Disclaimer: Not mine, though I'm willing to pay my entire life savings to have them. That's about $36.72, FYI. The toast Holmes quotes comes from the 1806 Toast Master's Guide.
A/N: I just couldn't help myself. I have thrown myself into literary canon, and while I'm only on Sign of the Four, I couldn't wait to write this. It's mostly fluffy, but hopefully not to syrupy-sweet. It takes place several years after the movie, during Watson's second tenure at Baker St. This has been only briefly proof-read, so there may be mistakes. Again, my facts may not be entirely correct... but I'm learning!
It does not escape Watson's notice that the toast and tea sitting on the highboy have gone cold. He can tell, because there is a distinct lack of steam wafting from the teapot, and the toast has gone limp, a puddle of congealed butter pooled on the china plate.
Holmes glances up as Watson enters the parlor, giving him a distracted smile over the top of a stack of papers clutched in his hand.
"Good man," he says, attention drifting back to the papers. "Come in, come in."
"Is this not an objectionably early hour for you to be keeping?" Watson inquires with a barely-stifled yawn, taking a seat near the fire and warming his hands.
"Indeed. I had rather hoped to be sleeping by now."
"You mean you've not been to bed?" Watson asks, suddenly alert and feeling a spike of concern. It is not unusual for Holmes to stay awake many nights on end while using his seven per-cent solution. Watson's gaze wanders around the room, searching out the leather casing that holds Holmes's syringe.
"You won't find it," Holmes says casually, never lifting his eye from the page in front of him. "I've put it away, and am not likely to bring it out again."
Watson breathes a sigh, then hopes Holmes won't notice his relieved exhalation.
"You've not taken your breakfast," he says, trying not to make the statement sound accusatory.
"You are my colleague, Watson," Holmes says, sparing him little more than an irritated glance, "not my Nanny. We've already got one of those."
Watson frowns, finding himself rather annoyed at his old friend's shortness. He imagines it must be due to a combination of hunger and lack of sleep, but nevertheless he cannot shake the ounce of hurt that settles in his chest with a dull, throbbing ache. It is a feeling that has become far more common of late, though he is loathe to attribute it to any sort of pattern or cause.
"Have you a new case?" Watson inquires, nodding at the papers in Holmes's hand and scattered on the floor around his chair.
"Mmm," Holmes responds, looking over briefly and giving Watson a roll of his eyes. "Its scope is far beneath my expertise, if you ask me."
"Then why have you taken it on?"
Holmes smiles then, and Watson nearly chokes on the cold tea he's poured himself. Sputtering, he ignores Holmes's concerned look, and waves at him to continue.
"The client is rather high-profile. A certain Lord Boyle, with whom I believe you are familiar?"
Watson looks up in surprise. "Yes, he was once a patient of mine."
Holmes nods, though Watson is certain he never mentioned the man to Holmes before, nor did Boyle ever seek out his services during his first tenure at Baker Street.
"Well, then you must be aware that he is one of the wealthiest men in London," Holmes says, reaching over to tug one stale piece of toast off his plate.
Watson tries to keep a satisfied smile off his face as Holmes bites into the soggy bread, instead focusing his gaze on the fire, leaping and crackling merrily behind the hearth.
"Certainly," Watson says. "There are few who don't know that, as his visage is plastered all over the papers on a near-weekly basis."
"Indeed. Well, dear man, it seems Lord Boyle has found himself in a bit of a spot, and seeks my aid in solving the mystery."
"What is the nature of the case?" Watson asks, blanching as he takes another sip of the bitter tea. He peers through the crack left in the parlor door, wondering if Mrs. Hudson has decided to have a lie-in.
"A robbery, it would appear," Holmes says, suddenly springing from his seat and brushing the crumbs from his hands. Watson watches him with barely-disguised amusement and awe, the same mixture of feeling with which he's regarded his friend since they first met all those years ago.
"Lord and Lady Boyle held a ball this past week, as you likely know from reading the society page," Holmes goes on, moving behind the chair and leaning his forearms against the high back, looking expectantly at Watson.
"I do not read the society page," Watson says firmly, though he feels a flush creep along his cheeks.
Holmes arches an eyebrow, but somehow manages to refrain from exposing Watson's minor deception.
"Indeed," Holmes continues, a note of sarcasm in his voice. "In any case, a ball was held, whether or not you knew about it, and Lord Boyle found his pockets distinctly lighter by the end of the night."
"So you believe the suspect is a guest at the party?" Watson asks, twisting around in his chair to get a better look at the enthusiastic detective. Holmes's eyes are sparkling and bright, and Watson knows that no matter how insignificant the case, Holmes will relish the solving of it just the same.
"That is one theory," Holmes says with a nod. "Or it is possible an intruder was able to sneak in unnoticed during the clamor of the party."
"And what precisely was taken?" Watson inquires, scooting forward in his chair.
"Ah!" Holmes exclaims, leaping forward and pulling the startled doctor out of his seat. "That shall be revealed in good time, my friend. First we must recreate the events of the fateful night."
"And precisely how do you plan to go about -- oof!" Watson huffs, as Holmes yanks him into the center of the room and pulls him close. Watson stumbles backward, looking suspiciously at Holmes, who's wearing a devilish grin.
"I think we'll begin with a waltz," he says, dark eyes positively twinkling with mirth.
"What are you on about?" Watson says, keeping his eyes cast down at the floor, eyebrows knit together in confusion and discomfort. He takes an unsteady breath, feeling off-kilter with Holmes standing so near.
"Was I being unclear?" Holmes asks, cocking his head. "I mean to say that we shall begin our investigation with a dance."
"What bizarre new form of detection is this?" Watson sputters as Holmes reaches out to take his arm.
Holmes pauses, scrutinizing the doctor for a long moment until he's nearly twitching under the mental dissection. His hand rests on Watson's arm, one finger absently rubbing against the soft fabric of the other man's dressing gown.
"After all this time, dear Watson, I must imagine you think me and my methods quite common," he says, ducking his head so that all Watson sees when he finally looks up is a slightly touseled fringe of dark hair.
"I could never think anything of the sort," Watson says with all sincerity. He clamps his mouth shut then, afraid at what more might slip out.
Holmes looks up at him, beaming. "There then, that's settled," he says, pulling Watson's arm around his waist.
Dumbfounded, Watson allows the detective to tug him closer, not bothering to protest when Holmes reaches up to take his free hand.
"The items stolen were removed from Boyle's jacket," Holmes says, with a gentle squeeze to Watson's hand and a fortifying smile. "Stand straighter, old man; your posture is an abomination."
Watson scowls a little, but does as Holmes asks, lengthening his back and lifting his chin stubbornly, pointedly ignoring Holmes's pleased chuckle.
"Did Lord Boyle remove his jacket at any point in the evening?" he asks stiffly, ignoring the warmth of Holmes's hand in his own.
"He most certainly did," Holmes says. "He became overheated from dancing and removed it before taking brandy in the parlor. His valet took it to his bedchamber and left it there."
"So the valet is a suspect," Watson reasons, "along with anyone who may have had access to the bedroom."
"Yes," Holmes says, "but let us begin our recreation earlier in the evening, with the dancing. Now, you shall take on the role of Lord Boyle, while I assume the part of Miss Pettifoot, an acquaintance of Lady Boyle, and Lord Boyle's partner for much of the night."
Watson looks askance at his friend, bringing his arm back to his side and pulling away. "Holmes, this is utter nonsense. How will this possibly help us --"
"Don't be obtuse, Watson," Holmes says, stepping forward to once again close the gap between them. "Now, take my waist. My dance card is quite full."
Watson stares at the detective, speechless, and reluctantly encircles the other man's waist. Hands still clasped together, Holmes gives him a satisfied look and slides his other hand up Watson's shoulder.
"Now then, we'll begin with a waltz, on my count. One, two, three, and -- one, two, three, and -- Watson!" Holmes abruptly breaks away from the doctor, gingerly flexing the foot Watson has just trodden upon.
"My apologies," Watson grumbles, not sorry at all. He's just getting ready to ask the point of this ridiculous exercise in futility when Holmes runs to the other side of the room and begins winding up the Gramophone that squats like an ugly metallic beast on the table in the corner. Watson has never used the thing, finding he has a deep-seated and inherent mistrust of the machine, which was bestowed upon Holmes in lieu of payment for uncovering the infidelity of a wealthy musician's wife.
Presently, a tinny, wavering melody drifts out of the machine, and Watson finds his foot tapping along to the upbeat tempo. Holmes returns to his previous spot in front of the doctor, holding out his arms and waiting.
With a relenting sigh, Watson pulls the other man into a loose embrace, and two fall into a jerky, awkward rhythm. Watson begins to relax into the song, and into Holmes's touch, when he stumbles over one of the steps, again crushing the detective's foot beneath his own.
"Dash it all, Watson! You truly are rubbish at this."
Watson gives Holmes a surly look before yanking him back into his arms and continuing with the dance, determined to prove he isn't a total clod. He is surprised to find Holmes is relatively adept at following his lead around the small room, his movements economical as always, but also graceful, almost feminine.
Holmes pulls their clasped hands toward him, resting the back of Watson's hand lightly against his chest. At the same time, he slides his other hand behind the doctor's neck, bringing Watson's face mere inches from his own.
Startled by the sudden proximity, Watson's arm tightens around Holmes's waist, which only serves to bring them nearer to one another. His heart speeds up, pounding erratically in his chest, and he has a moment of panic, knowing the other man has likely already noticed the arrhythmia.
When he chances a look at the other man, he finds that his face is turned away, and he's biting down hard on his lower lip. Watson raises their joined hands, reaching his thumb out to smooth it gently over the wounded lip. Holmes looks at him for a long, silent moment as they continue dancing, then presses his mouth briefly against the back of Watson's hand in surprising intimation of a kiss.
The music reaches a crescendo in the background, and without warning, Holmes throws himself backward, pulling Watson into a low dip. They hover there, the doctor bent over the detective, both breathing raggedly, staring at one another glassy-eyed.
Finally, Watson breaks the spell, pulling Holmes gently upright and stepping back with a polite cough.
"Well, that was most... enlightening," Holmes says, swallowing hard.
"Yes, it was," Watson says in a tremulous voice. Then he takes pause, leveling a confused look at the other man. "It was?"
"Certainly," Holmes says, suddenly all business. His eyes clear as he begins rummaging in his pockets, pulling out a handful of small objects and displaying them for the doctor to see.
"My pocket watch!" he exclaims, seeing the small golden bauble gleaming in Holmes's hand. He'd slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown before entering the parlor, as he did most mornings. "And my reading glasses! Why, they were tucked into my inside pocket. However did you manage to get to them?"
Holmes smiles triumphantly. "It is but the work of a moment for a skilled pick-pocket," he says, handing the items back to the doctor. "Our dance allowed me to get close enough to you to take them without you even noticing."
"Miss Pettifoot," Watson breathes, after a moment. "She must be the thief -- she was dancing with Lord Boyle most of the evening."
"Ah, you would think that, would you not?" Holmes says, returning to his chair and sitting down with a flourish. "However, I now believe that is not the case."
"Why ever not?" Watson asks, taking his own seat and looking curiously at his friend.
"Because our dance raises an interesting new point I had not originally considered, but now seems so blatantly obvious as to be almost embarassing."
And indeed, as Watson watches, the detective's face begins to color with the slightest tinge of pink.
"My dear friend," he goes on, clearing his throat and fidgeting awkwardly in his chair, "it would appear that a couple is not likely to dance so closely or for such a length of time without there being some... feeling... between them." Holmes hesitates, licking his lips, while Watson feels his own face going hot.
"I would propose," he continues, "that Lord Boyle and Miss Pettifoot were likely involved in some sort of romantic endeavor."
"But then proves she is the guilty party, does it not?" Watson asks. "'A woman scorned,' and all that?"
"Ah yes, but if the relationship is continuing, the woman scorned is not Miss Pettifoot, it is Lady Boyle."
Watson frowns, his momentary embarrassment forgotten as he tries to puzzle out the mystery. "But why would Lady Boyle wish to steal her own husband's belongings?"
"Yes, old man, a valid question. You see, I noticed something odd when I questioned Lord Boyle's valet and Lady Boyle, only I didn't make the connection until this very moment. The valet is a Frenchman; he's been in London a year at most. There was something shifty about the chap which made me suspect he had committed the robbery, in collusion with Miss Pettifoot, but now I believe I was wrong. When I questioned Lady Boyle about the events of that night, she said something very interesting."
When Holmes failed to elaborate, Watson leaned eagerly over the arm of chair. "Well? What did she say?"
"She said her husband had a laissez-faire attitude about his possessions." Holmes leans back, crossing his arms over his chest in a satisfied gesture.
Watson shakes his head. "I fail to follow your logic."
"That is to be expected," Holmes says, though he doesn't look disappointed. "As you know, my good man, laissez-faire is a French term."
"Of course."
"But Lady Boyle has never been to France, nor was she ever tutored in the French language. For her to use such a phrase so casually, she must have a close relationship with a native speaker."
"The valet," Watson says, understanding dawning.
"Precisely. I would wager that he and Lady Boyle were and are involved in an affair. Lady Boyle was, naturally, the one to orchestrate the robbery, instructing the valet to take Lord Boyle's jacket to his room and remove his belongings, then plant the evidence on the unsuspecting Miss Pettifoot. In fact, would her residence to be searched at the very moment, I have no doubt the missing items would be discovered."
"But why implicate Miss Pettifoot?" Watson asks, struggling to keep up with the quick mind sharing the room with him.
"Why, to shame and discredit Lord Boyle, of course. It would be easy enough for the valet to testify that he'd overheard Miss Pettifoot in a rage against Lord Boyle, vowing revenge on her lover. And once officers found the evidence in her possession, the allegations of their relationship would corroborated. Lord Boyle's reputation would be ruined, and no judge would refuse to grant Lady Boyle a speedy divorce, leaving her free to marry her Frenchman."
"By God," Watson murmurs, "brilliant, as usual."
"Yes, it rather is," Holmes says, looking pleased. "Pity it took so short a time to solve; now I've nothing else to keep me occupied."
Watson shakes his head, bemused and befuddled by the man he's known so long. He watches as Holmes gets up and crosses to the highboy, taking up a decanter of dark amber liquid and dispensing a generous amount into two glasses.
"A toast," he says, moving back to the center of the room and handing Watson a glass. "In honor of Lord and Lady Boyle."
Watson smiles sardonically and pulls himself to his feet, facing the detective. "May they both find what they're looking for, and what they deserve," he says.
Holmes returns the smile and holds out his glass, but something about the set of his shoulders indicates to Watson he's no longer joking. "All we wish, and all we want," Holmes says, clinking his snifter delicately against his companion's and raising hooded eyes.
"Ch-cheers," Watson replies, meeting the other's gaze for a brief moment before hastily looking away. The men sip from their drinks in silence, still standing awkwardly facing one another in front of the now-dying fire.
"Well," Watson says finally, shuffling from foot to foot. "What now?"
Holmes turns, putting down his glass. It appears to Watson that the other man takes a deep, uneven breath before turning back to him, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Watson watches, pulse quickening, as the detective holds out a slim, tobacco-stained hand.
"Shall we dance?"
A/N: I fact-checked the Gramophone bit. It was invented in 1887, several years before this takes place. I doubt either Holmes or Watson would have made such an extravagant purchase, which is why I decided it should be a payment from a wealthy client with an interest in music. Also, the term laissez-faire as we know it today was coined earlier in the century, so it likely wouldn't have been as common-knowledge as it is now. Thanks for reading – reviews are love!