Magnussen’s Manger Scene

Mrs. Hudson’s iPhone had the weirdest text on it when she awoke that morning, just before dawn. She wasn’t always an early riser, but the aches and pains of age were starting to cost her sleep. Damn adverts!

“Can your beans! You will really save money on them! Can it all? Just let Madame Jones give two lessons and sod off! She will stay only open until five and you know they don’t use dye!”

Hudson took her first long sip of coffee and looked at the text again.

Aw, bollocks, she thought. And then went up to take the phone to Sherlock.

“It’s Magnussen again,” she told him when she got to his bedroom, ignoring the look he gave her when she barged in.

“Oh, bollocks,” Sherlock said.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

“What’s it say this time?”

“Can you save them all? Madam two-sod will open and they dye!”

“All? He’s quit kidnapping individual folk on individual holidays and gone for ‘all?’ Why are you still here, I wonder?”

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “It’s Magnussen, Mr. Know-It-All. And all includes all the reasons you don’t try to kidnap me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied. “Yes. He also seems to hate texting me directly.”

“Didn’t you shoot him in the head?”

“Well, yes. But it’s Moriarty all over again, isn’t it? Seems like someone is nostalgic and wants more violin. Call Mycroft. If he answers, tell him to meet me at Madame Tussaud’s, and tell him it’s to ready the helicopter to Sherriford. I must own Eurus a visit.”

“And if he doesn’t answer?”

“She’s got him, too. Can I borrow your jet pack?”

“It’s in the attic next to the roof hatch. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Sherlock raced up the stairs to the attic, strapped on the jet pack, and blasted off for Madame Tussaud’s.

Early morning commuters about to head down to Baker Street Station looked up and pointed as he flew overhead.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“Where’s John Watson?”

“Watson can’t fly!”

“No,” Sherlock said to himself as he descended toward the museum. “John can’t fly.”

He reduced the propulsion and made a traffic-stopping landing on the street in front of the entry dome. The wax museum didn’t open until the public until 10 AM, but the employees had to be arriving earlier, and he wasn’t going to wait for them or take the time to disable the security systems. Breaking, bending, undoing . . . the most direct way always required a lot of repair.

Once inside, Sherlock raced through the museum for the A-list zone. It was Christmas, and that meant one thing: Celebrity nativity scene.

A paralytic, he imagined. Custom posing frames with the velcro straps like they used in London’s more posh dungeons. Molly would be Mary, John would be Joseph, and . . . would Mycroft be a wise man or a shepherd? It would take two more wise men, and Scotland Yard seemed more . . . humorous . . . in the roles. Mycroft. Mycroft.

“Oh, God, Moriarty’s hungry donkey nativity. Mycroft had told him about that one Christmas eve.” Sherlock quickened his pace.

And then the pop stars attacked.

Two of them actually were murderers, one an avid spouse abuser, and the other just exceptionally fit. And every one of them, actually the name on the display standing in for their wax doubles. How did he have such powerful siblings? The one who was the British government was the least of the lot. But they all wanted to play with him, didn’t they?

Sherlock played.

Celebrities, even those with criminal pasts, did not tend to be the capable in a real fight. They had so much more to lose.

They were taken out at an average rate of 4.2 seconds, and Sherlock moved on.

A giant projection screen was playing Charles Augustus Magnussen in close-up. Cleaning his glasses, then starting to . . . .

“Not very original, but intentional plagiarism, which means connection to the source, but not the source. It’s personal this time. Christmas. Eurus didn’t care for Christmas.”

Sherlock didn’t even pause at the Magnussen video, nor disable the bomb. Such a big bomb. Too big. Didn’t matter.

He was wrong about the nativity. No Molly. No John. And, best of all, no Rosie.

Mother and father were in the Mary and Joseph roles. Eurus the angel suspended about it all. Mycroft . . . well, the Mycroft question was solved right enough.

It’s never twins. Never twins.

Triplets. Mycroft. Pycroft. Rycroft. Triplets, all this time. Well, that certainly explained how he was so vital to the government. He was his own three wise men.

And in the great big manger.

And giant baby Jesus, tittering.

Why did he ever re-write his memory instead of just dealing with the tragedies, like the stupid folk did?

“Hello, Siggy,” Sherlock said to his youngest brother, wearily as the memories started to return. The toddler. Smarter than Eurus. Actually saved Victor, didn’t tell Eurus, and relocated him to Hampshire, all at barely three years of age. The bones were from one of Siggy’s home-grown hominids.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Did you bring my bah-bah?”

“Merry Christmas, Siggy. Still in diapers, I see,” Sherlock said and tossed him the rattle, a fresh bow tied around it.

And then the beaten pop stars hobbled into the room and started singing a Christmas carol, in soft, somewhat fragile, harmony.

And it was the best Christmas special ever. Until a million fan fingers hit a million keyboards and keypads as the credits rolled, and somewhere in the actual waking world two men woke up screaming in terror.

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