Sophia Holmes and the Scandal in Belgravia *Completed*

Chapter Twenty Three - Christmas with the Holmes' Part I

The next few days pass without event and Christmas soon springs itself upon us. Christmas has never been a big event for us. Dad and I usually just exchange a few small gifts, watch crappy tele and scour the news for any interesting Christmas murders. But I have the feeling this year will be different. Somehow, John has persuaded us to host a Christmas get-together at our flat, meaning I've had to spend the last few weeks buying, what I deduce to be, 'good' presents for John, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well as dad. Now I can only anticipate their reactions.

The door to my bedroom opens and I look, bleary-eyed, in the direction of the light.

"Morning," dad says softly, walking into the room and sitting on the bed beside me. I push myself up and accept the mug of hot chocolate he offers.

"Merry Christmas," I say, hoarsely, rubbing my eyes. Dad smiles.

"Merry Christmas," he replies. "We're in the living room when you're ready." I nod, clear the last of the sleep dust from my eyes and stagger to my feet. From there I make my way into the living room, wrapping a thick blue dressing-gown around me as I shiver against the cool December air.

In the absence of our tree, the presents are gathered around the fireplace. There isn't a lot, but then again, there isn't a lot of people who like us.

"Merry Christmas, Soph," John says as I pull across a seat from the table so that I can sit down with them.

Dad has already started handing out some of the presents. There was the usual card and box of chocolates from Grandma and Grandpa, a chemistry book from Molly, a new mobile - and probably the latest tracking device - from Mycroft, a Christmas jumper from John and from dad I unwrap a shoulder bag and some socks before he hands me his last one.

I notice this one is in a different paper to the others and is also less neatly wrapped so it was clearly a last minute gift. The box is fairly large and rectangular and the object inside moves very little as I shake it.

John puts a hand to his face.

"Stop Sherlock-scanning it and just open it!" he cries and I smile.

"A photo album?" I question, eyeing dad suspiciously. You only need to take a look around the flat to see dad isn't the sentimental type. As far as I know, dad has never taken any photos of me and he's certainly never displayed them. So what's in here?

"Just open it," dad advises, so I carefully detatch the sellotape from the paper and open the gift.

The album is bound in a leather cover which has clearly been hastily dusted off going by the remains of the cover. 'Holmes' is engraved in gold lettering on the front. I open it and find a photo of a couple who can't be much older than eighteen sitting together. The boy has unruly curly black hair and, despite being in the middle of a field, is dressed in a suit. His girlfriend wears a short black skirt and a low cut blouse and is sitting on his lap. I don't need to ask to know who they are.

"There's more in there," dad tells me as I tear myself away from staring at the happy couple in the book. "Of us. Of you. Whatever you may think of her now, she loved you then."

"Thank you," I tell him, my eyes watering but tears not yet falling as I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck.

John looks uncomfortable as he views our rare display of affection and clears his throat to draw us apart.

"There's still one more present," John says, pointing to another rectangular gift, this time wrapped in dark blue paper.

"Who's it for?" I ask as I sit back down and dad bends down to look.

"You," he says, handing it to me. I frown as I peer at the label. Whereas the others all had who they were from, this one has left no name. The only name written is my own.

Again I 'Sherlock-scan' it. It appears to be a hardback copy of a book, and quite an early edition as well judging by the shape of the spine.
As I peel back the paper, I see the title.

"What is it?" John asks, and I read it out.

"'The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,'" I say and dad frowns.

"Let me see." I toss the book over to him and he studies it for a moment. "'By Arthur Conan Doyle.'"

"The kid from Mysteries in Stone - the one who wrote the book about you?"

"Apparently more than one," I reply, flicking through. I wonder how this managed to slip through. The Doctor had said that he had given us the only remaining copy. So where does this one fit in?

I spend a good part of the morning analysing every page of the book to find the reasoning behind it. Why would the Doctor send us something so cryptic? If it was so important, why not just tell us and prevent the waste of time that comes with guessing?

A few of the short stories catch my attention.

"John?" I say aloud, coming out of my mind palace after about an hour. I hadn't noticed Mrs Hudson had entered and was deep in coversation with John when I called him.

"Hmm?" he questions, looking over.

"What did you call the case we had a while ago - the comic book one?"

"Why?"

"The name, John."

"The Geek Interpreter." I smile as he says it. "What?" he asks, frowning suspiciously at my sudden happiness. "What is it?"

"The book, John," I say. I turn it around and he walks over to take a look. I look around, then frown myself. "Where's Sherlock?"

"In the bedroom," Mrs Hudson replies. "Looking through another one of those books."

"Nope, I don't see it," says John. "What am I looking at?"

"The title. What does it say?"

"'The Greek Interpreter.'" John's frown deepens. "I don't understand."

"Now look at the names of the characters: Melas, Latimer, Kemp, Kratides. Sound familiar?"

"Melas was the guy who came to see us and Kratides was the company!" John exclaims.

"Exactly. And look here: one of the only female characters in the entire series and look what she's called."

"Jesus," John cries and reads it out for Mrs Hudson's benefit. "Sophy."

"So somebody's been feeding more information to Doyle," dad says, appearing at the doorway into the kitchen, "and the Doctor has sent you the book to catch your attention and warn you."

"That's the worrying thing," I say, flicking back to the contents. "The next story is the 'Naval Treaty' - John, you nearly chose that as the title for the aluminium crutch so we've already passed that one. But after that, there's only one left. I haven't read it yet, but it doesn't sound good."

"Why?" dad asks, sweeping the book with his eyes. "What is it?"

"'The Final Problem'."