Make Yourself At Holmes, Santa, Finalist Options

[Guest_Jox_*]

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Copyright ©, James Oxenholme 2004. I, James Oxenholme, hereby assert and give notice of my right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 (Law of Wales & England - as recognised by the Berne Convention) to be identified as the author of the following article:
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This is an older posting of mine, which Lori kindly suggested I re-post for this competition. I have been through it but may make further chages before the deadline. That gives me a few hours!

There are too many of you in the comp to wish good luck to each, so please accept my good-luck wishes to all entrants. With this entry, may I be the last person to wish you a Happy Christmas, 2003. Cheers!

Make Yourself At Holmes, Santa! (# 0155 AE2)
by Jox (Writing as MG)

Ah there you are, dear Reader. I say, have you ever seen pigs fly? Well, I haven't! But there are other creatures which plummet and just how important to the reputations of two great men of fiction is about to be revealed...

The white snow glistened out from the frozen landscape as children, warmly dressed in every colour, gaily played as if the day would never end.  Small cottages with thatched roofs appeared almost as iced cakes; the only tell-tale signs of their actually being a dwelling were the chimneys emitting smoke plumes which then wafted over the stunning purity of the whiteness. Geese flying in formation completed the skyline.

The rural idyll in Winter was, indeed, a tempting scene he thought as he placed the first Christmas card of the year upon the mantle piece and turned to look out onto the dull and dismal London street which was waking to a grey, cold and probably boring day. He took solace from his pipe which he puffed at in determination not to allow it to extinguish. For now the needle could wait; there was nothing like strong smoke to start the morning - especially a morning like this. When the weather and the location conspired to dull the senses then one’s mind, fortified by tobacco, was the first weapon that one should turn to. Only if that proved insufficient should injections be employed. But that was an admission of failure because further rational thought became impossible - but what could one do to beat the boredom?

The street door was being opened, then closed, downstairs. “Good Morning Mrs Hudson” shouted the man who was bounding up the stairs to the study. Finding the door open, Dr John Watson walked in. “Holmes, good morning , my dear fellow. How are we today?” Watson involuntarily gave a short cough and, despite the outside cold, slightly opened a window. He saw the drawer ajar and the syringe within. “You won’t need drugs today Holmes - not Cocaine nor even that foul pipe. Hell’s Bells, I love a pipe as much as most men but why do you have to smoke them with such a foul filling?”

Holmes looked up at his long-time friend, companion and professional partner. He said nothing but with careful use of face and hand muscles gestured acceptance of Watson’s admonishment. Mr Sherlock Holmes was not one to let any argument nor debate go by without a contribution but he had latched onto something which sounded far more important. “Watson you seem insufferably jolly today. Either that wretched Christmas spirit which seems to inflict most of the population about this time of year has ailed you, else you have a news for me. Given that you know I regard such festivities as humbug I presume you have a Christmas present which I I would actually welcome.  A case Watson? Do you have a case for us?”

“You haven’t read the newspaper this Morning, Holmes? I know, you were too morose to bother. Well, read this.” Watson propelled a broadsheet newspaper towards Holmes’ lap as the great detective sat in his winged armchair puffing his pipe and contemplating nothing. Watson was an intelligent man, broad-framed and most jocular. He was not, though, a good shot. As the newspaper spun through the acrid air it despatched internal pages all across the study. For just a millisecond one could be forgiven for being reminded of the snow on the Christmas card, as the paper gently fell to Earth. The news pages did, at least, cover the existing untidiness - which was always the state of Holmes’ study. By one of those acts of serendipity which oft bestowed themselves upon Holmes, the relevant front page survived its hazardous journey into Holmes lap and came to rest in a perfect position for reading. Holmes bony hands seized the edges as his owlish eyes read the headlines...

Santa Claus kidnapped!
Christmas may have to be cancelled for many children.
Her Majesty, Queen Victoria said to be “most concerned”
The full story in this newspaper...

Watson knew of his mistake as soon as he started to utter a comment. He stopped immediately, allowing Holmes to thoroughly read and consider the newspaper story.

Walton removed his coat and hat, placing them and himself upon the sofa. From where he sat all he could see of his friend was his hands either side of the newspaper which he was now holding in front of his face. Below the newspaper were trouser-clad long legs which terminated in carpet slippers. Above it were the exhaust fumes from Holmes’ pipe. As Holmes became more excited by the bad news he chewed and puffed at his pipe even harder giving the impression of a steam train gathering speed in the lee of the broadsheet. Watson, watching this scene evolving mused that the view was, indeed, appropriate because Holmes was getting up steam for the enquiry ahead - an investigation which would surely be the most important in his long and distinguished career as the World’s premier detective.

Watson and Holmes seemed to be exchanging moods. The breezy Doctor had entered the study to find the tired Holmes. Now it was Holmes who was zestfully animated and Watson who, at least by comparison, appeared drowsy. As Holmes had read the paper - several times over - Watson had been forbad to move, lest he should disturb the slightest thought process. Holmes sprang out of his chair, slapping Watson on the knee whilst divesting himself of his dressing gown and slippers en route to find some outdoor clothes from his bedroom. “Watson, no time to snooze. Get up!” Watson stumbled to his feet, tripping over a paperweight in the shape of a red deer which, for some odd reason, was holding not paper - but a rug - down. Watson cursed aloud and mumbled about not leaving items in the shape of wildlife around for a fellow to stub his toe on. “Watson - don’t you see, my dear chap? It ‘s an omen!” Watson knew a Holmes joke was neigh - Holmes did not believe in omens and he always flagged jokes carefully so that people would know they should laugh. “Why, my dear Watson, it must mean the game’s afoot!” With that pun Holmes slapped his friend again - this time on his back - and propelled him out of the room. The two men descended the stairs - Holmes almost dancing down and with a cursory “goodbye” to Mrs Hudson, they were out of the door and hailing a cab whilst sheltering from the rain under the squat canopy which, in gold lettering, bore the moniker “221b, Baker Street”.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, Ma’am.”

The two men walked forward and bowed. The Queen welcomed them and bid they take a seat.  “Now, gentlemen, we have a major problem. Father Christmas has been Santanapped.  My Government assures me that all is being done that can be done. But! That is not true. You had not yet been consulted. Money is no barrier, gentlemen but I want you to use your own methods to find Santa before it is Christmas Day. If you don’t it seems we’ll have to hitch up some of the state coaches and Albert will have to don that red suit which we keep for, shall we say, our private moments. But I doubt we’d manage even a small proportion of the houses Santa does. Besides, we don’t really know where his stock of toys is - and Lapland is not yet part of the Empire.

Her Majesty had no real information which could help the detective and his friend but they bid her good day and promised to do their best. “At least, The Queen, has smoothed our involvement with the official authorities, Watson. So let’s go to Scotland Yard to see where the Police are with their investigations.” Watson nodded as the two men seated themselves in a Hansom cab for the journey between the Palace and the Yard. “This is probably the most complex case we’ve been faced with, Watson. I’d say it is a three pipe problem, easily.”

“I’ve thought of that, Holmes. You’re not smoking me out with that infernal pipe again today. Here’s a set of bagpipes. That should have all the pipes you need.” So, as the cab and horses clip-clopped and jolted their way across London’s cobbled streets, passers-by were serenaded to quite the most awful rendition of “Scotland The Brave” that it had been their misfortune to hear. Watson was so embarrassed he felt the need, occasionally, to lean out and apologise for his companion. Though assurances of “He’s better on violin,” did not seem to impress the pedestrians. On the other hand, maybe they could not hear the Doctor’s excuses as most hand hands over their ears.

Once at Scotland Yard, the two men were quickly shown up to the Chief Commissioner. He was aware of The Queen’s involvement and, though he did not like privateers involving themselves in Police business, he had little option but to co-operate. “Gentlemen, good to see you again,” he lied.  He was a fairly short man (though in his youth, as a Bobby on the beat, he was taller - but he had had his top hat removed since then).

“Commissioner, I’ll come straight to the point,” Holmes said. “Ouch; who put that drawing pin on the chair? Anyway, yes, Dr Watson and I have been asked to investigate Father Christmas’ disappearance - in parallel with yourselves. To speed matters up we would be grateful if you would appraise us as to your investigation hitherto.”

“Well, Gentlemen. I have men out looking all over London. In every nook and cranny; every lodging and ale house; every dock building and crane house. We have even administered alcohol to the seabirds.”

“Alcohol - Seabirds - Why?” asked a puzzled Watson.

“Elementary, my dear fellow,” Holmes interjected. “The Metropolitan Police have done that in order to leave no tern un-stoned.”

“Quite so, Mr Holmes,” added the Commissioner, somewhat irritated that such an elementary question even needed asking. We also have contacted all the county forces and asked them to keep a look out for a jolly man in a red suit and with a white beard. If they find one he might be able to help us with our investigations.”

“Have you considered Professor Moriarty?” Holmes asked.

“We have, Mr Holmes, but we’ve eliminated him from our enquiries. He’s not fat enough and he’s certainly not jolly. No, he just couldn’t impersonate Santa.”

“No, Commissioner, Holmes meant...” Watson’s attempt at clarification was thwarted by a sharp look from Holmes. The sort of look that could cut a knife at nine paces and still have enough change from a pound. Watson grimaced. It was not Holmes’ look per se, it was that he had been suffering from Sayings’ Indigestion and a wild horse in the hand was better than dragging it out in the bush.

“Well, thank you, Commissioner, you’ve been most helpful. If we find anything out we shall be delighted to inform you - say via Inspector Lastrade?” The Commissioner accepted their offer and they were on their way again.

Back in the comfort of 221b Baker Street’s study (with its lovely scarlet wallpaper) both men puffed at their pipes. But they were in the privacy of their own home so that was fine. The bagpipes lay forlorn in the corner, a testament to the glens of Scotland being, by far, the best place to play them. That way they could not be heard anywhere in London. Holmes’ occasionally played a few notes on his violin just to keep his chin up. “Watson, what do we do. We have no clues, nothing. Even the bagpipes have more notes than we do; not even a ransom note to go on.”

“Actually, Holmes, people are supposed to send Father Christmas notes - not the other way round.”

“Watson! Brilliant! You have it in a nut case.”

“Thank you, Holmes, one tries. I say, Holmes, what do I have?”

Holmes sat in his smoking jacket until Watson noticed and doused it in water. “Better watch that pipe of yours, my friend - that and too much drinking will give you an inflamed liver.” But Holmes was too absorbed in the case to notice.

“Let’s take-up your suggestion, Watson.” The Doctor looked perplexed. “We shall compose a note to the kidnappers which they cannot ignore. When we get their reply we shall have something to go on.”

“Well, we’d better hope that they write back magic carpet, Holmes.”

The two men sat into the night; scraps of paper littering the floor like giant hailstones (but not as cold nor wet, which was fortunate). At about three am there was a tremendous fart. The two men looked at each other aghast - or at least, a-gassed. They then realised that the bagpipes had crumpled, discharging air. Both were relieved; baked beans were not available in Victorian London.

Shortly afterwards they had the note and had even encoded it into pictures of matchstick men waving flags. The code would be the lure, explained Holmes. Any ordinary note might be ignored - but this was so fiendish, so audacious, so intriguing and so needlessly complex that the kidnappers would be bound to try to decipher it and then to act on the message. Translated, it read something like:

You’d better look out,
You’d better not cry,
You’d better not pout -
I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus has gone to ground,
Santa Claus will be found.

We’ll seek him in the basement,
We’ll seek him in the hall,
It’s Holmes and Dr Watson
Who have come to call.

“That should put the cat amongst the terns, Holmes!” Watson pondered for a moment. “But, Holmes, how can we send this letter to the Santanappers if we don’t know where they are?”

“Elementary, my Dear Watson, we’ll do what children everywhere do - we’ll simply address it to Father Christmas, Lapland.”

The letter duly despatched, the two men waited. They heard nothing for three days. But then they took their ear mufflers off and heard the call of nature. Watson came out from the toilet just as the postman was delivering that day’s mail. Holmes leapt up and scampered downstairs, beating Mrs Hudson by just a few paces. (She recovered shortly afterwards). Holmes uttered “Watson, it’s here. It’s here!” He tossed all the remaining letters into the air and they scattered everywhere - one even landing in Mrs Hudson’s bun. (Actually this is the first recorded case of hair mail).

The letter read as follows (I quote):

Lapland,
London,
EC3.

Mr Sherlock Holmes &
Dr John H Watson,
221b, Baker Street,
London.

Dear Gentlemen,

We have an elderly man, with a long white beard and a rather garish red coat, as our guest. We are most anxious to ensure his safe departure (we have stopped him from climbing up and out of the chimney thrice, hitherto). We understand that you are acting on behalf of a most important person and that you are willing to negotiate for our guest’s safe release. To that end, a representative from our, shall we say, “firm” will contact you shortly. If you are agreeable please leave your top right street window open for at least three minutes from ten am today. Please keep this matter confidential. If the Police are consulted in this sensitive matter we shall have no option but to top Santa! Yours, the Firm.

“I say, Holmes! Ho! Ho! Ho! could “The Firm” be?”

“No, Watson - you mean “Who, Who, Who?””

“Yes, sorry Holmes. I was carried away there.. I say, have you seen out of the window? It’s raining deer.”

“Cats and dogs, Watson; It‘s raining cats and dogs.”

“Sorry, Holmes; you’re right, of course. My mind’s going, don’t you know.”

“Shut up Watson. We have to decide what to do now.” Holmes sat in his favourite winged chair. From the side only his distinguished nose was visible. He picked up his pipes and played the Londonderry Aire. Watson sat in the other large chair and sang along. (This is why mice started wearing ear plugs).

Even above the considerable din could be heard a rumble. Then a black plume filled the room. The noise became a crash but nothing, save darkness, could be seen. Watson stumbled towards the window and opened it - by chance the one referred to in The Firm’s letter. As the soot dissipated the two men found themselves looking at a bundle in the hearth. They went across and unwrapped it.  
Rather battered and somewhat bemused was Father Christmas himself. He asked the way to the bathroom and, after about thirty minutes, emerged looking almost clean and tidy.

“Herr Claus, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson. We are delighted to have you here safe and well.”

“Gentlemen. No need for introductions, Mr Holmes. I delivered your presents very many years ago. Let me see, now. You had a microscope one year Mr Holmes and you had a book on improving the mind, Dr Watson. I’m delighted to see you made good use of your present, Mr Holmes. Tell me though, Doctor, did you ever manage to find time to read yours?”

“Yes, well, Herr Claus. Please tell us how you managed to escape from The Firm.”

For two hours the three men sat and chatted. Most of it was balderdash but included this explanation which revealed all...

“Gentlemen, I was being transported - by sleigh, naturally - from one of The Firm’s hideouts to another. Suddenly, we were over London and - unbeknown to me at the time -  over your lodgings here. Well, you can understand how amazed I was when suddenly torrential rain fell - worse than cats and dogs I‘d say! After a couple of minutes, the rain became so heavy that I was knocked off the sleigh - hole in one! straight into your hearth. Wonderful! So here I am.”

“Quite wonderful as you say, Herr Claus. If you give us just a couple of hours we’ll take you to the Police Station where they will arrange for you to return safely to Lapland. “

“Oh no, no time to lose; I’m off now!” With that Father Christmas rose from his seat and made towards the door. The next thing he knew was that he woke with a thumping headache, lying on Holmes’ sofa. “What happened? How long I have been out?”

“You stumbled, my dear chap, as you went to leave. Not surprising after your ordeal.”

Post Script...

Santa Claus did, indeed, return to Lapland in sufficient time to deliver all the World’s Christmas presents.

Early in the New Year, The Strand magazine carried the Dr Watson’s story of Holmes’ derring-do in rescuing Santa Claus from The Firm - which was simply a “front” for the evil Professor Moriarty. Apparently, Holmes and Watson had to travel from Britain to a secret location in the frozen North (somewhere near Glen Coe was the hint). There the two brave detectives wrestled the portly present provider from the grasp of his evil entrappers. Gunshots were “exchanged” (one wondered if  they were in festive wrapping).

Santa’s media spokes-elf put out a statement of grateful thanks to the celebrated London detectives and Her Majesty, Queen Victoria decorated both men for their efforts. (Holmes looked especially fetching with tinsel dangling from his deer-stalker).

Of course, dear reader, Santa was stunned and could remember nothing and Victorian society was deceived by Watson’s clever story-telling. But you and I know the truth... that Santa was really saved by his rain deer!

[Cleo_Serapis]

Thank you for your Holiday entry!  :holly:

Best of luck to you!  :dove:

May the 'classic' holiday spirit be shared in your heart throughout the season!  :blueorn:

~ Mosaic Musings Staff  :knight:  :pharoah:  :viking:  :vic:  :tut:  :vic:  :cali:  :knight:

[Guest_Jox_*]

Thanks Lori

Deck the Mosaic with holly - seems Crimble approaches!

In celebration, I shall go mad and display a "smiley" - I think a self-portrait will do...  

James.

[Cleo_Serapis]

Congratulations!  :blueorn:

This submission has been nominated as a finalist in the First Annual Mosaic Musings Holiday Classic!



Best of luck!  :holly:

[Cleo_Serapis]

Thank you for your finalist submission.    

Although your tile did not win, we congratulate you for bringing the spirit of the holidays to all.  :holly:

Look for our MMHC chapbook with all the submissions in the future!    

Happiest of holidays to you and yours!

~Cleo  :xmas:

[Guest_Jox_*]

Thank you very much. Congratulations to the Winner (! Don't know who it is, yet!)

[Cleo_Serapis]

Permission for chapbook granted - ppw on the way