As a doctor I had seen my fair share of holiday tragedies. Christmastime in the heart of London had always been a contradictory dance for its citizens. While merriment was abundant, the bitter cold and plight of the less fortunate were often felt in equal measure. But that year, I was determined to let nothing detract from my time at 221B Baker Street. For this would be the first Christmas I was sharing with Sherlock Holmes as intimate partners. It was safe to say that I had intended a very jolly holiday indeed, as I had spared no expense towards everything from our decorations to our Christmas punch. I had even helped Mrs. Hudson with her shopping, if only to ensure a feast of the highest order.

​

Though there was one area of the holiday that had left me rather anxious. You see, I had fretted over a gift for my dear Holmes for a good many weeks, even well before the first snowfall. There were of course practical options that crossed my mind. Some new equipment, or perhaps a fresh journal for his scientific notes. But ultimately, being the romantic that I was, I settled on something far more sentimental. I had become acquainted with our local jeweler after one too many cases of stolen gemstones, and eventually asked him if he would be willing to put together a locket. It could not be any old locket, of course. If this was to be a gift for Sherlock Holmes, it must be special.

​

“Good morning, Mr. Dawson!” I called, walking into the jeweler’s shop. Mr. Dawson greeted me in kind, and I rubbed my hands together. “I hope I’ve not come too early to check on my order?”

 

“Certainly not, Dr. Watson.” Mr. Dawson fumbled into his back room, where I could hear the shifting of papers and projects until he found what he was looking for. “I’d only just finished giving it a polish.” He handed it off to me, and I admired it. It was a fine thing; a thin golden chain with a matching ornament at the end. The face was etched with glorious flowers. Not roses, no no, that would be far too simple. Something far more exciting. No doubt Holmes would know the phenotype straight away. “So? Is this for some lucky lady, doctor?”

 

I beamed. “You could say that,” I said, quite giddy, too. “Do you have plans for Christmas, sir?”

Mr. Dawson nodded, wrapping up my gift in a small brown box. “Oh aye, I’ve made time to be with the family. Wife and two sons.”

 

“How lovely.”

​

“Do you have any children?”

​

“Ah, no. I’m afraid my life is far too unpredictable for little ones.”

​

“Just as well, I s’pose. World is dangerous.”

​

“It can be,” I conceded. “And yet, there is so much about it that is equally wonderful. Wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Dawson nodded in agreement, and I tipped him a twopence. “A Happy Christmas to you, Thomas.” Mr. Dawson waved as I left the shop, palming my precious parcel in my pocket.

A flurry of fresh snow that afternoon had ruined any and all work the shovelers and sweepers had done to try and keep the roads clear. The many ruts of carriage wheels had turned the sleet a horrible brown, and it threatened to trip me once or twice on my way home. As I walked, I smiled and waved to my fellow man, and they to me. My spirits were high. Tomorrow, it would be Christmas Eve, and I was determined to spend it alone with my dearest companion in the world, sipping wine and warming our feet by the fire. I could almost taste Mrs. Hudson’s roasted goose, or hear the delicate serenade of Holmes’ violin. Best of all, there would be no work. No cases, no interruptions, no distractions.

 

Which of course meant that there was a very sizable distraction awaiting me when I got home.

 

With the gift well hidden, I hung up my overcoat and shook the snow off my shoes. That’s when I heard a commotion up in the parlor. “Holmes?” I hurried up the steps and found dear Mrs. Hudson, helplessly trying to diffuse a heated argument between a man and a woman, with Holmes nowhere in sight.

 

“—I’ve half a mind to silence your caterwauling for a fortnight now, you painted trollop!” the man swore.

 

The woman flailed and turned to Mrs. Hudson. “You see!? I told you, didn’t I!? He’s a murderous bastard, he is! Come to do harm to me girls—”

 

“Trust me, if I’d meant to do harm, I’d have done it long ago!”

 

“—beastly! Beastly, violent blaggard—!”

 

“—have you know that my mother—!”

 

“—good for nothing—!”

 

“—whore—!”

​

The shrill of my whistle broke the arguing in an instant. I did not think I would need the thing again after Holmes and I imitated a train during our dealings with the Mexican cartel, but it proved just as useful now as it had been then. Both guests and Mrs. Hudson covered their ears and turned to me, stunned. Satisfied with their silence, I put the whistle back on the shelf and straightened my waistcoat.

 

“If you please,” I said. “Might someone tell me why there is a circus in my parlor?”

 

“Oh!” The woman held up her hands in a flourish of relief. She was older, and wore a winter coat hemmed and patched over the years of its wear. Her coat matched her shabby boots, with snow crusting the hem of her simple skirts. But she wore a face of vivid paint, framed with garish earrings and a most over-complicated hat. “Thank goodness you’ve returned!” She took my hands in hers. I could feel the spots where her gloves were wearing thin. “Mr. Holmes, I need your assistance at once. This man, this horrid, horrid man, he’s been terrorizing my place of business for months now!”

 

I blinked. “Oh, excuse me, madam, but I’m not actually—”

 

“Bollocks!” the man barked. Like the woman, he was dressed in cheap fabrics, patched over one too many times. There was a stain of soot beneath his fingernails, and a crook in his shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, with a face overrun with unsightly whiskers. “I tell you, Evie, I’ve done no such thing!” He turned to me. “Though maybe this detective of yours might be able to talk some sense to you, woman.”

 

“No, you’re both mistaken, I’m not—”

 

“How much is your fee, sir!? Whatever your price, I shall pay it. You must prove that this scoundrel is behind the terrorism, or I swear I shall get no further peace!”

 

“I’ll pay double whatever she offers! If only for you to prove to her and the authorities that I’ve nothing to do with this!”

 

“You are a villain!”

 

“You’re a bloody loon!”

 

“And you are both loud!” My voice boomed over the squabbling, once more putting an end to the noise. Red-faced and frustrated, I pulled my hands from the woman and stepped back. “Before you begin again, know that I am not Sherlock Holmes, madam. I am his assistant, Dr. Watson.”

 

“What?” Her face fell by leagues. “That won’t do! Where is he? I need to see him now!”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Of course, had you thought to send a telegram to make an appointment, this might have been avoided. We might have been waiting for you.”

 

“Go and fetch him!” she squawked. “You’re his assistant, you must know how to contact him! This is urgent!”

 

“Pah! The only urgency here is the need for a medical examination.” The man nodded at me. “It’s a good thing your detective’s partner is a doctor. Maybe he can tell you outright that you’re mad as hops and that’ll be the end of it.”

 

“I am sure that Mr. Holmes will hear the lady’s story in earnest.” I kept my voice prominent, lest the two start yowling again. “But as I’ve stated, I do not know where he is. You are more than welcome to wait until he returns. Quietly.”

 

“How long?” the woman demanded.

​

“I cannot say. Please, have a seat.” Both strangers took their seats on the sofa, begrudgingly, and as far apart from each other as humanly possible. I turned to Mrs. Hudson, exasperated. “Could we have some tea, dear?” And perhaps a round of sedatives?

 

“Of course, doctor.” Fixing her frizzled hair, Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs to prepare a tray for our new clients.

 

I leaned against the mantle. In my head, I took note of where the fire poker hung, in case I needed it to bat them away from one another. “So then,” I said, “might I have your names, please?”

 

The woman perked up. “My name is Evelina De La Fontaine—”

 

The man snorted. “No it’s not, you old bat.”

 

She glared at him. “Fine. It’s Evelyn Crepsley.”

 

“And you, sir?”

 

“Nels Skiffins,” he grunted.

 

“Very good, Mr. Skiffins. It is a pleasure to meet you both.” It most certainly was not, but I was still a gentleman. I prepared a pipe and struck a match. Lighting it, I spoke out of the corner of my mouth. “You should save your details until Mr. Holmes returns. But before then, allow me my own questions. Has there been a murder?”

 

Ms. Crepsley shook her head. “No.”

 

“Has someone been injured?”

 

“Not yet they haven’t,” Ms. Crepsley grumbled.

 

“Just the facts, Ms. Crepsley, please. No conjecture. Has there been a robbery of some kind?”

 

“No, Dr. Watson, but—”

 

“Yes, very good.” I held up my hand to stop her before she became hysterical again. Just then, we heard the click of the front door, and the hum of a Christmas carol in a soft baritone. Gentle and merry, Holmes waltzed into our flat with a wreath on his arm and a package under his elbow.

 

“Oh good, you’re home,” he said to me. Ignoring our guests, Holmes walked the wreath to our mantel and hung it over a pile of letters, stabbed through with an opener. “I was just speaking to Mr. Passano, who owns the luncheon spot just off of Dorset Street. He informed me that he’ll be open for Christmas after all, and I was thinking we might dine there after our morning stroll. We both know that Mrs. Hudson won’t be finished with supper until well after five…”

 

I cleared my throat. He turned, the package still in his hand. “Welcome back, Holmes.” I nodded towards the sofa. “We have clients.”

 

“Yes, I saw them.” Without skipping a beat, Holmes made his way to the bedroom with the box. “You know, Mr. Passano mentioned that he has a specialty Turkish coffee in his cafè. I think I should like to try it. Something about the brewing in copper pots as opposed to tin.” He returned to the parlor, a smile on his cheery, cherry cheeks. “Now then.” He finally looked our guests over in full. “Who has died?”

 

“No murder, Holmes,” I said. “Ms. Crepsley insists that it’s urgent, but from what I can tell, there’s been no injury nor larceny.”

 

“It is urgent!” Ms. Crepsley stood tall, her hands clutched together. “Mr. Holmes, I run a business out in Woolwich. And for the past five months, we have been absolutely terrorized by him!” She jabbed her finger toward Mr. Skiffins.

 

“Oh give over, you great witch!” Mr. Skiffins guffawed. The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson arrived with our tea. She was quick to set it down before scurrying back to safety, hardly eager to be caught up in another shouting match. “That one there is out of her gob, I tell you now, sirs. A great misery, she’s always been, and now, she’s got it in her head that I’d be bothered to leave dead birds on her doorstep like some alley cat!”

 

“And you are?” asked Holmes.

 

“Nels Skiffins.”

 

“Mr. Skiffins.” Holmes fixed his sleeve cuff. “And was the divorce recent or has it been a few years?”

 

Both Mr. Skiffins and Ms. Crepsley paled with a look of familiar shock. Ms. Crepsley spoke first. “How… in the world…?”

 

“Not recent, then? Very good. Ms. Crepsley, I shall need to hear the facts as you know them, starting at the beginning.” He sat on his chair, legs crossed and fingertips steepled together. He closed his eyes and nodded. “Proceed.” My notebook was already in hand.

 

“It’s like this,” Ms. Crepsley began. “I own a… I’m a… Well, I’m an abbess.”

 

“Yes, I gathered that,” said Holmes. “A brothel is a fine way to make your own money after the separation, am I correct?” Holmes opened his eyes, and Ms. Crepsley nodded. He closed them again. “Continue.”

 

“Right. I’d started working there to earn a wage. But I found I took to management more than I did to customers. So after a few years, I’d enough funds to buy the place from my old madam. Began to hire my own girls, employ my own rules. For a few years, all was well. Oh we had the occasional scandal, of course. I keep it strict policy to enforce absolute discretion for our clients, but every so often, a jealous wife will find her husband employing one of my girls, and well, you know…” A smile flickered on Holmes’ lips, but he said nothing. “It was nothing I couldn’t handle. We’d occasionally get harassed here and there, but it was never anything serious. I kept everything on the up and up, legally speaking. My business is my life. I would be damned if some foolhardy girl or love-sick client ruined me reputation.”

 

“So is it fair to say that you have enemies, Ms. Crepsley?” I asked. “Former employees? Jilted lovers?” Beside the one next to you, I added silently.

 

Ms. Crepsley shook her head. “No, I’m a firm driver, but I’m fair. If a girl were to be let go, I’d be sure there’s an understanding between all parties. Even let her leave with some severance, if I could.”

​

“That’s very generous,” Holmes mumbled. “When did the trouble begin?”

 

“Five months ago. The night was young, and the lounge was entertaining a party of regular clients. When all of the sudden, a rock flies through our window. Frightened my poor girls half to death. A few of the gentlemen escorted me outside to find the trouble maker, but we came upon an empty alley. I paid to have the window fixed and thought no more about it. But in the following weeks, there’d be more damage. Bricks through the windows, a dented wall, shutters ripped, shrubs shredded, even set ablaze. I’d gone to the police, but they were no help. Then I began to get letters.”

 

Holmes’ eyes popped open. “Do you have them with you?” She pulled out a note from her purse and handed it to Holmes. He sprung from his chair and held it to the firelight. “‘Your life is owed.’ And nothing else.” Holmes turned to her. “What of the others?”

 

“More of the same. I must admit, each one I got, I grew more and more afraid, sir.”

 

“Is this the latest?”

 

“It is.”

 

“When did you receive it?”

 

“Today.”

 

Holmes turned back to the note. “Watson, come see.” I approached. The missive was typed, and rather haphazardly at that. The letters were uneven, with smudges of ink from the edges of the type stamps. “A precaution, wouldn’t you say?” He kept his voice low, and I did well to match his register.

 

“The threat must know that she would recognize the handwriting,” I concluded.

 

“Quite right. The stock is cheap, flimsy.” He sniffed the paper. “Hints of Oriental tobacco. Likely from Northern Macedonia. Crunching near the center of the page. The typist had rushed hands when feeding the paper.” Pinching it by its corners, Holmes took it to his work desk and brought out a glass of metallic flake powder. We watched as he dusted a brush within and began to skirt around the paper.

 

“Might I continue?” asked Ms. Crepsley. Holmes waved lazily, and she began again. “The letters were bad enough. I again tried taking them to the police, but all they could do was tell me to speak to the postman. Only the letters aren’t posted. No return address, or postmark of any kind. The vandalism became worse. Pigs' blood was splattered over our door, rubbish thrown about our street. Clients began coming less and less. My girls were soon without much of a salary. Now I’m on the edge of financial ruin.”

 

“Yes, yes, very good,” Holmes muttered. He did not look up from his work. “So what’s this about dead birds Mr. Skiffins mentioned?”

 

“That was this morning. I woke up and went downstairs to make myself a cuppa when…” Ms. Crepsley sobbed and nearly collapsed, had I not been quick to catch her. She held a kerchief to her lips, trembling. “It was in me sink! Horrid thing had its neck snapped, all feathers and—and—! Oh it was dreadful!”

 

“And where is it now?” Holmes asked.

 

“Where? I had someone dispose of it, that’s where!”

 

Holmes finally turned in his seat. “Do you mean to say you got rid of evidence?” Ms. Crepsley had no response, and Holmes returned to the paper. “Oh well. Perhaps if we’re lucky, you’ll be given another.”

 

“I don’t want no more pigeons in me kitchen, unless I means to cook them!” Ms. Crepsley wailed. She pulled from my grasp and confronted Mr. Skiffins. “All because you is too stubborn to accept my leaving!”

 

“For the last time, I didn’t stuff your sink with the bloody bird!” snarled Mr. Skiffins. “You ain’t been my wife in seven years, woman! Why would I wait so long for vengeance!? I’ve got me own life, me own bills need payin’. I’ve no time to go about throwing rocks at your bloody brothel and killing pigeons.”

 

Holmes stood, eyes locked on a few smudged prints now glittering with copper and tin flakes. “Mr. Skiffins? Might I see your hands?” Mr. Skiffins glanced up, and carefully made his way over to Holmes’ desk. He turned out his palms, and Holmes held up a glass to each and every finger, cross-referencing it with the marks on the letter. “May I assume that you have been working at the Tilbury docks for the last few years?”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Your shoes. They’re the boots of a sailor but you lack certain calluses indicative of the profession. Normally, one who knots ropes and rigs ships build up a thickness of skin around the edges of the fingers. Your hands are rougher on the palm than on the digit. You aren’t pulling ropes, you’re lifting crates. There is a distinct fishy odor coming from you that is at most a few days old. Work for you possibly will not stop until tomorrow night. You’ve only just managed to steal some time away to confront this situation, but will no doubt return to work once this is over. While I see the grit and grime of hard labor, what I do not see is the ink of a typewriter. As Ms. Crepsley noted, this letter was received today, along with our tragically murdered pigeon. Ms. Crepsley? I must see your hands now.” Ms. Crepsley approached, and Holmes examined her fingers. “Has anyone else handled this letter, madam?”

 

“No,” said Ms. Crepsley.

 

“Well then, considering that Dr. Watson and I only touched the corners while we examined it, it is safe to assume that our typist did not wear gloves while writing their note. I have found your thumb print here, on the bottom left, but the others are foreign. They are not belonging to Mr. Skiffins.”

 

“What? But—!” Ms. Crepsley turned to Mr. Skiffins, who wore a look of smug satisfaction. “But I know it was you!”

 

“Does you, now?”

 

“At the very least,” said Holmes, “it was not Mr. Skiffins who typed this particular letter. Nor do I think he might have been present in the company of an accomplice.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Holmes stood up straight and laid his magnifier on the desk. “They are difficult to make out, but these prints are all looped. His are arched. Additionally, Mr. Skiffins doesn’t smoke. Judging from the state of his gums, he chews.” He left the desk and paced the parameter of the parlor. “How frequent is this harassment?”

 

“Getting more and more of them recently,” said Ms. Crepsley. “It’s got me all in a horrible knot, Mr. Holmes. Especially with it nearly being Christmas Eve and all. It’s our best night of the year.”

 

“I can imagine. Plenty of lonely souls in need of some holiday comforts,” Holmes pondered.

 

“My girls are scared to work, Mr. Holmes. I’m scared for them. These acts of vandalism, they’re more than they appear. They’re a threat. The authorities, they won’t pay us no mind, I know that. I’ve already tried twice. What’s it to them if girls like us get hurt? So the chances of any kind of protection are right slim, they are. We stay closed tomorrow, and my girls go hungry. We stay open, one of them might end up hurt.”

 

Holmes tapped his chin. “I have many friends at Scotland Yard,” he said. “Perhaps as a favor to me, I might persuade them to act as extra eyes for you tomorrow night?”

 

Ms. Crepsley brightened. “Would you? Oh, would you, sir?”

 

“It is Christmas, after all.”

 

“Holmes?” I approached. “Do you mean to catch the rascal in the act?”

 

“I do indeed, Dr. Watson.” He turned to Ms. Crepsley. “You shall continue business as usual. In fact, you shall announce a grand party to celebrate the holiday. Invite anyone and everyone you can. Our culprit means to frighten you, my dear. But more than that, they mean to tarnish your business, both physically and in reputation. It’s likely that given the chance to make a bigger impact, they may strike again while my friends lay in wait.”

 

I could see a fire light in Ms. Crepsley’s eyes. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. We’ll catch the bugger red handed!”

 

“Indeed. Dr. Watson and I shall need to speak to your staff, possibly this morning. Tonight, you shall assume business as usual. It is wise not to deviate from your normal schedule.”

 

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“So?” We all turned to Mr. Skiffins, who had his long arms folded across his chest. “You got something to say to me, Evie?”

 

Evelyn Crepsley addressed her former husband. For a moment, she seemed rather embarrassed, until she plucked up her pride and spoke. “Yes. Piss off, you miserly old cur.” With a turn of her heel, Ms. Crepsley left just as she had come: dramatically. Mr. Skiffins followed shortly thereafter, leaving Holmes and I to brew.

 

“What a charming couple,” I droned. Holmes chuckled, and a question cropped up in my mind. “Holmes? How did you know that they were divorced?”

​

Holmes gave a playful smile. “My darling Watson, of all the deductions I’ve ever made, that had to have been my most obvious. Now, we must be off. I can’t wager with one hundred percent certainty that our plan will work, but it is the fastest route if we want this to be done with by tomorrow.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes, eager to not be working? Has the world come to a halt?”

 

“One Christmas away from you is one too many, my dear. I shan’t ever like to repeat it.” Leaning in, we shared a kiss, and only then did Holmes glance down. “Oh. I’d forgotten about our tea.”

 

“Shall I ask for a new pot?”

 

“Best not. We’ve no time to waste. The day is short, and we have many details to go over.” I agreed, and together, we gathered up our coats and stepped outside to hail a cab bound for Woolwich.