Nine o'clock on a Sunday in early February found me comfortably ensconced in our sitting room, a cup of tea in hand and the fire crackling merrily as I watched the storm raging outside. It was one of those late winter affairs, a mix of rain and ice that fell with all the vehemence of the former and the wretched cold of the latter. Suffice it to say, I was quite content to be where I was. Just yesterday I had been out at this very hour, my schedule suddenly filled with patients, complaints brought on by the sudden change in the weather. Fortunately, I have always insisted on observing Sunday as a day of rest, and so barring a true emergency, I shouldn't be asked to step across the threshold of 221b.
Emergency or case, I must allow. Holmes' clients have never much factored the weather into their entreaties to him – and nor should they, when their cause is sufficiently grave – and he has ever shown the same cavalier disregard. I do admire that about him, his staunch pursuit of the facts and truths that may lead to justice, but I won't pretend that I haven't followed him at times with great resignation and – dare I say – even resentment. Oh, it is always worth it in the end, and our small suffering has so often been but a modest price to pay for the righting of a grievous wrong, but on days like today I hope with all the strength of my soul that no case appears to call us away.
It has been unusually quiet so far: Mrs Hudson, the esteemed lady, brought up tea and breakfast at our usual hour of eight, but since her return downstairs I have remained undisturbed in my contemplation of the rain. I expected Holmes to have made an appearance by now, in order to scorn his breakfast if nothing else, but I confess I was quite glad at the thought of him finally indulging in some much-needed rest.
But when ten o'clock came and went without so much as a sound from the bedroom, my relief became concern. I set aside the book which had long since replaced the tea in my hands and went quietly to his door. "Holmes?" I called softly. "Holmes, are you in there?" There was no reply, which could of course mean anything. He could be sleeping, he could be lost in thought, or he could not be there at all, having left at some early hour and not yet returned. Or, supplied a dark and uncharitable corner of my mind, he could be deep in an opiate stupor, courtesy of his needles.
"Holmes?" I called again, a bit louder, and with a sharp knock on the door. When there was still no response, I sighed. "I'm coming in," I warned, and pushed open the door. It hadn't occurred to me that it might be locked until I was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't. The room within was dark, and a little cooler than the sitting room. The reason for both of these facts, I soon saw, was the dying fire in the grate, but that was of secondary importance beside the sight of my friend. He was abed, the covers pulled up almost entirely over his head so that only a pale stripe of forehead and a tumble of dark hair were visible.
"Ah, Watson," he greeted me, voice muffled by the blankets. "Tell me, is there anything more pleasing than a warm bed?"
"A good puzzle," I suggested as I made my way to his side. "A good pipe. Most things, I'd imagine, since I have never known sleeping to be a particular pleasure of yours."
He huffed at my teasing, and pulled the blankets down away from my face. He was quite pale, I saw with a start, and now that I was closer I saw that his hair was damp – enough so to leave spreading spots of water where it lay upon the pillow. "Everything has its time, my dear, and in such dreadful weather I find that warmth and comfort is provided most readily by this fabulous creation."
"My God!" I exclaimed, "You don't mean to tell me that you were out in this?"
"Quite so, Watson, quite so. And what a regrettable experience it was."
"I should say so!" I snapped. "Holmes, you foolish man, what on earth possessed you to do so?" I cast about for a suitable piece of fabric, and found a towel lying on the floor by the wash stand. "And why didn't you dry your hair before returning to bed?" I seized the towel and turned it on him. He suffered my ministrations silently, and thought his hair was boyishly rumpled by the time I was done, it was dryer, and he was watching me with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye.
"My dear Watson," he said fondly. "Acts of caring come naturally to you as they do to no other. It is a great gift."
"It is my profession," I pointed out, but his words had suffused my chest (and likely my cheeks) with warmth. His compliments are most often off-hand, delivered absently as his attention is elsewhere; to see his keen eyes softened by affection as he spoke quite took away my ire.
"I trust it was important, at least?" I asked.
"Most gravely," he assured me, "but all has been set to rights, and we can pass the rest of the day in the comfort of our rooms."
"The sitting room is much more comfortable, my dear fellow: your fire has fairly given up the ghost. I'll make up the settee for you, and have Mrs Hudson bring up a fresh pot of tea."
He sighed, but it was a contented sound. "You do spoil me so," he murmured. "I shall take you up on that offer, I think."
"Wait here," I told him. "I'll just see to the settee." Then, on an impulse that I didn't quite understand, I reached down and brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes. "We'll have you warm in no time, don't you worry."
He caught my hand before it could retreat, and though his own was cold the touch held nothing but comfort for me. "I never worry," he said quietly, "not with you by my side."
The rest of the day we spent in luxuriant comfort, Holmes in turn dozing on the settee, nestled in blankets, and coaxing sweet melodies from his violin for my enjoyment. Outside, the frigid rain continued undeterred, but in our home we were far beyond its reach.
First Holmes fic! I imagined it as Granada-verse because I'm tragically in love with Jeremy Brett, but you can interpret it in whatever setting you like! Thanks for reading, and as always please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to.