Chilly Dogs, Brandy Snifters and Afternoon Tea
The whistling of a kettle is one of the happiest sounds in the world, thought John Watson as he padded into the kitchen. There was something viscerally satisfying in the preparing of tea, one that almost rivaled the sipping of it. While more understated than the Chinese Tea Ceremony, the ritual for making and taking tea was an English Art of its own. Whether it was bags or loose leaf, Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe, silver pot or china, there was something in the simple act of boiling water and steeping leaves that had the power to make an Englishman feel good. In control. Right with the world.
All things which John Watson was experiencing at this very moment.
"Tea, Sherlock?" he called into the sitting room. Of the couch, all that was visible was a newspaper and a pair of black slippers.
"Mm. Yes," was the slippers' reply.
"Be a minute."
He turned to look round the cluttered kitchen for cups. A veritable glasswares department adorned the wooden table, with beakers, vials, test tubes and brandy snifters intermingled, each filled with clear liquid. From the heady aromas floating up from the collection, he could identify formaldehyde, ammonia, bleach, sulphuric acid and something that was quite likely the 40-percent vodka purchased from Holmes' vast underground network of homeless and criminal acquaintances. He briefly wondered if the combination of fumes was toxic, and so wandered over to the window by the sink, cracking it open, just in case.
He also made a mental note to use a mug from now on whenever an evening brandy was in order. He had quite liked the gentlemanly feel of sitting by the fire on a chilly night, a snifter full of warm brandy in his hand. They had two snifters between them, and now, with those snifters tucked amongst the other equipment, he would forever link them with formaldehyde, ammonia, bleach or the like. One little indulgence, forever ruined.
It never occurred to him to question the fact that within each of those beakers, vials, test tubes and brandy snifters, a severed finger floated suspended, tip-side down. Several of the fingers were beginning to discolour. Others were still hearty and pink, with little strings of flesh and blood vessels teasing out the top. No, he never thought to question that at all. That was simply life at 221b Baker Street.
He poured the tea into two large chipped mugs. Gathered the sugar bowl, ran a spoon along the inside, just in case he found a thumb or a toe hidden within. With the same casual caution, he put his finger in then dabbed his tongue, again just in case. Crystalline and white were adjectives that could be used for more than just sugar. Satisfied, he turned to the fridge for the milk and yanked open the door.
Next to the carton of milk was a Chihuahua, staring at him with large, glassy eyes.
"Sherlock?" he called, holding the door open a moment.
"Yes?"
"Is that Mrs. Brinkwalter's Chihuahua?"
"Mm. Yes," said the slippers.
"Right. And ah... why is Mrs. Brinkwalter's Chihuahua in the refrigerator, exactly?"
"It annoys me."
The tiny dog shivered, blinked very slowly.
"Well, you probably shouldn't keep it in the refrigerator."
"I was rather hoping you might shoot it."
"How long has it been in there?"
"Let me think," said the slippers. "I went out for some milk this morning – Say, did you notice that I picked up the milk?"
"Yes. Yes I did. It's next to the Chihuahua."
"You're welcome. As I was saying, I went out for some milk and when I came back, the bloody thing tried to bite me, yet again. Do you have any idea how many pairs of trousers that creature has ruined?"
"None whatsoever."
"Four. It was trying for five this morning, so rather than kicking it off as I do every other morning, I simply continued on up the stairs and into the flat. It was the one who decided to hang on, not I."
"Ah," said Watson. "And so you just...put it in the fridge? Just like that?"
"Not without a fight." The paper snapped once. "Besides, it needs to be taught a lesson."
"Well. This should do it then." Watson shook his head and reached in to fetch it. "C'mon, Chico. Let's get you out of there."
The tiny dog snarled and lunged and snapped at his fingers like a pit bull.
He stared at it. It glared at him, baring tiny chattering teeth.
He took the milk and closed the door, rather quietly.
He looked back at the table and sighed, as if seeing the fingers for the first time.
No, he would never use those brandy snifters ever again.
Life on Baker Street.
"Here's your tea," he said, laying the cup on the cluttered coffee table beside the couch. "I'll give Mrs. Hudson a ring. She can come and get the dog sometime. She thinks it's adorable."
"Hmph." The paper snapped again. "And you don't?"
"Me? God no. It barks at all hours of the night. Beastly little creature."
The paper dropped slightly, so that only quick grey eyes were visible. "But you don't think I should keep it in the refrigerator?"
"Well, no. Not really, no."
"And you won't shoot it?"
John grinned. "You can't just go around shooting people's dogs, Sherlock. It's just not done."
Those grey eyes narrowed. "You...are such a puzzle."
"Me?" He laughed now. "Hardly."
"Tell me, John, how many men did you kill in Afghanistan?"
"What?"
"One? Five? Ten? Twenty?"
"Ah..." Watson raised his brows, took a step back. "That's, that's not—"
"More? Fascinating. Utterly and completely fascinating."
"That's not the same, Sherlock. Not the same at all."
"Of course it's not, John. Shooting a man is much, much worse than shooting a Chihuahua. And yet..." He lowered the paper, a smile playing about his face. "And yet, you are so very good at it."
"Sherlock..."
"You shot that cabbie through two plates of window glass. Such distortion could have caused the bullet to swerve and yet, it completely missed me – no mean feat, by the way. You took him out without even knowing the situation."
"You were going to take that pill..."
"Indeed. I was going to take the pill. And yet you shot the cabbie." The smile was wicked now, the eyes glittering and bright, but his voice was calm and droll as if he were discussing the weather. "There was no way you could have known what he was doing. I didn't even know what he was doing until I was with him. But you, you took one look at the situation and... bam..." He made a smooth pistol motion with his fingers. "Lights out, Mr. Cabbie."
The doctor rolled his eyes, folded his arms across his chest.
"And did you hear yourself with the Golem, John? "Let him go," you said, "Let him go or I will kill you." Not, "I will shoot you" or "I will fire." Oh no. Rather "I will kill you." Emphasis on will. It was one killer facing off against another, and you so wanted to win. I could hear it in your voice. Admit it, John, you loved every moment of it."
"Honestly, I don't know how your mind works, Sherlock. What's it like in there?"
Holmes smiled warmly. "Really, John. That gun is an extension of your hand, but more than that, of your will. Of your identity. You are a trained killer. Have been for years."
Watson blinked slowly, clearly not knowing what to say. Holmes continued.
"And yet, you are a doctor. A good one too, I'll wager, although I'm not certain if I'd let you near me with a scalpel. Not with your penchant for blood."
"My penchant for blood?" Watson grinned again, out of his league but amused. In this sport, it was Holmes who was the Olympian. "I'm not the one who puts fingers in snifters or Chihuahuas in fridges."
"Consider them both experiments in metabolism, decomposition and behaviour modification. It is all consistent with my clinical, scientific nature. I am completely consistent and therefore, predictable. But not you. This this is where you, my friend, take the proverbial cake. You... are unpredictable."
"Right."
Holmes frowned. "You truly don't see it?"
"Truly. No."
Holmes waved a long pale hand in the air. "Honestly, John. The shabby jumpers, the ill-fitting jeans, the poorly made shoes..."
"Shabby...?" Watson couldn't help but look down at himself.
"All consistent with this crafted image of a genteel country doctor. And yet, over top of all the sloth, you wear a sniper's jacket. Black wool, pockets and shiny leather patches. Very militaristic, very dangerous. You are playing one side of yourself with the other, John, and you're not certain which side should win. The doctor or the soldier. But the fascinating thing is the fact that you are equally at home with both."
Watson waited patiently and sighed, for it was clear Holmes wasn't done.
"And what is also fascinating is the fact that, as a doctor, your concern for all things living is truly genuine, hence the war. There is no ring of falsehood in your demeanor. Frankly, I would be quite bothered if there were. That sort of complete dichotomy would be psychopathic. I mean it's one thing living with a sociopath, but a psychopath? Well," he shook the paper now, gave it a good snap. "That's another matter entirely."
There was silence in the sitting room for several minutes.
"Are you quite done?" Watson asked finally.
"Will you shoot the dog?"
"Is that what this is about, then?"
"Obviously."
"No, Sherlock. I will not shoot the dog."
Holmes sighed and pulled the paper up, covering his face from view.
Watson sighed and turned back to the kitchen to retrieve his cuppa.
"Don't forget your tea," he called over his shoulder.
"It's cold," grumbled the slippers.
"Rather like the Chihuahua," grumbled the doctor.
In the kitchen, he leaned back against the cupboards, lifting his own cup to his lips. He drank in the hot sweet tea and closed his eyes, feeling it scald his tongue and travel down his throat until even his toes felt warm and cozy. He let his eyes sweep around the clutter of the flat. The fingers in the glassware on the table, the holes in the wall over the couch, the books and papers and files and stopwatches and magnifiying glasses and daggers and laptops and such. There was a genius on the couch and a Chihuahua in the fridge and John Watson realized something that ought to have shocked him but didn't.
He had never been happier in all his life.
He finished his tea with a smile and trudged down the stairs to find Mrs. Hudson.
The End