AN: I went back to fix a few technical errors. My only excuse is that I couldn't upload this as poetry and dealing with the html was not a fun time. Things got deleted, paragraphs were made... Technology sucks.
The Case Before Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through London town
Hard pellets of hail were hurtling down
Though it was Christmas night, crime took no reprieve
And so Holmes and I of our small flat took leave
We reached Hemlock Street (an unwelcome omen)
And were shown in by a nervous young yeoman
Removing his deerstalker (in the house, 'twas obscene)
The Master and I approached the grisly crime scene
The corpse clothed in red was face down in blood
Black boots on its feet were caked with dried mud
He bore a cracked neck and a snowy white beard
And I knew in an instant this was more than I'd feared
"Holmes," I did hiss. "I hope you have a plan."
The lean creature chuckled "Elementary, old man.
The logical solution is closer than you think
Before the stroke of eleven we'll be home with a drink."
Lestrade said "Pray, Homes, what do you detect?
For I am quite certain it is not who I suspect."
None of us said it, but was this Father Christmas
Lying in gore with a snapped neck isthmus?
"Now, Inspector! Now Watson! Don't play the fool!"
Guffawed our detective, far from losing his cool.
"Ignorance of my teachings is an insult to me,
So tell me, good doctor, just what do you see?"
I let out a sigh and I focused my mind
Searching for the smallest of clues I could find.
"Well, Holmes, I suppose there's the mud on his sole.
Can you say where that comes from, in part or in whole?"
His grey eyes gave a twinkle. "A good start, old man,
But if you speak true and in those boots he ran,
In the hail, the mud would be as wet as the moors
But the dirt is quite dry, so he was not out of doors."
"He came from inside?" exclaimed Lestrade with a start.
"He was no magic elf with gifts to impart!"
"Of course not," Holmes sighed. "We know who he's not
But not who he is, so let's give it a shot."
I was scrawling down notes as fast as I could
While my companion poked about the burned wood.
"This fire, you see, was put out 'fore bed
It's full of black soot, but this coat, it stays red."
Holmes grew rather silent and he looked towards the bower,
As if pleading for help from some higher power
But I should have known better; he looked once more to the gore
And said "My, Watson, admire the decor."
"The decor!" I exclaimed, thinking him mad.
"Yes, the sole stocking," sighed he. "'Tis sad
That a well-meaning butler should die Christmas Eve
See the cuffs and the well-polished nails I perceive?"
My pen ceased to write and I looked up in surprise.
"It was for the children," he said. "That he donned this disguise
Climbed up on the mantle when the hour was late
And while hanging the stockings he fell to his fate."
As Holmes had promised we were home well in time
To curl up 'fore the fire and partake of wine.
"Happy Christmas, dear Watson," Holmes said with good cheer.
"Holmes, if we're lucky this will be our last case this year!"