Festivities and Fruitcakes

December 9

December 9: “Carol singers.” (from KnightFury)

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A/N: Takes place in the late 1890s. Watson’s POV.

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“For the last time, Watson, the answer is still ‘no’! I shall not go to the Scotland Yard Christmas party! If you want to go so badly, go on your own!”

I sighed as my friend stormed out of the room. I had thought it might be fun to go to the Christmas party with Holmes, as we both had many Yarders we considered friends, but my friend was dead set against going, as he was every year.

This year would be different, I decided, as I began to compose a telegram to Lestrade.

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It was five o’clock in the evening of the Christmas party when I heard the loud chattering of voices outside.

I glanced up from the novel I had been reading to see if Holmes had noticed, but he was apparently too engrossed in the French criminal investigation essay he was reading.

He did look up when he heard the singing.

I had never heard ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ sung so off key before, and judging by his expression of shock and abject horror, neither had he.

It was all I could do stifle my laughter as Holmes sprang from his chair, ran to the window and threw it open.

“What the devil—?!” he exclaimed, and I heard the carolers outside dissolve into their own laughter. “Lestrade? Hopkins? Gregson? And you too, Patterson? Aren’t you all supposed to be doing your merrymaking someplace else?”

By now I was at the window with Holmes, and looking out onto the street, I could see Lestrade had rounded up 30-odd co-workers to corral Holmes into coming to the Christmas party.

“Yes we are!” called back Lestrade. “But a party isn’t a party until Sherlock Holmes is there! We will continue singing unless you and the Doctor come back with us!”

Holmes whirled to face me. “This is your doing, isn’t it, Watson?!”

I opened my mouth to reply that it was as much Lestrade’s as mine, but he shushed me with a gesture.

“I shall deal with you later,” he muttered warningly, and turned back those outside. “Fine! Watson and I shall come! But don’t expect me to enjoy it!”

A chorus of cheers and yells rang out from those outside.

“Wahey for Holmes!”

“Thank goodness! I’m never singing again—we sounded terrible!”

“Get some Christmas cheer, Mr. Scrooge!”

Holmes scowled, and shouted back out the window before slamming it closed: “Bah humbug!”

My friend turned to face me, his eyes still blazing, and for a moment I was afraid I had misjudged him.

Then his face softened and he burst into laughter. “My dear Watson,” he said fondly when his mirth had subsided. “As irritated as I am that you have subjected me to that,” he gestured towards the window, “I am flattered that you truly want me to come to a Christmas party with you. I rather thought you’d enjoy yourself more if I did not come.”

“Of course I want you to come!” I exclaimed. “You are my dearest friend, after all. I don’t know where you got a silly notion like that, but it’s utter piffle.”

Holmes chuckled softly. “Well, I am glad for that. I shall at least attempt to have a good time tonight.”

“That’s the spirit, Scrooge!” I quipped, jumping aside and laughing when Holmes tried to swat my shoulder.

“That’s quite enough of that, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, laughing.

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The Christmas party was even more enjoyable than I had expected it to be, and I was glad Holmes had agreed to come. Though he refused to admit it, it was clear he was having a very good time.

At the end of the evening, Holmes informed the Yarders that he would come again the next year if at all possible—but only so he would never have to hear them attempt to sing ever again.