In honor of the approaching holiday season, here's an old, whimsical Fanfic of mine that I found the other day. It's sort of based on the original Arthur Conan Doyle series with a bit of inspiration from the TV series. Turns out I wrote it back in 2012 and never published it. As I work on my next Sherlock fanfic in the eager anticipation of Sherlock Season 4, please enjoy this gem(:
From the desk of John Watson, M.D.
Blog Dated 2 Dec 2012
Up until now, I've shared with you, my faithful readers, the fantastic and bizarre adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A pink luggage. A wedding band. Orange pips. But, it's recently come to my attention that you know nothing about Holmes' everyday escapades. His odd rituals. His preferences. His likes and dislikes. Because, even a hero has days off.
As Christmas nears us and the world begins stringing their trees with the well-wishes of the season, I thought it'd be the perfect opportunity to brief my faithful readers on another oddity of Holmes'. You're probably asking yourself: What does Sherlock Holmes do for the holidays?
Well, I can tell you this: his holiday habits aren't exactly on the kosher side.
But, then again, does Sherlock Holmes have a kosher bone in his body?
Well, on Christmas, Holmes is strange. Stranger than normal, that is.
Don't get me wrong, it's nothing like Halloween. Halloween—well, let's just say I ruined that holiday for him. He hates the day now. Despises it. But, Christmas. He hates that one all on his own. Actually, I don't know if hate is the right word.
Because, on Christmas Day-you might be startled to hear it-Holmes is a ghost of a man. Nonexistent. A corpse.
He lounges away in his armchair, eyes sunken into deep caverns in his sallow, drawn face. His mouth, eyelids, features are weighed down and droopy. He sits, distantly, with his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to reveal an abnormal—and, rather unearthly—number of nicotine patches.
In one hand, he's usually furnished a tall glass of some mysterious drink (which I usually later identify as dishwashing soap or Windex or some other chemical shaken with gin). Sometimes, I'll catch him with a cigarette in the other hand. Sometimes, he scrapes away mindlessly on his violin. His robe is undone, disheveled. His feet are curled up in an almost fetal position, pulled up into the armchair. Every year, I've insisted on visiting him at his Baker Street residence, if only for an hour, to wish him the tidings of the season; and, every year, I've found him in this same odd, desolate state.
On these occasions, I've come to notice, most importantly, his distant stare. It isn't the quiet thoughtfulness he harnesses when in the midst of studying a case, but more vacant. Always, he turns his body to face the window, staring out into the snow.
But, to this day, I can never tell what he's watching. The passing cars; or the children, laughing and towing their little sleds behind them; or, maybe it's the couples, nuzzling and holding hands. Maybe he doesn't watch anything at all. Maybe he's thinking; the kind of self-reflective, often destructive thinking that accompanies regret or reminiscing. On slow days at the hospital, like today, I've found myself wondering what it is that troubles him; because, it's obvious by his demeanor that Christmas strikes a dissonant chord with him (And, if you've ever heard him play the violin, you'd know Holmes is the king of dissonant chords).
When my wife and I decorate the tree and turn up the holiday radio, I find myself wondering about my friend often, and his peculiar habits. And, he keeps me guessing. Truthfully, around the holiday season, I am convinced that Sherlock Holmes is depressed; he exhibits what I am sure are the symptoms and habits of a man in depression. But, not that I would know—that isn't my area of medical expertise. Either he's depressed, or suicidal. It's one of the two, I am sure. Not that either would surprise me, considering my friend's eccentric character.
Or, maybe all of those bottles of hard-liquor-and-toilet-bowl-cleaner "mixers" have finally gotten to his head. And those nicotine patches. He wears those bloody things up his arms like coat sleeves.
But, this year, I'm determined to figure it out. For sure. This time, I've got a mystery of my own. A holiday mystery. And this time I'm playing London's finest consulting detective.
From the desk of John Watson, M.D.
Blog Dated 8 Dec 2012
I decided that, to initiate phase one, I needed to break into 221B Baker Street.
Okay, I admit it: talking about breaking into people's houses on the World Wide Web isn't necessarily the best thing to do. Unless that psycho is a hardened criminal. (But, you know I'm not a criminal, right? I mean, shooting a guy in the war doesn't make me a terrorist. Right?)
That's why I've never been much of a writer; I always get off topic. I figure the whole doctor thing is a good day job.
Anyway, like I was saying. Break into 221B Baker Street. The thing happened yesterday night.
And, here's how it went:
First of all, I knew I needed a distraction. Holmes' sense of—well, everything—is so acute, I knew I couldn't just climb in through a window or sneak through the door. He'd see me, or hear me, or smell me. And, the Santa Claus route was out of the question, since Holmes is prone to burning highly flammable, toxic chemicals in the chimney (when I lived with him, he'd started four different house fires that way. Our landlord had contemplated filing a restraining order). That's why the distraction was imperative.
Naturally, I called up one of my patients, who works for London's Surrey Herald.
I arrived early in the morning, and was greeted by a bright-eyed Holmes. It was a wonder how he managed to be this alert before nine o' clock.
He invited me in. I stepped inside, looked over Holmes's shoulder. There were eggs and toast set upon the table, half eaten and propped up alongside the morning paper. The untouched morning paper.
"I'm glad you finally saw it my way, Watson," was how he welcomed me. Then, he beckoned me into the kitchen.
Curiously, like an obedient dog, I followed him to the kitchen table. "Saw what your way, Sherlock?" I genuinely wasn't sure what he was talking about.
"The case, Watson. I requested your medical expertise. You'll come by the crime scene tomorrow."
"No, Sherlock, actually, that's not why I'm here. I actually just came by to get some things," I lied, nearly stuttered. I'm such a horrible liar. "I left a box of things, I think, when I moved out." I'd only been married last week. It'd taken me less than two days to move everything out (my wife and I had taken up residence at 123 Baker Street, just up the road); but I'd made at least four trips back to 221B to pick up things I'd forgotten. Or things that Sherlock had taken and hidden. Like my laptop. Or my electric razor (I let him keep that one).
He seemed rather disheartened. "Alright, then-"
Stick to the plan, John, I told myself. Get him out of here.
Then, quickly, utterly too clumsily, I shoved the morning paper towards him. "Sh-Sherlock, have you seen today's paper?" I tried to play it cool, but it was no use; surely, with his uncanny sense of intuition, he'd picked up on my discomfort. He probably knew I was lying, by now.
But, oddly enough, I realized, he was too busy with the paper to notice. He glanced across the front page, gasped.
My evil plan was working.
Until Sherlock smiled.
"'Unsolved Murder Baffles Police,'" he read cheerily. He was a child who'd just been offered a huge lollipop. "Watson, do you know what this means?" That hadn't been in the plan.
"No," I said quickly, almost stammering. I thrust the paper toward him again, jabbed a finger at another headline. "But, did you see that one? Carolers, Sherlock." That had been the plan. I'd scare him away. I figured that, if Sherlock hated Christmas, he'd dread carolers dive-bombing his door. He wouldn't want to be attacked by the choral weapons division, so he'd rush out of house. He'd go somewhere, anywhere, to get away. And, that would leave me here to search for clues.
But, it was an odd thing. Upon seeing this article, he just laughed, crossed his arms across his chest. "Carolers? Melophobic much, Watson?"
"Excuse me?" I don't understand half the words he uses.
Not to worry, my friend. Singing never hurt anyone."
Oh. He'd thought I was afraid? "Wait, Sherlock," I protested. "I'm not—"
He finished his toast, stood up, pushed in his chair before I could defend myself.
"Well, you'd better grab your things quickly, Watson. Because, it looks like those carolers are going to be down Baker Street in ten minutes," he said. What he didn't know was that I'd completely made it up; there weren't any real carolers scheduled to come around today.
"Wh-where are you going, Sherlock?" I stammered. I was stupefied.
He took his trench coat down from a hook. "To check out that case, of course." He jabbed a finger at the Harold from across the room. "Don't you know me at all, Watson? If London's insolent police force can't crack a lousy murder, it's obviously my place to intervene."
"O-okay."
Then, the door closed behind him and I could hear his footsteps on the stairs.
I let out an involuntary sigh of relief.
It'd worked. It'd really worked! Not how I'd planned it, that was for sure. I'd intended to scare Sherlock, not get him excited. But, either way he was out of the house. And, he hadn't suspected a thing. It'd been easy.
Suddenly, the door creaked back open. Just a crack. But it was enough to make me jump. Hold my breath. He'd caught me. He knew I was lying.
But, all he said was:
"You know, Watson, I've never met a man so afraid of music. It's really a peculiar phobia. I always wondered why you dreaded my violin."
And he was gone. Just like that.
And, I was left to investigate the dark corners and crevices of 221B Baker Street.
From the desk of John Watson, M.D.
Blog Dated 8 Dec 2012
(LATER)
I watched Sherlock through the blinds, furtively, until I was sure I regarded him making off in a taxi. Then, I got to work searching the place.
Of course, the hunt was a lot harder than I'd imagined. And a lot less glamorous.
You wouldn't believe the grand heaps of deplorable rubbish Sherlock keeps in his closet. His closet was one of the only places I'd never raided during my two-year stay at Baker Street…and, for good reason. Today, I got the pleasure of picking through it all.
When you open the door, the lot comes tumbling out, nearly crushing you alive: around twenty shoe boxes, a bag of rat food, two hockey sticks, an old car stereo, an Indian rug, knitting needles, a bag of plastic army men, some unused infant diapers, a few dozen broken beakers and test tubes, a box of chocolate dated February 1971, an amateur's guide to severing limbs, a diagram of frog intestines, an 18-century rifle that wouldn't shoot, various bottles of liquid nitrogen and illegal poisons. But nothing of value. Nothing that would give me any sort of clues as to why Sherlock hated Christmas. No Christmas memorabilia. No hints to his hidden past.
So, since I hadn't turned up anything at the surface, I decided I'd have to tackle the enormous mound. With my bare hands. I grimaced, studying the pile from several different angles. There had to be another option. Right?
Wrong. I stuck my hand in without another thought. Into a disgraceful world only pawn-shoppers and hobos might call paradise.
And, then I wished I hadn't. There was a smell. I had to hold my breath to keep from inhaling the dreadful stench. And, to keep from heaving up my breakfast. What was that awful smell? Had it been there all along? Or had I just missed it when I first opened the closet? Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe I did have, and I quote, "subpar, rodent-grade senses of observation. Except worse." He is always so complementary of me.
Was it some kind of medicine? Sherlock liked mixing antibiotics with alcohol on a daily basis (he drank that instead of water). No. I'm a doctor and could easily rule those out.
Some sort of chemical? Rubbing alcohol? Formaldehyde? Bathroom cleaner? No, the odor was more pungent.
A drug? Marijuana? Cocaine? Or was it caffeine? Niccotine? Heck, I had no idea. Sherlock used every known pleasure drug on Earth. Marijuana alone, he smoked some fifty species.
No, the scent was…sweet?
My hand sunk into something goopy, sticky, and utterly unorthodox. I felt myself involuntarily gag. Did I dare risk finding out what it was, what I'd bathed my fingers in? Honey. Leaking out of a haphazardly-drawn rubbish bag.
Digging down amongst the rubbish, my hands were filthy and sticky with dust, cobwebs, honey, dust, and blood (I'd cut myself several times on the broken glass). But, still, nothing.
Fwoom. Flahpp.
That was when I heard the door downstairs open abruptly and slam shut. I jumped, fumbling with the sticky bag of honey in my hands. He'd returned! And so soon! I scrambled to pick up the items I'd gone through, shoving them clumsily back into the closet. I shoved, pushed. Why wasn't it closing? How had the bloody trash fit in there in the first place?
"Watson."
It was too late. Sherlock was behind me, standing over me with an impish grin spreading across his face. Brow sweaty, eyes wide, and hands filthy, I froze and turned around to face the bastard.
"Sherlock," I gave the door one last halfhearted shove. "Oh, back so soon?"
"You really thought you could fool me?"
"…Yes?"
This time, he let out a long, genuine laugh. "You mean the way I fooled you?"
I finally gave up on the stubborn, overstuffed closet. "What?"
"Oh, John, you really have become more insolent as a married man, haven't you?"
I heaved a sigh. "Sherlock, explain yourself."
"All of this John," he said, gesturing outward. "It's all a guise! Obviously, last holiday you noted my acute emotional turmoil-"
"Ahem, depression-"
"Not depression, John," he snapped. "Don't be ridiculous. Last holiday I was, in one word, a mess. Seeing as today is less than a week before Christmas, it was only natural that your instinctive curiosity beg the question once more. Would the same emotions ensure this year? Well, my dear Watson, I can say the answer, this year is no. Because it was all a ruse."
"A ruse, you say, Sherlock? Hardly. If it was up to me, I'd say you lost someone special. And that the holiday brings back memories."
Holmes laughed again, this time a short, tense laughter. "Rubbish."
I cracked a smile. "C'mon, Sherlock. A doctor knows."
"The doctor rummaging around in bags of honey and baby's diapers? I hardly think so."
"Who was it, Sherlock?" I looked into his eyes this time. An intent gaze he couldn't avoid.
He heaved an exasperated sigh, like a child frustrated to find out that he had to eat his vegetables before desert. A pause.
"Well?" I prompted. My smile grew.
Holmes sighed again. His gaze fell to his feet. "Mosby."
"Mosby, Sherlock?" The corners of my mouth crept up. I laughed instantly.
"Yes, Watson, now stop that."
"Your childhood dog?"
"Yes, now don't go bothering yourself about it, Watson. You've had your laugh. You didn't have to go fumbling around in year-old honey for that, now, did you?"
My laugh drifted and I could feel my brow furrowing. "Year-old? By god, you had honey in there for over a year? Good heavens!"
It was my friend's turn to laugh, my disgust striking in him enjoyment as it always does. I couldn't help giving in to laughter once again.
"That was sort of silly, wasn't it?"
"Oh, outright ridiculous."
I met Holmes' glance once more, watching the corners of his grin. "Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Santa might just be bringing you a dog this year. If you've been a good boy, that is."
He met my gaze and scoffed. "Don't be absurd. I wrote him for a new tobacco pipe."
And two best friends shared another round of laughter.