Many happy returns to my very kind and supportive friend LA. Thank you so very much for your fabulous drawings! I hope that you enjoy my little offering; it is a small token of appreciation. Thank your sister for the marvellous suggestion which prompted me to write at least half of this, my dear.
An Eventful July Day
The morning is bright, pleasant. The sun is shining down as if it were smiling on the world and there is scarcely a cloud in the sky.
I know exactly what I shall wear today. It is quite a new suit - cut from a very light-weight fabric in pale buff - and is to be worn with a straw hat. I wonder whether Lestrade would recognise me in such an outfit. I wonder whether anyone would.
I smirk with amused excitement to myself in the mirror of my washstand as I attend to my toilet - that is, wash and dress. I can hardly wait for Watson to wake and rise. Should I go and knock him up now? What is the time? Just after a quarter to seven. Hum... Perhaps not.
My English setter pricks up his speckled ears as I turn to leave the bedroom, no doubt wondering why I am up so very early. I usually am more inclined to stay in my bed until closer to ten o'clock of a morning than seven or eight, unless a case dictates otherwise, but this morning is a special one.
"Come Briar," I turn to him with a smile and incline my head in a beckoning gesture.
The dog leaps from the foot of my bed and obediently trots into the sitting room just one pace behind me, his tail wagging gaily. I am clearly not the only fellow that is heartened by the beautiful day.
John, our friend the compudroid, is already up. He gives a start as Briar and I enter the room and I take to my chair while the setter seats himself on the hearthrug, having stolen one of Watson's shoes in order to bury his nose in it.
"Good morning Holmes," the robot says while his gaze sweeps over me. "You are up early! Are you feeling quite well?"
Can he not tell by my appearance? Were I feeling ill, I would not have even bothered to get dressed.
"Yes thank you John," I respond pleasantly. "How are you this fine morning?"
"Fine thank you," he chirps. "But I am always fine. I cannot fall ill; I am a robot!"
He can become upset or depressed, however. He can also contract computer viruses and faults. Well, he seems cheerful enough so I am not going to press the matter by better explaining the various meanings or questions within the query.
"What would you like for breakfast?" the fellow asks. "I have kippers, fruit, bacon, eggs, sausages..."
Watson rather likes a kipper for breakfast, while I prefer to have fish for dinner or supper.
"Eggs and bacon please John. And could you ensure that the eggs are soft?"
"Of course Holmes. I know that you prefer them that way. With bread or toast soldiers?"
"Bread. Please."
"And a pot of tea?"
I smile and nod with enthusiasm. Tea is the only way in which to start the day correctly. "Yes please. And a drop for Briar, of course."
The dog wags his tail in agreement. He has become rather partial to milky tea, sweetened with half a spoonful of sugar.
"You spoil that dog Holmes."
Not a bit of it! A spoilt dog would misbehave.
Watson makes his way downstairs when he smells the bacon cooking. He is rather bleary-eyed and is not yet dressed.
"Oh!" he gasps when he sees me. "You are already up and dressed! Have I overslept or is there a case. I thought that my watch said that the time was only seven o'clock."
His watch is correct and the answer is neither of those as it happens. "I have merely risen early."
"Why?" the fellow asks with concern. "Are you feeling unwell?"
Am I truly so very deucedly lazy that everyone would immediately fear for my health if I were to rise before eight o'clock of a morning? "You shall very soon see old fellow. But there is no rush. What would you like for your breakfast?"
"I have purchased some kippers," John informs him cheerfully.
"I should like a kipper then. Please," he requests. "It has been rather a while since I last had one of those."
"Very well Doctor Watson. Is there anything else that either of you would like?"
I shake my head and push aside my near-empty plate. And then I change my mind and ask for "an apple or something".
Watson and I are digesting our breakfast restfully when John announces that he has booked us both an appointment for our quarterly medical exam as per Sir Evan Hargreaves' instructions. No, no, no! Not today of all days! There are a hundred - a thousand - things that I would rather do and still more places that I would prefer to visit.
I wait until Watson has gone off upstairs (without so much as one word of protest, damn him!) to dress and then quickly touch the robot's arm.
"Now look here John," I whisper. "I did have one or two plans made for today. Do you know what the date is?"
"Yes, of course I do Holmes. It is Tuesday, the seventh of July, 2105. "
"Does the date mean anything to you?"
He gazes back at me blankly. "Should it?"
Yes, it damn well should! "Apparently not."
"Well then, what are you talking about?"
I shake my head in resignation. "When is the appointment booked for?"
"At half past nine this morning. Why do you ask? What do you have planned that cannot wait?"
"It is not that it cannot wait. It is just that... Oh! It hardly seems to matter! Watson does not seem to care."
While John does the washing up I creep out to the car and hide a carrier bag under my seat in the back. The weather truly is beautiful! I think I could persuade John to drive us to our favoured seaside town without too much difficulty, after our infernal medical exam. Why we have to be given one when we are both in perfect health I cannot begin to fathom!
I step back inside and join John in the kitchen to pack a bag for Briar. I fill a bottle with water, see that his collapsible dishes are clean, pack some bags (it is a legal requirement for dog owners to pick up their animals' droppings these days) and select some treats - including some lumps of cheese and the bacon rind that I left. I then remember his light-weight, water-proof jacket which has 'Tracker Dog In Training' emblazoned upon it.
"Holmes, the dog will not be going in with you when you visit the clinic," John informs me needlessly. "There is a no dogs allowed policy."
I do know that! "I thought that, as it is such a beautiful day, we might visit the beach in Essex that we told you about, afterward. What do you think?"
"Well... We could. Do you think that you shall want to swim?"
"Hum, yes. I expect so." I like to bathe, as is the Victorian way, and Watson shall quite probably wish to do the same now that he is not troubled by his old wounds.
He nods and goes off to find beach towels and our swim wear.
"You shall want sun cream," he calls over his shoulder as he makes his way upstairs.
"Sun cream?" Watson's voice queries from the landing before he begins to laugh. "What the deuce are we going to be doing at the clinic?"
"It is a surprise!" I yell up at the ceiling before the robot can speak a word. I would rather not give anything away, thank you very much John.
Have I gathered everything that Briar will need? Water, treats, water and food dishes, bags... extending leash... toys... I pack everything into his bag and put that into the back of the car.
As I go back inside, John passes me with laden arms. What is he packing? Well, I do not suppose that it matters. He informs me that Watson is dressed and is just brushing his teeth. I hope that the fellow is dressed for the weather - the sun is already hot and it is quite humid.
Now, what next? Sun cream... Where does John keep the stuff? In the medicine cupboard? That must surely be the home for such things and I pull everything out of it and scatter the various items over the countertop in my search.
"Holmes!" the robot snaps sharply as he enters the kitchen behind me. "What are you doing? Look at the mess that you have made!"
I toss a box of sticking plasters and a bottle of antacid onto the counter to join the rest of the jumble. "Sun cream. You said that we should take some. Where is it?"
"Why do you not ask?" he grumbles as he rearranges the cupboard. "It is in with the seasonal items in the cupboard in the hall - where we keep the umbrellas, sunglasses and so on."
I keep my umbrella on the hat stand; with my Inverness, long black coat and hats actually, which might explain my reason for not knowing of the seasonal items cupboard in the hall. Ah yes. There are indeed dark spectacles in here, together with a jumble of gloves, umbrellas, galoshes and also two pairs of sandals. Does John truly expect Watson and I to wear sandals? Hum. At least they are made of leather, I suppose.
"Are you ready?" John asks, before calling up the stairs to Watson.
I certainly am, but I just want to use the washroom before we get into the car. I do not really have to, but it is a habit that I have developed as I never know when a case may present itself and I would rather not be forced to try to concentrate whilst feeling horribly uncomfortable later. My rejuvenated body is not yet accustomed to waiting for longer than nature intended and I do not wish to embarrass myself - particularly not in front of clients or colleagues.
"Can it wait?" the compudroid asks of me quietly. "I believe that that is one thing that you might well be required to... to give during your examination."
More than likely. I grind my teeth at the mere thought of it. I would much prefer to remain uncomfortable! "I suppose that it can wait if it must."
He touches my arm in a compassionate gesture but says no more. I thank him privately for that.
Watson comes down the stairs wearing a new, light-weight suit in a light ruddy brown. The colour suits him well and I compliment him with a smile.
"Thank you," he acknowledges with a slight nod as he tucks his straw hat beneath his arm to adjust his tie. "You look very fine yourself Holmes."
I straighten his tie for him and pat his shoulder. We then climb inside the car, my companion of old taking to the front passenger seat beside John while Briar sits at my feet in the back.
When we reach the clinic, I am faced with the usual problem - should I take my turn first and get it over with or opt for making as much fuss as possible in the hope that my appointment may be left for another time? I dislike being poked and prodded while I am unwell - I see no reason to endure such treatment when there is nothing what so ever wrong with me!
As it happens, John is ready for me. "If you wish to go anywhere other than directly home when we are finished here Holmes, I suggest that you behave yourself. Why do you not take your turn first, like a good chap?"
'Like' a good chap? What cheek! "Thank you John. I shall."
"Then I shall give Briar a quick walk. Call me when you and Doctor Watson are leaving."
I am not behaving childishly, as anyone who has had a full medical would agree. I fail to understand the point of having my chest checked - I do not smoke, I exercise regularly and John can monitor my heart, lungs and so on anyway and does so (when I am ill). All the same, I submit without a word of complaint and do try not to hiss when the stethoscope is too cold when it is pressed against my skin.
There are less pleasant things to endure, which I would prefer to avoid were it possible. One of these is having my teeth checked and cleaned. At times such as this I wish that I were a big cat or perhaps a crocodile. Play with my mouth then!
"Your teeth are a bit yellow, Mr. Holmes."
I was told as much the last time, by which ever dentist that it was that saw me then. The one with the thinning hair and the thick lower lip. What was his name? Hank or something.
"Do you drink a lot of tea?"
Does it matter? I keep my teeth clean and my breath is fresh. Does it matter that my teeth are a little tea stained? Who is going to notice? A criminal that I am arresting is not likely to worry about how white my teeth are!
"Hum... This gum is a little inflamed at the back here. Been eating sweets, have we? This sort of inflammation usually indicates sucking on sweets to the side of the mouth. Tut tut tut..."
Would you prefer that I leave off the caffeine and sugar and instead partake of tobacco, cocaine and morphine? Everyone needs some pleasures in life or else what is the point?
"Do you drink milk?"
In hot chocolate. Why is he asking these questions when I cannot answer, anyway? I eat cheese, if that counts. And I will have cream with scones or fruit. There! I have quite a lot of dairy things. Butter as well - I only like real butter, as opposed to the horribly processed spreads; that must have a high calcium content.
"I'm going to clean your teeth for you now; you've got a bit of plaque build-up - and we'll see if we can whiten these teeth a bit for you as well."
Why is he so confoundedly cheerful? I do not like having my teeth scraped! I clutch at the sides of the chair of torture while he chats away and happily does his work.
"Don't say much, do you Mr. Holmes?"
Is he insane? How am I supposed to speak while he has his hands halfway down my throat? Besides, I am rather too busy holding my breath.
After what feels like an eternity, I return to the waiting room and throw myself into the chair beside Watson with a growl.
"They are only doing their job Holmes," my companion of old reminds me quietly.
"Yes. I know."
He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed. "Did one of the doctors hurt you?"
"No." I simply did not feel comfortable. Blood tests are all right - I have used my own blood for my own experiments - but some of the things that they expect a fellow to endure is a different matter entirely.
He smiles at me and pats my arm. "It is all over now old fellow. Calm yourself. Well, I suppose that I should take my turn."
"Lucky you."
He again pats my arm and then stands to enter the treatment room with what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of resignation. All the same, he is remarkably calm! I did not expect him to relish an examination any more than I do. And yet, he does hide his displeasure very well...
I run a hand across my eyes and try not to yawn. Bored. I am bored now.
When we finally step out into the sunlight, John and Briar are waiting beside the car. The setter is wriggling with delight on his leash, his tail wagging enthusiastically.
I pet the dog gently and climb into the back with him, settling into my seat with a suppressed yawn. Briar gives a yawn of his own in response and rests his head upon my foot with a sigh. Within moments he is snoring quietly.
Watson glances at me over his shoulder and smiles. "Where are we going?"
I give another yawn. "Wait and see."
"Did you sleep at all last night Holmes? You do look tired!"
I shan't answer that. He would not like it. I was rather excited last night and sleep did not come easily. Well, I might permit myself a siesta when we reach the beach. The sun is very warm... I blink drowsily in the bright, gold light and continue to yawn quietly.
"Oh!"
I crack one eye open and sniff. My vision has become somewhat blue-tinted - I have clearly had my eyes closed whilst facing into the bright sunlight. It is also slightly blurred from sleep. "What is it?"
"Are we going to the Beach that Time Forgot?" Watson asks as he gazes at me over his shoulder, a bright smile lighting his face.
I nod and rub at my eyes. "You did say that we should go there when it is warmer."
"I did indeed. Thank you for remembering Holmes. I am sure that Briar would like a run on the beach."
I shall be glad of an ice or cooling drink. I am becoming rather hot in the back of this car. I expect that our poor dog is as well and I say as much as I fan my face with my straw hat.
Almost instantly, cool (freezing when compared with the heat) air blasts me from above, below and behind and I shiver as I emit a gasp of shock.
"Is that too cold?" John asks with concern. "I hardly want you to catch a summer chill."
"No. No, it just c-came as a shock. I am quite all right."
I feel Briar nuzzle my leg and reach down to pat his head gently. His tongue licks the back of my hand and I hear him grunt quietly at me. I wonder what it is that he wishes to say. There is then a rustling sound and I look down to discover that the cheeky setter has found the bag that I hid beneath my seat.
"Hey! Leave it Briar."
He cocks his head to one side, growling playfully, but does not relinquish the bag. I glare at him and then turn my attention to the view from the window beside me with a sniff and shake of my head. If he is not going to listen I shall pay him no further heed.
Before long we park the car and Briar, who still has the carrier bag clutched in his teeth, and I leap out onto the hot tarmac with enthusiasm. The breeze is almost as cool as the air conditioner in the car and it smells strongly of surf, seaweed and seafood. I take the air appreciatively while the dog sets down the bag in his mouth to sneeze before giving himself a vigorous shake.
"I do hope that Briar has not caught a cold," the robot remarks as he and Watson join us. "I am somewhat lacking in the knowledge of animal care."
Oh John! "Dogs sneeze frequently," I tell him as I retrieve the carrier before the setter finds it interesting again. "Their noses are rather the more sensitive than those of a human being and they cannot very easily blow their noses to remove irritants."
Watson addresses me with a smirk. "That would explain why you can be a somewhat 'sneezy' individual," he remarks, chuckling. "Your sense of smell has always been quite remarkable - even in the days when you would smoke heavily."
I have told him as much before. One sneeze (or even two) from me does not immediately indicate impending illness. Although, being unable to stifle the things often does - which I was not so quick to tell him.
I pull Briar's bag (one of those back-pack types that doubles as a harness) from the boot of the car. It is far too hot to make him wear the thing, so I drape it over my arm.
"We look like a gang of tourists with all of our bags," Watson complains. "Is there nothing that can be left in the car? What have you packed John?"
I take Briar for a quick drink from his water bottle, followed by a stretch of the legs, while our companions sort through the jumble that John has packed. I also wonder what he has brought. I am quite sure that Watson and I did not feel compelled to cart around so much luggage when we went away for a week's holiday!
My companion of old joins us both in the shade of a tree, which stands on a patch of grass near to the car park. With a weary sigh he bends to tickle the dog's ears while I get the little fellow into his 'In Training' jacket.
"He means well," Watson remarks (regarding John) after a moment or two of silence. "But he does pack a lot of things needlessly! Paracetamol and a first aid kit perhaps, but sandals?"
I throw back my head and roar with laughter. I cannot help myself. "I should like to know what the first aid kit is for, as well! What the deuce does he think that we shall be doing?"
"Why did I always carry my bag with me when I was accompanying you?"
I gaze back at him blankly. "Why indeed."
"Because I know you Holmes. Sooner or later, you were bound to need it."
"Pah!"
He chuckles and pats my arm. "John will more than likely tell us that I am no better."
"Hum! More than likely," I retort, giving him a glare from the corner of my eye. "And the paracetamol?"
He shrugs. "In case one of us develops sun stroke, perhaps. But it could simply be force of habit again."
"I find it annoying," I respond. "We came here to enjoy ourselves!"
John approaches us and hands Watson a bag that clearly contains bathing clothes and towels (and more than likely those confounded sandals that he decided to purchase for us).
"I have sorted through everything and left those things that we are least likely to require in the car. Shall we go?"
At last! We set off in the direction of the beach with Briar in the lead, straining hard at his leash as his tail waves with excitement and his jacket makes a crinkling noise with every step that he takes.
When we reach the sand dunes, I give the setter an old boot that we found discarded to sniff. Once he has the scent, I hand it to John to hide.
Upon the robot's return, I release our eager young tracker and away he bounds, tail wagging with enthusiastic pleasure. All at once the dog comes to a sudden halt, every part of him poised and alert. He then springs into action and has returned the object in little to no time.
"Ha ha! Excellent Briar! Excellent!" I reward him with a piece of cheese. "Bravo! Good boy. Come on then, we shall have another go."
When we have ran out of cheese, and Watson and I are both hot and parched, we make our way down to the seafront in search of a cooling drink.
"Are you feeling all right?" John asks of me when I cough.
Of course I am! I have just been given a full examination and, despite the best efforts of those confounded doctors, have received a full bill of health. I smile at the robot and pat his arm, assuring him that I am merely thirsty.
"I am hungry as well," Watson complains. "I know that it is not lunch time yet, but I should like a bite to eat."
I am too hot to think about food. I might want something to eat after a swim, when I have sufficiently cooled down and had ample exercise though. I ask Watson whether he could wait until then.
"Yes, I suppose so," he eyes the carrier bag with curiosity. "What is in that bag Holmes?"
"Nothing of import," I assure him airily as I take him by the arm. "Now, what would you like to drink? I think I shall have a nice cup of tea."
Apparently, that comes as no surprise. We make our way to the Old Bill tea shop and settle ourselves in the coolest, shadiest spot available. The smell of the sea is delightful and I lean back in my seat with a sigh of gratitude.
"Tea for Holmes and water," John gives our dog a glare, "for Briar. What would you like, Doctor Watson?"
"I shall have a cup of tea as well," he responds with a smile as he fans his face with his hat. The walk in the midday sun has left us both rather hot.
The tea shop's resident seagull is left somewhat disappointed by our visit (as is poor Briar, as John was very strict and did not permit him to have so much as a sip of tea), for we have not even had a single biscuit. The bird is watching the many visitors with interest from the roof of the tea shop, occasionally uttering conversational little sounds at us.
When our thirst has been sufficiently quenched, my companion of old and I return our cups to the tea tray and stand slowly. It is very hot - even in the shade - and humid, like a sauna. Which would be wonderful, were it acceptable to walk the streets wearing nothing but a towel.
The beach is quiet. Not deserted, but not busy either. Most people, if they choose to visit a seaside town in this era, visit the ones that have fairgrounds and amusement arcades. I am immensely glad that this is not one of those places - the world needs some peaceful, soothing places for men such as Watson and myself to unwind.
"I have a surprise for you Holmes," Watson announces as he takes me by the hand and guides me in the direction of the brightly-coloured beach huts.
"What? What sort of a surprise?" I ask in confusion as he breaks into a run, dragging me behind him.
"Deduce it!" he laughs. "Come on Holmes! Hurry up."
John overtakes us easily with Briar. He is also laughing. What the deuce is going on? And then he stops at a sea-green hut and unlocks the door with a flourish and bright smile.
I stop and stare at Watson, who in turn stops and gazes back at me. "Do you not like it?"
"Of course! It is wonderful!"
He snorts with suppressed laughter. "You have not seen it yet!"
I smile. "Watson, it is our own quiet little place beside the sea. How could I not like it? But when did you purchase it?"
He shrugs. "I did try to buy it for your birthday, but the negotiations took a little too long."
"Thank you. Thank you very much!" I cannot believe it! I had not considered buying a beach hut, but it is obviously just what we need. Baker Street is frequently invaded these days and, as much as we enjoy being visited by Beth Lestrade and the Irregulars, it is not the quiet haven that it was in the old days.
The hut is quite small - just a kitchenette and seating area, with doors leading off of it. At the front, from which we entered, there is a little terrace upon which three chairs face the sea.
While John seeks out drinking water with which he can fill the kettle for our return, Watson and I change into our swim wear and then take to the sea. Oh! It is cold when compared with the heat of the day and I gasp.
"Are you all right?" my companion asks, sounding somewhat breathless himself.
I nod and offer him a small smile. "Yes. Oh! This is better! The sun was too hot even for me."
He laughs at that. "It must be hot then!"
Yes, very. "I must confess that I feel rather guilty Watson," I tell him as we enjoy the cool of the waters side by side.
"Oh? Why?"
"Well... I have not even wished you a happy birthday yet."
He shrugs. "I had thought that you had forgotten."
"Yes, well, that was what I wanted you to think. At least at first."
"I really would not mind Holmes."
"That does not make me feel any better."
He smiles at me cheerfully. "I am enjoying myself. The weather is perfect, the sea is cool and fresh..."
I return his smile and nod before resuming the swim. The water is very soothing - even more so than a hot bath after a long day.
"I shall race you to the pier," my Boswell challenges me brightly. "If you are not too weary of course."
Weary! Ha! "I accept your challenge. Prepare to be beaten!" With that, I am off, swimming as hard as I can with powerful strokes.
Watson surprises me. I have not seen him swim before - his injuries from Afghanistan had left him quite unable to do so - and I had expected him to be much slower in the water than he is. With a cry of triumph he soon overtakes me and no amount of effort on my part can enable me to catch him.
When I reach the nearest support of the pier, my companion is already holding on to it as he bobs gently on the tide.
"You are out of condition old fellow," he jibes me playfully.
"Not at all," I respond with a good-humoured smile. "I simply had no idea that you were such a strong swimmer before you were injured."
He claps me upon the shoulder and then we are off again. I am enjoying myself but the breeze would seem to be picking up and I am becoming a little cold. We shall have to turn back soon.
"You are becoming tired," Watson notes suddenly. "I daresay that you are cold as well..."
Before I can respond I give a silent sneeze.
"I shall take that as a yes," says he severely, clearly having noticed. "Come along Holmes. A nice cup of tea shall banish our chills perfectly."
"I am perfectly..." I narrow my eyes before giving another silent sneeze. "I am perfectly all right."
He leads me from the sea and takes my arm when I shiver. "And I for one would prefer that you stay that way. You have said yourself that summer colds can be particularly trying and I would not wish for you to catch one my dear Holmes."
"You do coddle me f-far... far... ah... ha-ha... Ashoo!"
"Do I really? I had no idea," he smirks at me. "Come on Holmes. Do come along. You are not the only one likely to catch cold if we do not dry ourselves. That breeze has increased rather since we arrived."
With a sniff I allow my bossy Boswell to half guide and half drag me back to our beach hut, wherein John has the little stove lit and the kettle on to boil. We each pull our waiting towels, which have been warming in the sun, eagerly about our shoulders and hunch ourselves beside the hot stove.
"You are both cold!" the compudroid notes with dismay. "I think that you should both hurry and get out of those wet things before you catch a chill apiece."
"Choo!" I sniff and wipe at my nose absentmindedly. "I am all right John. We both are. All that we need is a nice, warming drink."
"Hum. If you say so Holmes."
While the tea is steeping I pick up the carrier that I have brought with us and take from it a little parcel and envelope.
"Happy Birthday Watson," I hand the items over with a small smile. "It is not much I am afraid; hardly a beach hut."
"Oh Holmes!" he smiles back at me as he opens his card and stands it upon the table. "If it will make you feel better, we shall consider the beach hut shared."
That does indeed make me feel happier about it.
"I did not know that it is your birthday!" John complains. "Why does nobody tell me anything? I would have bought you something."
"I had thought that you would have known it already," I snap. "You knew when my birthday is without my having to mention it."
He frowns at me with annoyance. "Your birthday was mentioned in Doctor Watson's journal; his own was not. He was hardly going to remind himself of when his own birthday was. And you did not celebrate it before his return either."
"I should think not!" I explode. "You are not... I..." I clear my throat with difficulty. "We celebrated the date of your own 'birth' instead - the anniversary of the day on which you read Watson's journals and developed your own personality. Do not complain John."
He sets down our cups of tea with quite a bang. "We could have celebrated the doctor's birthday you know. It might have done you some good."
I very much doubt it! I would not have been in a very celebratory mood. More than likely, I would have wanted to do exactly as I had done that morning - shut myself away in the washroom to cry in private and silence without the robot's knowledge.
Watson touches my hand gently and offers me a supportive smile. "I could not celebrate Holmes' day in his absence either John," he says quietly.
I rest my free hand atop his and squeeze. As always, I am truly glad of his support and ability to understand me.
He carefully extracts his hand, still smiling at me, and opens his present. "Oh! Holmes! Thank you."
It is an electronic tablet, complete with stylus.
"Hum! 'Not much' indeed! It is wonderful! I was considering purchasing one of these. It would certainly keep me from asking to borrow yours when I am bored."
I chuckle. "I do not mind you borrowing mine my dear fellow! I merely thought that you would like to have one that you could keep for your own private use."
"You thought right. Thank you Holmes! It is a wonderful gift."
I pat his hand and smile. "I am glad. Have you had a pleasant day?"
"Yes, I have. Thank you."
John grimaces. "I do apologise for the medical examination this morning. Had I known..." he addresses me with a glare.
Watson stands slowly and approaches the robot to pat his shoulder. "It is quite all right! It hardly ruined the day."
Only because the appointment was so early in the morning. I shan't say that though; it has indeed been a good day and I would rather not spoil it by starting a quarrel.
My old friend and I drink our tea, dry ourselves and change back into our suits. We then sit outside in the sun to fully warm ourselves. I settle back, close my eyes, and pull my hat down over my brow. This is good. I could get used to this.
"Holmes?" Watson is shaking my shoulder somewhat tentatively. "Come on old fellow; we should get something to eat."
I stand slowly. "I think I shall just have a mint ice." I am not hungry. I am too uncomfortable to feel hungry.
"You are not going to have ice cream when you have been swimming," John tells me firmly. "You shall catch a dreadful chill. Why, you have been shivering vigorously!"
"That is what a fellow does when he is warming up John."
The robot frowns at me from the kitchenette. "You are not amusing Holmes."
"Splendid. Thank you for telling me," I grumble with a sniff.
Watson frowns and touches my arm. "Are you all right?"
I smile and give a slight nod. I do truly feel fine, but I would like to use the washroom. Do these huts have them? It did not occur to me to look and I would prefer not to ask. I request to be excused and begin to explore.
"What are you looking for?" John asks as I open up one door after another to find only storage cupboards.
I groan beneath my breath and attempt to remain still, but something in my manner alerts him before I can speak a word.
"Oh. The lavatory."
Thank you John!
"Yes, I suppose that you were asleep for rather a long time... Can you not relieve yourself behind the huts?"
The beach and surrounding area might be quiet, but it is not deserted! "No I cannot! Really John! It is much too public here. One cannot do that." It would not be right, in such close proximity to these beach huts - people eat in them!
"When I purchased this hut, the estate agent mentioned that there are public conveniences quite close by," Watson assures me gently. "There would have to be. Well, we shall seek them out together, shall we? I am a little uncomfortable myself and I shall have to acquaint myself with the surrounding area at some point."
I agree gratefully. Good old Watson! I permit him to link his arm through mine and we set off together.
"Are you all right?" he asks as we follow the signs that clearly mark the route to take in order to reach the facilities that we seek.
I nod and attempt to smile. I would rather not tell my friend just how much I was hoping that the beach huts might have plumbing provided.
He squeezes my arm sympathetically but he is rather tense himself. I am clearly not the only one in a hurry. "It is a pity that the beach is so overlooked," he confides quietly.
"Really Watson! Children play on this beach!" Though walking is becoming both uncomfortable and difficult; I must admit that I would also quite like to relieve myself sooner rather than later and can understand my Boswell's temptation, even if I do not like it.
The gentlemen's facilities, when we reach them, are incredibly modern. They are all-in-one wetroom cubicles, designed to be used as both lavatory and shower; there is also a slot into which one's clothes can be inserted to be washed at the same time as the wearer. I suppose, as a matter of space and convenience, that it is a good idea. This would save time and one would want to wear clean, fresh clothing after washing oneself thoroughly. I must confess that my Victorian sensibility does protest the idea of unburdening oneself in the room or place in which one would bathe, however; that was not considered clean in our society and Watson is also less than enthusiastic. We are also too uncomfortable to be picky.
Neither Watson nor I have used these before, but they are quite straightforward. The instructions are clear and the controls easy to use. I quickly remove my clothes, insert all but the shoes (which are to be placed within a waterproof container of their own) into their slot to be cleaned and permit the cubicle to do its work.
"That was utterly disgusting," I grumble when I am joined by my companion of old.
He grimaces and nods his agreement. "Beggars cannot be choosers Holmes," he mutters. "At least our needs have been met."
"I suppose so. Well, well, let us go and find John. What did you want for lunch?"
"Hum... Crab, perhaps."
Oh yes! One must have seafood while at the coast! "I think I shall have the same. I do not believe that it is possible to find oysters in July - not even in the 22nd Century."
"No, probably not. Scallops should be in season though."
It is tempting. Very tempting. "I shall make my mind up when we find a vendor. Shall we go? I should think that John is wondering what has become of us."
Watson and I meet John and Briar on the promenade and the four of us stroll along together, taking the air, sights and sounds in equal measure. It is beautiful here! We stop at a vendor selling shellfish, which are served in large shells. The presentation alone is gorgeous and Watson and I are both unable to resist. We then seat ourselves upon a bench which overlooks the beach. The tide is turning and the chilling breeze has truly picked up now.
"Bless you," John frowns at me. He is becoming as observant as my Boswell. "You are cold Holmes."
I shake my head and then silence a second sneeze. "It is only the sea spray. I am all right."
"We should go home anyway," Watson remarks. "It looks as if the weather is going to turn."
Yes, it does actually. There are grey clouds looming on the horizon, far out at sea. We finish our lunch, ensure that we have all that we need, and then return to the car.
"Thank you Holmes," my companion of old whispers while John packs the various items that we have brought with us back into the boot of the car. "I have had such a good day. I had not expected it at all."
Good! That was my intention. I squeeze his shoulder, address him with a bright smile and then urge the fellow to get into the car when he gives a shiver.
We are soon heading for New London once more. The weather becomes increasingly pleasant the further inland we go and I lean back and enjoy the warmth of the sun.
Upon reaching Baker Street, we are met by our Irregulars. They have clearly been awaiting our return for quite a while and John, Watson and I urge them to come in and have a cold drink.
"You are here early," I remark with a bright smile, though I am actually concerned that they have chosen to miss school, while John hands out cold cola that has been poured over vanilla ice cream. "What brings you here at -" I check my watch " - quarter to three of an afternoon?"
"School's closed," Wiggins replies before slurping some of John's foaming concoction through a straw. "Mm! Oh, this is so good!"
"Someone started a fire," Deirdre adds.
"Nah! There was no smoke. The guy blew up some of the toilets," Wiggins informs her. "It wasn't a fire."
"That's stupid!" Deirdre snaps. "How'd you even blow one up?"
I rub a hand across my eyes wearily. "Quite easily, if one knows which chemicals to mix. Why anyone would wish to do such a thing is the question that I would prefer to ask."
"To get the school closed, probably," Tennyson responds in the usual series of whirs and beeps from his hoverchair.
I nod. "Yes, more than likely. But had it occurred to you that your teachers are quite probably not going to want to allow their students to use the facilities if they are unable to trust them not to cause fires or explosions while they are out of their sight?"
"Oh!"
"But that's not fair!" Deirdre complains. "They can't just expect us to... I mean... I mean..."
I pat her shoulder. "Did they catch the perpetrator?"
"Yeah," Wiggins nods. "It was a crazy kid. He's been excluded from school before."
"Well, then I'm sure that that will be an end to it," I assure them. "And, if it is not, John, Watson and I shall see what we can do to help. Now..." I rub my hands together. "Seeing as we have the afternoon to ourselves, what shall we do? It is a beautiful day and it would be a shame to waste it. Ah! I know! Finish your drinks and come with me!"
"Is this a good idea Holmes?" John asks of me somewhat nervously as Briar whines and pulls at his leash. The setter has been annoyingly running away with and chewing up the sticks that have been gathered for my lesson with our Irregulars until we had no choice but to secure the fellow.
I merely smile back at the compudroid. After all, Beth Lestrade cannot be hurt by that of which she knows nothing and that is all that has been on his mind.
"Why is Tennyson hovering over the boating lake?" Watson interrupts us with some misgiving.
He is as well! Damn! "Oh, I expect that he is gathering reeds. They are very straight," I respond with a frown. "I should have told them not to collect the things. It should have been obvious that at least one of them would have thought to use them as arrow shafts."
"If Lestrade hears about this it will be our necks," the robot frets. "You know that she does not approve of the manner in which you continually put them in harm's way."
"Oh, John! Really! You and Watson worry far too much about Beth Lestrade and her wretched scruples. The Irregulars are not in any danger and they are more than capable of putting themselves in 'harm's way'! Besides, how is she going to find out?"
Watson frowns at me. "Somebody might report a madman that is encouraging children to fire arrows about in a public area..."
"Pooh! I am as sane as the next man," I retort as I watch my Irregulars at work.
"Hum," the fellow chuckles. "I advise against saying that when they have you certified - you will have no way of knowing how sane the next man is."
What cheek! I glare at the fellow from the corner of my eye. "My Irregulars are not going to fire the things at anyone! I shall see to that."
"This should be done - if it should be done at all - in the middle of nowhere Holmes! Not in a park. We might get arrested!"
"Ha! Who the deuce would arrest me?"
John touches my arm. "Inspector McGregor would take great delight in doing so, I am sure."
"Yes indeed," Watson agrees. "And Chief Inspector Grayson would most assuredly enjoy it. He has always said that you are insane."
"Implied it," I correct absently. I am not at all interested in this discussion; the progress of my Irregulars is much more important.
Tennyson is the first to announce that he has everything that he needs. He has found an adequately flexible stick but, unfortunately, it is of willow.
I shake my head. "Yes, it is very flexible," I agree as I bend the withy in my hands. "But it cannot be called strong," I add as it snaps with very little force from me. "As a bow, willow is not at all durable. It does make perfect arrows, however; its growth is always very straight."
The boy then hands over four reeds.
"Ah! Reeds. Yes, of course; they are indeed very straight. The only problem with them is that they are hollow, of course. Arrows made from reeds will be very light-weight and not at all strong. Sharpening their ends into points would be rather difficult as well. I would recommend willow or birch - both can be found in the park."
"Holmes!" Watson shakes his head as the boy races away to try again. "You are not going to tell the Irregulars how to make lethal weapons. We agreed."
I snort derisively. "You and John decided it; I never agreed to anything."
I then turn my attention back to the boy in the hoverchair. He at least knows what willow looks like now and is gathering some eagerly.
Deirdre has been paying attention, I am gratified to learn when she returns with her chosen sticks. She has somehow managed to find a perfect, knot-free length of cherry and has gathered birch for her arrows. I praise her for a job well done as I test the cherry stick's flexibility and strength first and the straightness of the birch sticks second.
She shrugs her shoulders and smiles. "It was pretty easy. I mean, you showed us what the different woods look like and described the trees. And you told us that the bow shouldn't have any twigs or knot holes on it."
I had at least attempted to, but Briar had been frustratingly distracting in his behaviour. Wiggins and Tennyson had found his antics particularly amusing and, as a result, it had been rather difficult for me to instruct the young men.
"Would you be so kind as to help Wiggins and Tennyson?" I request as I glare at the setter that has crept between us with his tail wagging nervously between his legs. "They were both rather distracted by the dog's misbehavior."
Briar whines mournfully and gazes at me through sad eyes as he bows his head and wags his tail hopefully.
I simply turn my back on him and concentrate my attention upon Deirdre as she races away. The setter has to learn that I am not going to take pity on him just because he looks sorry. I am willing to bet that he would only offend again should I give him the second chance that he is requesting because, even while he is looking so very sad, a spark of mischief can be detected in his gaze. I recognise mischief easily enough when I see it - I have glimpsed it in my own reflection often enough.
"Poor Briar," the compudroid remarks quietly as the dog begins to cry under his breath. "He does not understand Holmes."
"He knew that he was in the wrong the moment that we shouted at him," I snap without turning around. "And yet he continued to misbehave. I dare say that he believed that he was being clever or amusing as well. No John, he does understand and he must learn."
The irksome setter howls and I grind my teeth in irritation.
"For God's sake take him for a walk or something," I growl. "I am not going to put up with that din!"
With a sigh the robot drags the noisy animal away.
"Do you not think that that was a little harsh Holmes?" my companion of old asks. "He is still very young."
"The dog will have to learn Watson! He is not going to do so if we give in every single time that he cries or gives us the sad eye routine."
The fellow never could keep himself from responding to any shows of vulnerability. Even my own 'sad eye routine' and hurt tone can cause him to stop in his tracks. But perhaps that is merely a credit to my acting abilities. Either way, he has to be angry indeed to resist it.
At last Deirdre returns with Wiggins and Tennyson. Ah! Much better! Wiggins has a holly bow and Tennyson a maple one. Both have collected willow to fashion into arrows.
Tennyson is proudly showing Watson and I some waterfowl feathers that the three of them have gathered when John returns with a sulking English setter in tow.
"Excellent! Adding flights should improve their ability to remain in the air," I remark cordially. "Of course, a pointed tip would improve accuracy, but that would be rather dangerous. Were we going to put a point on our arrows, we would either sharpen the end with a knife or make an arrowhead from glass, flint or bone. However, as we are in a public area," and here I glare at John and Watson, "we shall leave the ends blunt."
"Do they need to be pointed?" the compudroid asks.
Hum... How best to answer that... "Well," I reply as I run a hand along my jaw absently, "well, they would fly considerably more accurately if they were. Why do you ask John?"
He frowns at me. "I thought as much. I did purchase some arrowheads for you, if you want them."
"What?" Watson stares at the robot in disbelief. "You are as bad as Holmes!"
"Not at all," the fellow snaps. "They are made of rubber."
He then presents me with twelve rubber pencil-ends, meant to be used to erase mistakes. They are indeed pointed and therefore should improve the arrows' ability to fly straight and true. The only problem that I can see is that the arrow shafts may prove to be too narrow for their rubber heads to fit them.
Ah! Of course! I take one of Tennyson's withies, make a nick in one end with my pocket knife and use that nick to secure the end of the ball of twine that I have brought with me. This done, I wind the thread about the shaft until it is thick enough to fit the rubber tip securely and then tie the makeshift arrowhead into place before cutting the string. Perfect! I now instruct the lad in securing the remaining arrowheads into place.
When Tennyson has completed his first task I assist Deirdre and Wiggins in following suit. They all three are becoming very skilled in crafting and I cannot help but feel proud of them.
Attaching the feathered flights is easy enough. I make a slit in one of Deirdre's shafts, cut one of her chosen feathers to size and shape, insert it into the prepared slit and then wrap and tie it securely into place with the twine. There! It is absurdly simple.
"Now you try it," I instruct as I fold my jackknife into its sheath and hand it over.
Deirdre is rather slower than I in her efforts, but that is much better than becoming injured due to rushing and I encourage her to take her time. She is careful and her attention to detail, as one would expect from a fashion-conscious individual like our Deirdre, is first rate and her arrows' flights are as neat as mine.
Tennyson and Wiggins need a little more help, but their work is still very neat and they have every right to be proud of their efforts. Particularly Wiggins, who used to find using a knife difficult and somewhat unnerving.
The bow is a little more difficult. I select one of the sticks that Briar has not taken away and destroyed and demonstrate the method. First, the natural curve of the stick has to be found. To go against this natural curve would cause the bow to break. The shape of the stick is easily determined by gently rolling it upon the ground.
I then hold up the bow so that it faces my Irregulars sideways on. "The belly of the bow," I point at the concave side, "as it is called, should be carefully shaved so that it flexes equally, top and bottom," I tell them before getting to work. "The back will also have to be shaved, but not as closely, as you shall soon see."
I shave the belly of the bow to the heartwood and the rest of it to the softer sapwood, which lies just beneath the bark. I then show my Irregulars what I have done.
"The heartwood is stronger than the sapwood," I explain, "and the sapwood is rather the more flexible. Ergo, the sapwood will keep the back from braking while the heartwood keeps the bow from snapping in two. Well? Who would like to shave their bow first? Very well then Wiggins. Ha! There is no need to be nervous! Do not worry, I shall assist you if you wish it. Have you found the belly of your bow? Ah, excellent! Well done!"
Once the three bows have been shaved, I make notches in their ends and assist our bowmen (and woman) in stringing them. I then make a notch in each of the arrows at their base, below the flights, so that they sit upon their bowstrings.
Now to find an adequate training ground for our young archers. Hum... Regents Park, like all outdoor spaces, is not as busy as it was in our own era. Sadly, the busy places are the game arcades and nightclubs. At least that means that, even on a beautiful July day like today, there should be a quiet corner somewhere.
Ah ha! As I thought, this big park has many a little nook in which a fellow - or even a team of archers - can find piece and quiet. John and Watson suspend an old but thick rug between two trees from a length of rope and I show our Irregulars how to fire their arrows at it. While they are doing that, I fashion a bow and set of arrows of my own. I shall have to sharpen my arrows' heads with my knife, but that is quite all right - I am an experienced bowman.
"That is just showing off," John scolds me when my arrows embed themselves in the trunks of the trees from which the rug hangs.
"I could hardly fire mine at the rug," I retort with a shrug of my hands. "Doing so would have pierced it and that would never do."
I am impressed by the skill of our Irregulars. In this era, young people tend not to have much time for outdoor sports of any kind.
"There's something relaxing about archery," Wiggins remarks when we are sitting beside the boating lake eating ices.
"Yeah, it felt good," Deirdre seconds. "Especially after we made the bows and arrows ourselves first. That was great!"
"Better than the games arcades?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.
The three of them exchange a glance.
Tennyson grins. "It's in second place. Maybe."
"Second place! Well, well! That is impressive!" I beam at John and Watson. "There! Hear that? Wahey! One of my lessons is almost as good as the games arcade!"
John groans and hides his head in his hands. "Oh God! There will be no living with him!"
Deirdre knows exactly how one should bring an elated detective down to Earth with a bump. "You should teach history and detection at our school Mr. Holmes."
What? Oh God no! I could never surround myself with unwilling students!
"History, science and detection," Watson smiles at me. "Yes, Holmes would be just the man. Why, he could also teach art, music, drama..."
"No!" I did not just scream that, did I? "No indeed. I am quite content as a detective. Thank you all the same. I am flattered." I think that I am flattered.
Watson conceals a smirk by licking at his ice cream. "There is very little that Holmes could not turn his hand to. In fact, the more that I have seen of him, the more I have wondered what he is not capable of. He can box..."
"I am sure," I interject hastily, "that my boxing technique is somewhat archaic by now. You would most likely have to instruct me, Wiggins. But not today. I think I would quite like to enjoy the evening in a nice, relaxed manner."
I give Briar the remains of my ice cream and stand with a cold shiver. The clouds which we escaped at the east coast have followed us and the temperature has dropped just enough for me to feel the difference - or perhaps I should have listened to John and not opted for an ice after all.
"I propose a nice, hot cup of tea at Baker Street," I announce with a smile.
And then we are away. I with the rug folded and draped over my left shoulder while I carry my bow and arrows in my right hand. Watson has the rope slung across him like a messenger bag and John is holding tightly to our boisterous setter's leash.
The Irregulars are slightly ahead of us, their hand-crafted bows over one shoulder and their arrows in their hands. They do indeed seem proud of their work and quite right too.
I permit myself a brief smile as we turn in the direction of Baker Street. There is no ennui here in the 22nd Century, for there is no room nor time for it here. It would seem that I have not lost the mindset that I gradually acquired during my retirement in my declining years - there is more to life than work.
"What the... What've you been doing?"
Beth Lestrade demands as we enter the sitting room. She is seated upon the settee as if she owns the house.
"I have taught our Irregulars how to hunt," I retort with a suppressed smirk. "They can bring down a red stag now, if they were hungry enough to wish it. I have not taught them how best to prepare a carcass though... I believe that that is rather more Watson's field than mine."
"Ugh!" Lestrade has paled rather dramatically. "Please tell me you're kidding!"
I frown at her. "Of course I am joking! I have never been fond of killing for fun and there is plenty of food in the local departmental shop."
"That's 'supermarket' Sherlock," she corrects me with a smirk.
"It is a shop with multiple departments."
"It's still called a supermarket."
I shall have to remember that. "Well, in any case, I have been instructing the Irregulars in fletching and archery - and we have had a very pleasant afternoon."
Wiggins permits the Yarder to examine his bow and arrows while he explains why they were not at school.
"Great," Lestrade mutters. "So how long's the school closed for?"
They shrug their shoulders.
"Until next Monday at least," Deirdre says. "We have to keep an eye on the school website."
Watson shivers suddenly. "Is it turning cold?"
"Oh no!" John groans. "Have you caught a chill while you were swimming Doctor Watson?"
He shakes his head. "I am not feeling unwell John. I am simply cold."
"The wind's picking up," Lestrade notes as she approaches the window. "And I guess it has turned cold, after the heat of the day."
With that, there is a bright flash of lightning. There is most certainly a storm on the way.
"John, would you make some tea?" I request as I draw the curtains to shut out the weather. The chill draught from the window is causing me to shiver now!
"Yes, of course Holmes."
I take to my armchair beside the unlit hearth and rub at my arms. "What brings you here Lestrade?"
"Oh yeah. I was wondering when we were gonna get to that..." the Yarder approaches Watson and hands him an envelope and small package. "Happy birthday!"
"Oh! Really Lestrade, you should not have taken the trouble..."
"Today's your birthday?" Wiggins gapes at him.
Deirdre is frowning. "Why didn't you say?"
Watson blushes. "Well... I did not want a fuss to be made..."
"Sorry," Lestrade smiles. "I couldn't get Holmes something for his birthday and forget yours, could I? What sort of friend would that make me?"
"An absentminded one," I respond with a smirk.
"Besides, it really isn't much. Just a small gesture. Really."
I watch my friend as he eagerly unwraps his present. "Oh! Thank you! I have been rather spoilt today, I think."
What has he got? I lean at his shoulder to see what it is that he has been given. It is a leather bound book.
"What is it Watson?"
He turns his head to beam at me. "The Complete Works of Charles Dickens. This will keep me entertained on cold nights when I have nowhere that I would like to be."
"It's OK then?" Lestrade asks.
He smiles brightly at her. "Yes! Thank you. I have not got very much to read."
"Well, it was that or DVDs," she responds with a shrug. "And I thought maybe Holmes might prefer it if you had a few quiet things to do."
I would not mind watching a film with Watson. Or with John. All the same, I must confess that I do like to have some peace when I am thinking. Besides, we do have quite a lot of DVDs now. They are very inexpensive, so we tend to purchase something new to try every time we go shopping.
The evening, despite the storm outside, is spent pleasantly. We light the fire, turn down the lights and watch some films together between dinner. Dinner is also rather special - feeling guilty for having bought nothing for Watson's birthday, John has decided to prepare his very favourite three course meal.
As the second film, an old favourite of Lestrade's (which she thought that we might like to borrow) starring Audrey Hepburn, plays I look about me at my friends as they laugh as one and permit myself a small smile. I am content just knowing that Watson is enjoying himself and that he has had a pleasant birthday. I settle back in my chair, while Beth seats herself upon its arm and rests her head at my shoulder, and allow the film to wash over me and draw me in. I am somewhat drowsy and the film is enjoyable.
How the film ends I know not. I awake from a dream - a pleasant, soothing dream about sun, sand and a beach hut - to find the television off and our guests gone. I rub at my cheek absently as Watson gently urges me to go off to bed. I vaguely remember feeling the soft brush of lips while I was sleeping... Just what was I dreaming about, aside from our quiet haven in Essex?
I smile to myself when I discover that my bed has been warmed and some extra rugs have been provided in readiness for me. John and Watson are both very kind and thoughtful.
"Holmes," Watson knocks at my bedroom door. "John has made you a cup of tea. He thought that you might want a warming drink before you got into bed. Shall I bring it in?"
I accept the offered drink from him and sip at it gratefully and then set it down upon my nightstand to get into bed.
"Will you want some drinking water?"
"Do not trouble yourself old fellow! I am more than capable of going down to the kitchen for a drink if I wake in the night feeling thirsty. No, no! Take yourself off to bed - I can see that you are tired."
"All right then Holmes. Oh! Did you tell Lestrade that it was my birthday? John was more than a little put out."
"No, I did not. I suppose that she must have looked it up."
He shrugs. "I suppose she must have. Well... good night old fellow. Thank you for the wonderful day."
I smile and then dismiss him. My room is cold, after all. I do hope that my old friend has enjoyed his day as much as I have. He would seem to have. I settle down with my cup of tea and allow my mind and body to slowly unwind. I am truly beginning to enjoy life in this century.