Mystrade's A Christmas Carol {A variation of Dickens' novel}

When The Bell Tolls One

James Warner was dead, to begin with. Cold and lifeless as a dodo (though Mycroft Holmes, being the man he was, knew better than to believe what was said of the so-called-extinct bird). 
However of Warden's death, he was quite miserably certain. Waxen and pale, flaky dried blood in vibrant splashes here and there. Quite dead, with not hope of return, leaving a feeling which could be guilt; Although, as Mycroft often reflected, guilt was not the most accurate term for it.
After all, had it been his fault Warden went rogue on the mission and ended up killing himself and countless civilians? Not Mr Holmes' fault, no.
However it was his own orders which had placed the disastrous mission where they found themselves, and James Warden had without a doubt been the strongest field agent of the Secret Service.
On that dismal December morning, a bitter one filled with lifeless, grey slush and lifeless, grey skies, the funeral for Warden gathered in the small graveyard, overgrown with holly berries and mistletoe.
It just had to land on the Twenty Fourth of December, didn't it?
The funeral was a solemn affair - words were said of his bravery, his fidelity and his greatness as a both a father to three children, and husband to his wife, who cried throughout the entire ceremony.
Mycroft had been invited, but he was far from welcome. At that point in time, he was easily the most resented, most despised member of the secret service, yet not a sole could bring themselves to tell him so, he was of such a high power.
Not that that phased Holmes in any way. His loneliness protected him.
"Caring," as he always said, "was not an advantage."
Although the invitation was available for him to join the group at the local pub, Mycroft declined. There was no place for him amongst the rowdy field agents, and he was cold to the bone in the chill of late December.
Instead he took a cab to his office - he had a few last minute arrangements to make in preparation for Christmas.
Christmas - what a useless affair. Families pretending to like each other for a few days, spending thousands of pounds upon useless gifts that never got used.
All Christmas meant for him was another day at the office, just with about half the staff.
"We are supposed to be running this country! The country can't just take a day off." he'd say.
He entered the building and immediately an assistant came running over to offer him a cup of tea and some cake.
"Of course I'd like some tea. Would you bring it up to my office?" Mycroft said in her general direction.
"Yes, Mr Holmes sir!" She squeaked and went running off to make the tea.

Sat at his desk, Mycroft rustled through papers and documents. If they weren't prepared by the afternoon, the UK would miss out on a small trade deal with Hungary.
"Anthea!" he called angrily to his assistant, "Anthea!!"
"Yes, Mr Holmes?" Anthea appeared at the door, a fatigued glaze across her eyes.
"I need you to take a phone call with Mr Putsnowski this evening."
"Mr Putsnowski?" Anthea stuttered, frowning in confusion.
"Our contact in America, do you not remember?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"But Sir, it's Christmas Eve... I can't stay here until 3 in the morning... Please sir, may I return to my family?".
"Oh, and I suppose England will quite contentedly wait for you and your family to make yourselves merry, it's not as though the economy is important."
"Oh Mr Holmes, of course it's important, but - well, how about you, sir? Shouldn't you think of James-"
"Do not mention that name under this roof-"
"But sir!"
"Do not!"
"Very well sir." Anthea turned to leave, angered by the stubbornness of her cold employer. She was already halfway though the door when stopped in her tracks.
"It is the... custom, would you say, to allow an employee the day off for the festivity?"
"I suppose many would say that, sir." She stammered, gritting her jaw solidly.
"...and you have not taken a day since your employment?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Take the day off."
***
Six hours following, Mycroft slammed down the telephone and rustled his papers. Trade deal sealed, he felt just about content to depart his shadowy offices.
Tapping a few digits into his phone, a cab pulled up almost immediately, driving him far from his office, and to the front door of his large, empty house.
Empty it had been for the past two decades, and empty forever more, Mycroft had decided. Once something had been decided by him, that thing became concrete, and neither rhyme nor reason could convince him to change his mind. This same frame of mind existed in the case of lawmaking and mission-launching, which had steadily made him largely unpopular. Mycroft Holmes had the great fault of many a clever man - it was quite impossible for him to accept he could be wrong. Not that he usually was wrong, but when such situation arose, it went rather nastily wrong, and resulted in the death of a friend, family man and excellent field agent...
Without thanking the driver (his good pay was thanks enough), Mycroft climbed the steps to the front door and grasped for his keys in his pocket. As he leaned forward to put the key in the hole, he suddenly noticed his door knocker was emitting a strange, green glow - like polonium or radium, as if his door knocker had been switched for some kind of radioactive material. It flowed brighter, eerily bright, and small wisps like green smoke curled around it. The smoke grew thicker, covering the entire knocker and obscuring it from his view. Then suddenly, as quickly as it came, the smoke was gone.
Blinking several times to check his vision was fully functional, he tried to shake off the strange prickling sensation on his skin. He leant again to put the key in, then leapt back in horror as yet again the door knocker caught his eye. Expect this time, it was a face...
"Myyyyccrrroooooftttt!" It howled, sending Mycroft flying backwards several steps, landing with a thud on his back in the snow.
It was the face of James Warner.
Mycroft lay in the snow for a few seconds, completely dazed by the curious incident which had affected him so physically. It couldn't be James Warner, that was entirely impossible - dead people did not turn up on people's door knockers.
But James Warner had.
A trick of the light, Mycroft supposed, and angrily entered the house, throwing his coat aside.
Night drew in quickly, like the flicking of a switch. Mycroft drew the curtains, shutting out the patters of snow and the darkness. He lit the hearth and put the kettle on - only the finest, most expensive tea for Mr Holmes - and finally settled himself next to the fire. After two minutes of hot tea and fire, he became aware of a large wet patch on his back from landing in the snow.
"Puts a whole new meaning on 'the iceman'." he sighed, standing up to go upstairs and change into dry clothing.
He ascended the first few steps as usual, then stopped. Something wasn't quite right... He climbed up a couple more steps and stopped again - he could've sworn he could hear chains being dragged up the wooden staircase...
A few more steps, and the same thing: the ringing and rumbling of a heavy metal chain thumping up the stairs, clinking as though between steps, then thudding as it reached the next.
Terror suddenly gripped Mycroft, and he ran the last few steps, running into his bedroom and slamming the door. As he leant up against it, panting, white with fear, he heard the same low rattle of the chain approaching his door, now accompanied by heavy, thumping footsteps, the floorboards creaking under the weight. His heart leapt in his chest, his hands shook as he fumbled for the key, kept hidden underneath an ornament, but it slipped from his fingers once, twice, a third time, before he jammed the key in the lock, and turned it, and the door was shut tight.
And the noises stopped.
He could've fainted, had he been a man of the superstitious kind, but Mycroft Holmes didn't stand for such trivial nonsense as ghosts and hauntings.
It had been an exhausting, difficult day, he reflected. All he needed was rest. Fatigue was the devil if it could reach a certain point. That would explain everything, he decided.
He flicked the light switch to 'off'. Then turned it on again.
Then crossed the room to his bed and switched on the bedside light.
Then switched the bedroom light off.
The lower light casted long shadows across the room, making every corner and every space deeper and darker.
Slipping on a dressing gown, he got into his four-poster bed, closing the thick, red curtains around himself. He left the light on despite the darkness inside the curtains.
It wasn't long before he was dozing, not quite a sleep but far from aware of anything unusual. Until, at exactly midnight, his old Grandfather clock started to chime.
This might not have been quite so strange, had it not been irreparably broken for twenty years.
Mycroft shot awake, sat bolt upright inside the bed curtains, as the clock continued to toll until 12.
A low creak came from the other side of the bed room: the door was opening, seemingly by itself - but no, there were footprints too. Heavy footprints, followed by the clanking of the chain.
"Myyyyyyycccccrrrrooooofffffttt." The same howl from the door knocker! Mycroft ripped the curtains apart and leapt from the bed.
"What are you, spirit?!" he called into the shadows.
"I was your employee in my life. I lived at your service and died at your service."
"Forget the riddles, speak clearly, tell me your name!" he ordered firmly.
"You have no right to order me, Holmes!" Mycroft shivered as a cold air rushed through him suddenly, knocking him backwards for the second time that evening.
"Please, then. Tell me who you are so I might address you with some decorum." he rose to his feet ungracefully and leant against the bedpost.
"In my life I was James Warner. Your greatest agent as you yourself have admitted."
Mycroft felt behind him for the light switch, but it was just out of reach, and the last thing he wished to do was to turn his back upon whatever entity had invaded his room.
"Why is it you haunt me, Warner? Myself of all your friends? Why me?!"
"I come bearing a warning, Holmes. You see this chain I wear? This is the chain I forged in my lifetime. You wear one yourself though it is not yet visible. Though I can tell you, your chains are immense, for you yourself has created it, link by link."
"Whatever do you mean, Warner? How could I possibly have forged such a chain?"
"Ha! Ignorance in such a clever man... Your actions for this county may be admirable, but your spirit towards those around you and those under your power is calloused. I myself wear this chain for the danger which I placed my team under. It is a mistake which has cost me dearly, and I shall bear these shackles for all eternity." Slowly the spirit showed himself to Mycroft, a fresh corpse, still bloodied and broken, but with a huge iron chain draped upon him, laid down with boxes and great balls of lead.
"Surely such a small mistake could not have earned you such punishment?" Mycroft wondered aloud.
"I cheated on my wife."
"Oh."
"I've cheated on her for the past four years."
"Unfortunate."
"Oh and I may have knocked over a postman whilst speeding a few years ago."
Mycroft took a seat upon his large, leather armchair. He had a sinking feeling that whatever he was due to discover would not play kindly upon his nerves. To faint before a spirit was unsavoury to say the least.
"But we are here to speak of you, Mycroft. You are despised by all those who have come under your strict rule, in fact I doubt you have a shred of human kindness."
"That's simply untrue."
"I believe you spoke to your brother this morning?"
"That was - that was a private conversation!" Mycroft snapped.
"I'm dead. Have to find some way to have fun, haven't I?"
"Having never tried being dead, I wouldn't know."
"Lonely as anything unless you're on the other side - the one without the chains - and the cold-"
"-It is December. Don't you think things might warm up for you by March? You've only been dead for - what is it? Two weeks?"
"Each second in your world is an eternity in mine. Though how might we define eternity when as the first second of eternity passes, another one begins?"
"You're too philosophical for a ghost."
"Again, try being a ghost."
Mycroft squirmed in his seat. Confrontation was not something he feared as of the norm, yet to be confronted by a late spirit? This was wholly unsettling.
"Being a ghost or a man, why is it that you seek me tonight from the realms of death? Why have you come here, so cold and unfeeling, to speak of warnings and give little hope?"
"A fine specimen of a man you are to hold such disdain for my 'unfeeling' nature. As for cold, are you not the Iceman himself? But that is beyond my purpose. As I began (before you sought to question my imprint on this earth) you did indeed speak with your brother this morning. And, if I am not mistaken, two charitable fellows also?" Warner raised a convicting eyebrow.
"I spoke with all three, that is true. My brother I scorned for his reasonless joy, and the money-baggers for their... pestering." he scowled at his own words.
"Do you not see, Holmes, how empty of compassion your heart is?"
"I-I don't see your meaning..."
"A chain, Holmes. A chain. That is the message which I shall repeat once more."
Holmes' heart quickened. His chest tight, his lungs seeking a cold breath which came not easily.
"It is true? I am to wear such a chain as you do yourself? Oh, my dear fellow, oh Warner! Speak comfort to me! How might I un-forge this weight which I have brought upon myself?" He leaned forward in the darkness, with urgency.
"There is a... solution. I'll warn you, Holmes. You won't take at all kindly to it."
"Tell me."
"You will be haunted by three spirits. Spirits of time and of memory. I beg of you, Holmes, pay heed to their words."
Mycroft could only gape.
"Well, that is all. And now, I shall pass back to my own realm and (with any luck) cease to speak with this horribly formal tone. Night, Holmes. Listen up to the spirits and sod you if you don't."

"And when shall I expect these visitations?"

"Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls One!"

With that, Warner vanished like smoke on the wind. All was still.
Mycroft sat fixed upon his seat. His lungs once more filled themselves with air, yet his limbs he could not prevent from trembling all over.

"A-a-a mere affliction of the stomach, that is all. Spirits and nonsense - all caused, no doubt, by that confounded cake, presented to me in my own office, this morning. To bed now, to bed, and all shall be right by morning."
With some force he compelled himself to rise and stagger to his four-poster, slump upon the mattress and shut the curtains tight.
From there, he slipped softly into a restless sleep.
Yet despite his dismissal, Warner's words still rang in his troubled mind:
"Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls One."