Holmes In Time For Christmas: A Great Hiatus Year Adventure

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Foreword

When Ross K Foad asked for a foreword, my mind got tongue-tied. Just imagine, a Foad Foreword. Try saying that three times fast without tying your tongue in such knots that even Houdini couldn’t unravel.

But be that as it may, when a man of Ross’ stature (oh, okay, he’s 5’10’), gives one the honour of writing a foreword for his brilliant new Xmas novel Holmes In Time For Christmas: A Great Hiatus Year Adventure, one immediately sits down at his computer and begins writing. However, in my case, being a split personality, both of us sat down to write.

I’ve known Ross since 1781. It was the end of our revolution, or, as you British refer to it: The Revolt of the Revolting. He was a colonel with Cornwallis at Yorktown, and I was a colonel with Washington. Of course, there’s not one colonel of truth in any of that. Sorry, that was the other me writing something frivolous welded to an insufferable pun.

The truth of the matter is that I’ve only known Ross for one year. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds. But who’s counting?

In that short time, I’ve come to know that Ross is a truly rare and unique human being (please get ready for some sincerity). Besides being one of the most talented writers/directors/producers on the planet, he’s the antithesis of what you expect one with those synchronistic capabilities to be: kind, gentle, and unfailingly giving of his time and heart.

I know his NPLH production company stands for No Place Like Holmes, but as far as I’m concerned, it stands for No Person Like Him.

So that’s about it. I’m done. I shan’t move Foad’s foreword forward.

Now try saying that three times fast.

Phil Growick

Author Of The Secret Journal Of Dr. Watson

The following story is adapted from the 2010 Christmas

Special episode of the Web Drama Comedy series "No Place Like Holmes."

Before we begin, I would like to point out that the Canon characters in this book are not direct representations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s creations as portrayed in his own texts. Rather they are based upon the interpretations as they have been portrayed by Ross K Foad (S.Holmes) James Ian Gray (M.Holmes) Karin Rydle (Irene Adler) Mike Archer (Watson) and Linda-Jean Barry (Mrs Hudson) within the No Place Like Holmes Series.

Prologue

Dr John Hamish Watson MD

My friend Sherlock Holmes has spoken little on the events following his fall and ‘death’ at the Reichenbach falls, his miraculous return has always been shrouded deep in mystery. Even to me, his closest friend only the smallest of details has ever been told.

That is of course, until now.

Certain events of late have prompted him to finally open up and enlighten me on one of the most harrowing and twisted cases he has ever investigated whilst working under the alias of Norwegian Explorer Sigerson.

It is a tale like no other I have ever penned before; the narratives contained within this tale come not only not only from myself, but separate perspectives from two other unlikely sources as well.

This is not strictly my story, nor even just a story of Sherlock Holmes. It is the story of a mystery unravelled by one of the most remarkable unthinkable alliances.

Like it or not, believe it or not as you will. Your perceptions will not change reality, but simply colour it.

Doctor John Hamish Watson M.D, January 3rd 1899

Chapter 1

I steadily trudged through the snowy streets to the door of 221B as the wind whipped snowflake after snowflake into my eyes. The resulting effect caused me to stab wildly with the key at almost every single angle in a futile bid to connect the key into the hole. I eventually struck lucky and I felt the lock mechanisms veer downwards, ensuing my escape from the winter (not so) wonderland of London’s streets.

Once inside 221B, I felt the warmth flow over me, and the icy chill that had set upon my bones began to ebb away as I continued up the seventeen steps to the rooms shared by Holmes and myself.

Upon entering the room, I saw Holmes dressed in a blue dressing gown, with his head slightly bowed, perched in a crouched position upon the seat of the armchair as if ready to spring upon unsuspecting pray within a heartbeat’s notice.

Holmes! What the devil are you doing, man? I cried out, taken aback from the peculiarity of his stance.

"Well Watson, perhaps if you were to eliminate some of the potential answers to your question ...the remaining pickings will become somewhat slimmer ... therefore, perhaps, you should ask yourself; what am I not doing?"

This retort to my perfectly reasonable question left me somewhat baffled and I said as much; Holmes... I am somewhat confused that you should ask me what you are not doing. Why, it is fairly obvious that you are not playing your violin ... nor are you conducting a chemical experiment, but I am still at a loss as to what you ARE doing.

He is being a complete and utter nuisance ... THAT is what is he doing, Doctor, came the terse Scottish drawl of Mrs Hudson as she sauntered in, gripping a highly polished silver tea tray adorned with an assortment of Christmas treats.

Mrs Hudson turned around and stood, hands placed upon her hips and tilted her head towards Holmes. He has been in a flighty mood all morning, Doctor. Why, his strange positioning there is just a start; he’s been up and down the stairs, slamming doors, pacing and rooting through every cabinet and cupboard ever since the post arrived. Lord knows what he has received to upset him so.

I glanced over at Holmes who appeared to be ignoring us, eyes closed and muttering intently under his breath; what sounded like a string of Latin. Though I could not ascertain whether this was merely to block us out or if the words had a principle meaning directed at our housekeeper or myself.

Mrs Hudson sighed and shook her head, then looked to me with a glint and twinkle in her eye as her mouth moved into a wry smile. Perhaps it is what the post did not bring that upset him, and no one has sent him a Christmas card, Doctor?

This suggestion was promptly met by a hollow, short laugh from Holmes evidently dismissing the idea, besides which, this was untrue; for I myself had given him one. Come now, Holmes, what did the post bring? For it clearly has unnerved you, I enquired.

The post itself brought nothing,... it is an inanimate object incapable of projecting itself through a letter box. It is a man of the Royal Mail who physically brought the item, he snapped back.

At that point he was clearly in what I can only pitifully describe as one of ‘those moods’, where anything I said would be turned around, twisted and thrown straight back at me.

Mrs Hudson cast a pitying glance to me and rolled her eyes.

Will you want dinner at seven, Mr Holmes? she asked while rubbing the brass door handle with a dust cloth (she has always been of the belief of ideal hands are the devils playthings).

I half expected Holmes to ignore her but he let out a sigh and finally came out of the unusual crouched position, hopping down and landing nimbly upon the fire place rug before performing a three quarters turn, putting him directly in line with Mrs Hudson.

No, Mrs Hudson, I will not want it at seven, for seven is a numeral indicating greater than six but less than eight, it is not an actual place, therefore I would not wish to dine at it, as it does not exist and I would far rather have it here in our rooms as normally occurs ... Watson, my dear friend, I trust you will be joining me?

Definitely one of ‘those moods’

Chapter 2

After a sumptuous dinner of Kedgeree, roasted potatoes and peas, but sadly no new mince pies, Holmes appeared to be in a far lighter mood than before and the previous arbitrary behaviour had all but disappeared. He proceeded to tell me of his latest endeavour in a monograph on the subject of categorization and identification of poisons from British plants, which I listened to with suitable interest. Of course, I was curious as to what had caused his temperament, but I knew better than to press for information if he was not willing to converse over the matter.

Following our dinner we retired to the comfortable arm chairs in front of a blazing fire, accompanied by two glasses of fine stout whiskey. We sunk into a companionable silence as Holmes engaged himself with progressing on his monograph whilst I continued work on writing a new addition for the Strand magazine.

After around an hour had passed with little other noise than the scratching of pens, crackle of licking flames on the logs and occasional muttering from Holmes as he conversed with himself over the differing effects of singular and double dosing of hemlock extract (deadly, and incredibly deadly, as it turns out). Holmes finally spoke out, addressing me and interrupting my passage on our chase of the giant rat of Sumatra.

Is that some last minute Christmas cards you are writing out there, Watson? You do know you’ve long missed the last posting date now ... I’d certainly hope your intended recipients are relatively close, otherwise I foresee a rather cold trek in store for you this bitter night if you wish them to get there in time...

I lifted my pen from the papers and tapped upon them with the lid of my fountain pen. "No, Holmes, I am not actually, for I’ve done all my Christmas Cards now ... let’s see; there was Stamford, Mrs Forrester,