Day Four: Ceremony - prompt by Domina Temporis

"Ceremony. When we`ve lost that, we`ve lost everything, and we are wandering in the dark, like chickens or lambs, waiting for the eagles."

(Rick Bass, The Sky, The Stars, The Wilderness)

The taller man staggers backwards, crashing into the glass cabinet, such is the force of the blow. Crockery shakes and clatters, clinking dangerously against glassware as the whole edifice trembles. He steadies himself as his smaller, stockier assailant advances. The look in his eye exhibits a resolute and unswerving purpose which does not point towards a peaceful conclusion.

Rough, calloused hands push hard against a throat so delicate and exposed; brows drawn down, a hard line of a mouth, pressing against those shark like teeth – there is no further retreat for him, and no luxury of oxygen to expand his failing lungs. No speech, no sound, just his own heartbeat in his own head – faltering, hitching, slowing. The hands tighten again – a tiny increment about his neck, and the darkness is calm, soothing, welcoming …

X

Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes and instantly recognises the sounds that have woken him. The creak on the stair, the opening door, the comforting clatter of china and silverware, the murmur of voices. He glances at his pocket watch on his nightstand – almost seven, and a comfort that the ritual of the morning had already begun. The morning is cool; the maid would have been up laying fires in 221 Baker Street since six, but this December had been particularly inclement, and the building needed time to warm through. He had created an algorithm to measure and observe the varied heating times of the house, depending on such variables as outside temperature and Mrs Hudson`s forever changing brand of coal, but results had, so far, proved inconclusive. More data was needed, since he was obviously unable to make bricks without clay.

Holmes wrapped himself in his red dressing gown (by far his warmest, and in no way `festive`, as John Watson was so pleased to observe, the previous morning) and entered the sitting room.

"Tea, Holmes?"

"Naturally, Watson."

"Darjeeling or Lapsang Souchong?"

Holmes sits at the table, immediately reaching for the newspaper held out by Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. What do your instincts tell you, Watson, as to my choice of leaf?"

"Always the Darjeeling before eleven, as you tell me most mornings."

"And yet, here you are, requiring yet more affirmation."

"Which you are more than happy to give."

The sounds of tea pouring, the clink of stirring; pot, cup, saucer, spoon – a ballet of beverage making in Baker Street.

"Good morning, Watson."

"Good morning, Holmes."

Rustling of newspapers take precedence over the next few minutes, as the girl finishes laying the fire in the grate ("another new coal merchant, Mrs Hudson? Whatever happened to brand loyalty?") and Martha Hudson serves porridge – sugar for John Watson, and salt for Sherlock Holmes. Such were their predilections, and she knew better than to question, or extrapolate new choices from them.

Then, as clockwork, both men fold and place their papers to one side (after Holmes has derided the lack of ingenuity currently displayed by the criminal classes) and address their porridge without further speech.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," he comments, after bowls are pushed away and cleared and replaced with eggs and bacon (two rashers each, and a side serving of black pudding on Wednesdays, after the butcher`s boy has called).

"So you like to tell me," smiles the good doctor, as is his wont.

Gentle chink-chink of knives, forks and fine Royal Doulton china, until plates are cleared and Watson rises to attend to the fire.

"Half past seven," comments Holmes, addressing his companion from the region of the wall thermometer, "and still three degrees lower than the same time yesterday … I must speak to Mrs Hudson about Jane – "

"Hardly the girl`s fault, Holmes – and what are three degrees, after all?"

The only consulting detective in the world frowns at his friend, but it is only half-hearted.

"And you a doctor," he says.

Letters arrive within the next five minutes – Billy the Page is so frequently rewarded by Sherlock Holmes, that his loyalty and time-keeping is unassailable. Watson has lost count of the times his flat-mate has lambasted the unreliability of communication in their city – how many times had a man`s life depended on the telegram arriving on time, or the parcel being sent to the correct address? Such regular complaining he now secretly dubbed `Holmes`s morning cavil`- but perhaps some things were better not shared.

"Dull … tedious … derivative … child`s play – oh dear, Watson, it seems we are doomed to another day of retrieving lead pencils and comforting thwarted lovers!"

And John Watson shakes his head, as he always does, and suggests a morning pipe, as they always do.

Almost eight o`clock, and Sherlock Holmes is a flurry of red (not festive) dressing gown – rootling through old newspapers, the previous day`s post and a dozen or so files containing clippings and collations of data.

"Mrs Hudson, you have clearly been tidying up!"

"Every day, Mr Holmes, I tell you I wouldn't go near your things – the very idea!" And John Watson observes, and he does deduce, and he sensibly keeps his thoughts on his companion`s filing systems to himself. He had learnt much from his days living with Sherlock Holmes.

Just as clockwork, then, the day is no older than half past eight when Holmes stops his searching/complaining/smoking and stands. As ever, Watson takes his cue and settles away his pipe and paper for another time. Both repair to their rooms and replace dressing gowns with jackets, for they know that the time is nigh –

The hurried footsteps, growing louder along the street, the pause on the stoop, the hesitation before the bell is pulled, the weak retort, followed by a firmer, more resolute pull –

A visitor.

A client.

And Mrs Hudson will appear (as she does) at the doorway, with perhaps a card, or a badge and an announcement of a very familiar kind:

"There`s a gentleman at the door, Mr Holmes – there`s been a brutal murder and he needs your help."

And Sherlock Holmes is utterly immune to her customary `tut` of disapproval at his gleeful expression as she is sent downstairs to show up aforementioned unfortunate gentleman.

"A murder! Oh, Watson, the day is looking up! How I abhor the dull routine of existence. I so crave the mental stimulation!"

And Dr John Watson smiles internally, for he knows the value of their `dull routine`, their morning ritual, their ceremony; for what good is a constant burning flame of excitement without the relief of the calming darkness? The proper pleasure of the ritual allows the drama to shine.

A/N: I am, sadly, late to the party, but Hades has kindly let me join in. (Thanks to Ennui Enigma and Mrs Pencil for the encouragement). This is my first attempt, so I truly hope it makes sense and has some bearing to the prompt.

Thanks.

Emma