A Man In Black

Christmas, Sherlock and Brains

2 weeks later;

221B Baker Street was strangely quiet. Although it was Christmas, John was with his wife, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson was downstairs baking. Sherlock sat in his usual seat, head resting on his fingertips, staring into the crackling flames.

Snowflakes melted on the windows, crisp and beautiful, but gone in an instant. The air was crisp, and it seemed that even the fire wouldn't warm the room. It wasn't long until Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a tray of gingersnaps and tea. "Oh, it's a bit cold in here." she said, placing it on the table, then stoking the fire. "I'm not your housekeeper, remember, I'm just doing it because it's Christmas." 

Sherlock seemed lost in thought, he said suddenly. "John, the murderer was the cook, it was obvious from her frock." 

"It's Mrs. Hudson." Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head as she saw the skull staring at her from above the fireplace. 

"Oh." Sherlock said, looking up. "When did he go?"

"Eight this morning, I told him to get another coat, but he walked out, he'll catch a cold." Mrs. Hudson sighed. 

Ahhh. 

"Oh, that noise is a bit rude. Turn it down Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said disapprovingly, talking about his phone. After Irene Adler had taken it, and personalized it, every time she sent a text, it made a rather unusual noise. 

Sherlock picked up the phone, and went to his inbox. 

Merry Christmas. Let's have dinner. 

He didn't reply of course. He was Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson bustled around the flat for a few more minutes, before she crossed to the door. "I'm getting a cab to Mary's for Christmas. You staying here?" 

"Yes, yes, yes. I'm thinking, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock frowned, his mind ticking away, as he strived to solve a murder in his head. 

"One time when I was first married, there was an Indian cab driver, could hardly speak English, then he dropped me off at the wrong part of town-"

"MRS. HUDSON! I am thinking!' Sherlock yelled, not really meaning to be rude. Mrs. Hudson fled like a frightened rabbit. 

Ahhhh. 

One New Message.

I'm sad. Let's have dinner. 

Sherlock stood, walking into the kitchen where he sat at his microscope, looking at the contents of someone's brain. 

Ding!

Ding!

Ding!

Ding!

Ding! 

"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Sherlock said in irritation. He reached for a gingersnap, and crunched it between his teeth as he worked. It had never occurred to him how Mrs. Hudson knew they were his favourite. 

Ahhh.

"Shut up Irene." Sherlock sat, slapping his hands down on the table. "I'm trying to work!"

Another gingersnap disappeared.

Work. 

Gingersnap.

Talk to John without him being there.

Another text from Mycroft. 

Gingersnap. 

Tea. 

Brains start to fizz.

The texts stopped for half an hour, while Sherlock nearly blew up the organisms, and succeeded in eating twenty gingersnaps, leaving none for John. 

Ding!

Sherlock gave a sigh of frustration, and went to text Mycroft about bully big brother issues, when he saw that the new text was not in fact from his brother. 

He stared at the screen, his eyebrows coming down in a frown. 

I'm bored, Sherlock, so bored not even killing is giving me satisfaction. Christmas is boring. You are boring. Come over for dinner and play. ~JMx

Jim. Jim Moriarty.

Why would I want to see you, Jim? -SH

Because you are bored too, Mr. Holmes. ~JMx

Dinner still sounds boring. I am occupied. -SH

I know. Looking at the contents of someone's brain. Don't care. Come over. I have someone I want you to meet. It'll be fun. ~JMx

Busy. -SH

Don't lie, Mr. Holmes, it's boring. ~JMx

Fun does not appeal to me. -SH

You know my fun is not the usual fun. ~JMx

Not my cup of tea. -SH

There will be tea. And gingersnaps, honey. Daddy's bored. ~JMx

Be bored then, without me. -SH

You're going to come. Cafe on the corner. ~JMx

Sherlock did not reply, and looked at the screen. He placed it down again, on the table, and looked at the brains. After a few minutes, he gave a groan, and stood up, grabbing his coat, and swinging it over his purple shirt. 

Taking one last gingersnap, he bounded downstairs, turning up the collar of his coat. "The game is on." smiled Sherlock, and slammed the door of 221B Baker Street behind him.