The year is 1963, at the heart of social and cultural upheaval. Professor George Litefoot and Henry Gordon Jago have been accidentally transported through time, swapping the Industrial Revolution for a cultural revolution. Lost in time, these Victorian investigators of infernal instances find themselves in an unfamiliar land, struggling to cope with modern sensibilities as they search for some means to return to their own time. This search is not an easy one however, and the two gentlemen are resigned to spending Christmas away from when they call home. In an effort to cheer up her dearest friends, Ellie Higson has arranged a small Christmas party for them at her restaurant.
It was late on the evening of the 20th, and the regular patrons had already left for the night. Higgies was decorated in the trappings of Christmas. Multicolored fairy lights were strung between the wall lights, casting a festive glow upon the dark green walls. Tinsel bordered the backs of the booth seats, creating joyous holiday alcoves. Decorating each table was a centerpiece consisting of a red and white candle, cradled in a base of holly. Ellie, Jago & Litefoot sat deep in conversation, finishing the last remains of their desserts, each wearing a flimsy coloured paper hat. In this moment, the three old friends could pretend that they were home, in their rightful time.
"I must say Ellie, a finer and more fulsome festive feast I could not fathom! And the decor! Festooned with such finely furnished festive filigree and furbelowed fandangles!" Said the more portly gentleman. Jago's ruddy complextion and fleshed out features were those of a man fond of his ale and his grub. He had chestnut brown short curly hair, which extended down his face to form his signature muttonchops. His suit had been well tailored once, as befitting a theatrical impresario. However, the slightly threadbare fabric and tight fit indicated that the wearer was making do, unable or unwilling to afford a suitable replacement. Jago patted the gilded waistcoat covering his stomach lightly, signifying a much enjoyed meal.
"Indeed. My compliments to the chef." Replied his dining colleague. Litefoot was a police pathologist of some renown in his own time, but current circumstances had driven him to manage an antique bookshop instead. He wore a finely crafted suit, creased to perfection, with a handkerchief folded precisely in his breast pocket. Even his prematurely greyed hair and mustache were trimmed with precision. Litefoot was a man of not inconsiderable means, though he did not possess the aloofness that plagues the upper classes. Both men were firmly middle aged, and unlikely friends who crossed something of a class divide. They had crossed paths as a result of the Doctor over a decade ago (relatively speaking) and instantly became the best of partners, with a friendship rivaling that of Holmes and Watson themselves.
"Thank you sirs. I'm glad of the chance to remember the old days, truth be told. It's nice to have old friends at Christmas again." Said Ellie, modestly. Unlike the two gents, she had reached the sixties in the traditional manner, so to speak. Technically immortal following an encounter with a group of Vampires, Ellie had been living for decades longer than her own lifespan, yet she still looked like a young woman barely into her thirties.
"Likewise, my dear. I'm not too proud to admit that I felt momentarily morose at the thought of spending this Christmas in such foreign environments." said Jago, wistfully.
"But your most kind and generous invitation was the remedy for our melancholy." continued Litefoot.
"A toast then. To old friends, and older times." smiled Ellie, with just the slightest hint of a tear in her eye.
"To old friends!" chimed the gentlemen simultaneously.
Jago took a noticeably greater sip of the Christmas Champagne than his dining partners. With an almost subtle belch, he exclaimed.
"Of course, it's only fair that George and I repay your honourable hospitality, celebrated chef skills and captivating comestibles."
"To which end, we have each brought you a token of our appreciation." added Litefoot.
Ellie was somewhat speechless.
"You shouldn't have. Just being here was gift enough for me." She stammered. As the gifts were placed before her, she composed herself and added, sternly, "Really. You shouldn't have."
First to reveal their chosen gift was Litefoot.
"I'm not exactly in the habit of purchasing gifts for a lady, excepting Mrs Hudson, but I thought jewelry would be a safe option. The lovely young man in the shop said this piece was particularly... what was the word... Groovy."
In his hands hung a silver necklace, with a large, almost coaster sized "Peace Sign" hanging from the chain. Ellie took it gingerly, wordlessly, and all the while forcing a pleased grin. With some trepidation, she turned to receive Jago's present.
"Ah. Can never go wrong with a gift of perfume for a woman. A fresh fragrance for a femme fatale. A sweet-smelling scent, an ambrosial aroma for your perfumed pleasure."
Warily, Ellie took the bottle from Jago to test its scent. Even her iron will was unable to disguise the wrinkle of her nose.
"Good grief Henry!" Exclaimed Litefoot. "Did you purchase the bottle from a mortician's supply cabinet? I'd swear that smells of formaldehyde."
"They all seemed the same to me in the shop. Couldn't sniff a bally difference between the samples. And I have the nose of a bloodhound."
"S'ok Mr. J. It's the thought that counts after all. Thank you both for the gesture."
"You are most welcome Ellie. And thank you for the wonderful meal." said Litefoot.
"And for the champagne." laughed Jago.
"Jago, my friend. I have a gift for you too of course." Litefoot smiled.
"Too kind, too kind, George."
Litefoot stood up and walked behind the bar, to where he had placed his cane and a paper bag upon entering Higgies. He handed the bag to Jago, who removed a rectangular package wrapped in plain red paper with a green bow, slightly bigger than a magazine in profile.
"I came across this as part of a donation to my shop, and knew it'd be perfect for you, old friend."
Jago excited ripped the wrapping apart to reveal the gift. It was a small poster frame, containing the playbill of a Victorian theatre.
"The New Regency..." whispered Jago, fondly.
"Perfectly authentic, I assure you."
"Six Gun Sadie, Madam Mystere's prodigious prestidigitation... I remember each of these acts. A particularly profitable period if I recall correctly. Thank you, George." Jago was full of wistful memories, and admiration for his friend.
"I have a little something for you too. It's not much, and certainly not as personal as your present to me. But it's homemade, and made with heart. As you know, I'm a dab hand in the seamstress arts. The amount of costumes I've had to darn last minute... here you go George."
He handed George a loosely wrapped parcel covered in cartoon penguins. Litefoot carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing a mass of stripped purple knitwear.
"A scarf! How thoughtful, Henry. I have found it somewhat nippy these past few weeks. Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!" Replied both Jago and Ellie.
No good moment can last forever, unfortunately, and so this charming Christmas dinner was brought to an abrupt end as a distant shockwave trembled the building.
"Corks!" Cried Jago.
"What on Earth?! That sounded like an explosion." exclaimed Litefoot.
"Criminals never sleep Professor. So neither can those of us who stand in their way." Ellie proclaimed, standing to attention.
"Can't we just have a few days off. To enjoy the festivities?" Grumbled Jago, unwilling to get involved in any shenanigans.
"I'm afraid Ellie is correct, old chum. People could be injured, we have to help!"
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