A Christmas Story
"ACHOO!"
Dr. Watson flinched. That had to be the most remarkable sneeze he'd ever heard. He waved the thermometer and turned to his friend pityingly. "102.4 degrees. Sorry, old chap."
Sherlock Holmes grunted underneath his mountain of blankets and sneezed again into his handkerchief.
Poor Holmes, Watson thought. To catch a cold is bad enough, but on Christmas Eve…
"You'll be late, Watson," Holmes suddenly croaked, tossing the handkerchief into the wastebasket.
Watson sighed and nodded. He was meeting some friends for dinner, and then they were heading to the church for the evening mass. "Yes, I should go. I'm sorry you can't come, Holmes." He took his coat off the back of a chair and slowly buttoned it up. He wound his scarf around his neck, and then, as an afterthought, took another blanket and wrapped it around Holmes' shoulders.
The detective's tired, dark-circled eyes looked up at him for a moment in gratitude, and then he made a flitting gesture towards the door. "Go."
"All right." Watson started to head out the door, but turned. "Keep drinking that tea and whiskey. Stay in bed, get some sleep. Don't do anything strenuous."
Holmes nodded impatiently, and watched his friend vanish from the doorway. But then suddenly he reappeared again. "And no tobacco!" The doctor said sternly, wagging a finger at him.
"Yes, doctor." Holmes wheezed, and Watson, satisfied, left.
The detective grudgingly obeyed his friend's wishes – except for the stay in bed part. He'd been in his bed for the last two days and couldn't stand being in that cage an instant longer. So he gathered up his blankets and pillows and moved himself onto the sofa, where at least he could watch the snow falling and the smoke rising out the chimneys of London.
He fell asleep a few times; he was awoken once by Mrs. Hudson, who brought him a fresh pot of tea and informed him that she would be heading to the church herself. After this, he promptly fell asleep once more, warmed by the crackling fire and whiskey.
How long he slept, he didn't know, but it felt like ages. It was the first stretch of sleep he'd had in days that wasn't constantly being broken by fits of coughing, sneezing and need of another handkerchief.
At last he did wake, but what woke him, he couldn't tell until he heard the door bell ring again. "Mrs. Hudson!" he tried to call, but his voice was so scratchy that it wouldn't carry the distance. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, he realized that the landlady was probably still at church anyway. He rolled his eyes and settled back into his nest of blankets. But at the third ring, his curiosity and urge to move about conquered his need to stay put.
He wrapped his blanket around him and made his way down the stairs. "Coming!" he shouted as best he could. His voice was very scratchy and rather irritated, for when he was half-way down the stairwell, he was wishing he'd stayed where he was.
Besides the ringing of the bell, new sounds were coming through the wood of the door. A headache was coming on, however, and it was hard for him to distinguish what it was.
Head pounding and feeling another cough about to come on, the detective undid the lock and threw open the door.
"… let nothing you dismay. For Jesus Christ our Savior was born on upon this day, to save us all from Satan's pow'r when we were gone astray, O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, O tidings of comfort and joy!"
Sherlock Holmes stood, rather dumbfounded, at the small gathering there before him. It was his Irregulars – every last one of them, bundled in mismatched clothing, their noses cherry-red, their singing breaths coming in foggy puffs.
"The Holly and the Ivy!" one of the little ones cried, and the boys broke into a new song. "The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown. Oh the rising of the sun and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir…The holly bears a blossom as white as lily flower, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our sweet saviour. Oh the rising of the sun…"
Holmes settled his shoulder against the door frame and watched the boys sing, their faces bright and cheery with smiles. He found a smile growing on his own face, and a wetness at the corners of his eyes that wasn't due to his illness or the chill of the wind.
As the song came to a close, the tallest boy of the bunch came forward. "Merry Christmas, Mr. 'Olmes."
Holmes extended a hand, and the boy took it, shaking it heartily. "Thank you, Wiggins," he said quietly. "Thank you, boys. Here." He reached into his pocket.
"We don't want nothing," one of the littler ones piped up, and many of the others shook their heads in protest.
"I know," Holmes said, and dumped a handful of sovereigns into Wiggins' hand. "Consider it a present. Merry Christmas."
The boys shuffled their feet, embarrassed, but on Holmes' insistence, finally took his offering. They then took off down the street in a ramshackle group, arms about one another's shoulders, singing Good King Wenceslas.
Holmes watched them until they disappeared from view, then turned back inside 221B, feeling strangely warm.
- - -
"You didn't stay in bed, Holmes," Watson said in agitation as he walked in, unraveling his scarf.
"I couldn't, Watson."
"Ah well. You haven't been smoking, I see. I suppose that counts for something." The doctor paused as he hung up his coat. "Are you feeling any better?"
Holmes' face broke into a gentle smile. "Yes, Watson. Much better."