlessness. He'd forgotten the secret Beth had shared with him, the secret that had brought more joy to Watson than he'd seen since Holmes had died.

He tried one last ditch effort. "Please, doctor, come home with me for Christmas. You know Mary wouldn't have wanted you to be alone."

He waited, hoping to hear the sound of shuffling footsteps, creaking hinges, anything at all to indicate Watson had listened and would come with him, but there was nothing.

He sighed. Beth wouldn't like it, but you couldn't help a man who didn't want to be helped.

Chapter Text

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Mary beamed. She held out a neatly wrapped present in both gloved hands.

Holmes didn't know how to react. For once, he had not expected this in the slightest. Although he and Mary had grown closer since her marriage to Watson, as was inevitable when they both held the same person highest in their hearts, he had not expected this.

Mary was starting to look confused, and perhaps even slightly hurt, so he took the present from her. "I didn't get you anything," he began to say, but she quickly shook her head.

"It's not about getting, Sherlock. It's about giving. I saw this and thought of you, and so I wanted you to have it." Her smile grew again. "I hope you won't mind if I ask you to open it now, rather than on Christmas! I'm very excited to know what you think, and a little nervous as well."

Holmes typically abided by Christmas traditions purely for Watson's enjoyment of them, and therefore saw no problem in opening a present early at the wish of Watson's wife. He tore eagerly into the wrapping paper, pushing aside the brightly coloured ribbon Mary had used, and found a hand knitted scarf in a fetching shade of blue.

"I noticed you didn't have one, and last time you came to tea you looked cold. So I made you one." Her face fell slightly. "I do hope you like the colour. I thought it would suit you, but I don't see you wear much colour so I don't know which you like."

Holmes ran his fingers across the scarf, instinctively deducing the quality of the wool and time that had gone into it. This was no mere whim, but a present that had been laboured over in the firelight of many a long evening. "I do like the colour," he said in awkward sincerity. "Thank you, Mary. I'll wear it often."

Her smile bloomed back into shining delight. "I'm glad! Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

He returned her smile with equal warmth, vowing next year, he'd find a way to give back to this bright and generous woman who loved his best friend as much as he did. "Merry Christmas, Mary."

Chapter Text

As I have told Watson before, our agency is one firmly planted on the ground. Ghosts need not apply.

On rare occasions, however, clients bring matters intriguing enough that I am willing to forego my usual dismissal and investigate further. The matter of Mrs Chatterson was one such affair.

Watson was unable to accompany me on this case, remaining behind in London as he recovered from an illness. I would not have left him, but he was insistent that I take the case, assuring me that he was on the road to recovery and would prefer I took the case and brought back the tale to him than defer the case until he had fully recovered.

I do not have Watson's gift for storytelling, therefore I will stick to the plain facts of the case. Mrs Chatterson was convinced her manor was haunted by her late husband, and bid me come to find his favourite watch, long since missing, and without which she was convinced he could not rest.

The task seemed deceptively simple, but when I arrived, it proved anything but. Mrs Chatterson was overly friendly, offering me access to the entire grounds, making a point that her own chambers were included in that. I politely ignored her insinuations, focusing my search on the late master's bedroom, and the shack on the grounds that he had used for hunting.

The former of these was at first very promising, cluttered as it was with memorabilia of all kinds. It was here I missed my Watson most, as Mrs Chatterson was insistent on telling me about the stories behind all the memorabilia stored in the room. Watson would have been able to listen to all her stories, imparting comfort where needed, and gently bringing out the ones relevant to the deceased Mr Chatterson. I did not have his patience, and so used my deductive skills instead, finding where the watch could have gone unseen for so long.

The search took many hours, and by the time I was confident the watch was not in the bedchamber, night had fallen, and I took up Mrs Chatterson's invitation to spend the night.

I did not believe in ghosts before spending the night in that manor. I still do not now. Yet I must confess, something appeared to me in my room that night, leading me out of the house and into the garden, pointing an eerily glowing finger at a particular patch of radishes. It may have been a servant afraid to confess their knowledge in any other way, or Mrs Chatterson's younger brother, who was staying in the house at the time, playing a prank on an unsuspecting guest. Either explanation is far more likely than the existence of a ghost, though I know Watson will argue otherwise.

The next morning, I went out to that patch of radishes, and found the watch buried in the soil. Mrs Chatterson was overjoyed, and was rather uncomfortably effusive in her praise. I returned to London on the next train and spent most of the trip writing my accounting of events, ready to tell Watson once I was home.

Chapter Text

Wiggins felt a small tugging on his sleeve. He looked down into the face of their newest, and so far quietest, Irregular, Frankie. "Will you have a snowball fight with me?" the boy whispered.

"Me? Not Jamie, or Greta?" Wiggins asked. Jamie and Greta were very enthusiastic snowball fighters, and never turned down the opportunity to pummel each other with snowballs, happily co-opting any willing participant.

Frankie shook his head, dark hair falling in front of his eyes. "They're loud. And like snowball fights a lot. I don't know if I like them yet."

"Haven't you ever been in a snowball fight before?" Some of Wiggins' incredulity must have bled through into his tone, because Frankie just shook his head again, shoulders drooping.

Well, that clearly couldn't stand. "Alright, let's have a snowball fight. Just a little one," he hastily promised, taking note of Frankie's fearful expression. "Just to see if you like it. I'll show you how."

Leaning down, he picked up a handful of show, forming it into a ball shape. He could feel Frankie's wide-eyed gaze on him, and made sure to move slowly so the younger boy could see what he was doing. When he judged the ball to be sufficiently round, he threw it gently at Frankie. "See? Snowball fight."

"Snowball fight?" Greta appeared out of nowhere, immediately repeating the call at the top of her lungs. "Snowball fight!"

Within seconds, Irregulars were everywhere, flinging snowballs with abandon and very little regard for Wiggins and Frankie huddled in their midst. From his huddled position, Wiggins looked over at Frankie. "You alright?"

To his surprise, Frankie gave him a little smile. "Can you show me again? I want to be on your side."

Chapter Text

"Watson, I had the strangest dream..."

I barely glanced up as Holmes came wandering into the sitting room, still shrugging into his dressing gown. He'd finished his latest case just the day before, and was still in the state of satisfied contentment he often had after a successful case, not yet drawn into the dark pits of idleness and ill humour.

"I dreamt I was in London, at Scotland Yard, and a tiger came towards me and told me to follow it. I don't know why, but I did, and it took me into a battle, with guns firing all around. There were bodies everywhere, including many people we know, but–" His sharp eyes cut towards me. "You aren't listening."

"You had a dream about a tiger and a battle. I am listening, just..." Lost for the right words to explain, I gestured towards the window, where the rain was pouring down, as it had been since the early morning. "Perhaps the guns in your dream came from the rain?" I asked, trying to show my interest, even though I truly felt far from it.

Holmes was not fooled. "The storm is causing you pain because of your old war wounds."

"Yes," I had to admit, "but I am still happy to listen to you."

Holmes' eyes softened. "Watson, you are in pain. I can do without idle conversation for an afternoon. Rest."

I gave my friend a grateful smile and closed my eyes. Soon, I heard the sounds of Holmes' violin. The pain was still as terrible as when I had first awoken in the early hours, but at least now, I had someone to distract me.

Chapter Text

The young woman knocked on the doorframe, then entered the room without waiting for an invitation. "You're Mr Sherlock Holmes, ain't you?"

"Yes," my friend answered. Unlike myself, who had been distracted with a new novel, he had clearly heard her footsteps on the stairs and was not surprised by our sudden guest.

"I'm Bette, a friend of Sadie. You remember her, doctor." Her frank brown eyes fixed on me. "She said you were nice to her, and didn't even try any funny business. She was just a dollymop, not a proper harlot like me, but she said you didn't even ask."

I did remember Sadie. I had met her in one of the clinics I volunteered at in the poorer part of town, where she had come in with a mysterious stomachache. She was very quiet, saying only that a friend had insisted she come, and answering my questions in a whisper.

Holmes took her in with a single glance, and I knew that from that glance he had likely learned more about Bette than I would in an hour's conversation. "Sadie is dead, and you believe she was murdered," he said.

Bette grinned, her yellowed teeth flashing. "Sadie said you were s'posed to be able to see things no one should be able to. Yeah, I do. I think she was poisoned."

"Are you sure it was not a disease?" I asked. "There are many common to women who..." I hesitated, as I did not know what description would be most appropriate to a young woman like Bette, "are in your profession."

"You can say it like you see it, doc. Some of the girls prefer being called night flowers, but I'm honest enough to admit I'm a harlot, and I ain't gonna pretend I'm ashamed of what I do," Bette said fiercely. "I know it ain't respectable, but at least I earn my own money for it. And no, it weren't a disease. Sadie was murdered."

I believed her. Despite her ragged clothes and unwashed hair, she spoke with such conviction I could not help but believe. My own memories of Sadie convinced me further, as she had not seemed to be suffering from anything beyond the mysterious stomachache when I had seen her not two weeks ago, and there were many poisons that could have caused the stomachache.

Apparently seeing she had me convinced, she looked at Holmes. "Please, Mr Holmes. Sadie deserved better, and the coppers don't care." She snorted. "Half of them are scared we'll mention them, and the other half think it's better we're dead than we keep working."

Holmes relaxed back against the chair, closing his eyes ne steeling his fingers in front of him, and I knew he would accept her request. "Tell me about the case."

Bette looked at me, clearly unsure, and I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile. Turning back to Holmes, she started to speak.

Chapter Text

Holmes glanced over at his companion, letting his violin playing falter. "You are troubled, Watson. Why?"

"You can't already tell?" Watson asked with a wry chuckle that quickly slipped back into gloominess.

"Insufficient data," Holmes said smoothly. "You haven't gone near your chequebook, so it's not to do with money; no letters have arrived today, so no unexpected bad news; and forgive my indelicacy, my dear friend, but I know your anniversaries with Mary are not for several months."

"As always, Holmes, you are correct on all counts." This time Watson's smile, though still as momentary, was slightly more real. He signed and continued, "It's not money or an anniversary, and though I did receive some unexpected news, it was with yesterday's post, and not so much bad as it was unusual."

Holmes laid his violin back in its case and came to sit in his armchair beside Watson's. "If I can offer any assistance, you know you only need ask."

"There's no deductions to be made, just a decision, and I would be grateful if you could give your honest opinion."

Holmes did not respond, and anyone who did not know him well might have thought he had grown bored of the topic, resting back in his chair with eyes closed. Watson, after twenty years of friendship, easily recognised the position as Holmes being ready to listen to a new case, and his heart was warmed by the sight.

He laid out the facts. "As far as I was aware, my brother, who you might remember died many years ago, had no children. Yet in yesterday's post I received a letter from a young woman who says she is his daughter, and thus my niece. She says she found my name in some old family papers, and hopes I can come to Scotland so we can meet in person. I have no reason not to believe her, but I would so dearly wish her story is true I am afraid it's affecting my judgement."

"May I see the letter?"

Watson handed it over, already well worn from the time he had spent poring over it.

Holmes examined it for a few long moments, then got up, retrieved a magnifying glass from his desk, and examined it further. Finally, he set the letter down in his lap. "Do you believe her story?"

Watson hesitated, then shook his head. "I badly want it to be true, and have no reason to think otherwise, but my instincts disagree."

"Even without deductive skill, Watson, you have a gift for divining the truth of a matter. The girl has hidden it well, but from what you have told me of your brother this could not possibly have come from any child of his." Holmes gave his friend a sympathetic look as he handed back the letter.

Watson took the letter with him, not bothering to question Holmes' conclusion. He knew better than most that Holmes although Holmes was rarely wrong, it did still happen, but his instincts agreed there was something not quite right about the letter. "Thank you, Holmes."

Holmes merely nodded his acceptance, and returned to his violin-playing. He did, however, choose one of Watson's favourites to play next; neither man would admit it, but it reminded them both that family came from more than blood.

Chapter Text

“Dr Watson?”

I looked up as the woman entered my practice, hand raised politely to knock on the doorframe. She was several years older than me, but still quite handsome, with soft brown eyes and hair artfully arranged. Her dress was just as cleverly devised, taking fullest advantage of her unusual height, the woman being not much shorter than myself.

“I’m afraid I am just about to close for the day, so unless it is something particularly pressing, you may need to return in the morning.”

Her smile widened. “This will only take a moment, doctor. I’m not really here for a consultation.”

My eyebrows raised, and I examined the woman more closely. It was rare, but there had been occasions where people wanting Holmes’ services came to me first, often out of some belief that he would be more likely to help them if I pled their case. It never worked, as Holmes took all his cases at his own discretion, and I told as much to anyone who tried it.

This woman, however, did not show the usual nervousness and agitated manner of someone looking for Holmes. She seemed instead quite relaxed, hands clasped loosely around her purse with the casual demeanour of one on a social visit.

If anything, she reminded me more of the man who had once come to my practice to deliver a veiled threat connected to the case Holmes had been pursuing. Just like the woman currently in my office, that man had been quite self-possessed, coolly confident in his task and with no evidence of nerves or doubt. He believed I could be used as a mere messenger, useful only in passing his threat along to Holmes – he was wrong, but that is a story for another day.

This woman had the same self-confidence, yet not the same air of malice. Taking a risk, I gestures toward the chair in front of my desk. “Please, take a seat. I can spare a few moments for you before I must leave.”

“Thank you, Dr Watson.” Her skirts gently fell around her as she sat. “We have not met before, but soon we are to be quite closely related, and I wanted to meet you before then.” She flushed slightly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you are less intimidating than Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

I took no offence, because I could not but agree. Holmes’ natural reserve and discomfort with emotion easily came across as callousness, whereas as a doctor, I had worked hard to be approachable to people from all walks of life. Despite my occasional doubts of Holmes’ affection, or his irritation with my optimism, overall, it suited us well.

It was the other part of her statement that caught my attention. “Closely related? How do you mean?” I had no living family, and as far as I knew, all of Mary’s relations had died before I’d met her. The remark about Holmes confused the matter further, as although I considered him as close as my brother – closer, in fact, as I was never particularly close to the brother I had grown up with, especially as adults – I was not sure he felt the same.

For a moment, she looked slightly surprised, but the emotion was quickly hidden. “I am engaged to Mr Mycroft Holmes. I’m sure we’ll meet at the wedding, but I thought it important to meet his brothers before then.”

“As far as I’m aware, Mycroft only has the one brother, Sherlock, but I would be happy to introduce you.” I stood from my chair, gathering my coat. “Unless he’s picked up a case since this morning, he should be at home.”

“I’ll gladly take you up on your invitation, but I wanted to meet you as well, doctor.” She stood as well, looking at me with unexpected openness for a woman I had only met a quarter hour ago. “Mycroft has never been a demonstrative man, but when he does talk about your and Sherlock’s adventures, I know him well enough to see his affection. He considers you a brother also.”

I sank back into my chair, rather shocked. I had come to know Mycroft well over the course of my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, especially in the years after Reichenbach, yet I never would have suspected him of harbouring such feelings for me. That I held some esteem in his eyes, I was aware of, but to consider me a brother? I found myself feeling unaccountably touched.

Once the shock of that revelation had worn off, I was at somewhat of a loss. After this woman had displayed such wonderful honesty to me, I felt it would be unchivalrous to give her any less in return, yet would informing her of the truth only hurt all parties involved. I looked down at my wedding ring, and knew I had to tell her. It would only be more painful if she discovered after the wedding. “Madame, please excuse me for mentioning it, but are you sure Mycroft’s reasons for marriage are the same as your own?”

She seemed confused. I could not help but glance down at my ring again, wondering what Mary would have said if someone had asked her such a question. Mary would also have been confused, I supposed, and perhaps a little angry that someone had doubted me. Hopefully, there would normally be the same reason here, but if there were, I had only myself to blame.

The woman followed my gaze down to my ring, and to my surprise, she laughed. “Don’t worry, I know perfectly well Mycroft’s not in love with me,” she informed me cheerfully. “I’m not in love with him either. My first husband was the love of my life and I have no intention of replacing him.”

“Then why...” I hesitated, stumbling over the indelicacy of the question.

“Why am I going to marry him?” she finished. “Mycroft has been a great friend to me for many years, and I know I can trust him.” Her gaze grew wistful. “Sometimes, you just want someone to grow old with.”

I thought of long evenings by the fireside with Holmes, his plans to retire someday and be a beekeeper, and the image of a cottage by the sea with two bedrooms. “I know just what you mean.”

Chapter Text

I hurried after him. “Holmes, you don’t really think this could be an accident?”

“Of course not, Watson. The child was murdered, and either the mother or the maid was responsible. Until I know which one, I cannot accuse either, as to accuse one incorrectly would allow the true villain to escape.” Holmes strode quickly down the street, raising one arm to hail a hansom cab. “I will be out late tonight, Watson. I need to make certain enquiries. If you would be so good as to tell Mrs Hudson that I will not be in for dinner, and to do a small piece of research for me, I will tell you everything when I return.”

“Of course, Holmes, you know I will. What research do you need?”

A cab stopped, and Holmes helped me inside, my limp being rather worse than usual due to the poor weather. “Search my books for any mention of Geoffrey Forger. Make particular note of any known aliases.”

“Baker Street,” I told the waiting cab driver, then turned back to Holmes. “I’ll have the results when you return tonight.”

Holmes gave me one of his rare grins. “I would tell you not to wait up, but I know better than to argue against the inevitable.” He stepped away from the cab, and we took off, Holmes disappearing into the fog behind me.

Chapter Text

Pushing away what must have been the hundredth newspaper I had examined that night, I rubbed my tired eyes. “Holmes, it’s one in the morning. Can we stop this now? The papers will still be here tomorrow.”

Holmes waved an airy hand at me, still caught up in his feverish excitement. “Sleep can wait, Watson. We have a criminal to catch! Once we find the message she’s transmitting, we’ll know which necklace she’ll be after next.”

“And what if she hasn’t placed her message yet? She did steal another necklace just this morning.” I yawned, placing my pen beside my discarded paper. “We can look again in tomorrow’s paper.”

Holmes looked up, watching me with a kindly eye. Despite the late hour, he still appeared as bright eyed and eager as when we had started. “Very well, Watson. Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, and we can look over the remaining papers then.”

“And you will sleep as well?” I was no longer as trusting as I once was, too familiar with Holmes’ terrible habits when it came to his own health.

“There aren’t many more papers left,” he prevaricated, and I sighed. Holmes would not be sleeping until all the papers has been searched.

Well, many hands make light work. I picked up my discarded pen, pulling the paper close again. “Once we get through these last few papers, we’re both going to bed. Any theorising can wait for tomorrow.”

Holmes grinned at me, still looking terribly awake for that hour of the night. “Of course, doctor. I never theorise without facts.”

Chapter Text

"You're terribly gloomy this evening, Watson," Holmes remarked, letting his violin drop from beneath his chin. "Why is that?"

"You tell me, Holmes."

Holmes placed his violin carefully back in its case and turned to Watson, fingers steepling in front of him. "You're thinking of Colonel Moran, and how you think he was a mirror image of you."

Watson gave a half-smile, but was too occupied by his thoughts to ask how Holmes had deduced it. "He was a soldier, just like me, and he found a brilliant man and befriended him. If he had been the one to meet you that day at Barts instead of me, it could have been him sitting here with you now."

Holmes raised an arch eyebrow. "And you in prison for your part in Moriarty's schemes?"

Watson looked down at the newspaper in his lap. "I wouldn't like to think so, but I have no way to be sure."

"You will do many things out of loyalty to a friend, Watson, but it doesn't require my skill with deduction to know that you are too kind-hearted to ever have taken Moran's place." Holmes picked up his violin again. "Moran can only be a twisted mirror of you, never a true one."

Chapter Text

A thud.

Snow flurried through the air, sent flying by the collision of the two sleighs.

"Sorry about that, ma'am, sir," the driver told his passengers. "Bit of ice on the road there."

"Mary?" Came from the other sleigh. A pretty smiling face popped up, a mittened hand pushing dark hair back into place. "It is you!"

"Beth!" Mary leaned forward, her face lighting up. "How lovely to see you! What are you doing here?"

Beth laughed. "Much like yourself, I imagine! A romantic sleigh ride through the park."

Mary looked back at John, squeezing their clasped hands with a smile. "John suggested it quite spontaneously, and it's such a beautiful night for it, we decided why not?"

"That's just what we thought!" Beth looked back to the other passenger, out of sight. "It's normally so busy at the Yard at Christmas, but we wanted to do something special for our anniversary."

"Congratulations!" Mary exclaimed.

The driver coughed. "If you're ready, ma'am, we can go on."

"Yes, of course, we don't want to be a hassle. Goodbye, Beth, and have a lovely anniversary!" Mary settled back in her seat, snuggling into her husband's side. He wrapped an arm around her, smiling down at her.

The sleighs went on, and as they passed, Mary and Beth's eyes met, both smiling at their good fortune of spending a beautiful night with someone they loved.

Chapter Text

For the first few days after Holmes revealed his escape from untimely death at Reichenbach Falls, I, surprisingly enough, spent very little time with him. Between selling my Kensington practice and Holmes reintroducing himself to London, it was only once I moved back into Baker Street that I was again spending significant time with my dear friend.

That was also the time I noticed the ghost following him.

I awakened the morning after I had moved back in and went downstairs for breakfast. Arriving in the sitting room, I shivered at the unusual cold of the room, and went to stoke the fire. When I turned around, my eye was drawn to the misty presence behind Holmes' chair.

"Holmes," I inquired, "what is that behind your chair?"

"Nothing at all." Holmes' voice was decisive, but I was not convinced.

"It certainly is something! Have you been experimenting with creating fog?"

The mist shifted and coalesced, transforming into a man I had never met, but knew the image of all too well. After Holmes' presumed death, I had searched for any information I could find on Professor Moriarty, and had found, amidst articles on his research and writings, a single portrait of him. It was the face from that portrait, now several years older, than stared at me now.

The ghost opened its mouth, and I tremulously awaited whatever it had to say…but it said nothing. Rather, whatever it did say I was unable to hear, although I saw its mouth moving. The phrase 'the silence of the grave' was clearly truer than I had realised.

"Watson," Holmes interrupted, clearly uncaring of whatever Moriarty had to say, "did you see the report about the Duchess in the newspaper this morning?"

I left Moriarty and returned to Holmes' side, freshly determined to enjoy every day I had with him in his returned life. In the years to come, people often asked me if Holmes was haunted by Moriarty's death, but very few ever understood when I cheerfully replied, "Yes, but it doesn't bother him!"

Chapter Text

FAMOUS DETECTIVE DEAD

Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, was announced dead this morning by Scotland Yard officials. The detective, made famous by the chronicles of his cases now read across the nation, was said to have died in Switzerland while on a case. The full circumstances of his death have not been revealed, but the Yard are adamant that if it does prove to be foul play, they will be working with the Swiss Police to pursue all leads.

Currently, there is no confirmation on what case Mr Holmes, who has previously been offered a knighthood by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, was working on. However, Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard told this reporter that it may have involved a university official of some renown.

Dr Watson could not be reached for comment at this time.

All flowers and expressions of sympathy should be sent to 221 Baker Street, c/o Mrs Martha Hudson. Details for the funeral will appear in next week's issue.

Chapter Text

"Don't touch him!" Watson shouted, stopping the men approaching Holmes in their tracks. "He keeps bees in his pockets!"

The man on the right snorted. "Bees? I ain't afraid of bees. Little buzzing insects is all they are."

"Dunno 'bout that." The man on the left looked noticeably more nervous than his companion, eyeing Holmes cautiously. "My cousin, he had a friend who died from a bee. Little bitty thing, but it bit him and he swolled right up."

"Can't die from a bee," the other man scoffed, but he looked less assured now.

"These aren't ordinary bees," Watson continued, taking advantage of their hesitation. He was without his revolver, this having supposed to have been a safe part of the investigation, and Scotland Yard were across the city, searching a completely different location. "These are pocket bees, specially trained for attack. If you touch Holmes, they'll fly out and sting you. You'll be dead within the hour."

There was a tense stand-off, the men looking between Watson, Holmes, and Holmes' pockets, when the nerve of the man on the left broke. He fled, running down the alley and waving his hand behind him as if to ward off the bees. The other man, now standing alone, followed within seconds. "This isn't over!" he shouted over his shoulder, but even as he shouted, he did not stop running.

Watson breathed a deep sigh of relief, leaning his back against the alley wall. He felt more than saw Holmes lean next to him.

"Bees, Watson?"

"Well I had to think of something, Holmes!" Shakily, he stood upright again. "I know it was ridiculous, but it worked."

"Well…" Holmes reached into his pocket, and drew out a small vial, containing one small, perfect bee. "I did happen to have this sample with me."

Watson leant back against the wall and laughed.

Chapter Text

I won't be able to stand this detestable man much longer. I've done my best to look for the good in this situation, but my ill health has left me no other choice but to endure the man's company.

The door downstairs opening, followed by a familiar tread on the stairs, recalled Holmes to his original task. A sudden breeze through the open window had sent the papers Watson was sorting fluttering through the room, far too close to the fireplace. Holmes had rescued them, but his inquisitive mind had been unable to resist reading them, an action he was now regretting.

"Holmes?" Watson came through the door, dropping his medical bag on his desk. An emergency had called him away while he was sorting through the papers. Without that, the whole situation never would have happened. "Has something happened?"

Holmes gathered up the last of the papers and handed them to Watson. "A breeze, Watson, nothing more."

Watson looked sceptical, but took the papers. Glancing through them, he started to laugh. "My! I'd forgotten about this."

Feigning disinterest, Holmes picked up his violin and began sawing savagely at it.

"These are from my diary, soon after I moved in here," Watson explained, still reading through the papers. "Carsons had the office next to mine at the practice I volunteered at, and he was the most irritating man I had ever met! Every day he seemed to find some new way to vex me."

Holmes smiled, his violin playing segueing into one of Watson's favourites. He should have remembered to never reason with insufficient information.

Chapter Text

"It's a fascinating discovery, Holmes! They use radiation to see right through the layers of skin and muscle to examine the bones. It will be so much easier now to examine broken bones, or tell the difference between ribs which are broken or merely bruised."

"Will it have any use in crime, Watson?"

"Well, in the future it could be used to examine the inside of objects without damaging them. Imagine how easily the case of Napoleon statues could have been solved with such a device!"

"Yet I solved it without anything of the kind. No, Watson, it may be useful someday, but until that day comes I do not need it taking up room in my brain attic."

Chapter Text

Mary fell to her knees and prayed for a miracle.

Her husband had left with Sherlock earlier that night, kissing her cheek and promising her he'd be careful. He'd carried his revolver, though he hadn't wanted her to see it. She'd known that meant there would be danger, but she had faith in him, and that he would always come safely home to her.

He had come home, but not safe. John was badly wounded, and though it would not have been too bad if he had received attention immediately, she gathered from Sherlock that they had needed to take flight to avoid pursuers, and only a sudden downpour of rain had saved them. Shivering and soaked to the bone, Sherlock had taken John home, then immediately left to find a doctor.

Mary had turned her attention to warming John, but had known even then that nothing but a miracle would save him. She could warm him, but she could not mend his injuries, and any sane doctor would be at home asleep, away from the rain.

On her knees, she prayed, lifting clasped hands to the Lord. Her faith was weak, faltering under the weight of her husband's injury, but she nurtured it best she could. As she remembered her father telling her as a small child, even faith as small as a mustard seed could move mountains.

"Mary!" Sherlock stumbled through the door, bedraggled and dripping. Behind him was a man only slightly better off, trying to brush rain off his already sodden bag. "He's here."

Her faith was answered.

Chapter Text

"Dr Watson, Dr Watson!" Billy came flying in the door of my practice, his eyes half wild with fear. "It's Mr Holmes!"

I immediately grabbed my bag and raced after him, desperately fearing for my friend. Billy was a sturdy young fellow, not prone to hysterics, so whatever had brought him to such a state must have been serious indeed.

We reached the street, and Billy made to run on, but I held him back by a hand on his collar. "A hansom will be faster." I hailed one, and within seconds we were on our way to Baker Street.

Now that our speed was assured, I questioned Billy. "What happened?"

"I don't know, sir," Billy said. Now that he'd had a moment to recover, he no longer looked so terrified, but he sat with the kind of nervous twitchiness that I remembered from young soldiers in the war. "You know how busy he's been on this case, and when I gave him a package today, he opened it and fainted dead away! Mrs Hudson wasn't home, so I came to get you quick as I could."

"You did the right thing, lad."

The hansom arrived, and we raced inside and up the stairs at once. The door was still open, a mark of Billy's hurry, and inside I could see the prone body of Holmes on the floor.

I fell to my knees beside him, placing my fingers to his neck. A moment later, I let them drop in relief. "He's alive."

Billy's shoulders dropped, and he slumped to the floor, unable to even keep it together long enough to sit on the one of the chairs. "We were in time."

With that fortifying thought in mind, I performed a cursory examination. It wasn't hard to find the cause of Holmes' collapse, as it was something I had been warning him about for years. "He's exhausted, malnourished, and dehydrated, but he will be alright."

"But what about the package?" Billy asked.

I glanced around and saw the discarded package on the floor. Peeking inside, I saw it was filled with pearls. "The Mumbai pearls, just as Holmes has been searching for. I imagine he saw them, knew the case was over, and was unable to keep back his collapse, even with his iron will."

I placed the pearls carefully in my desk drawer, and sent Billy for the police. After he had left, I contemplated the still unconscious Holmes. I would wait for him to wake in his own time, but once he had, I would be prescribing him a very long rest.

Chapter Text

"Don't touch that!"

Watson pulled his hand back quickly, jerking his head around to see who had just spoken. "Lestrade?"

Lestrade coughed awkwardly. "Hello, doctor." In a few quick strides he crossed the room, lifting down the object Watson was about to touch with gentle hands.

"Is that a bullet?" Watson asked wonderingly. At one point, it must have been an ordinary bullet, but now it was squashed flat at the end.

Lestrade handled it fondly. "This was from the first time I ever met Holmes, fifteen years ago. I normally keep it at home, but the anniversary is coming this week."

"In all the years I've known you, that's a story I've never heard," Watson said.

Lestrade laughed, placing the bullet back on its shelf. "You're the storyteller, doctor, not me!"

"You never know." Watson's eyes twinkled. "Maybe one day you'll retire, and write your own stories of Sherlock Holmes."

Chapter Text

"Holmes!" Watson scowled, blinking away the after images caused by the bright flash. "Must you keep playing with that infernal camera?"

"This is research, Watson. Photography makes it possible to retain clear images of crime scenes longer than ever before, and to provide accurate pictures of suspects for later pursuit. This is a revolution in crime detection, and I would be remiss not to research it thoroughly." Holmes snapped another shot.

"That's all well and good, but just you keep taking photographs of me?!" Watson made to grab the camera, but Holmes danced away, using his superior height to keep it out of Watson's reach.

That was the scene Mrs Hudson walked in on a few minutes later. "Mr Holmes! Doctor!"

They both froze.

"What is going on– is that a camera?" Mrs Hudson's gaze fixed on the device still in Holmes' hands.

"Yes," Holmes said cautiously.

"Might you– well, I've never had my picture taken, Mr Holmes. Would you be so kind…?" Mrs Hudson blushed slightly, her gaze flitting between the camera and Holmes. Watson quietly stepped away, grateful to be spared their landlady's ire.

Holmes gallantly held out his arm for Mrs Hudson, holding the camera in the other hand. "Mrs Hudson, I would be honoured."

Chapter Text

I raised my eyebrows at the unusual piece of mail on Inspector Hopkins' desk. "Blackmail, is it?"

To my utter surprise, Hopkins blanched, holding the letters close. "Why would you think that?"

"Watson was referring to the colour of the envelope with his usual pawky humour, not to the blackmail letters you've been receiving for the past three days." Holmes neatly plucked the letters out of Hopkins' arms, rifling through until he found the one he was looking for – which was not, in fact, the one in the black envelope.

"Keep your voice down!" Hopkins hissed, looking warily around the Yard. "I haven't told anyone. It's not true, anyway."

"No, it is not." To my surprise, Holmes' voice was quite kindly. "Inspector Thompson has been playing a cruel prank on you, perhaps due to his jealousy that you have taken his place as youngest man to reach Inspector, or revenge on you for having solved three of his cases that he had deemed unsolvable." He flipped the envelope, pointing to an odd red mark on the back. "He dropped this one outside his house this morning; the red clay is quite distinctive to his part of London."

Hopkins' usually amiable face had been rapidly turning redder during this speech, his furious glare reaching across the office to Thompson's desk. "Excuse me, Mr Holmes, doctor," he growled, "I think I need to have a word with Inspector Thompson."

Chapter Text

In spring of the year 1897 Holmes and I found ourselves on the Cornish coast, for reasons I have described in my story of the Devil's Foot. After that case was solved, and we could devote ourselves anew to resting and exploring, Holmes and I took many walks along the coast.

It was early spring then, and the wind often quite bracing, but rarely did we go a day without at the very least visiting the coast, though more often we would spend hours wandering along; Holmes in search of evidence for his theory about the Cornish speech, and myself in peaceful enjoyment of the sea and sand. Living in London, I seldom took the time to visit the seaside, but had always found it quite restful. The repetitive sound of waves crashing on shore was a balm to my spirit, particularly after our terrifying experience with the Devil's Root.

In my stories, despite Holmes' opinions, I do try and write only of the case. In part, this is because of privacy, both of Holmes and myself and of our clients. Many of those who come to Baker Street do not wish the world to know of their troubles, and as such, when writing the cases afterwards, I obscure or omit details to protect their privacy.

My other reasoning, however, is that the sheer emotion of some places is beyond mere words. No words could ever accurately portray the horror of the moors at Baskerville when the hound was on the loose. Equally so, I cannot capture the full beauty of those walks along the Cornish coast. Some experiences are beyond words, and must remain only as memories.

Chapter Text

A snake rustled the grass, slithering away from the strangers' heavy feet. Its' peace had been disturbed since the first stranger, two nights ago, who had left coppery streaks behind him. When he fell, the shiny white string between his fingers had glittered like eggs.

The snake watched the new strangers now, watching them draw close to the body. The taller one, the one with a nose that looked good for scavenging and poking into places, laid himself on the grass beside it. The snake moved forward curiously, but the other one, with the fur on his face, raised his stick. The snake drew back.

The other one stood, and the two strangers made noises at each other. They weren't alerting-to-danger noises, or looking-after-child noises, but something else. Something closer to found-new-food noises.

The snake slithered back into the bushes. The strangers were interesting, but winter was coming. Food couldn't wait.

Chapter Text

Mary trembled, staring down at her white-gloved hands. "I'm not sure I can do this."

Martha put a companionable arm around her shoulders. "What's wrong, dearie?"

"I'm terrified, and I don't know why." She gave a strangled little laugh. "What if something goes wrong? What if we aren't happy?"

"Do you love him?"

She nodded fiercely. "With all my heart."

"That's how I felt on my wedding day. Anxious, unsure, but completely in love. And once I started walking up that aisle, the rest all faded away." Martha sighed in bittersweet reminiscence. "I'd wanted to spend forever with him, but even for the short time we had, I was the happiest woman in the world."

Mary whispered, "What if I lose him, Martha? He's nearly died before - how could I bear it if he died and left me alone?"

"You would go on," she said firmly. "You survive, and you'd keep living, and you'd cherish that you had him for as long as you did. And remember, you won't be alone." She hugged Mary, and Mary leaned into it.

Then Mary pulled away, her resolve firmed. "Alright. I'm ready." She gave her dress one final brush down, then stepped forward, ready to begin her new life as Mrs Watson.

Chapter Text

For Sherlock Holmes, detector of crime,

The greatest challenge at Christmastime

Was finding a gift

One not just makeshift

To give friends worth much more than a dime.

()

To Lestrade he gave a new night stick,

To replace one stolen for a trick.

The cause had been good,

Worthy a knighthood,

But had left the club much like a matchstick.

()

To Mrs Hudson he gave a hat

One he thought was much better than that

She had once told him,

(With a sly little grin)

Looked like a run-over stray cat!

()

And to Watson, his own dearest friend,

He thought and thought without end.

At last he did start

To play from the heart

A composition that he had penned.

Chapter Text

"Fever's rising." Watson's words were short and sharp.

I handed him another damp cloth, saying nothing. When it came to medical matters, Watson's word was the only one that mattered. My only role was to help him wherever I could, especially when I was the reason the boy had been injured.

I told my Irregulars not to take unnecessary risks, but Joey was young, and eager to earn an extra shilling by catching the criminal I'd been looking for. He'd moved too soon, startling the man, and had ended up with a knife wound for his trouble. To compound things, he'd then followed my own admittedly poor example, and not told Watson or myself anything at all. Only when Wiggins had brought him in, frantic after finding the boy on the street, had we seen the wound and I deduced what had happened.

"More water, Holmes, the fever's too high!" Watson barked.

The basin was empty.

I scurried down the stairs, shouting for Mrs Hudson, but as fast as I went, I knew that I may not be fast enough. If that boy died tonight, it would be on my shoulders.

It gave me no comfort to know that upstairs, Watson would be thinking the exact same thing.

Chapter Text

The rain thundered down outside, bouncing off cobbled streets. Only a sparse few pedestrians could be seen, hurrying off to their destinations, wrapping their coats tight against the wet.

In the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, Watson was sitting in his armchair, a novel in his lap. His gaze, was fixed on the flow of water streaming down the glass of the window.

Once, he'd enjoyed storms, and the way the raindrops fell from heaven to meet their fate on the ground far below. Now, the constant stream of water across the window remained him of another Fall altogether.

Chapter Text

Wiggins strained with all his might against the door, then slumped back dejectedly. "We're snowed in."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

"The snow's too heavy, the door won't open," Romesh explained. "Haven't you seen heavy snow before?"

Sam shook his head, the pink of cold deepening into a blush of embarrassment. "Nuh-uh."

"Leave him alone, Rom." Wiggins didn't even look over, still staring at the door. Mr Holmes had told them to stay in this barn and watch for a certain man, but Mr Holmes hadn't seen this weather coming. Wiggins wanted to obey Mr Holmes, but he didn't want his boys to freeze either.

"He hasn't seen snow!"

"I 'ave!" Sam protested. "Just not snow like this. And 'ow will we get out if the snow's blocking the door?"

"Mr Holmes knows where we are," Romesh tried to comfort Sam. Knowing that the younger boy was unfamiliar with such heavy snow seemed to have brought out the protective side of him. "He'll come get us in the morning, right Wiggins?"

"Sure will." Wiggins finally turned away from the door. "And until then, we'll curl up in the hay and have a nice sleep. No point keeping watch in this weather."

Chapter Text

"Where did that come from?"

Lestrade, writing case notes at his desk while waiting for Holmes to arrive, barely spared a glance towards the direction Watson was looking. "Yard tree." At Watson's lack of response, he slightly defensively continued, "It's the season."

"Of course, detective. I just didn't expect… those decorations."

This time, Lestrade spared a slightly longer glance. As was tradition, all the detectives at the Yard had contributed their own decoration to the tree. There were the strands of popcorn or cranberries that the less imaginative had put together, the embroidered felt star Johnson cherished, and that one glass angel Gregson always prided himself on.

Yet the most noticeable decorations of all, in a tradition that had been kept secretly yet faithfully for over a decade, were the Christmas angels. No one confessed to having made them, but each year the tree had several series of paper angels, each colourfully decorated with some of the more notable crooks from that year. Bully Thomas had made an appearance, recognisable by the black eye he'd worn upon arrest; Mad Madam Mags was a new favourite, with no less than three angels to her name - every one had its own colourful dress, pulled indecently low; even one of Holmes' young scamps had made it on the tree, after the merry chase he'd led half the Yard on.

Lestrade smiled, sitting back in his chair contentedly. "Well, Christmas looks a bit different here."

Chapter Text

"A member of the undead?" Holmes scoffed. "Watson, you know very well I do not believe in such a thing."

I laughed, still perusing the letter. "Lord Richardson seems quite convinced. He wants to engage you at once to prove that his daughter is part of the undead, and is scheming to murder his son." I was no more inclined to believe in the supernatural than Holmes, but I was fascinated by the lord's passion for the subject. He had consulted several experts, he wrote, who were certain on the subject. The young lady in question was constantly tired, unusually pale, ate irregularly, had deep circles under her eyes, and had shied away from a crucifix. Apparently, those were all the usual signs. As a doctor, I was less convinced, but I was far too amused by Holmes' reaction to offer a medical solution. After all, I was not the one who had been asked to consult.

Holmes held out his hand for the letter and I handed it over. He skimmed over it in seconds and tossed it aside. "Miss Richardson has been staying out all night to visit her suitor, and feels guilty over it. His son has been sneaking food from his sister's plate, and the overeating has made him ill. Once again, the supernatural has given way to the mundane."

Chapter Text

"Preposterous!" Watson paced up and down the living room, waving his arms in indignation. "I would never- well, not like that- they took it completely out of- it wasn't what I meant!"

"I know." Mary smiled calmly at him, slightly amused at her usually so articulate husband so lost for words. "Calm down, darling."

Watson stopped pacing and sunk into his chair, his features falling in despair. "It really wasn't what it sounds like. Holmes is brilliant, you know I've always thought that. I never said I didn't think he could solve this case, and I certainly don't think I'd be better at solving it than him. The very idea is ridiculous. I just wish I could be there with him."

"And away from me?" Mary teased.

Watson sat upright in shock, instinctively blurting out, "No, of course not!" He paused, then started to laugh, seeing that Mary hadn't meant it seriously. "I always love being here with you, dearest, and I wouldn't give this up for anything. I just worry about him. He's been up there three weeks now, and you know how he gets on cases. By the time he gets back, he'll be just about ready to collapse."

"So you told that reporter that you thought you should be there with him, and the reporter turned it into some vile slander about Holmes being a fraud and you being afraid people will find out your stories are lies." Mary nodded. "But that's nonsense, darling, and everyone in the city knows it. Your stories are wonderful, and Sherlock is every bit as brilliant as you write him." She raised an eyebrow. "And moreover, do you really think Sherlock, brilliant as he is, wouldn't deduce that the reporter has misquoted you?"

Chapter Text

"Hullo, Dr Watson."

"Mr Hatherley! I hadn't expected to see you again. How's your thumb?"

"That's just what I wanted to ask about, doctor."

"Well, come in, and I'll have a look at it for you."

"Thank you, doctor. And please thank your friend Mr Holmes for me as well. I may have lost my thumb and my fifty guinea fee, but he was right about gaining experience. I told the story to a few professional colleagues, and one passed it on to a friend, who gave me a job! So you see, it's turned out alright for me."

"I'm glad to hear it. Would you mind if I wrote the story down, for a little collection of cases?"

"Not at all, doctor. Maybe someone else can gain from my experience without having to lose their thumb for it!"

Chapter Text

Watson looked over as Holmes placed a card on the mantle. "A Christmas card, Holmes? Who is it from?"

"An invitation, not just a card, but not one I am currently in a position to accept." Holmes picked up his violin, clearly closing the discussion.

Watson sat up straighter, gaze sharpening. "An invitation?" After so long as Holmes' friend and companion, he had picked up on some of Holmes' deductive habits, though still was nowhere near the level of the man himself.

The card was a city scene, but not of London. It wasn't a city he recognised at all. Wandering over to the mantle and picking it up, it felt different from English paper. That ruled out many of their friends and acquaintances.

The message inside was simple and short, written in an unfamiliar hand, strong but elegant. 'Mr Holmes. Glad to hear of your survival. I'll be in town next month to perform. I'll leave tickets at the box for you. Mrs N.'

It took Watson a moment to recall why that name was familiar, but once he did, he smiled. The Woman was as much a surprise as always.

Chapter Text

The two men sat beside the fire, quietly sipping on their wine. Neither of them had anywhere else to be on that night, no family or friends to spend the day with. The clubs were closed, and even the worst of criminals didn't want to be at work on this night. Moriarty, criminal mastermind, knew that very well.

Without anything else to occupy them, they had drifted into the habit of spending Christmas Day together. A present exchange was clearly to frivolous for them to engage with, but Moran insisted that any good guest would bring a nice bottle of wine, and Moriarty provided a box of chocolates only as an after dinner treat, and if Moran happened to take them home, that was reasonable.

Neither of them would call it a celebration - neither of them really saw the day worth celebrating - but, on the years where they were unable to meet for whatever reason, in their own ways, each missed it.

Chapter Text

"Look at all the snowmen!" Sam clapped delightedly, staring at the many and varied snowmen standing guard throughout Baker Street. "They're everywhere!"

"It's the Irregulars' Snowman Competition," Hannah explained. "We do it every year, and whoever makes the best one, Mrs Hudson gives them a whole box of cookies."

Sam's eyes grew wide, and he tugged eagerly at Hannah's scarf. "Can I do it too?"

Hannah shrugged. "If you want, but you'll get really cold, and Mrs Hudson will give us all hot chocolate anyway."

"Oh." His shoulders slumped. His gloves were old and frayed, and he had no scarf. Without protection, he knew it wasn't safe to stay out in the cold for too long.

Seeing his dejection, Hannah sighed. She unwound her scarf from around her neck, dropping it around Sam's shoulders, and mustered up a smile for him. "Forget that. It's a lot of fun, and you should do it. Look, Rom's just over there, and he always builds terrible snowmen. Their heads are bigger than their bodies! Help him out, and maybe the two of you can even win."

Sam grinned delightedly. "Okay!" He ran off towards Romesh, who was already gathering snow into piles, ready for rolling.

"And don't forget to give back my scarf!" Hannah hollered after him. Shivering, she headed towards 221 Baker Street. If she promised to help with making the cookies, maybe Mrs Hudson would let her stay indoors by the fire until the competition was over.

Chapter Text

"Mrs Hudson?" Watson called. He checked the kitchen. She wasn't there. He checked her sitting room, but she wasn't there either. "Mrs Hudson?"

He heard an odd knocking sound from the basement. He followed it down the stairs, and found Mrs Hudson with a small hammer in one hand. She looked up as he entered, her face breaking into a smile as she saw him. "Oh, doctor. I didn't expect to see you. How's Mary?"

"She's very well, thank you. I just wanted to stop in and say hello, and hand over my keys." He held up the keys, and took a few steps further into the room to pass them to her.

"Just put them on the bench, doctor. I'll just finish this up." With her free hand, she gestured down at her workbench.

Job completed, Watson hovered at the door, too polite to ask but too curious not to stay.

Mrs Hudson noticed his hovering, and kindly explained, "I'm building a new cake stand, dear. Mr Holmes borrowed my last one and…" She trailed off, but Watson could fill in the rest for himself. He was well aware that anything Holmes borrowed tended to come back not quite the same.

"I didn't know you knew carpentry." The cake stand was simple, but clearly recognisable for what it was, and even had a few elegant designs carved along the sides.

"I don't, not really," Mrs Hudson said modestly. "This is just a simple piece. I'm almost done now." She brushed off a few specks of sawdust, and held the stand up for Watson to view. "All done! I just have to hope Mr Holmes doesn't borrow it again."

Chapter Text

Fog crept along the floor. A haunting note filled the air, from no discernible source. The temperature dropped, the fire in the fireplace guttering.

"Watson, take that puppy back up to your bedroom!" Holmes snapped.

The fog and music abruptly disappeared. Pleading puppy-dog eyes turned on Holmes, the little hound whimpering.

"He's only a puppy, Holmes." Watson gathered up the puppy in his arms, and it quickly turned to licking his face. Watson smiled down at it. "He doesn't do it on purpose."

"Despite your foolish theory, Watson, a puppy cannot control the temperature." Holmes' voice dripped with scorn. "I don't want it down here because it will ruin my experiments with its running around, not because I think it creates fog."

"Of course, Holmes." Watson hid a smile in the puppy's soft fur. "Mrs Morton will be coming tomorrow for him. I'm sure I can keep him in my room until then."

"Good." Holmes returned to his experiment, carefully measuring his next ingredient. So concentrated in his task was he, he didn't notice that he was humming the haunting music from earlier.

Chapter Text

"My Mr Hudson was a lovely man. He bought me flowers for my birthday every year until he passed, and every so often, as he passed the bakery on his way home from the bank, he'd stop in and pick up a special treat for me, just as a surprise. So don't worry, little Aggie. Not all men are like your father."

()

"My wedding was nothing like yours, Mary dear. Mr Hudson was getting shipped off soon, so we wanted to get married as fast as we could. It was very simple, but it was splendid. It rained, and I thought everything would be ruined, but my dear Mr Hudson just smiled, and said it was good luck."

()

"You remind me of my husband, doctor. He had a strength of spirit that amazed me, right up until the end. No matter what happened, he'd always pull through. Even when his parents died, and he had three young siblings to support on his meagre copier's salary, he was as sturdy as stone. I know it's difficult right now, first Mr Holmes and then Mary, but I know you've got the same sturdy spirit he did. You'll pull through, my dear."

()

"Inspector! My, you gave me a fright. You looked just like my Mr Hudson for a moment there. He liked to give me a bit of a shock, coming home from the railway unexpectedly, and I always scolded him for it, but sometimes I miss it. Some things you never realise you'll miss until they're gone."

()

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes?

"Tomorrow is my final day under your roof, but before I go, I have one final request to make of you."

"Anything, Mr Holmes. Whatever you need."

"Who was Mr Hudson?"

"You're the detective, Mr Holmes. You tell me."

Chapter Text

"Watson!"

Watson stood for a moment, then fell to his knees, his hands going to the knife embedded in his side. Blood was spurting out, and Holmes was no doctor, but he knew that was a bad sign.

He raced to Watson's side, but even in the scarce few seconds it took him, Watson's face had paled, his hands falling away from the wound as his strength faltered. Holmes replaced them with his own. "Eyes open, Watson. You can't go yet."

Watson's weary eyes flickered open. "There's no one coming, Holmes. It's just a matter of time."

"Where's your optimism, Watson?" Holmes' hands clenched around the wound, refusing to admit to the logic that was the foundation of his life, knowing to do so would tear his other foundation away forever. "The Irregulars go everywhere, and Lestrade knew we were out tonight. Someone will come for us."

Watson placed his hands over Holmes', looking his friend in the eye. Holmes tried to look away, unwilling to face the calmness there, but Watson wouldn't let him. "I'm ready, Holmes. It's time."

"Not yet, Watson." He pushed back against the blood still flowing under his hands, drawing a choked cry from Watson. "You may be ready," he whispered, more to himself than to Watson, "but I am not. You must hold on."

Beneath his hands, Watson continued to breathe.

Chapter Text

Moran walked up the stairs to the gallows. A man was waiting for him, in the executioner's hood.

The bells rung out, the tolling bringing an eerie background to the scene.

Moran had no final words to say. His master was gone, his mission failed. Nothing was left to him but death.

He stepped up to gallows, the hangman placing the noose around his neck.

The hangman stepped away, to the back of the platform. He pulled the lever.

Moran dropped.

His body swung, a grim counterpoint to the continued ringing.

A prison guard held out a match for the guard beside him. "What a way to start the New Year."

Chapter Text

It wasn’t often I managed to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes. His habit of deducing my every thought and deed was always impressive, occasionally irritating, but above all, made secret-keeping the next thing to impossible.

On one occasion, shortly before my marriage, I harboured the hope that I would be able to keep such a secret. I had just returned from buying an engagement ring for Miss Morstan, knowing Holmes was in France on a case, and hoping I would be able to hide any signs before his return.

It was not that I was ashamed of my courtship of Miss Morstan - far from it! I was eager to marry her and be able to call her my wife; however, I knew such a romantic act would draw Holmes’ contempt, and did not want to have my joy spoiled before it could even come to fruition. I wished simply for a few days to bask in the rosy prospect of gaining the hand of Miss Morstan, before Holmes brought me back to cold reality.

To my dismay, I was scarcely through the door of our flat before I heard Holmes’ voice remarking, “I have had quite the trip, Watson!”

I hid my dismay, choosing instead to focus on my honest delight at seeing my friend after his long few weeks away. “Do tell me, Holmes.” I took my notebook from my pocket and settled into my chair, attempting to keep the pocket with the ring turned away from him.

Holmes’ sharp eyes immediately picked out my action. “It seems you have your own story to tell, Watson. When are you asking Miss Morstan?”

To my surprise, there was not a hint of disdain in his voice. “Very soon, I hope.” I paused, waiting for a response, but when there was none I could not help but ask, “You have no comment to make on my romantic tendencies?”

“Sentiment is your field, my friend, not mine, but I would have no right to call myself a detective if I did not see how happy Miss Morstan makes you.” His eyes twinkled. “All other remarks can wait for your wedding day.”

Chapter Text

“…nothing on - but her petticoat!” Kate choked out, barely able to get the words out through her laughter.

Mary was in equal hysterics, sitting across from her at the small wooden table. Spending time with her old school friend was the perfect antidote to the loneliness that had crept up on her with John away on a case with Sherlock. She had forgotten many of their school girl antics, but Kate seemed to have remembered them all, and had the most enthralling way of telling them - even better than John’s stories, though Mary would never tell him so.

“I hope your husband doesn’t mind all the noise we’re making in here!” Mary wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “I haven’t heard a peep from him all day.”

The mood immediately dampened.

“Isa’s out again.” Kate smiled bravely, but Mary could see the worry on her face. “He’ll be home soon.”

“Of course,” Mary reassured her, as befitted an old friend. For what else could she do? This was far from the first time Isa had spent the day at an opium den, heedless of all but the allure of the drug. Isa Whitney refused to admit the hold the opium had over him, or the worry he caused Kate. Even John’s advice as his doctor was not enough to stop the man. All Mary could do was be there for her whenever Isa finally went too far, and in the meantime, distract Kate from her fears. “Do you remember Sarah and the bicycle?”

Kate’s smile was not as wide as before, but it was there. “Remind me?”

Chapter Text

“Watson, you brought your revolver?” Holmes whispered to me as we watched Harringer slip quietly out of the house.

“Of course, Holmes.”

“Miss Dunloch, thank you for your assistance. Please, return to the house; the next part will be far too dangerous.”

Miss Dunloch was clearly not pleased, but departed.

We continued to shadow Harringer, following him around the house to the large barn in the northern field. He went inside, and I drew my revolver, ready for the confrontation.

A sudden shout split the night. “Scotty!”

It was Miss Dunloch.

Rushing forward, we slammed open the barn door to find Miss Dunloch had beaten us to our quarry. She stood over him, a pitchfork in her hands, while he cowered below her. “Elsie, please! I had to do it! It was too easy - I would have shared the money! Elsie!”

Holmes recovered his equanimity admirably. “Thank you, Miss Dunloch. Would you be so kind as let me tie up our dear friend Mr Harringer?”

“Of course, Mr Holmes.” Miss Dunloch stepped back, straightening her skirts and regaining her image as a prim and proper young lady - until she pulled a pistol out from beneath her skirts. “I knew Scotty was a coward. I didn’t even need to use this!”

Chapter Text

“You makin’ roast, Mrs Hudson?” An eager face poked out from the stairwell.

“This is for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, not for you and your lot,” Mrs Hudson said sternly.

“Aw, but Mrs Hudson, we’ve been working for Mr Holmes’ case! Can’t we just get a little?”

Another face, smaller and rounder than the first, popped out underneath. “We’ll be real good, Mrs Hudson, promise!”

Another woman may have softened under such an assault of bright eyes and pleading faces, but Mrs Hudson was made of sterner stuff. “No. Now, whatever Mr Holmes has set you to, get to it!”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.” Two mournful figures plodded out the front door.

Mrs Hudson watched them leave, and laughed. Tomorrow, the forlorn little figures would cheer up - leftover roast wasn’t quite as good as hot, but the pie she would make from it would fill even their hungry stomachs!

Chapter Text

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?”

The Watsons blinked at each other across their dining table. Then Mary laughed. “I was asking if you wanted honey, darling.”

“Then yes, sweetheart, I would,” Watson chuckled.

“And butter, love?”

“Yes, angel. Would you like the jam?”

“Thank you, my sweet.” She was reaching out to take it from him when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

A moment later, their maid came in, a glass jar filled with something golden in her hands. “Master and missus, Mr Holmes brought something for you.”

Watson rose from the table. “Odd of Holmes to not come in. Did he say why?”

The maid shook her head. “Only that he needed to catch a train.” She offered the jar to Watson, and when he took it, she hurried back to the kitchen.

Watson examined the jar, then broke into a brilliant grin. “Guess what Holmes has brought us, my treasure.”

Mary came over to Watson to take a closer look at the jar, then looked up at him, matching his grin with her own. “Honey!”

Chapter Text

Mrs Hudson had a very particular evening routine. (At least, she had used to.)

She tidied up her kitchen for the night, making sure everything was spick and span in its place. (She snuck one last treat to Toby, warming himself by her fireplace while his temporary master was occupied.)

She washed her face with water and vinegar, just enough to feel clean without risking ill humours from over-cleanliness. (She washed her face of tears, knowing her boys were out of danger now and would need some steadying tea.)

She changed into her nightclothes and dressing gown, carrying her candle with her to bed. (She changed bandages when the doctor was too exhausted to stay awake any longer, lit a candle for Mr Holmes when his nightmares kept him from sleeping.)

She thanked God for the day and asked for His blessing for tomorrow. (She thanked God for keeping her boys alive and asked for His strength as they healed.)

She slept. (She slept.)

Her routine was simple, as was her life, and she didn’t need it any other way. (Her routine was disrupted, as was her life, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Chapter Text

“John said he’ll send Isa home, and so he will,” I said in a reassuring voice, my hands holding Kate’s as she shuddered with worry. She needed some steadiness, and I knew that John’s word could be counted on. If Isa was at that den of sin, John would find him. Even if he wasn’t, if I knew my husband, he would continue searching for Isa until morning, just to ease Kate’s mind.

Kate nodded rapidly. “Of course, Mary, of course. I just worry so. He’s never done this before.”

I kept silent. Isa may not have stayed out so long before, but it was far from the first time the addiction had taken hold of him.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour later when there was a sharp knocking on the front door.

Kate startled, awakened from the light doze she had slipped into. “Is it John? Mary, is it John? Has he found Isa?”

“I’ll just go check,” I soothed her, and went to open the door.

Outside was a cabbie, his cap still waiting for him in the lane. “You Mrs Watson?” He asked.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, curious. Had something happened to John, or Isa?

“Got a message for you from your husband. He got me to send his friend home, then said to give you this note.” He thrust a scrap of paper towards me, and I took it.

It read, ‘Am out with Sherlock. Will be back when I can. Love, John.’

I thanked the cabbie with a smile, and hurried back inside. “Kate, Isa’s home! John just sent a cabbie by to say he’d dropped him off.”

“Oh, thank you!” Kate wrapped me in a hug, then flew out the door, calling behind her, “Thank John for me when he returns!”

“I will!” Whenever that would be. I had known when I married John that Sherlock was an important part of his life, and never begrudged him that. Without Sherlock Holmes, we never would have met at all. Yet sometimes, on nights like tonight, it was hard not to feel alone.

Chapter Text

I did not notice the evening growing dark around me, so absorbed was I in my book. The menacing, eerie aura was unlike my usual reading, but Murray had recommended it to me in his last letter, and so I had tried it. Once I had started reading, I could not put it down, becoming enthralled by the almost gothic tale of creatures who inflicted a horror beyond human understanding.

"You should tell Murray he will owe you a pair of glasses, Watson.”

I startled wildly and looked around. Holmes was kneeling by the fireplace, stoking, when last I remember it had been mid-afternoon and Holmes had said not to expect him back for hours. “I thought you were out tonight.”

“I was.” Upon a closer look, his collar was still wet from the rain that had been pouring down all evening. As Holmes would tell me, it was a simple deduction to say he had not long been back.

The fire roaring again, Holmes moved away from it as I blinked at the sudden light. “What time is it?”

“Past nine o’clock.”

Knowing Mrs Hudson would be up soon with supper, I reluctantly put the book away. I still desperately wanted to finish it, but now that I knew what an enthralling effect it had on me, I would save it for a day I could afford to get lost in it!

Chapter Text

“Don’t worry, doctor, Mary is strong.” Mrs Hudson patted my arm, smiling, but I could see the shadow of worry in her eyes.

Mrs Lestrade poked her head out of the birthing room. “Martha, we need you.” She disappeared back behind the door.

Mrs Hudson left me to my pacing, hurrying through the door after Mrs Lestrade.

In all my life as a doctor and a soldier, nothing had made me as anxious as the thick smell of blood seeping out from under the door. I knew how common it was for women to die in childbirth, but I could not bring myself to believe it would happen to my Mary. My beautiful, brave Mary, who had stayed faithfully by my side through illness and health, good times and bad, with a patient heart and a quick smile. If I had not had her to come back to after Reichenbach, I do not know how I would have carried on. I could not lose her now.

It might have been hours, it might have been days, but a single sound broke through my clouded thoughts like a shaft of sunlight.

It was the cry of a baby.

Chapter Text

“Come in, Holmes!” I said cheerily. “We’ve just served the hot chocolate, there’s easily enough or another mug.”

“No, thank you, Watson. I have a case that can’t wait.”

“Not even an hour?”

“Not more than ten minutes! I must catch the last train to Shropshire, a man’s life depends on it.”

I checked my watch and frowned. “Holmes, the last train is three hours from now.” I took a closer look at my friend, and spotted the usual signs he was on an extended case - sharp cheekbones from lack of food, eager glint in his eye from the excitement of the chase - and, most importantly, a pallor from lack of sleep. “You didn’t wind your watch last night.”

“Nonsense, Watson! Now, I must leave you, I must catch that train.” He turned to go, and I caught his arm, noting its thinness.

“Check my watch if you don’t believe me, Holmes, but I am not letting you go until you’ve had some hot chocolate with me and Mary. You have time.”

I knew Holmes was quite capable of tearing out of my grip, but he did not. To my shock, he did not even insist on checking my watch. Rather, he stared intently at my face, then laughed. “You have always been a terrible liar, Watson. Go in, I wouldn’t want our hot chocolate to grow cold.”

Chapter Text

“What’s so amusing?”

The boy was unable to answer, utterly breathless with laughter as he stood in the doorway of 221B’s sitting room.

Holmes was in that lethargic mood that often overcame him at the conclusion of a case, and so did not even lift his head from the lounge. I, on the other hand, had just finished writing up my notes on that very same case, and so was quite buoyant with achievement.

The boy gestured at the window, now hiccuping in his attempt to keep in his laughter, and I followed the motion, staring out the window down to the street outside. As soon as I saw it, laughter burst out of me as well.

“The feathers!” The boy wheezed, and I laughed so hard I had to lean against the window for support.

“Holmes!” I gasped, and finally he opened his eyes and wandered over towards the window.

Even Holmes’ legendary restraint of emotion was not enough to withstand the comical scene. His lips turned up, then with a shout of laughter he grabbed my shoulder, and the both of us descended into cackling glee.

Chapter Text

The waves crested, then smashed against the pebbled shore. The few stray beams of sunlight that made it through the gathered clouds glinted weakly off the slippery rocks. All was in shades of grey, a gloomy reflection of the watcher’s gloomy mood.

It had been two weeks since his friend had shipped off to the Continent to fight in this wretched war. All Mycroft’s efforts, and all of his own, had not been enough to stop the relentless tide of war from crashing over them, anymore than he could stop the waves from crashing against the shore below. All it had done was lost him more precious moments at Watson’s side.

The waves crept ever closer, the salty spray splashing against his shoes and splattering his pants legs. The tide was coming in. It would creep closer and closer, like it had done thousands of times before, wearing away the rocks a little more, a little more, until one day there would be nothing left. Just the cliff, standing alone above the crashing waves.

The spray had reached new heights now, for what else could be that salty wetness tricking down his cheeks?

He turned away from the waves and back to his cottage, one lonely figure on the cliffside.

Chapter Text

“Mr Holmes, my doll is haunted.”

The doll in question was a china doll, one of the ones given to young girls to practice becoming mothers. She had long dark curls, blue eyes with painted on lashes, and the childish beauty seen in, from my limited experience, only the best of dolls.

Her owner was clearly a man who believed in having the best in all areas. His coat was unobtrusively wealthy, and his shoes had the shine of being well looked-after. He was not, in himself, handsome, but his face had the flush of good food and good health, with the slight paunch to his stomach showing an affinity for the former. His was a face made to be merry, and the horror lurking in his eyes looked quite out of place.

Such a startling statement was still not enough to shake Holmes’ equanimity. In a gesture, he bade the man sat down, then closed his eyes. Looking somewhat bemused, the man sat, beginning his story. “My name, Mr Holmes, is Dr Carson, and years ago, I had a daughter. Her mother died shortly after her birth, so it was just the two of us, and I adored her. I gave her everything she could ever want, and I admit in any other child she would have been quite spoiled, but my little Sara was an angel. She died…” Dr Carson paused for a moment, closing his eyes, before opening them and continuing, “She died from a fever when she was eight. Nothing I did could help her. That was three years ago.”

Even now, years later, the grief of her death clearly still weighed heavily on him. I thought of my own Mary, and my heart went out to him. Nothing is worse for a doctor than the ones you cannot save, especially when they are your own loved ones.

I poured the man a tea, and pushed it towards him. After taking a sip, Dr Carson composed himself, continuing, “Recently, I married again, and now we are expecting another child. Since we announced the news, I have been seeing the doll all around the house. I had put her in the attic, so as not to be constantly reminded of my dear Sara, but it seems every time I look around, that doll is behind me. She has turned up in the drawing room, my billiards room, the kitchen, even our bedroom! I’ve asked my wife, but although she’s seen the doll once or twice, she sees nothing remarkable in it. I must know why this is happening, Mr Holmes, and what I must do to stop it. All I want is for my Sara to rest in peace.”

Holmes did not look at him, nor reply, and Dr Carson turned to me. I could not tell him if Holmes would take his case, but I did not wish to let the man go unaided. “From what you have said of your daughter, Dr Carson, I am sure she would not wish for revenge, but be happy that you are not alone. It is a gift to find love again.”

Some of the weight left Dr Carson’s shoulders. “Thank you, sir. No one could ever replace my first family, but I am grateful I have the chance to try again.”

Holmes opened his eyes. “Dr Carson, we will take your case.”

Chapter Text

A taut wire.

A snap.

“Aargh!’

“Got ‘im!’

“Excellent work, boys!”

“Was easy, Mr ‘Olmes, ‘e walked right into it!”

“Perfect timing, Lestrade, my Irregulars have just captured Edwin Thierry, or as you might know him, Lady Carlington’s secretary. If you look at his coat pocket - yes, that one there - you will find the lady’s stolen emerald.”

“Well done, Mr Holmes.”

“Is Dr Watson here too? Only he said he wanted another look at my hand, after that tackle last week. Never knew the doctor was such a hand at rugby!”

“…No, Dr Watson stayed at home tonight.”

“Ah, the weather? My brother was in the army, I know how it is. Makes his old wounds act up something awful, always left his nerves wound tight as wire.”

“Constable Johnston, get on with your job and arrest the thief! Apologies, Mr Holmes, he’s got a bit too much mouth on him.”

“No apologies needed, Lestrade. On the contrary, I believe Constable Johnston deserves my thanks. Now, I trust I can leave Thierry in your hands? I have a violin performance I must get to before my audience goes to bed.”

Chapter Text

The moon hung low in the sky, eerie glow lighting up the moors below. The long shadows hid the safe paths, making every step treacherous. A badly placed foot, and one would sink into the mire, never to be seen again.

Watson shivered, and turned back to his notebook. He’d already written his letter to Holmes, but perhaps his own notes could use some updating. It didn’t take long to scratch out a few sentences on the little he’d discovered that day.

A howl rang through the night.

It could have been a dog. It could have been something else.

Watson blew out his candle and tried to sleep.

The moon shone on, watching all.

Chapter Text

“All I can see is a broken string, Holmes.”

“Come, Watson! I know you can do better than that.”

I sighed, for I was very tired after a long day at a patient’s bedside, but I humoured Holmes and looked closer at the string.

It was black, the utilitarian sort of black of maids’ uniforms or a governess’s apron. It could have come from one of those, but its owner must have had a terrible day, if so, for it was liberally spattered with mud. A maid so covered in mud would surely have been dismissed by her employer if she could not change in time to avoid being seen.

On closer inspection, that seemed unlikely. It was the right colour, yes, but it was too thick to be from a uniform or apron, at least of any quality. It had the feel of string, which made it being broken all the more curious. A thread could snap easily, but a string was hardier. Perhaps it had been cut?

I voiced these suspicions to Holmes, who clapped his hands. “Excellent, Watson! Your eye for detail has caught on a crucial point, though you have failed to take it to its conclusion. Come! We have a maid to question.”

He snatched up his coat and was out the door. I followed him, forgetting my tiredness in my excitement to be on the case again.

Chapter Text

“Good evening, Lestrade.”

I winced, as much from embarrassment as the pain from my bruises. “Good evening, doctor.”

“I must admit, I hadn’t expected to find you here.” Watson opened his medical bag, pulling out a small bottle and a roll of bandages. “Holmes didn’t tell me he would have company tonight.”

“He said you would insist on it,” I said wryly, and Watson chuckled. It was well known at Scotland Yard that the doctor would follow Holmes everywhere, never letting him go into danger alone. It was much less well known that these days, even when Watson could not accompany him, Holmes would still often choose to take a companion. Those of us who did know joked that he was wary of the doctor’s wrath should he come home injured due to being alone. None of us would ever express how touched we were to be chosen as a trustworthy companion of the great detective.

Nevertheless, as Watson wrapped up my bloodied knuckles, I wished that Holmes hadn’t chosen me as his companion the night he decided to start a pub brawl.

Chapter Text

The gentle melody of the piano drifted through the air, the crowd reduced to admiring whispers as they listened.

In a quiet side room, the lilt provided cover for a hushed conversation. “You must go, Sherlock. No less than the fate of our country is at stake.”

“I am retired, Mycroft. My mind is not as sharp as it was. There must be another who can help you, someone younger, more prepared for this new age.”

“You know as well as I that there is no one. Even your young protege at the Yard does not have the skills you have.”

“Skills you have as well.”

“Deduction, certainly. But your talent for disguise? Of chasing down clues? Really, Sherlock.”

“…You will tell Watson?”

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Dear Stalker,

I am aware you have been following me to and from the railway station on my bicycle each week. I have left this letter under a stone near the road for you - if this letter is being read by any other, please put it back under the stone for its intended recipient.

Stalker, I do not know your name or intentions, but your behaviour disturbs me. I wish only to ride in peace, without your presence shadowing me. Whatever your purpose for doing so, I am sure it will come to no good. I have little money, and am already engaged. Even if I was not, I would not wish any relationship with one who stalks young women.

I am writing to advise you of my intentions to engage a detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes to investigate my case. Perhaps you have heard of him. In the case you have not, he is quite famous for his skills, and if you do not desist, he will find out who you are and why you are doing this. If you do not wish this to happen, cease your stalking.

I will not write again.

Cordially yours,

Miss Violet Smith

Chapter Text

At the sound of a bell, John looked at the door again, then sunk back into his seat when no hawkish figure appeared in the doorway.

I laid my hand on his. “He’ll come. He wouldn’t miss Christmas, not after we invited him especially.”

He smiled briefly, and squeezed my hand, but did not look cheered. “Holmes has never particularly cared for Christmas. Our first year in Baker Street, he was absent until two o’clock Christmas afternoon, and hadn’t even thought of buying presents.”

I enjoyed these small pieces of the life he’d led before me, but that memory only seemed to be making John sadder. “What about after that? What did you do for Christmas last year?”

His smile this time looked a little brighter. “Last year we were on a case, out by the coast. It was miserable weather, pouring down rain; Holmes hated it. None of his disguises were much good when it was too wet to be outside. It took so long to solve, we didn’t come back to London until New Year’s Day.”

I bit my lip against laughter at the thought of my John and Mr Holmes absolutely soaked through, wandering around a little town by the coast.

“We didn’t bring presents with us, but we had a Christmas supper by the fire, and our host led us in carolling. I’d never heard Holmes sing before then, but he hadn’t brought his violin, and our host’s daughter insisted on everyone taking part.” John’s smile faded. “It was a lovely night.”

This would not do. If Mr Holmes did not come tonight, I resolved, tomorrow we would go to Baker Street and have our Christmas dinner there. Whatever was keeping Mr Holmes busy, I would not let him disappoint my husband on Christmas!

Chapter Text

"A new dawn is coming,” I whispered. I knew Holmes could hear me. For all his head hung low in grief and pain, he would never be able to entirely divorce himself from that regard for small details which was instinctive to him.

Though he could hear me, he did not respond, and I was not surprised. Holmes, despite what I thought in our earlier days, and what I have written in the Strand, was not an emotionless machine. True, he did sometimes strive to act as though feelings had no sway over him, but I knew he felt deeply, or as I once put it, with a great heart to match his great brain. This day had not been easy for him.

“I know it will never be what it was, that you have lost someone impossible to replace.” My thoughts drifted to a battered watch, a note by a waterfall, a pale hand slipping from my grasp to fall to our familiar bed. “Take the time you need, and I will stay with you. The sun still rises, and you are not alone.”

We sat, and watched the dawn together.

Chapter Text

Once Lestrade had left, Holmes abruptly stood from his chair, pacing between his bookshelf and the window as he gestured with delight.

“A case, Watson! Finally, something to prevent stagnation - not every criminal can be a Moran or a Moriarty, but these last few weeks I have despaired of finding one with even a hint of imagination!”

“Perhaps because all of London still believes you to be dead,” I said waspishly. The wounds of grief were still too fresh for me to take Holmes’ admiring attitude towards Moran and Moriarty lightly. That he had survived them both to come back to me still felt a little like a dream, too good to be true.

Holmes looked at me, and as he ever did, knew where my thoughts had wandered. “Then let us enjoy our little anonymity, Watson.” He fetched my coat and stood beside my chair, that masterful figure softened in a way I had not seen before. “Come with me, Watson. Holmes and Watson, on the case once more!”

He had changed in the last three years, and so had I. Nevertheless, I took my coat with a smile, ready to once more follow Holmes into adventure.

Chapter Text

I frowned at the envelope in front of me, quite confused at the name inscribed on the front. “Holmes,” I asked of my friend, who was dedicatedly glueing articles into his commonplace book, “why would your brother be writing me a letter?”

“Brother Mycroft?” I handed him the envelope, and he examined it for himself. “An excellent forgery, if it is one.” He gave it back to me, then watched eagerly as I opened it.

“‘Dear Dr Watson’…’humbly request your medical opinion on a very sensitive matter…” A phrase caught my eye, and I brought the letter closer, hardly able to comprehend what I was reading. “Jekyll and Hyde?”

“Doctors of your acquaintance, Watson?”

“Of many people’s acquaintance, Holmes, though only one’s a doctor.” Familiar with my friend’s distaste for popular fiction, I explained, “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde are characters in a novel. The good and bad sides of a man, you might say, or at least that’s what seems to be suggested here. Your brother,” the words felt ridiculous even as I said them, “has asked me to consult on an antidote to the serum - he believes someone has used it on him.”

For a brief moment, I had the rare privilege of seeing Sherlock Holmes completely stunned. Then, with a bark of laughter, he snatched the letter from my hands, poring through it for himself.

As he did so, growing visibly more frustrated as he could not spot any signs of forgery or falsehood, I gathered up my doctor’s bag. Whatever the true affliction affecting Mycroft, a patient had asked for my help, and I would not deny it. I would, however, bring along some help.

“Holmes,” I asked, a slight grin growing along my lips, “would you care to join me on a case?”

Chapter Text

I once wrote that to Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler would always be The Woman. No other of her sex could compare in his mind to Mrs Norton, nee Adler. At the time I wrote those words, I knew they were true, but it wasn't until decades later that I knew exactly how true they were.

Holmes never shared many details of how he had spent the years he was supposed dead. I knew he had been in fear of his life, had often travelled in disguise to avoid the remaining members of Moriarty's gang - particularly the notorious Colonel Moran - and that for a time he had gone under the name Sigerson, but only after Holmes' retirement did he tell me the story I now relate to you.

Holmes had been lying low in Montreal after narrowly escaping detection in New York from one of Moriarty's gang, a Mrs Crowe. He had, as he told it, grown bored of staring at walls and had instead escaped to the theatre. The headline act, to his surprise, was Mrs Norton, performing again under the name of Irene Adler. A coincidence and nothing more, you may think, but her presence turned out to be all that saved him from a horrible fate at Mrs Crowe's hands.

Chapter Text

"That's a new look for you," Lestrade sniped as Gregson came into the offices of Scotland Yard, brushing snow off his jacket. "To show how bullheaded you are?"

Gregson shot him a glare, touching the strange sticks on his hat self-consciously. "Better than being a ferret."

Lestrade grimaced. Ever since that blasted story had come out, everyone in the precinct had been mocking him for it. If only Dr Watson wasn't so thoroughly likeable, so he could be properly angry with the man.

"They're not bull's horns, anyway," Gregson continued smugly. "Shows Holmes was right about who's the smartest of the Yarders."

Lestrade couldn't think of a good comeback, and silently cursed the good doctor's irritating book. Why couldn't he have just kept his opinions to himself like a proper Englishman? "What are they, then," he asked, because now he was curious, and wouldn't be able to let it go without an answer.

Gregson's smug smile abruptly dropped away. "Lost a bet with my brother. He thought it would be funny for the kids to do me up like a reindeer."

Lestrade muffled a snort of laughter, and instead tried to appear sympathetic. "Kids, eh? But Christmas wouldn't be the same without them."

"Guess there's that." Gregson looked slightly cheerier as he continued up the hall to his office.

Lestrade waited until he was out of sight, then motioned one of the junior constables over. "Page, get over to the market, pick me up a couple of carrots, good big orange ones. And no saying a word to Inspector Gregson!"

After this, everyone would forget all about ferrets. Reindeer were much more seasonal.

Chapter Text

Despite the many years since she had last performed, her skill and talent had in no way waned, unlike the moon overhead when Holmes arrived at the theatre. A lover of Wagner, he had not been able to resist seeing the performance, judging the danger to be slim enough as long as he remained in disguise.

So, as Holmes delighted in informing me, Mr Sherlock Holmes had not been at the theatre that night. Instead, while all of London was mourning his loss, the elderly Mrs Gray had attended that Montreal theatre, having an excellent night listening to splendid music.

After the performance, Holmes, with his curious blend of caution and drama, stayed behind while most of the audience headed out into the cold night, returning to their warm and cheery homes. With the theatre close to empty, he stopped at the stage door to ask after Mrs Norton, and congratulate her on her performance.

Chapter Text

“Have I not remarked to you before, Watson, that it is the commonplace crimes that are the hardest to solve? The more unusual, the more unique, the easier it is to find the solution.” Holmes glanced at the carriage pulling up opposite us, on the step of 221 Baker Street. “I wager our guest is about to provide more evidence to the point. That is Lord Weltinghamshire’s carriage, and the papers have been full of details about his son’s notorious death.”

We met Lord Weltinghamshire pacing in our rooms, and Holmes bid him to sit. “Don’t send for Mrs Hudson, Watson. My lord, I already know why you have come, and I already have our answer.”

“You could not possibly!” Weltinghamshire exclaimed, his trim moustache fluttering with the force of his words. “Scotland Yard’s best detectives have been able to make nothing of it.”

“Scotland Yard do not use my methods.”

“I have not even told you my story.”

“You do not need to. I already know.”

“Then tell me, what happened? How, in a gambling den filled with his enemies, eating nothing and drinking only from his own flask, did my son choke to death without anyone laying a hand on him?”

“It was the ice.”

Weltinghamshire slumped back in his chair, erect posture giving way to his grief. “Please. I believe you,” he said lowly, voice broken. “Explain it to me. I must know.”

“Your son had many enemies, and was well-known for only drinking from his own flask to avoid being poisoned, and even when he used a glass, only one he had seen rinsed out with his own eyes. The one place his caution failed him was with ice.

“It took a cunning mind to think of, and a certain level of trust to carry it out. The killer froze a tasteless, colourless poison into pieces of ice, which your son then put in his drink. As the ice melted, the poison was released, and your son choked.”

Weltinghamshire closed his eyes, hiding his face behind his hand. When he lowered it, only the barest redness around his eyes betrayed any emotion. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I wanted to know, and now I do.” He held up a hand. “Please, don’t tell me who it was. I have my suspicions, but I do not trust my ability to restrain myself if they are concerned. Best for Scotland Yard to find them first.” He stood to leave, then paused in the door. “Scotland Yard will find them?”

“Scotland Yard do not have much in the way of imagination, but they make up for it in tenacity,” Holmes said. “Your son’s murderer will not go unpunished, my lord.”

Chapter Text

Watson halted, his aching leg no longer able to hold him upright. “A moment, Inspector?”

With a quick glance, Lestrade understood the situation, and came to lean against the wall beside Watson. “Rain’s still an hour or two off,” he said with a nod to the sky. “The body can wait. I appreciate you doing this, doctor.”

Once, Watson might have smiled in warm denial of any need for gratitude. Now, nothing felt worth smiling at. If this was all he could do to honour Holmes’ memory, then he would do it. Even if each new crime scene prodded cruelly at the hole torn in his heart at the side of a Swiss waterfall.

A girl scampered out of a side alley, a simple basket in her hands.

“Penny for a flower, ‘spector?” The girl asked, wide gap-toothed smile shining out of her dirty face.

Lestrade reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin, his face softening. “You got something yellow for the doctor, Ellie? His wife likes those.”

“Do too, ‘spector.” Ellie pulled out a marigold, head drooping, and presented it to Watson proudly. “Yer missus will like it, doc.”

Watson leaned forward to take the flower, gratified when his leg held steady. “Thank you, my girl.” He pulled out another coin, which the girl eagerly took. With a chirped goodbye, she disappeared back into the alley, ready to sell her wares to another passing customer.

Lestrade and Watson resumed walking. “Her dad was a copper,” Lestrade said abruptly. “Nothing I can do for him now, but he’d want to know his girl was looked after. Nothing worse than leaving behind someone who depends on you.”

Watson tucked the marigold into his buttonhole. “Except, perhaps, being the one who was left.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, what a wonderful canary!” The young ladies exclaimed.

“Sings all the popular tunes, miss. You’ll never hear anything else like it - the best in London, I swear on my mother’s grave!”

“Oh, Violet, I’ve simply got to have one!” One of the young ladies put her hand into her purse, drawing out a handful of coins. “Is this enough?”

I pretended to examine the coins in her hand, while casting a sly glance at the still rather full purse. “Afraid not, miss. Very special, this bird of mine is. The sweetest song you’ve ever heard.”

Violet tugged on her companion’s arm. “Really, Edith, it’s too much!”

“But a canary! You know how much I’ve wanted one.” Edith pulled away from her friend, dipping into her purse for more coins.

“Yes, that should do nicely.” I whistled a little tune to the canary as I handed it over, and it sang back to me, to Edith’s delight. “Mind you keep it somewhere safe, like your bedroom. They like to be comfortable if they’re to sing at their best.”

I watched the girls walk away, chattering excitedly over the bird, and smirked. My canaries were right special, but not for their singing. This one could sing a tune or two, but more importantly, tomorrow it would bring back to me the shiniest thing in the house - and for a young lady like this one, that would be quite a prize. A pretty bit of jewellery for me, and tomorrow, another girlie who simply has to have a canary of her own!

Chapter Text

From the moment I saw the first of those little chalk figures, I knew it could not end happily.

I had tried so hard to escape my past. I had left my country and found a new one; I had told nobody where I had come from, not even my beloved Hilton. I had even been willing to give up on being his wife if he could not accept that he must know nothing about what I had come from - he, beautiful man, had been happy to marry me anyway.

O - to know I am the cause of his downfall!

I had tried to keep him away from the figures, to pretend they meant nothing, but he knows - knew - me too well. Nothing would dissuade him from finding out the truth, and even then, he discovered it too late. If I had only told him sooner, maybe we could have found another way, and we would even now be safe and happy together.

Instead, he is dead, Slaney is in prison, and all that is left is poor Mrs Elsie Cubitt, widow.

Chapter Text

The great black dog appeared as more of a shadow than a reality, a mere glimpse from the corner of one eye.

With Holmes’ arm joined with mine, it took but a slight pressure to pull him to a stop, his keen gaze noting how I had surely gone pale.

“Watson?” he asked, voice low.

I shook my head hastily. “I can’t explain yet.” There was no way Holmes would understand the significance of a Grim, not without giving him an explanation of the secret I had been hiding as long as he’d known me. “Just follow me.”

I turned down an alley, then another, our path twisting and winding through the back streets of London. It had been a very long time since I had come this way, but surely I had not forgotten…

A bird swooped down from above, then another, and another. I ducked away, readying myself for the slash of talons against my face, but Holmes reached up and plucked an envelope from the air. “Messenger owls?” he asked, bemused.

“Mail owls,” I absently corrected, and hurried faster. Clearly my pursuers were not concerned by being noticed. Another turn, almost there…

A sharp crack, and I heard Holmes gasp as a woman appeared in front of us. “Open the letter, Watson!” she taunted.

I tried to retreat, pulling Holmes along with me, but two more cracks had us surrounded.

Holmes’ sharp eyes saw our predicament, and he gently pulled his arm out of mine. “This letter, I presume?” he murmured to me, and tore the envelope open.

A bright orange message flew out, hovering in the air in front of us - the words it spoke a reminder of a year I had first loved so very much, and later, tried so hard to forget. “Welcome, Dr Watson, to the reunion of the Triwizard Tournament!”

Chapter Text

George stared out at the Cornish coast, a place which had once been more familiar to him than his own name. His home, his family, his love - all of it taken, and taken by someone who should have known its value.

“Mr Treginnis?”

He tore his eyes away from the crashing waves to greet the man now approaching him. “Yes - thank you for agreeing to meet me, Dr Watson.”

Watson noticed his unwilling glance back at the ocean and smiled. “It must have been lovely, living here on the coast, with such a view to enjoy.”

“Until I lost all of it.” The bitterness crept into his voice. “My sister, my brothers, my sanity, my inheritance, all lost to Mortimer’s jealousy. Even when I have regained has come at such a high price I hardly know if it’s worthwhile.”

“I understand.” The empathy in Watson’s tone surprised him, and he glanced back to the other man. “I have lost my health, my profession, my brother, my wife, my closest friend - each time, it has been a devastating blow. It is no easy business, but as one who has been through it, I assure you that you can recover.”

George closed his eyes for a moment, the words lifting a weight from his soul he hadn’t realised was there. He had asked Dr Watson to visit in order to find out more about that fateful day he had lost everything, and instead, he had found something he hadn’t realised he’d lost at all - hope.

Chapter Text

“Mrs Hudson!” George and Betty shouted from her kitchen door, careful not to come inside in the soot-covered clothes they’d been wearing for Mr Holmes.

Mrs Hudson rushed over to greet them - as far as she knew, Mr Holmes’ case was solved, and the diamond back with its rightful owners, but cases had changed on an instant before. “Does Mr Holmes need something?”

“Candles, lots of candles!” George said quickly.

Betty took the end of her grubby plait out of her mouth to whisper, louder than she likely intended, “But they’re not for Mr Holmes, George! They’re for us!”

Mrs Hudson put her hands to her hips. “And why do you two need so many candles?”

George looked down sheepishly, but Betty answered, “They’re for Santa Claus! We have to make sure he knows where to find us!”

Mrs Hudson immediately softened. “You don’t need candles for that, dearie. Santa Claus will always know where to find you.”

“But he might see dad first, and dad will tell him we haven’t been good enough for presents,” George said quietly. “Or dad will sell the presents and we won’t get anything.”

Mrs Hudson looked down to Betty, hoping the little one would disagree, or at least not understand, but Betty was nodding, her hand clutching her brother’s sleeve, and her plait end back in her mouth.

Mrs Hudson closed her eyes for a moment, lamenting the cruelness of the world, especially to children, then opened them again. “How about, instead of giving you candles, I’ll keep a candle going all night so Santa Claus can see it. Then, when Santa arrives, I’ll ask him to leave his presents for you here.”

Hope slowly dawned across both children’s faces. “Really? You’ll watch for Santa all night?”

“I will.”

A hint of doubt shaded George’s face. “You promise?”

“I do. I promise.”

Both of them broke into blinding smiles. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson! We’ll see you on Christmas!” They scrambled merrily out of her garden, chattering between themselves about what presents Santa Claus might bring them.

Mrs Hudson sighed, but couldn’t help smiling as she watched them go. It would be a long candlelight vigil, watching for Santa Claus, but the children’s happiness the next morning would be worth it.

Chapter Text

“Lestrade! Welcome, Inspector.” Holmes’ familiar penetrating gaze swept over the Inspector. “A new case, one you have had for two days before coming to see me. What has changed?”

Lestrade wasted no time. “Someone is going to try and kill my children.”

I straightened in my chair. Lestrade’s voice held no doubt nor amusement. This was clearly a very real and dangerous threat, not an offhand or baseless comment. “Who?”

“Jack Pendethrier. We arrested him and his gang two days ago for forgery, but we believe they had been working towards something much bigger. He threatened my family when we arrested him, but this was no regular threat.”

“What was it that he told you? His exact words, if you can.”

Lestrade’s expression twisted in remembered anger. “His exact words were, ‘Mark my words, Inspector, this will be your last Christmas with your children!’”

Lestrade hid it well, but I could see how affected he was by the pronouncement. He kept it quiet at work, but Lestrade was very much devoted to his family, and without them, he would be a different man. Having seen for myself the restorative power of the Lestrades, I could sympathise.

After Holmes’ supposed death at Reichenbach, the Lestrades had welcomed Mary and me into their home and their lives. I had been too dazed to realise at first, still lost in the shock and horror of losing my closest friend in such a tragic manner, but I vividly remember that first Christmas, laughing at the children’s antics, and only realising when I saw Mary’s tears that it had been the first time I had laughed since Holmes had died.

Chapter Text

"I do hope I'm not too late?" A wavering voice greeted me as I opened the door Christmas morning. I looked down to see the hunched form of an elderly gentleman, a pile of books tied with twine hanging from one skinny hand. "Your dear wife told me to call in. Looking for history books, aren't you? Last minute present for a friend? Christmas morning is leaving it rather late, but please, have a look at these, I'm sure you'll find just what you need."

I glanced back up the stairs, to where I had left Mary sleeping. I had been considering buying a history book as a present for an old army friend, but had settled on another idea just a few days ago. At no point, however, did I remember mentioning this to Mary, as anything more than the regular chatter of presents and Christmas shopping. Would she have gone to this effort on such a slight mention?

"I'm afraid I am no longer looking for a history book, but-"

"Ah, but you have not seen what I have brought!" The bookseller handed me the bundle and I could not help but take it, balancing it awkwardly in my hands while he slid one book out. "The histories of Homer, the best of Roman senators! And this," he brought out another book, carelessly placing the other one on top of the pile, and I jostled it again to balance it, "a rare volume on pharaohs of the far east!"

He reached for a third book, and I was greatly tempted to drop them all on him. The man was clearly a charlatan, unaware of even the most basic history. However, in the spirit of Christmas, I bided my time, silently thankful I had not invited him in.

"A very uncommon book, this one. You may consider it more of a pamphlet, but it contains, in great detail, the precise evidence used to convict Mary Bateman, more commonly known as the Yorkshire Witch, as well as preliminary thoughts on her additional victims."

The man waved the thin book at me, and I was caught by the contrast between the detailed explanation he now gave and the thoroughly inadequate ones he had provided for his previous volumes. It sparked a sudden moment of insight, and I peered closer at the bookseller. Was he really as hunched as he appeared? Was his hair, perhaps, artificially lightened? "Holmes?"

As if by magic, the wizened body of the old bookseller unfolded into the much more familiar form of my friend. "Merry Christmas, Watson."

Chapter Text

“I see the streets are icy out there today, Watson,” Holmes commented as I came in, melted snow dripping from my coat.

“Not a deduction worthy of your abilities. A single minute outside could have told you that,” I grumbled, for the morning had been cold and unpleasant. I stumbled over to the table, eager to have a seat and rest my weary legs, and was exceedingly grateful to find Mrs Hudson had left a pot of tea waiting for me.

As I sipped at my mug, slowly warming from the inside, Holmes must have noticed my regaining good cheer, for he continued on, “As it happens, I have not been outside at all this morning. My deduction came entirely from your coat.”

“My coat?”

“And your trouser-leg. The knees, I have told you before, are most revealing. In your case, Watson, the knee of your trouser shows that you have slipped and fallen, and the marks on your coat sleeve show where you have struggled to regain your feet. There is also a light dusting of ice on the brim of your hat where it brushed against the wall. Clearly, the ice on the street was enough for you to lose your footing and fall, despite your cane. When you tried to regain your feet, the ice brought you down again. Nothing could be plainer.”

“Most impressive, my friend.” I toasted him with my teacup. “Yet there was a further step you missed.”

He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“That any man who had been out on icy streets all morning would want a hot cup of tea when he came in!”

Chapter Text

It was only the merest chance that saved my Watson’s life.

I had been working for weeks on the case of the Barghest diamonds, growing ever closer to the mastermind behind the theft. I had received threatening messages, but paid them no mind. Watson was running his own practice at the time and spent most of his time there, and my own safety had never been much of a concern.

I had been down by the docks, following one of the men who I knew to be part of the gang behind the crime, when he met with a compatriot I did not recognise. The man was wearing a familiar scarf - familiar, for the last time I had seen its like had been around Watson’s neck. The scarf was made out of common material, with nothing to say it was not merely a duplicate to Watson’s, but I would not be easy until I was certain.

I left the two men and journeyed to Watson’s practice, where his secretary was quite surprised to see me. “Dr Watson left yesterday afternoon,” she told me. “He said he was going to see you, and not to expect him back for a few days. Dr Ferguson has been taking his patients. They have an arrangement, you see.”

I thanked her for the information, and hurried to Scotland Yard. I knew where the gang’s hideout was, and though I still did not have the proof they had stolen the Barghest diamonds, I would not risk Watson’s life by delaying. I still shudder to think how close it came, arriving only seconds before the men executed Watson as a warning to me.

I lost my fee, for though the criminals were tried and convicted on charges of abduction and attempted murder, they did not reveal where the diamonds where, but the money was nothing compared to what I would have lost if Watson had died that day.

Chapter Text

The snow fell gently on the quiet countryside.

The snow fell on a young man, his throat gruesomely slashed, gasping for his final breaths.

The snow fell on the gun fallen from his hand, two bullet casings lying spent in the snow.

The snow fell on a young woman, already dead, her look of horror and despair marred by a single bullet.

The snow fell on a pair of footprints, another dragging beside them, both grimly followed by an Inspector who knew he had arrived too late.

The snow fell on a tangle of branches, beneath which a doctor huddled, holding his companion close to his chest and repenting the rash action which could still cost him everything.

The snow fell gently on the quiet countryside - covering a multitude of sins.

Chapter Text

A flash of lightning brought my attention to the storm that had just broken outside the window. The crash of thunder soon followed, and I drifted closer, Mary and Beth Lestrade continuing to chatter on behind me. Raindrops pelted down to hit the streets with unusual ferocity, and I was thankful Mary and I had decided to host a party in our own home to welcome in the New Year, preventing any need to wander out into the storm.

Not all our guests were so fortunate. Holmes was standing by the door, conversing in low tones with a boy in a dripping wet coat. Clearly he had been out on a mission from Holmes, and had fallen foul of the horrendous weather outside.

The boy nodded, turning to go, and I hurried over.

Holmes’ keen eye saw me coming, and immediately sought to reassure me. “Not to worry, Watson, my young guest is about to leave. He has only to drop a message for me, then he will return to his den and escape the rain. It won’t be far.”

I would not be put off so easily. I would never dare assume I knew Holmes’ business better than he, but as a doctor, I could not advise anyone to go out into such a storm. “No one should be out in this weather, however far.”

“If the count reaches France before the papers can be recovered, they will be lost irretrievably.”

“In this storm, no one will be travelling. Wait until morning, Holmes. I’m sure the lad would appreciate a warm drink after his efforts.”

The boy nodded eagerly, but kept his coat on, ready to depart if Holmes said the word. Only when Holmes gestured at him did he shuck off his coat and run towards the kitchen and the scent of hot cider emanating from there.

My old friend turned to me, a familiar twinkle in his eye. “Satisfied, Watson?” Despite his brusque manner, I knew he was not displeased.

I smiled at him. I was in my own home, warm and dry, with the company of excellent friends. “I could not be more so.”

Chapter Text

“Did you read the story in the Strand this morning, George? By some doctor, Warton or Batson, something like that. Not bad, I thought.”

“I saw it, can’t say I thought much of it. This Mr Sherlock Holmes…is he meant to be real?”

“Just a character, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t mind reading some more about him.”

***

“There’s a man who may be able to help you. He’s my grandmother’s cousin’s friend’s lodger, and he helped me out back when Frank was looking for those letters - you remember.”

“Can he really help me? He’s not police or anything?”

“No, dearest, he’s not police. He’s where to go when the police won’t help. His name’s Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

***

“Alice, why was the name in the paper this morning familiar? Mr Sherlock Homes, I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.”

“Wasn’t he the one in that story, Teddy? The one the doctor fellow wrote?”

“Ah, of course. Must have been a lick of truth to it, if the papers have got anything right!”

***

“Sherlock Holmes, you say? Yes, I’ve heard of him. But for something like this? We need to remain…discreet.”

“Believe me, sir, if you want to find the thief, Mr Holmes is the man you need. He’ll understand the delicacy of the situation.”

“Very well. Fetch Mr Holmes - use the unmarked carriage.”

***

“Look, Betsy, another Mr Holmes story! Mammy can read it to us at bedtime.”

“Aww, Johnny, d’we have to wait so long? I want to hear it now!”

“You know I can’t read as well as Mammy, Bets. How about we look at the pictures instead?”

***

“I’ll take only the best on this one. Warton, get me Mr Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes is not taking any new clients at the moment, sir. He has no room for new cases.”

“I’ll go see him myself, then! I said I’d only have the best, and that’s exactly what I’ll get!”

***

“Little did we know, my dear Watson, how popular our little services would become!”

“You mean you could not follow the trail of logic?”

“Ha! The return of your pawky sense of humour, I see. But come, Watson, and let us see if we can live up to the legend you have created.”

Chapter Text

The length of rope was thick but short, with one end evenly sliced and the other much rougher, as if it had been cut by some serrated edge. A knife, most likely, but he could not rule out it having been caught on a rough piece of metal. The thickness of the rope suggested it may have been used on a boat, and he knew very well the docks were rife with metal edges sharp enough to leave dangerous cuts. It was damp, but with the recent rain, it was impossible to know whether that was further evidence it had come from the docks, or whether it had simply been caught in the rain like the rest of London.

Watson sighed. He’d take it to Holmes. They couldn’t rely on his amateurish efforts, not with a woman’s life at stake.

Chapter Text

“Mrs Hudson!”

Mrs Hudson sighed, trudging up the stairs for the seventh time that morning. Ever since Dr Watson had returned home earlier, red eyed and irritable from a night on the wards, he and Mr Holmes had not stopped picking at each other, with her getting the worst of it.

She caught the end of one such bout as she opened the door. “-doesn’t run on cocaine, Holmes!”

Mrs Hudson winced. Dr Watson must be in a particularly bad mood to be mentioning Mr Holmes’ drugs. And Mr Holmes was too bored and restless to notice Dr Watson’s mood like he usually would.

“Mrs Hudson, Holmes needs breakfast,” the doctor said shortly, catching sight of her. To his credit, he tried to muster up a smile to offset the short tone, but wasn’t particularly successful.

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself,” Holmes said, with frosty disregard. “If I had wanted breakfast, I would have already eaten it.”

“It’s not about what you want, Holmes, it’s what your body needs!”

Forgetting about her, they descended into another bout of arguing. Mrs Hudson sighed again, going back downstairs and closing the door behind her. She’d bring up some biscuits in a little while; perhaps that would sweeten them up a bit.

Chapter Text

“Mrs Hudson.” John gave Mrs Hudson a weary smile as she opened the door. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but…”

Mary squeezed his hand in wordless comfort. After his near-nervous collapse upon coming back from Switzerland, he’d barely been able to get out of bed. He really should have been at home resting now, except that he had insisted he needed to visit his old home on Baker Street, to ensure nothing had been left behind that may help put away Moriarty’s compatriots. Mary suspected he was still holding out hope Sherlock would be waiting for him, playing upon his violin as he so often did, but if he needed to see for himself Sherlock was really gone, she would be there to support him.

“Nonsense, Dr Watson.” Mrs Hudson stepped back to let them in, closing the door behind them. “I’m just so glad to see you safe. When I heard about Mr Holmes-“ A choked sob cut her off.

Mary released John’s hand for him to gather up both of Mrs Hudson’s hands in his, offering as much comfort as he could in the simple touch. They stayed paused for a moment, obviously fighting for control, before parting with shuddered breaths. John’s hand reached for Mary’s again, and she gladly took it.

Mrs Hudson’s expression, when she turned to her, was not so glad. “Mrs Watson.”

Mary inclined her head slightly, just enough to not be obviously rude. “Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson eyed her, then turned away, running a shaky hand along John’s sleeve before disappearing into her own rooms. Mary doubted they’d see her again before they left.

For whatever reason, in her grief Mrs Hudson had decided Mary was the reason Sherlock had not come home from the Reichenbach Fall, and Mary was too tired to fight it. She had enough to do running their household and looking after her husband while he grieved his dearest friend, while also not giving in to her own grief at the loss of a man who had become increasingly dear to her. Had he known, she wondered, how his loss would tear all of them apart?

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Holmes, but we don’t need you on this one,” Gregson said dismissively. “It’s obvious what happened here.” He pointed to the light switch near the door. “They’ve put that new electricity in, and it’s killed them. Electrified them right in their own home. Just goes to show that some things are better left alone - nothing wrong with a candle or a lantern, and they’re much safer.”

I bristled at his tone. “Candles and lanterns have caused many a house fire. If electricity would be able to prevent that, perhaps it will turn out the safer option after all, despite this unfortunate accident.”

“Not an accident at all, Watson, and neither was it the fault of electricity.” Holmes stepped away from the light switch, putting his magnifying glass back in his pocket. “At least, not the electricity in their home. As you may know, inspector, I dabble in science myself, and I am certain that this couple were murdered.”

Chapter Text

“Sam, go north. Search the streets there. Bess, you’ve got East Row. Ron, get to the docks. I’ll take the markets. Grab a group and get out there, Mr Holmes is counting on us.”

Wiggins and his three chosen leaders quickly gathered the children into groups, streams of them heading off in different directions. Watson watched in bemusement. “Your Irregulars seem to have grown since I last saw them.”

“They’re children, Watson, they do tend to grow. As a doctor, I would have thought you knew that.”

Watson levelled him with an unimpressed expression. “You know very well what I mean, Holmes. How many Irregulars does it really take to solve a case?”

“On this occasion, apparently forty two.”

Chapter Text

You are invited

To the first meeting of the 

Diogenes Book Club

On

The third Saturday of the month

The book for this month will be 

Aristotle’s Rhetoric

There will be no discussion.

Chapter Text

“Excuse me- sorry- excuse me, please-“

The crowds of Christmastime traffic jostled past Watson as he walked home to Baker Street, the darkening clouds above sending everyone scurrying towards home with little care for those in their way. His shoulder was beginning to ache from continual brushes with careless shoppers and their large packages, and his feet, already sore from a long day assisting on the wards, were trod on mercilessly.

The only upside, Watson reflected, if it could be called that, was that navigating through the crowds kept enough of his attention to stop him from sinking into melancholy thoughts of those he had not been able to save. Some families would be facing a Christmas without a much loved member - at least one couple had just lost all four of their children to the ravages of scarlet fever, and would be returning home to presents under the tree, but no child to give them to.

A flash of golden hair caught his eye, and Watson looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar cherished face. “Mary?”

The hair disappeared, then reappeared further away, moving in the opposite direction. He turned, chasing that glimpse, his heart rising in painful hope. It was surely too good to be true, but what was Christmas if not a time of miracles? He pushed through the crowd, heedless of the scowls and dropped packages in his wake, looking for one more flash of gold.

There!

He raced forward, uncaring of the pain in his shoulder and feet, and finally, achingly, grasped his wife’s shoulder. “Mary!”

She turned.

His heart sunk.

“I’m so sorry, madam. Mistaken identity.”

Chapter Text

“Urghk!” Holmes leaned backward, choking on the thick, acrid smoke arising from his chemistry set. He had been performing a simple test to see if the green stains found on the victim’s coat were from grass or his sister’s dyes - vital knowledge to narrow down the suspects. There was nothing in there that should have caused such vile smoke.

Waving a hand in front of his face to keep the smoke at bay, he examined the beaker closely. There were curious grey specks floating in the solution, ones he recognised, but had certainly not introduced himself. There was no call for gunpowder for this test.

His eyes narrowed. Only one person would have devised a prank like this.

“Philip!”

***

Three days earlier

Lestrade stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street, wringing his hands. “I didn’t want to bother you gentlemen, but I have no one else to turn to.”

“A new case?” Watson asked, with a side glance at Holmes. It had been several days without anything to attract Holmes’ attention, and Holmes’ boredom had gone from endless scraping at his violin to an obsessive attention and deduction of Watson’s every move. A case would be much welcomed.

“Not a case, Watson, or our dear inspector would not be so hesitant,” Holmes drawled from his position lounging across the sofa. “Surely a personal matter. Not a medical one, or at least not one requiring your assistance, Watson.”

“No. It’s about my son.” Lestrade hesitated, casting an anxious glance back at the doorframe. “I shouldn’t impose on you. Please forget I was here.” He started for the door, only to be called back by Holmes.

“My dear Lestrade, whatever your request, at least allow us the courtesy of hearing it before you assume our disinterest. We have no case at present, and I confess to curiosity as to what your son could have done to require our particular expertise.” Holmes gestured to a seat, and Lestrade sunk into it, visibly resigning himself to seeing his request through.

“It’s not anything he’s done, Mr Holmes. Philip’s a good boy, if a bit high-spirited. But my wife’s visiting her sister on the Continent, and now I’m being called up to Edinburgh to consult on a case, just for a day or two, but I’m afraid he’ll find himself in some mischief.” Lestrade drew a hand across his brow. “He could stay with my aunt, but her son - my cousin - is a bit of a bad lot, and is likely to draw Philip into some trouble. Which is why- it’s a lot to ask -“

“You’re asking if we would be able to keep an eye on Philip while you’re away,” Watson said, rescuing Lestrade from his stuttering. “Of course we can.”

Lestrade blew a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you. I appreciate it more than I can say.” With a short discussion of details, Lestrade left, his shoulders less burdened.

***

Philip’s arrival the next day had been met with interest and some trepidation on both sides, which quickly changed to amusement. As Lestrade had promised, his son was polite and well-behaved, with a curious nature that provided Holmes sufficient distraction from his boredom as he introduced the boy to the wonders of chemistry.

It was on the second day, when Watson woke to find everything in their living room had been shifted two inches to the left, did he begin to suggest perhaps letting Holmes spend extended time with a small child had been a bad idea. Even then, conspiring with Philip to put salt in Holmes’ coffee made it worthwhile.

Only when Gregson came by with a new case did the potential problems of the situation make themselves felt. Reluctantly, Mrs Hudson agreed to watch the boy for a few hours, but even when Holmes and Watson returned, the were unable to pay the same attention to Philip as they had previously, a situation which did not change throughout the rest of the day or the next morning. Judging by the smoke Holmes was still waving away, Philip had not taken it well.

“Watson!” He called sharply. He heard the creaking of the stairs, followed by the familiar sound of Watson’s footsteps entering the room. “Watson, you know that we have been through many trials together, but this boy may be my breaking point.”

Watson didn’t answer, instead turning to the window and opening it, breathing deeply of the clearer air. “What happened, Holmes? I’ve never seen you make a mistake with your chemistry before.”

“This was no mistake,” Holmes said darkly. “This was a child meddling in what he does not understand, and because of it, a killer may escape justice. I cannot forgive this, Watson.”

Watson, at first hiding a smile at Holmes’ dramatics, quickly sobered as he realised what was at stake. “Are you able to repeat the test?”

“Perhaps. The remaining sample is very small - it may not be enough for a result.”

“If anyone is able to do it, it will be you.” Watson turned from the room. “I will find Philip, and explain what his actions may have caused.”

Holmes nodded absently, already thinking the best way to use the minuscule remaining sample. His mind on the problem, he lost himself in his work, mixing chemicals carefully to ensure no trace of gunpowder remained. Finally, he held the solution up to the light, and watched as it turned a deep purple.

Leaning out the window, he whistled to the Irregular in the street below, who came racing up the stairs. Holmes quickly wrote a few lines on a piece of paper and handed it to the girl. “Give this to Inspector Gregson.” The Irregular nodded, and raced back down the stairs even faster than she’d come up.

Finally, Holmes leaned back in his chair, a smile of satisfaction growing across his lips. A killer had been caught, disaster had been averted, and by now, a mischievous child would be the guilty recipient of one of Watson’s rare but very effective lectures.

Chapter Text

Holmes shivered, pulling his blanket more closely around his body. Outside, the wind was howling, shaking the trees and sending flurries of snow whirling through the air. With Moran so close behind him, he hadn’t dared risk stopping in the little village below for any longer than it took to barter for food and a few blankets. Even then, if Moran asked, they would only tell him about the elderly man who had come through, stooped and shaky.

The shakiness was more fact than pretence. Ever since the waterfall - ever since hearing Watson sob as he realised Sherlock Holmes would not be coming home - warmth had been only a fleeting thing. Even the bright sunshine earlier in the day had not been enough to warm his numb skin.

Watson would say it was for something sentimental, like missing him. It was nonsense, of course, but as Holmes curled himself further into the blanket, he couldn’t deny that if Watson were there, it would be a little warmer.

Chapter Text

“Holmes! What in heaven’s name is that?”

Holmes turned to me with an infuriating smile. “A monkey, Watson. Surely you’ve seen one before.” He lifted his hand to feed it a nut. The monkey grabbed it in its little hands, peeling away the skin and nibbling at it.

I couldn’t help but smile, reaching out a finger to brush against the soft fur of its head. “There were plenty of them in India, but Holmes, how did you find one here? We can’t possibly keep it.”

“You can’t see its usefulness, Watson?” Holmes raised a brow. “Little hands are able to reach places no adult can.” He laughed at my expression. “The monkey belongs to a friend, who has loaned it to me for the Parkison case.”

"To locate the jewel, I presume?"

"Precisely. Even the countess' hands are not so small as a monkey's, and it is every bit her equal in climbing. Wherever she has hidden it, the monkey will be able to retrieve it. I only need to deduce where she has hidden it."

I picked up another nut and held it out for the monkey, who eagerly grabbed it and scrambled onto my shoulder to eat it. "In the meantime, I'll keep your little friend entertained."

Chapter Text

“Get out,” I said shortly to the patient who had just entered my office.

The old woman raised a hand to her mouth, eyes filling with tears. “Have I done something wrong, doctor?” she asked. Her other hand began to fret with the edges of the bandage wrapped around her wrist, still damp from the pouring rain outside.

I was in no mood for this sort of nonsense. Mrs Hanson’s weekly visit had taken twice as long as usual, as she had acquired a rash under her left arm and was convinced it was a sign of the plague, or at the least a new disease that was sure to lead to her imminent demise. It had taken me a good hour to reassure her it was only a rash and was not a fatal ailment, and had left me in a foul humour. I had attempted to go for a short walk, to clear my head and recover my temper, only to be caught in a sudden storm, and arrived back at my office absolutely soaked, with barely enough time to dispense of my sodden coat before seeing my next patient.

“Holmes, I’ve seen this one before. You wore that dress for the Ilverton case, it still has the spots of blood on the hem from when we investigated the body. Get out of this costume and out of my consulting rooms, I have real patients to see.”

Holmes unfolded himself from the chair, the old lady falling away even as he grinned at me. “Excellent work, Watson! Your eye is improving. With some practice-“

“Holmes, no.” I closed my eyes and scrubbed at them, all too aware of my damp clothes and the hair dripping down the back of my neck. “Not today.”

I opened my eyes, and Holmes was crouched beside my chair. “My dear Watson, as ever, you have paid attention to the wrong details. It is already evening, and you have no other patients today. I have a cab waiting outside.” He stood. “Come, Watson! Time to go home.”

Chapter Text

A sharp bang followed by children screaming brought Watson abruptly out of his slumber and sent him careening downstairs, heedless of his half-dressed state. Halting at the entrance to the sitting room, he stared dumbfoundedly at the chaos that had erupted overnight.

Where previously the sitting room had been slightly messy, but in overall good condition, it was no thoroughly blanketed in powder, both white and brown, with scorch marks on the wall and a gooey brown substance spread over Holmes’ chemistry set. Beside the set, staring at him guiltily, were Holmes and four of his Irregulars. The whole room stank of burnt ginger.

Holmes cleared his throat. “Morning, Watson.”

“Good morning, doctor,” the Irregulars chorused.

“Morning Holmes, children,” Watson said instinctually, trying to recover his wits. “What has happened here?”

Holmes looked at the Irregulars. The Irregulars looked at Holmes. They all turned to Watson.

“Chemistry experiment,” Holmes said.

“Baking explosion,” Betsy said at the same time.

Watson sighed deeply, then turned and retreated back up the stairs. “Whatever it is,” he called behind him, “it better be cleaned up before Mrs Hudson sees it!”

Chapter Text

“Look at the gloves! A writer, surely.”

“Not conclusive. And the books are mathematical.”

“Hmm.”

Intrigued at what could have so confounded the Holmes brothers, I wandered over to the window of the Diogenes club to join them.

On the street below us was a young person of indeterminate gender, carrying an armful of books. They were wearing trousers rather than a skirt, but their long hair and youthful unbearded face gave an oddly androgynous impression.

Holmes noticed my interest, asking, “Here, Watson, as a doctor, what are your insights on the individual below us? Man, or woman?”

I shook my head. “They could be either gender, or even something in-between. I have heard stories of children born with both sex characteristics, perhaps this person is one of them.” I had also knew of men and women who chose to pass as a sex other than their own, though I chose not to mention that possibility. Holmes was very well aware of such communities, that I knew, but I was not yet familiar enough with Mycroft to guess his opinions on them.

The individual disappeared around a corner, and the Holmes’ game continued on with a new subject. I returned to my paper, idly wondering if Holmes’ encyclopaedic knowledge of London extended out to Soho.

Chapter Text

Dear Uncle John,

I’m sure this letter comes as a surprise to you. I know you and my father were not on good terms prior to his death, and he did not invite you to his wedding. I do not know the source of the enmity between you, but from my knowledge of my father and his character, I reluctantly conclude he was the likely source.

I write you now as I have recently married, and currently am expecting a child. With both my parents departed, and my husband’s parents residing in India, my child’s only chance of growing up knowing some semblance of family lies with you. Family is something I have always held dear, and I can only hope you feel the same.

I know this is much to ask of someone who you have never met, who has only blood to connect you, yet nevertheless, I hope you will accept. Even if only in the spirit of Christmas, the time for all of God’s children to love and care for one another.

With much anticipation,

Your niece,

Rebecca Bransford

***

REBECCA STOP. WILL COME FOR CHRISTMAS STOP. BRINGING HOLMES STOP. LOVE UNCLE JOHN STOP.

Chapter Text

It was like a dream.

Heading out to the Sussex Downs, like he had so many times before, but now with an entirely new destination. After decades with no connection to his blood family, he had a niece and a nephew-in-law, with a grandniece or nephew on the way. At one point, he had wanted nothing more than to have a big family Christmas, with all the people he loved around him to play games, eat food, and make merry.

He glanced over at Holmes, and saw him looking back with his familiar half-smile. At one point, he had wanted nothing more than to see that smile again.

This Christmas, all his dreams would be coming true.

***

It was like a dream.

Rebecca fluttered around the house, straightening what didn’t need to be straightened, tidying up books and dishes. It would be her Uncle John’s first time seeing the house, or her, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. Not with him bringing his famous friend and all. If anyone would be able to see all the flaws in her housekeeping, it would be Sherlock Holmes. The nightmares she’d had in school about one of her teachers seeing her make a mess in class and scolding her for them were nothing on this.

“Calm yourself, love.” Her husband’s arms came around her from behind, his hands resting over her rounded belly. She relaxed into him. “Everything looks lovely.”

She breathed, and looked around again, this time seeing the presents under the tree, the extra plates on the dinner table, the pie sitting on the kitchen bench, all reminders that this Christmas, she would have what once she only dreamed - a whole family, gathered together for Christmas.

***

It was like a dream.

For the past two years, Christmas had been a small affair, with Watson coming down from London to visit him in his little house on the Sussex Downs. Now, he was about to enter a strange woman’s house to have dinner and spend the night, on no better basis than her being the daughter of Watson’s long-estranged deceased brother. It was mad, it was surreal, it had as much sense as an opium dream - but it was for Watson.

Watson rung the doorbell, then turned to him. “Thank you, Holmes. I’m happy you’ve come with me.”

Just before the door opened, he replied, “Always, my dear Watson.”

Chapter Text

The Irregulars huddled together around one side of the kitchen table. “What is it?” They whispered to each other.

Mrs Hudson didn’t notice, beaming as she slid a lumpy brown something out of the oven. It was lopsided, with something spiky sticking out at the top, and globs of red oozing out from a hole in one side. Studded throughout were something that might have been raisins, or cloves, or perhaps peppercorns. It was nothing like any of the Irregulars had ever seen before, and they’d all eaten their share of thrown away food.

She laid it on the table, saying, “Now, don’t be shy. There’s enough for everyone.” She looked up from the cake, if that was what it was, and smiled at the group of them. “Who wants to try first?”

They all gulped.

“What is it, missus?” Someone piped up from the back.

Mrs Hudson laughed. “Fruitcake, of course! An old family recipe, a bit different from the more traditional kind.” She looked at them expectantly.

Wiggins, as the leader, stepped forward. Shoulders squared, he came closer…closer…closer…

“Is that one of your special recipe fruitcakes, Mrs Hudson?” Watson appeared in the doorway. “Would you mind if I have some?”

“Of course, Dr Watson!” Mrs Hudson turned around to grab a knife from the counter behind her. Watson winked at the Irregulars.

By the time Mrs Hudson turned back around, they had all scattered.

Chapter Text

“Fourteen stockings, Mary?” I finally asked, watching as she hung the little pieces on the mantle.

She turned to me with a blush. “I suppose you think I’m being silly.”

“Of course not, darling.” I stepped closer to brush a kiss against her cheek. “But what on earth are they all for?”

“For the Irregulars.” Her graze strayed back to the mantle. “I know I haven’t met most of them, and that really they work for Sherlock, but I want them to feel they have a place with us this Christmas if they want one.”

My heart filled with love for my compassionate, generous wife. “That’s not at all silly, my darling.” I picked another off the pile still sitting on a chair. “What would you think about having names on them?”

Chapter Text

“Cheers!”

The champagne twinkled in the dim light of the study as the two glasses clinked together. Moran drained his dry, while Moriarty took a sip then held it up to the light, admiring the colour. “Truly, it is the small pleasures that make a man’s life complete.”

“Only for the man with the riches and cunning to afford them.” Moran poured himself another glass, taking a more temperate sip. “And they taste all the better for likeminded company to enjoy them with.”

“Very true.” Moriarty raised his glass for another toast. “To likeminded company.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Again, the two glasses clinked, as two friends celebrated their fortune in finding one another.

In a street not far away, in an apartment labelled 221B, another pair of friends did the same.

Chapter Text

I had known Sherlock Holmes for several months by the time we first celebrated Christmas together. That is to say, Christmas occurred while we were together, as my health was still not strong enough to stand up to much in the way of celebration, and Holmes was not in the habit of celebrating at all.

It was really Mrs Hudson, therefore, who brought us any kind of celebration, placing a garland on the door and coming in on Christmas Eve with a plate of shortbread. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said kindly, placing the plate on the table. “I’ve brought you a little treat for the holiday.”

I attempted to stand, but the winter chill had set into my shoulder, and I couldn’t manage to lever myself upright.

“Here, Watson.” Holmes left his place at the window to assist me in standing, helping me limp my way over to the table, where I gratefully sat down.

“Thank you, Holmes.” I nodded to him, then to Mrs Hudson. “And to you, Mrs Hudson, for the treats.” I picked up a piece of shortbread and bit into it, closing my eyes to savour the buttery goodness.

Mrs Hudson’s laugh startled me into opening my eyes again. “Appreciation like that is its own reward! Have a good night, doctor, Mr Holmes. Merry Christmas.” She left the room.

Holmes had also picked up a piece, biting into it with evident satisfaction.

“Merry Christmas, Holmes,” I said to him, taking another piece for myself.

“And Merry Christmas to you, Watson.” He finished his piece and returned to the window, and we spoke no more that night, content in our quiet companionship.

Chapter Text

It was only because Holmes’ birthday was so close to Christmas that it happened at all. For many years, I had made the habit of buying him a birthday present when I bought his Christmas present, to ensure I did not forget, and also did not need to make an unnecessary additional trip out in the cold December day. This year, in the excitement of spending Christmas with my niece, her husband, and my new grand-nephew, I had forgotten to buy a gift, and now it was only two days until Holmes’ birthday.

I knew Holmes would not mind if I did not buy him anything, or even if I offered something as simple as picking up the bill on our next dinner at Simpsons, but my honour and love for my friend would not allow such easy excuses. Since he had retired to the South Downs, I had seen less of him than in prior years, and I did not want him to think my affection for him had diminished due to the increased distance.

With no opportunity to buy a gift, and unwilling to take an easier option, I decided to make a sacrifice.

That was why I turned up at Holmes’ doorstep on the eve of his birthday with all of my possessions piled into the back of my brand new motor-car. I smiled sheepishly at him. “Happy Birthday, Holmes! I hope you don’t mind if I take you up on that offer to share rooms once again?”

Holmes burst out laughing. When he finally collected himself, grinning ear to ear, he said, “My dear Watson, I could think of no better gift.”

Straight-faced, I told him, “Neither could I.”

Chapter Text

Watson opened from his impromptu nap, blinking away the remnants of sleep. That was becoming more common these days. Whatever youthful energy he had left after his original army injuries and decades of adventuring around London hadn’t lasted through the Great War, and these days he often found himself waking up from a sleep he hadn’t quite intended to take.

This time, it seemed to have worked out well for him. He felt well-rested, almost energetic - as if he was back in Baker Street, and any minute Holmes would come through the door crying, “Come, Watson! The game’s afoot!”

Instinctively, he looked to the door, but all he saw was a tall figure in a deep black cloak. For some reason, this didn’t surprise him. “You’ve come for me?”

I HAVE, the figure said.

Watson looked around the small cottage that he had shared with Holmes these past years. “Will he be alright without me?”

IN TIME, the hooded figure said. Or maybe not said. Watson couldn’t really see if there was a mouth under the hood, and he had the distinct impression not to investigate too closely. Or at least, not without his detective.

Leaving his body behind in the chair, he ran a gentle hand along the violin case, the pipe, the Persian slipper which still held their tobacco. “Somehow, I didn’t expect it to end.”

From under the cloak, it felt like the figure was looking at him. IT DOES FOR EVERYONE, he said. THOUGH LESS SO FOR SOME.

Something in that felt reassuring. As if, in some small way, there would always be a Watson and a Holmes, living eternally in the lamplit fog of London. “I’m ready now.”

FAREWELL, DOCTOR WATSON.

Both disappeared.

Chapter Text

He watched the falls roaring beneath him, thundering over the drop, terrifying him and tantalising him in equal measure.

It had been a year.

One year since he had lost everything.

Not all at once. No, it had started at the falls, with the loss of his closest friend, but it had not ended there. For months, anything good and pleasurable in his life was slowly stripped away - his health, his friend’s reputation, his own reputation, his friends, and cruellest and most devastating of all, his Mary. She had stood beside him at every blow, kept his spirits up when they were at their lowest, and rejoiced with him at the news they would have a child. Then the sickness had come, stripping her of life and vitality, leaving her a pale shell of herself. No matter what he tried, no matter what skills or friendships or favours he had gained over his years as a doctor, nothing and no one was able to help. Once again, he lost a person he could not imagine living without.

Perhaps it would have been crueler, to have everything stripped away in one fateful moment.

Perhaps it would have been kinder.

Chapter Text

A soft rain pattered against the window as he stretched languorously, the warmth of the fireplace easing the aches in his muscles. It had been a long night, and an uncommonly active one, but now he could rest by the fire and relish in it being over at last.

“Watson, have you seen my-?“

“It’s over there, Holmes.” He waved a lazy hand towards the mantelpiece, where the scarf that had started them on the mystery culminating in tonight’s activities lay. “I deduced it needed some drying out,” he teased fondly.

If Holmes made some gesture in reply, he did not notice, for his eyes had slipped shut, lulled closed by the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire. The storm was easing now - a mere hour ago, it had been strong and furious, winds whipping past them and raindrops like pellets assaulting any exposed skin. Even the booming thunder had retreated, with nothing more than the occasional bright flash in the distance to show where it had gone. Instead, there was the gentle drum of rain against the pavement to soothe his way to sleep.