Just a bit of holiday insanity. Multi-chaptered, odd point of view, entirely ridiculous, and not meant to be attached to Canon as fact. A Merry Christmas to all!

Edit: My apologies; I went back to edit this chapter and accidentally added it as a second chapter instead of an edit to the first - sorry about the alert showing up for anyone who has me on alert.

I do hereby solemnly swear, if one more self-applauded wag makes another Christmas Carol-themed wise remark in my presence, I shall summarily take up the closest letter-opener to hand and impale the man very neatly onto the nearest holly-decked wall. In the spirit of holiday goodwill, of course.

I am strongly disinclined to place much faith in this supposed season of love and unselfishness, however, for the very good reason that a diabolical Fate saw fit nearly sixteen years ago to have me born into a family proudly bearing the surname of Cratchett. I've no idea in heaven or hell what could possibly have possessed my parents to further name me, in a fit of twisted, depraved humour, Timothy.

(No doubt, the culprit is that same evil daemon that compelled my father to apprentice me into the infernally boring trade which I now learn against my will, as clerk in a large Savile Row emporium. My sole, extremely wealthy, uncle's owning the business no doubt had much to do with the affair.)

Being the shortest in my class until my body caught up with my brain (which is formidable and indeed my only weapon against the world) in the seventh form, I of course found it expedient to choose a different given name before I became branded forever and anon as "Tiny Tim." My last name is not even spelt the same as my literary so-called namesake, but that regrettably made no difference when speaking to or about my person.

Unfortunately, despite my choosing the very sensible name of Henry to give strangers as my Christian name, the appellation had unhappily stuck from small (literal as well as figurative) childhood. My entire school days were most miserable, spent in one long endeavour to rid myself of literature's mocking shadow.

I believed I had cast off my literary namesake's cloak of holiday gloom when once I grew old enough and tall enough to defend myself in some way other than by virtue of my superiour intelligence against such ill-mannered attacks; then came my apprenticeship under my odious Uncle Harold, as a clerk in this monstrosity of a store he so loves more than his own kith and kin. Why could I not be apprenticed to a bookbinder, or an accountant, or something that requires more brains than finesse in serving customers?

I believe the eve I was told of my impending bondage was the sole and solitary time I had ever seriously considered running off to sea. Or committing a crime worthy enough to have me sent away from home; disgrace was certainly preferable to boredom of that ilk.

Harold Ignacius Rowbottom, sole brother of my late mother (which explains the only reason any woman of even dulled intelligence would marry a man with the last name of Cratchett – no doubt she wished to be rid of her own surname and was not particular which she took instead), is a pompous, arrogant old fool with a better head for figures, both numerically and those of the opposite sex, than he has for propriety and common-sense. He is a brash, loud-spoken, parsimonious man who can be cantankerous as a child of three years when he does not get his own way. His employees carry out his whims and obey his queer humours more out of pity than fear of losing their jobs, though there is that as well.

Being an apprentice and not an employee, I am in no fear of losing wages and in fact would be all too thrilled to quit this miserable existence under him. As such, I pay Uncle the Eccentric no attention save the requisite and allow his underlings to serve him as they will; I am being apprenticed to learn the business, not the details of his personal life (which is disgustingly squalid, considering the amount of profits he makes).

The worst of this undesirable situation, however, is that Uncle has a bizarre loathing for pet names or nick-names and insists upon my using my given name to customers. I have grown resigned to the strange looks, but not to the perverted Dickensian humour this time of the year from buffoons who believe their wit to be of greater extent than my patience.

Uncle was rather upset about the number of customers who complained about my impertinence, though any lawyer would make a plausible case for self-defense. Society always frowns upon children who are more intelligent than their elders, doesn't it?

But there was one gentleman, just this evening, who showed a respectable amount of common-sense as well as common decency – both rarities in this ridiculously mercenary time of year, and well worth noting for being the embodiment of the so-called Christmas Spirit (that of Christmas Present, no doubt, to quote my fateful literary friend); a sea of calm in a mad tempest of irritated men and women all clamouring for attention and service in one of the last remaining days until Christmas Eve.

This chap waited patiently, though I scarce noticed at the time as I was thoroughly occupied in taking orders for engravings from a bevy of young women just slightly my elder, who tittered and whispered about my name when my back was turned and laboured under the impression that I was deaf in addition to being politely disgusted. Once I had managed to all but shove the women into the snow-swirling evening, I mopped my forehead with my handkerchief and slumped back against the wall behind the counter, wishing the infernal holiday were simply over.

The rush of the past hour was beginning to peter out as people went home for dinner, and I saw that the same fellow I'd seen before being bombarded by demanding women had wandered over to the stationery department and was poring eagerly over the cases full of fancy fountain pens and writing sets. A strongly-built chap, fairly tall, with a small moustache, and neatly but nattily dressed like a gentleman who did the majority of his shopping in slightly less expensive districts rather than the Bond Street area.

Probably looking for a Christmas gift, then, or else dropping his winnings from a recent gambling venture. Either way, he was at present headed my direction and I now noticed that he walked with a very slight limp and carried the typical black physician's bag. On his way home from a house call, then.

My idle habit (of attempting to escape this tedium by watching people and privately either laughing at their ridiculosity or noticing the details of their appearances) was cut short by the doctor's walking straight up to me, carefully maneuvering round a woman holding the hands of two small children who were both wailing uncontrollably, much to my amusement and the lady's deep mortification. What did she expect, dragging the little blighters all round the store for heaven only knew how many torturous hours?

"Pardon me, lad, but I was wondering if you might have the time to help me."

I looked up in some surprise, not expecting the atypical politeness of the quiet tone (most people this time of year merely bellowed "Clerk!" and expected me to come running at the top of my speed). Part of me rebelled at being called a lad – for I was going on sixteen! – but in all probability the man had not meant it to be insulting. Besides, a customer is a customer, insulting or otherwise, and a pleasant one much better than a demanding one.

"That is what I am here for," I replied with my usual (entirely affected) holiday cheerfulness. How many hours was it until closing time? Not even one, praise the Spirit of Christmas Future. "Looking for a gift, sir?"

"Yes, quite," the gentleman replied, setting his bag down with a careful but very heavy thud-clink. I became conscious of two sharp, light eyes from under a trim bowler and made a note to watch my manners; obviously the chap was a gentleman, and likely one who I could talk into buying something if I were equally mannerly.

"For a family member? A patient?" I inquired cautiously, trying to show the proper enthusiasm expected of an employee without seeming rude or pushy (Uncle Harold had had quite enough complaints from that quarter about Gilbert in the jewelry department).

"A friend," the doctor answered me amiably enough, obviously not minding my questions as that cranky old dotard had earlier in the evening, the one who had nearly taken his walking-stick to me when I asked if the earrings he was purchasing were for his grand-daughter (he was "not old enough to have grandchildren, thank'ee very much!" etc., etc.).

"Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Well…" The fellow rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. "He is rather difficult to buy for, if you know what I mean. Has everything he needs, and refuses to tell anyone something he wants?"

I well knew the type. My eldest brother, Oliver, was the precise same way – most annoying, that attitude. I always just got him woolen socks.

"Yes, indeed, sir," I said briskly, running over the list of customary Christmas gifts in my mind. "We have a fine selection of cigar and cigarette cases…" I stopped as the fellow shook his head pensively.

"He prefers a pipe."

"A new meerschaum, then?"

The moustache twitched in a fleeting fond smile. "No, he likes his old ones too well to use a new one."

"Perhaps something from the stationery department?" I suggested, indicating the newest of the fountain pens and ornate inkwells.

"Mmm…" The physician frowned, obviously thinking deeply. I briefly considered suggesting socks, but thought better of it.

"A popular novel?" Personally I should like nothing better than to get decent reading material (non-Dickens, preferably) for Christmas, for there was no greater gift than the imparting of knowledge. But apparently this elusive "friend" of the doctor's did not appreciate popular reading, for the man began to smile and then to laugh at my suggestion.

"No," he chuckled decisively, looking behind me at the neat row of silver flasks, as if debating a purchase of one of them.

"You could always fall back on cuff-links, Doctor," I ventured a bit less timidly with a grin. He pulled a face that reminded me of my younger brother David biting into an under-ripe plum, and we both laughed.

"I should hope I can think of something slightly more original," said he, his eyes lighting up in his amusement. Then he cocked an eyebrow questioningly at me. "You're an observant young fellow." He indicated the bag lying at his feet with an unasked question.

I shrugged, somewhat uneasy at the compliment, if it were such. "I try. Good for business, if not for conversation. Besides, one must do something to break the season's relentless monotony."

The moustache twitched again as the fellow looked round once more, ponderously slowly. "I say, have you anything in the way of walking-sticks?" he asked suddenly, turning back to face me.

"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Just round this corner here." I motioned the man to follow me a few yards away.

He hefted the black bag in his right hand and followed on my heels into the accessories department, where I paused at a rack of fine canes and other sticks, most more for ornament than heavy use. I plucked a fine silver-tipped walking stick off the wall, and the doctor dropped his bag once more and took it from me, hefting it in his hand expertly – almost as if gripping a weapon.

Odd. Very odd, without a doubt.

"It's a fine piece, but have you anything heavier?"

"How heavy?" I asked warily, very much not liking the defensive position he was adopting with the current merchandise – looked altogether too much like wielding a single-stick than casual examination of quality.

"Weighted, with lead or something similar, perhaps?"

I took a step back as he asked the question, with an innocent face entirely bereft of any awareness that he had just in essence asked me if we carried lethal weapons for holiday gifting to friends and family.

Whilst I was fumbling for an appropriate answer that did not entail asking him if this friend of his were a murderer or extortionist or a combination of both, he must have registered my hesitation for he looked up and caught sight of my face. Then the fellow laughed and nodded reassuringly, replacing the stick on the rack carefully.

"It is not what you're thinking, my lad," he chuckled, looking very much safer without the cane in his hand. "My friend has a dangerous occupation and occasionally finds himself in a situation where he must defend himself, that is all. Perfectly legal and above board, I assure you."

I must have still looked a bit doubtful, for he continued in what was no doubt meant to be a reassurance. "Were I purchasing a weapon rather than a gift, I shouldn't be browsing a store in Savile Row, now would I?"

Good point, but it was still deucedly odd. Personally I still believe the man to be slightly or more than slightly off, bedside physician or no. And the way he handled that cane…no way in all London would I want to get on that chap's bad side.

Bizarre.

"I…suppose not, sir," I managed, though I kept the nearby hat-rack between me and the fellow for precautionary measures. "You're wanting something more like a Penang-lawyer, then?"

"Yes, that would be good – heavier if you have it, though," he replied too cheerfully, pulling out a small pocket-watch and glancing at the time.

"I shall have to go in the back and look, Doctor, and it may take some time," I informed the man. I pulled out a pad of paper from behind the register and began scribbling upon it the necessary information for a reminder.

"That is fine, as I have an engagement in a half-hour," the gentleman replied, pulling on his gloves once more.

"Any particular height you would like, sir?" I asked.

"As tall as you can make it – he's well over six feet."

"Right. Anything else?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a swordstick in that fine collection, would you?"

I accidentally shut my hand in the pencil drawer and gave a small yelp. The physician glanced up at me in concern, but I waved him away frantically, not wanting the man anywhere near me. A swordstick?! Why did all the escaped homicidal maniacs come to me, and not Gilbert or Jacobson or Higgins?

"I…I don't believe we have one, Doctor, but I can check," I stammered, carefully trying to peer inconspicuously into those sharp eyes for signs of madness. I saw none, but then again Aunt Hermoine had given no signs of being over the edge until she walked into breakfast one morning, calmly announced herself to be Lucretia Borgia, and promptly fell over from self-poisoning, an overdose of laudanum. This doctor – if he were really a doctor – could be mad as Bedlam's finest and I not know it until it was too late.

I took another gulp of air as I continued to scribble information down on my notepad; including a thorough description of the fellow in case something happened and the police needed an accurate depiction of the man's looks and appearance.

"Right," I breathed at last, endeavouring to piece my nerve back together. "I shall have an answer for you when next you stop by, Doctor…?" I stopped expectantly.

"Mm?" The fellow hastily turned from the large, locked glass case he had been avidly perusing the contents of and turned his sharp eyes back to me. "Oh, of course. Watson, John Watson."

I dutifully wrote the name down on the paper and made a mental note to locate the stick – or murder weapon – before we closed up shop tonight as I would doubtless forget if I waited until the morrow.

"Anything else I can help you find, Dr. Watson?" I queried as I attempted to surreptitiously nudge the man toward the door – ten minutes to closing time, only ten minutes…

"No, thank you very much. You've been most helpful," the chap said courteously. "I shall be back late tomorrow…if we aren't out all day chasing that forger down the river, that is," he muttered this last under his breath, and I again looked askance at the man. Before I could edge away from the peculiar fellow he straightened up, pulling himself visibly out of his thoughts, and smiled beatifically at me.

"And your name, lad?" he inquired with curiousity but not with any apparent malice.

Despite the fact, I instinctively cringed. Professional courtesy was professional courtesy, however, and I managed to paste my holiday-selling smile upon my face and grind out a muttered "Cratchett. Timothy Cratchett," with my eyes belligerently daring the man to make a comment regarding my nomenclatural curse.

I received one raised eyebrow, and the moustache twitched again. "I…am sorry," he offered with a slight grin, not at all poking fun but rather sympathetic – a fresh, novel sensation after a rather long and definitely un-Christmasy day.

I breathed a sigh of relief that made the doctor laugh knowingly. "You shall hear no Dickens quotations from me, you may rest assured," he added, mashing his bowler down on his head and buttoning up his overcoat in a fluid, rapid five seconds.

"Thank you, Doctor," I returned, folding my arms and leaning back against the counter to watch from a distance. The fellow's estimation had just gone up tenfold in my eyes for that last bit of common (or was it uncommon?) sense; perhaps he was not a complete Bedlamite, merely peculiar.

As the fellow vanished into the glittering snow outside after a cheerful wishing me the compliments of the season, my eyes traveled to the glass case he had been inspecting before giving me his name earlier, and goosebumps stood on my arms and the back of my neck – and not from the chill of the outside. I shivered almost compulsively, wondering why it was my poor luck to land such eccentric customers.

He'd been looking so eagerly at a collection of antique firearms??

I did not realise it was possible for a customer's Christmas shopping to be more bizarre than this doctor's had been – that is, not until the next evening, when an entirely different individual descended on the shop to break up the monotony of my night in an even more peculiar fashion.

To be continued.