NOTE: HELLO EVERYONE! Alright, here we go! HLotD's Advent Calendar! I'M PUMPED.
I'm not sure if every entry will be as long as this. And I'm sorry if length is irksome! I'M JUST EXCITED. And probably a bit too talkative at the moment. Alright. Onwards we go.
From Wordwielder: First Snowfall
London could, but very rarely, boast sunny weather. Even so, that last week of November in the year 1881 was decidedly overcast. It was far, far too early in the season to expect snow. And yet, nearly every Londoner could sense the brooding silence that lay inside the silver clouds settling over southern England, and it seemed as if the very air urged the chaotic city to hush; listen; wait.
Naturally, it stubbornly refused.
The London populace had no time for snow. And that fact was evidenced quite nicely by the ongoing activities of the criminal element. As such, it came to happen that Sherlock Holmes invited his fellow lodger of half-a-year's association to join Lestrade and himself in the investigation of a burglary.
In the first year following his leave from the army, Dr. Watson was given to bouts of depression. His temperament was hindered in no small measure by the bodily complaints of long recovery and memories of time spent abroad (a strange mixture, the doctor reflected, of horror for the bloodshed, and an odd homesickness for a foreign way of life to which he had become accustomed). As the three men rode in a cab towards their destination, the doctor sat staring thoughtfully out at the clouded evening sky.
Holmes was well aware of his fellow lodger's despondency. He was, after all, no stranger to dark moods himself. And while he may prefer to be left alone to his dark thoughts, Holmes had concluded that Watson was one who needed distraction and company to shake off a mantle of gloom.
Into a stately neighborhood they rattled and eventually stopped, observing the peculiar sight of three houses, each somewhat removed from the other, sporting wooden boards in bottom-level window panes that had only an hour before clutched glass.
"Well, this is indeed a pretty sight, Lestrade," Holmes muttered, eyes scanning a handful of constables and a particularly irate home-owner.
"How the deuce were there three simultaneous robberies at 8 o'clock in the evening – with no witnesses?" Lestrade moaned despairingly. He was a man who knew when he was in over his head; and while on another occasion he might, for the simple sake of pride and stubbornness, absolutely refuse to consult Holmes, he was well aware of the blustery, red-faced gentleman (currently shouting down a poor constable), who would surely have no compunction about complaining to the Inspector's superiors were the burglaries unresolved within the next twenty-four hours.
Weary desperation tightened Lestrade's words. "Alright, Mr. Holmes, go to it. I have no idea what you do, but do it. Now. Please."
Holmes lifted an eyebrow haughtily but, remarkably, said nothing. Despite the ungracious housing, there was something of an underhanded compliment in Lestrade's demand, and it was perhaps that which caused Holmes to forgo a reply.
Watson followed the detective to the first house, leaving Lestrade to intercept the angry client. Holmes stooped and followed the ground around the window with an attentive glare.
For several minutes, Holmes wandered about observing first the lawn and then the window. Once, he uttered a whispered curse at whichever "fool" had decided to box the windows in, the action having "disrupted the evidence". Watson refrained from pointing out that this had likely been done to keep the houses' occupants warm. The night, after all, seemed to be growing steadily colder.
Eventually Holmes moved on to the second house. Watson stood idly, trading his attention between Holmes' occasional murmurs and Lestrade's impressive endurance under the frustrated home-owner's epithets.
As it was, he was the only one in a position to notice when a delicate white flake slid through the dark evening air.
The doctor's breath hitched in strange excitement.
He'd always appreciated snow, of course, but just now… Was it actually snowing? London didn't get a lot of it, not really… He wondered distractedly to himself, then why am I so-?
There! Another one.
And another.
Quite unexpectedly, Watson realized his lips were lifting into a wide smile.
Having been discovered, it seemed as if the snow was unwilling to slow its fall. The air began to fill with the stuff: huge, wet flakes which eagerly flopped to clutch at the ground.
In unison, there was a loud howl of disgust from Holmes, and one of perfect delight from Watson.
"No, the evidence…!"
"It's snowing!"
Holmes rushed between the windows as quickly as he could, the recalcitrant weather doing its finest to deny everyone's expectations. It set about its business decisively, layering upon any surface available.
The roommates were a perfect study of contrasts; Holmes was scowling bitterly as the evidence became slowly obscured, hurrying himself along in an attempt to discover any clues that might remain. Watson remained in place, albeit with the occasional unbalanced side-step as he craned his head upwards to behold the swirling patterns falling towards him.
Eventually, Holmes had to give it up, and he returned disappointedly to the side of the man who would eventually become a dear friend. "Well, Watson, that's all that can be done tonight. It would be wise for us to be getting home. I'll just tell Lestrade we're leaving—"
"Holmes, can we walk?!"
Startled, Holmes stared at the doctor. He'd of course been oblivious to Watson's initial joy. Now, he was able to observe the result of its effects. The doctor's cheeks were warm with color and his morose eyes seemed lit anew. Holmes might have used the words "boyish glee" to describe Watson's appearance - if it wasn't such a ridiculous description for an army veteran in his late twenties.
"… Well, I suppose… But in respect to your leg-?"
"My leg? Hang my leg! Come on, Holmes – snow!"