Christmas Eve. The clock strikes midnight. A single soul paces back and forth on the poorly lit room. A paraphernalia of test tubes filled with colourful solutions mixed with Christmas' decorations makes a very unorthodox Christmas tree and the sound of the violin fills the room, accompanying the rhythm of the flames in the fireplace. There is the scent of an unsolved case in the air, the frustration of a concerned mind as the bow scratches the strings, a disarrangement of notes.
Sherlock places the violin on the couch but the pace continues. A pair of steps comes up the stairs, hurried.
"Have you got it?"
The question is heard by the other man even before he closed the door behind him, removing his coat and hanging it behind the door. It is wet, drops of rain falling on the floor, but other matters need to be attended at the moment. It had not been a very good beginning of Christmas for Dr. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes had been impatient all day and made no effort to hide it.
"I've got it."
Was Dr. Watson's prompt answer. Despite the day, despite the grumpy mood of his flatmate, he smiled. Sherlock was in for a surprise.
"Merry Christmas." Watson said, and extended a hand, offering his friend a wooden box.
Sherlock took it with his long fingers and frowned. He knew straight away what it was. He didn't know it all, though.
As he opened the lid of the box, there was more inside than the tobacco he had been craving all day. There was a new pipe, adorned with a very beautiful ribbon.
Sherlock scoffed, amused, and removed the ribbon with a fluid movement.
"My dear Watson," he said, looking at his old friend. "I have nothing to give you in return."
But Watson simply smiled and held his hand, warm, inviting.
"I need nothing else but your own self."
And taking the wooden box from Sherlock's hand he filled the pipe with tobacco and lit it up. The racing mind needed a rest. And he was there to provide it.
Sherlock Holmes was not a man to show affection, but he sat by the fireplace and pulled Watson with him, holding his hand tightly, figuring out the solution to another problem. Watson was always the exception that proved the rule.
"Merry Christmas." he whispered, puffs of smoke filling the air above his head.
Then he got up and, knowing the best present he could give him, he picked up the violin again and played through the night. One spectator, the only one that mattered.