A/N: Sorry for the long notes, I'm doing this so I don't have to interrupt other chapters later more than strictly necessary. Please read.
Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed up to this point. I am glad to hear that some liked what I've done so far. This little piece here was actually meant as a one-shot SH bit of fluff that grew out of control. I believe it will fit in here as a sort of interlude that maybe addresses a couple of issues as a continuation of the last two pieces. But, both characters needing a break from the self-inflicted mental trauma running rampant through this story, I can't promise what will happen.
And the original piece of fluff was inspired by Holmes' decorating of his chemistry set in the Grenada episode "The Cardboard Box". In Grenada, it happened many years after "The Final Problem". In the canon, the same story is accepted to have taken place in August of 1889. My brain took the images and combined them with the canon timeline in a very curious way. Aside from BLUE, there are no other ACD stories addressing the holidays that I could recall. How much to we really know about how the two of them spent their Christmas? Therefore, there was plenty of room for this to have fit into the 1894 holiday season. However, if I am wrong in this assumption and my memory is failing, please feel free to smack me upside the head with a canon reference.
Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to go ahead and offer up my OOC warning here. What I thought was a pretty much pre-written chunk of story is currently re-writing itself to better fit the theme of the overall mess I've started.
By the way, after this third clue in the form of the definition I've posted here, does anyone want to venture a guess as to what the theme is for these five parts? Additional Hint: they're not in the "traditional" order usually presented.
de·pres·sion
1. Severe despondency and dejection, accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.
1. A condition of mental disturbance, typically with lack of energy and difficulty in maintaining concentration or interest in life.
Prologue
Watson laughed.
Holmes fumed.
Lestrade choked.
Mrs. Hudson glared.
The standoff continued.
Watson stifled his laughter.
Holmes' face went red to his hairline.
Lestrade roared with open laughter.
Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, waiting patiently.
"Oh very well then!" Holmes snapped. After a deep breath, he growled out, "I apologize for the misuse of your kitchen, Mrs. Hudson."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. As I'm sure you can deduce, you gentlemen are on your own for the night. Good evening."
With that, the formidable woman Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes knew as a landlady—and sometimes more—exited the room, still liberally coated in various debris from her kitchen. Holmes cloaked in what dignity he had left, turned to face the other two occupants of the room. Watson's mustache bristled as his lips still twitched with barely concealed mirth, while Lestrade still chuckled behind his hand. Catching sight of the gleam in Watson's eyes, Holmes could no longer contain his own mirth. His embarrassment aside, it really was quite funny.
Before long the three of them were left barely standing as they leaned on one another laughing uproariously. Watson carefully managed to maneuver the other two toward seats before they all found themselves on the floor. Though it made his still-healing ribs ache to laugh so very deeply, he could not help but relish the moment. As he all but collapsed into a chair himself, holding his ribs gently with one arm, he waved off Holmes' concern and Lestrade's calculating glance. Finally they all took several deep breaths in an attempt to regain some sense of self-control.
"Baking soda."
"Vinegar."
Lestrade's statement made in confused wonder followed by Holmes declaration as if in blame soon had all three of them roaring with laughter again. It was several minutes later that they finally managed to stop more out of exhaustion than any sort of will-power. Watson, wiping the last tears from the corner of his eyes, happily reached for the pot of tea Mrs. Hudson had kindly left.
"Well, it would seem you gentlemen have dinner arrangements to make, so I will take my leave. Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Watson."
Watson changed direction and walked Lestrade out. Turning back toward the fire, he spied Holmes just filling his pipe. Though he couldn't tell if Holmes' face was still pink from the laughter, or freshly painted with the knowledge of what was about to come next. Watson decided to take pity on him.
"Simpson's?"
Holmes ducked his head once, still focusing entirely on his pipe as if refusing to meet his eyes.
"Alright, Holmes?" Watson queried gently, not quite sure what kind of response he was likely to get with his friend so obviously discomfited.
Lighting his pipe to his satisfaction, Holmes threw the match into the grate testily. "How was I supposed to know she was planning on pickling?! And in those jars?! Afterall, it was only a residue."
To this, Watson could only snort as he again tried to stifle some rather undignified giggles. Holmes glared for a moment, before sitting back more comfortably in his chair beside the fire. Deciding to join him, Watson prepared himself a cup of tea and reclined with a satisfied groan into his own chair. As usual, Watson pretended not to notice as Holmes eyed him critically and they both said nothing for a few minutes, soaking up the warmth and quiet of their surroundings.
In the four weeks Watson gave himself to complete his recovery from the beating he had received at the hands of a small band of ruffians on the east side of London, the two had talked about many things. Though neither really broached the subjects that had brought them to such a juncture, their conversations had definitely taken on a more open feel. Both guarded their own secrets; but that was nothing new for either of them. Watson's health continued to improve even beyond what Holmes had expected. A new sense of life and purpose filled the man, though Holmes had yet to take him back out on another case.
Of course, Holmes had been furious for the better part of a day when he woke to find Watson had simply disappeared before the sun had even risen. At the time he wasn't sure if he was more angry with himself for letting it happen, or Watson for not saying anything before his morning venture. When the man had returned safe, but slightly sore and limping shortly after lunch time, their conversation had rivaled the sitting room fire for the heat. The knock on the door that interrupted them had Watson bounding from the sitting room smiling. Holmes didn't have to wait long for his brain to accumulate enough data to draw a conclusion. It took only a matter of minutes for Watson to return cheerfully toting his bag as he bid Holmes a good day.
Minutes later, Holmes carefully followed Watson and his young client down the crowded streets. His disguise slap-dash at best meant he had to be more careful than usual not to be spotted. After what felt like miles of walking, Watson was led into a rather shabby building. He decided the best vantage to watch the unknown inhabitants of this dwelling was from a shadowy nook across the street. He paid off the beggar and settled into that former spot huddling out of the chilly wind. Holmes barely had enough time to realize he should have found a way of concealing a warmer coat beneath the costume before the same little boy he had seen leading Watson reappeared in the doorway. It had taken the child all of a few seconds to make a beeline straight for the detective.
"Dr. Watson said to tell you he should be back in time for dinner and you should have plenty of time to get a coat."
This statement delivered with absolute childish innocence left Holmes staring.
"Is there a return message, sir?" the child asked politely.
Holmes, still in a fit of temper, bit back the first reply that came to mind. "Please tell Dr. Watson thank you, but I must decline."
With that, the child was off like a shot back to the warmth of his humble abode. With mixed amusement and ire, Holmes considered his current position. It did not entirely surprise him that this newer, more alert Watson had spotted him so easily. He had not had much time to prepare his costume. Obviously Watson was back to building something of an informal medical practice, as he had yet to make any mention of acquiring a new office. Only days ago he had been shuffling about the sitting room doing his best to hide the lingering pain from his flatmate!
Holmes scowled darkly wondering why it was his friend had not confided in him. He went back to eyeing the front of the house ignoring his growing discomfort. He let these thoughts chase themselves around his head for hours as he waited for Watson to reappear in the doorway. To his surprise, it was shortly before sunset when he was startled by a limping step directly in his line of sight as Watson approached from the left.
"Did you make any interesting deductions about the Simmons family?" Watson asked a little too innocently.
The mischievous glint in his friend's green eyes effectively doused the surprised irritation. With a grateful sigh, Holmes straightened from his cramped position on the cold sidewalk.
"I believe Mrs. Hudson was planning on some fine pheasant this evening," Watson commented blithely.
Holmes grunted something unintelligible before stating, "Back door."
Watson nodded. "And?"
"At least three patients, counting the one you saw here."
"Good. I was beginning to get the impression your skills were rusting, sitting around the house all day with nothing to do."
Holmes barked a laugh. "Touche, old chap. Very well, then. I concede the victory to you."
"Wise decision," Watson returned with a grin. "I did not relish the idea of one or both of us chased out of the house by Mrs. Hudson."
"We have been rather trying on her of late," Holmes agreed.
Holmes had been refusing cases for some time, justifying this by using Watson as an excuse. This had tried on Watson's patience as the man continued to act as if Watson was needing a keeper. Watson, also suffering from a lack of activity, had tried to do what he could to occupy himself and convince Holmes it was time to start taking cases again. When all his combined efforts failed, he opted out of the argument he knew would happen by devising his own plans when he thought the detective wasn't looking. Now having taken to making some rounds, obviously without incident or undue strain to his health, the point had been clearly proven.
And with that, the matter was settled...mostly. It quickly became something of a game between the two. During the next couple of weeks, Holmes found himself flooded with a string of cases that involved little more than some thought and an occasional sharing of ideas with Watson. This not being nearly enough for him, he took to following Watson. Watson, knowing that this was more for fun and diversion for his friend than any sense of concern, did his level best to evade the detective and leave him deducing for himself over dinner where Watson had been through the day.
For his part, Watson could not fathom what had changed in the detective. Despite weeks of little or nothing to do, Holmes had yet to fall into another one of his black moods. His humor had improved greatly, as had Watson's own. The only interruption to their routine had happened early on in Watson's recovery when Holmes finally confessed to having read the journal. Watson's initial reaction of mortification that left him red in the face, mistakenly led Holmes to retreating to his own room. In Watson's mind he wondered if he could ever face the man again. Little did he know the detective had felt very much the same himself over what he thought had been a betrayal.
Watson, knowing why Holmes had done so, felt no sense of betrayal or loss of trust in his friend. As usual, it was up to Watson to break the stalemate. He refused to let his own humiliation stand between them at this point. Summoning his courage, he knocked on Holmes' door. Silently he handed over the sketches he had made of autumn scenes while idly doodling. He met Holmes' eyes with determination before he turned back to the fire and tossed the remaining parts of the mostly unused journal into the flames. Calmly he resumed his seat. He took some pride in the fact that his hands remained steady as he waited for Holmes' decision.
His curiosity winning out, Holmes came around Watson's chair and resumed his own seat. For several seconds the two eyed each other wondering where to even begin. Obviously, Watson had left the next move up to Holmes. Glancing down at the sketches he still held delicately in his one hand, Holmes racked his brain.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally blurted.
Appreciating his friend's discomfort, Watson leaped on the opportunity the question's vagueness had left him. "It was a passing hobby, nothing more."
For a moment Holmes blinked as this diverted answer gave him nothing he had been seeking. However, he was willing to let Watson speak in his own time, and was more than happy to get this much. "Quite detailed for just a hobby. May I ask how long you have known of such a talent?"
This was high praise indeed coming from Holmes, with his family's background in art. Watson could not help the grin that followed this compliment. The two entered into a discussion from there that left Holmes gaping at how little the man knew technically in various forms of art—even his own! But this made the sketches the man did all the more amazing to him as it had obviously come so naturally, rather than through any professional study or instruction. Unlike the phoenix, the spirits in the the journal remained among the ashes never to return.