Thank you as always to everyone who reviewed my previous stories. Seriously, it means a lot to me. Clearly I am NOT Doyle and I couldn't mimic his style if you held a knife to my throat. I just try to keep everyone in character and avoid any obvious time period mistakes. Here's a little Christmas tale for you. I hope you like it.
Holmes had never made much of a fuss about Christmas. While he understood why most people did, he couldn't really join in their enthusiasm. Evil and cruelty still existed, even on this day. Holmes would often find himself occupied with one case or another, and it would usually be tragic.
Watson was always the bright eyed optimist. Even though he saw just as much despair as Holmes did he continued to keep a positive outlook on things, and always tried to raise Holmes' Christmas spirits. This remained the case even after Watson had married. If he was unable to visit Baker Street in person, he would always send a letter. His good cheer never entirely wore off on Holmes, but he never stopped trying.
But this Christmas was different, for many reasons. It was the first holiday the two of them would be sharing since Holmes' return from "the dead." Watson was now a widower, and clearly still grieving for his late wife. The twinkle in his eyes-which had reappeared when he was reunited with his friend-had faded away once again. The past four days he had only picked at his food, getting down about five bites before he would set his fork down and retreat to his room. Seeing his own dark behavior being acted out by his friend made Holmes very uneasy. Mother Nature seemed to share their low spirits. Instead of snow there was just a cold and steady rain beating against the roof and windows.
Holmes was curled up in his chair by the fire, playing out a melody on his violin. Watson had gone out just before Holmes had woken that morning. Upon questioning Mrs. Hudson, she said that Watson had not said where he had went, nor when he would be back. She had also noticed how sad he looked. "I'm sure he'll be all right, he probably just misses Mary, the poor dear," she had said. "I remember how hard my first Christmas without Henry was."
Holmes sighed. He wished there was something he could do for his friend. Watson had always been there for him whenever he asked, always offering kindness even when Holmes least deserved it. Holmes felt he owed it to Watson to return the favor.
Just then he heard the door open downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson greeting Watson. Holmes listened to Watson's footfalls coming up the stairs. Then there was a pause as Watson stopped just outside the door. A few moments later his footsteps started up again as he began climbing the stairs that led to his room. They stopped again about halfway up. Everything was still, the only sounds were from rain outside and the clock downstairs chiming the quarter hour.
Holmes set down his violin, wondering what he should do next. If Watson wanted solitude Holmes certainly didn't want to invade his privacy. Then again, if he did want someone to confide in... Why would he want to confide in you? After all, you're the one who looks upon the softer emotions "with a glib and a sneer" as he put it. Not to mention the fact that you allowed him to mourn your "death" for three years-during which his wife really did die. Holmes shook his head, trying to clear it. If Watson was wary about confiding in him Holmes could certainly understand why. Still-he had to at least let Watson know that he was willing to listen.
He slowly got up and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he saw Watson sitting on the stairs with his hands folded across his bent knees. His clothes were damp from the rain, and his trousers and shoes were splattered with mud and blades of grass. Watson looked up at the sound of the door opening, giving Holmes a good look at his face. Although the doctor was fully composed, there was a tell tale redness and swelling around his eyes that revealed he had been crying earlier. He was visiting Mary's grave. One of the most obvious deductions Holmes had ever made.
"Oh, hello Holmes," said Watson, giving a weak attempt at a smile. Holmes returned it with an equally weak smile of his own. "Is there a case?" Watson asked. Holmes shook his head and leaned against the door frame, uncertain of what to do next. He felt as if he were walking on thin ice-one wrong step and they would both fall through. It was so much easier offering comfort to clients, total strangers he'd never see again once the case was resolved. When it came to his only friend, however, his mind went blank.
As if sensing Holmes' indecision, Watson slid over slightly so his shoulder brushed against the banister and he patted the empty spot next to him. With that invitation Holmes felt himself relax enough to join Watson on the stairs. For awhile neither of them spoke. It was not, for Holmes at least, their usual comfortable silence. His mind kept trying to come up with words of sympathy and rejected them just as quickly. Finally Watson spoke, his soft whisper shattering the silence. "I'm sorry I haven't been in better spirits Holmes. Things have been... difficult."
Holmes struggled to keep his own voice steady. "There's absolutely no need for you to apologize, my dear fellow." He chose his words carefully. "I would hardly expect a recently widowed gentleman to be in good cheer so soon after his wife's death. Especially not on a holiday that emphasizes family togetherness." He kept his eyes on his hands, unable to look Watson in the eyes.
"Thank you, Holmes." Watson coughed and shifted slightly. "This is my first Christmas without her and-" he stopped, took a slow deep breath and continued. "She-she was sick for such a long time, that when she finally did die... as heartbroken as I was to lose her-" Watson's voice became barely audible as he finished. "I was also relieved that her suffering was over." Holmes risked looking up at his friend. Watson was rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. He also seemed embarrassed about sharing his memory with Holmes. He fumbled around in his pockets, eventually pulling out a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and then began looking for his matchbook.
"Here," Holmes said quietly, striking one of his own. He cupped his hand around the flame as Watson leaned forward to light his cigarette. Watson took three long puffs before leaning back in his old position. Holmes blew out the match and leaned back as well, wondering if he was really doing Watson any good. Just then he felt Watson take his hand. "Thank you," Watson whispered, clearly referring to more than just the light. Holmes wrapped his fingers around Watson's in return. He glanced toward the sitting room. He had left the door ajar and from where he was sitting he could see out the windows. The rain had changed to snow.