Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes leaned to pick his cigarette case from the small side table. Extracting one carefully from the silk inner of the engraved silver, he struck a match and touched it to the end. Drawing deeply and exhaling slowly with a low hum of pleasure, he pushed the open case to me, peeking sideways, watching as I performed the same ritual.
“Ashtray,” I said.
My friend reached for it and placed it between us. We smoked quietly, the neither of us talking but listening to the Autumn rainfall as it pattered on the sill. I stretched my leg, leaned back and watched the last of the lambent fire flames cast their glow upon the rug. I felt calm, content, relaxed.
“The fire is dying out,” said Holmes. “It will be damnably chilly before long.” He looked around the room. “I believe we shall be in for a wretched Winter.” The ash from his cigarette had grown ponderously long. He noticed a moment before I might warn him; tapping away the flake into the silver monkey skull of which he was so fond. “I caught it, John,” said he, “no need to scold.”
“A good thing, too,” I replied. “Mrs. Hudson is a little tired of mending bedsheets.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and burrowed down beneath the blankets, one bare arm slung around my waist with head to one side on the pillow and gazing at me. I smiled down, moved my cigarette to my left hand and stroked his black hair with the other. He closed his eyes. I threaded my fingers through the thick shock, smoothed errant strands from his high forehead. Holmes nudged against my wrist, made as if to nibble with his teeth. Still soft and playful after loving; no matter his pretend peeving at the cold. I finished my smoke, set the ashtray to the side again and hunkered down to meet him on his plain. We rubbed noses. He wrinkled, burrowed deeper.
“Now, tomorrow,” I began.
Holmes groaned softly. He already knew what I should say.
“Yes, tomorrow,” I repeated. “You know very well what we must do.”
“Why tomorrow?” he grumbled, half muffled by the blankets. “Why can we not wait until nearer the time?”
“It is already nearer the time,” I reminded him. “And if we leave it any longer then it shall have come about and there we'll be, unprepared and entirely at your brother's mercy.”
I heard him chuckle.
“John, you are over-dramatising to the point of the ridiculous,” said he. “I am quite certain that Mycroft could not care a jot less as to what we turn up with. I suggest a case of Beaujolais. It is far simpler.”
“No,” I said. “Just no.” I gave up then, for the moment, for my friend's hand was roving, wandering, distracting. “You are doing that deliberately,” I chided.
He ducked under the covers and placed a kiss to my stomach.
“This is now,” said he. “And you worry too much about the minutiae of the mundane.”
And that is true, of course. I do. I always have. But I believe it is that which keeps us so incomparably well balanced as a pair. The small matter of Sophronia Holmes being almost at full term did not seem to bother my friend unduly, for he was quite confident that all should be well. My persistent reminders that we should begin to seek out gifts and sundries only met with his amused indifference. One can only press a point so far; I had resigned myself to the miserable idea of shopping alone.
These past months had proved exceptionally busy for Holmes. In May he had been engaged by the French government on a matter of such importance as had necessitated some short time away from Baker Street. To my chagrin, the case was such that I was unable to accompany him, but the payment for his efforts was princely, and his delight in solving the complex political conundrum so complete as to carry us happily through to the month of June. We found ourselves in and outside of our great city of London on a sizeable number of cases large and small. Perhaps some day I shall relate the Mystery of the Porcelain Trumpet, which held my friend fairly baffled for a brief while. Even more so, the Secret of the Golden Sundial, with its delicacies of a family torn asunder by bad marriage. By the time that September and October came around, Holmes was winding down the last of his engagements, leaving us with a welcome respite before we might look forward to the next.
It was no doubt part due to casework that my friend's mood had lightened much since that dark and fated April. At his request, we had spoken of it no further and very gradually it faded – or so it seemed to for the most part, for still at certain moments I might catch Holmes with such an expression on his face in contemplation that he could never explain away to me quite as convincingly.
But now such moments seemed very far away while here together, warm and snug in the late evening of our bed. I drew him to me, and he, reaching out to extinguish the lamp, curled back into my side to sleep, his soft breathing gently deepening.
“Hm, I forgot to tell you,” he murmured, his lips pressed against my skin, “they have decided upon the names.”
“Really?” I whispered, delighted. “If it is a boy, will he be named after his father? Oh, what girl's name have they chosen? Holmes? Holmes!”
And sleep does descend at inopportune moments, that eager questions must wait 'til morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following morning was bitterer than the chilled night before. A condensation upon the window panes; the sitting-room fire banked up and blazing. Holmes and I sat at the table, grateful for our breakfast of hot coffee, toast and eggs.
“You may well be right about the Winter,” I said, shivering. “This is ridiculous. And it is barely October.”
He grunted. A small corner article in The Times appeared to have demanded his attention, for he propped the folded broadsheet against the sugar bowl and commenced to read intently. I knew that it should be futile to interrupt him, so I poured myself more coffee and looked out onto the grey expanse of Baker Street. A small group of children clustered around a lamp post some short distance away. I recognised several of them as trusted members of Holmes's Irregulars. Young Wiggins was holding court, punching the air and arguing with an unknown taller lad. I watched them, smiling.
“Holmes!” I said, remembering finally and interrupting anyway. “You fell asleep on me last night. What are the names that your brother has chosen?”
My friend looked up from his newspaper.
“If it is a boy, then 'Jeremiah'. I think. If it is a girl, then... I cannot recall,” said he, waving his hand dismissively.
“You are hopeless,” I told him. He snorted softly, returning to his read.
“What have you found there that is so fascinating?” I enquired.
Holmes pointed to the article that he had been pondering for minutes.
“Watson,” said he, “I don't suppose that you ever heard of the Merry Ferret?”
I burst out laughing at the name.
“No,” I replied, “I cannot say that I have. Who, or what is it?”
My friend smiled. “It is most certainly not a Who,” he said. “It is a music hall in Lambeth. Hardly surprising that you are unfamiliar with it.”
“I do not object to music halls,” I said, “but I confess that I have never been to that particular one. Its name is rather amusing. What has happened there?”
“Nothing,” replied Holmes. “Except that the Times journalist who visited it last night has written a small rant about how such places should be pulled down. Evidently he did not enjoy the acts that he saw.” Holmes looked at me. “I have – or perhaps, had – an acquaintance who was employed there, once. That was my sole reason for mentioning it to you.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, if that journalist fellow does not enjoy such entertainment, then he should stay well away from such places. They are rowdy and often bawdy, and are certainly not to everyone's taste. To say that such buildings should be pulled down...” I shook my head, chuckling. I pushed the egg dish towards my friend. “Eat,” I told him. “Who was the acquaintance?” I asked then, suddenly curious.
Holmes's expression became mysterious.
“A wrestler,” he said. “Before your time,” he added. “I doubt they are still there.” He closed his lips firmly and turned the pages of his newspaper, taciturn once more.
I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. Peeping out again, I observed that the Irregulars had disbanded from their corner, leaving one straggler who was scuffing up his boots in a bad temper. I glanced at my watch: it was a little past nine o'clock. If we were to get anything done at all this day, then it would be best to not lose any further time of it by idling. I was into my greatcoat, scarf and gloves before my friend had reached the bottom of his coffee cup. He looked at me askance, as if only this moment having noticed my fresh apparel.
“You are going out?”
“We are going out,” I said. “If you have quite finished that fourth cup of coffee already.”
The air outside was frigid. Holmes complained bitterly for the duration of our walk. He wanted his books and his chair by the fire, with a large pouch of tobacco and his favourite pipe. It was unfortunate therefore that he should be getting none of these things until we had proven successful with our foray. I told him this. He chuntered threats beneath his breath that thankfully did not make it to my ears. We found our way to a grand department store, and somehow by random direction located the nursery section. My friend scowled through polished glass at a myriad of small necessities.
“This is worse than when we shopped for the wedding gift,” he informed me. “At least then we were looking at interesting things. I am unable to find the remotest joy in feeding bottles and perambulators.”
“You are a grouch,” I said, squeezing his elbow. “Come over here and look at the silver goods with me.”
Solicitous sales assistants spread out rows of items for our approval. Eventually by a process of elimination we selected a number of charming robes and blankets, and a sterling silver rattle. The rattle had six tiny bells attached to it by chains. Its central section was etched with leaves and flowers. It had an integrated whistle, and a handsome solid ebonised handle.
“The whistle will drive Mycroft mad,” said my friend, apparently much cheered by the thought.
We wended our way around the crowds of morning shoppers, stepping back out onto the street and blinking up at the heavy sky.
“That took all of one hour,” said Holmes. “I am glad it is done with, but great heavens, Watson, it could have waited.”
“What would you wish to do now?” I asked.
“To go home and look through the morning post,” said he. “You whisked me away without my even having had opportunity to slit the flap of just one envelope. I really do think that--”
Is it considered poor manners to nudge one's partner in the ribs to cease his grumble?
Well, then, it appears that I am a poor mannered fellow, and that is all there can be to it.
There was nothing in the post that had suffered for the necessity of waiting sixty minutes. No cardboard boxes with packed salt containing macabre severed body parts, nor painstaking letters snipped from newspapers with distinctive case and font: “KeEp yOur Nose oUt, MR hoLmes.” I believe that my friend should much have preferred such a correspondence, for he sighed now as he sifted through the drear and turned towards his fireside chair.
“I am quite glad that there is nothing,” I said. “You have had scant opportunity to rest these past months.”
“I do know that,” he replied, “but I cannot help it.”
He sat with his ink pen and writing pad and set to composing several letters. I packed away our purchases and called down to Mrs. Hudson for a fresh hot pot of tea. Holmes's first missive was a mere paragraph. Peeping over his shoulder, I read the words in his elegant script: “Regretfully, I must decline...”. Rather unlikely to be a response to a case; far more likely to an innocent invite to dinner or party. My friend's solitary nature avoided both as far as he could, wherever possible. The corner of his mouth quirked as he followed on my train of thought.
“A Halloween Costume Ball,” said he, without looking up from his envelope address. “Lord and Lady Carstairs and their daughter Catherine should be delighted, etcetera etcetera. I need say no more. Their efforts to matchmake are intolerable.”
I perched on the arm of the chair and rested a hand upon his shoulder. I leaned to press a light kiss to the nape of his neck. His skin was warm and clean, with a scent of soap and light cologne. He inclined his head a little forward; my lips slid down below his collar.
“You are starting something,” he murmured soft. “I advise you to stop.”
“I do know that,” I mimicked him, “but I cannot help it.”
He swatted at my leg.
We heard our landlady in the downstairs hallway with the clatter of the tea tray at the same time as the door bell rang. I straightened up reluctantly; Holmes smoothed down his hair. From below, the sound of voices: one familiar, soft and concerned, the other male and rather raucous.
“So what have we here?” said Holmes, easing himself out of his chair to stand closer to the hearth, his eyes fixed upon our sitting-room door.
A knock upon it, then pushed open by our landlady.
“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said she, “you have a visitor. A gentleman who says he knows you. A Mr. Laughton.”
She stepped back to allow the man his entrance. Two striding steps saw the same Mr. Laughton inside our room, with his hands set on his hips, his boots splayed apart. He was a burly bear of a fellow, some six feet tall and nigh as wide, with a loose knot of mad brown hair and bushy eyebrows. His expression was beetled; he looked to my friend.
“Dear me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “what a commotion. And a very good morning to you, Pipsqueak.”