This the second installment for The December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. This one-shot was inspired by the prompt: 'Mistletoe', provided by Poseidon God of the Seas
Rated T for non-graphic violence
Mistletoe
"The mustache stays," I said firmly.
"But you have the perfect build to impersonate a war widow of advancing years…"
"You are digging the hole deeper, Holmes," said I, touching my graying hair. "I will not sacrifice my mustache," (I was not a vain man, but confess that I was, and still am, much attached to the hair which was attached above my upper lip). "and therefore I will not be impersonating Mrs. Carruthers, today, tomorrow or any day in the future."
"You are strangely stubborn on this matter, Watson," stated the great detective and my best friend. "It will grow back…"
"There is no need for it to grow back, because it is staying in situ!" said I.
"Very well, I shall have to impersonate Mrs. Carruthers," said he, much put out. "I shall have to return the dress, which I purchased for especially for you, Watson. I shall then have to find a suitable dress that fits me. It is aggravating in the extreme." He loomed impressively over my seat by the fire, willing me to acquiesce to his schemes as usual, but for once I remained unmoved.
"Well then," he began again. "It is fortunate that the wealthy widow has been overseas these past three decades, and that she has no family aside from her nephew. The people at the gala are only acquainted with that nephew, Matthew Greenstreet, so I suppose that if I cannot convince you to remove that little bit of superfluous facial hair…."
"You cannot."
And he did not.
The pre-Christmas gala at Sir _'s house was festive and crowded. The food was a bit meager, and the wine was barely drinkable, but the music was quite lively. I kept to the corners as instructed and found my foot tapping in time as I scanned the crowd, but I did not see anyone that I felt might answer to the description of the so-called 'ballroom bandit.'
It seemed a shame not to dance with some of the lovely ladies who clearly wanted an escort out onto the floor, but I kept to my post like the good soldier that I was. At least the poor quality of the vino kept me away from that temptation.
Far across the ballroom, seated with the faded belles of yesteryear, was the great detective himself. Dressed in austere black, with black lace draped over his grey-haired wig, he looked to me rather too vulturine to be a true widow. Still, better him than me, wearing widow's weeds and diamonds . Tonight, he too carried a cane, black with a silver handle. It was very fine, and if I coveted it a little, well, surely no one was the wiser.
The night wore on towards eleven o'clock, and I felt a bit let down at the lack of developments. Just then, Holmes, seemed to have spotted something, or should I say someone. Whatever captured his attention, I saw the disguised detective rise and then rapidly make his way out, heading towards the main hall.
As quickly as was possible, given the many merry makers and my now stiff knee, I followed. I saw him, dressed as the Widow Carruthers vanish into the alcove under the stairs. I hurried through the glittering press of the wealthy and powerful citizens of London.
Imagine my astonishment when I peered into the alcove and beheld the great detective embracing a stout, well-built, balding man, of say fifty or sixty years.
"Mistletoe!" called the man gaily.
Holmes didn't move a muscle. That worried me.
"Ah, well then, I suppose I must salute the lady as well," I said moving closer, even though the detective shook his head ever so slightly.
Fearing the worst, I allowed my cane to seem to slip on the marble floor. I then fell after it, as if over balanced, crashing into the stout gentleman and pushing Holmes safely out-of-the-way.
Sure enough, the man showed me a knife, small but deadly enough. Thankfully, my particular friend appeared to be unharmed. But he had been threatened, and this enraged me.
Clearly, the thief, for who else could it be, assumed that I was drunk, clumsy or both. He smiled and held his knife out as he backed toward what I thought might be a closet.
Or was it an exit? I looked at the door, and took my eyes off of the ballroom bandit for only a second.
"Watson, look out!" cried Holmes from behind me, as the man lunged forward. I dodged just out of range, keeping myself between Holmes and our knife-wielding assailant.
"Cane!" I demanded.
Holmes thrust his cane at me, and I brandished it just in time to stop the blade, inches from my chest. The thief and I stared at one another as if equally astonished.
Then I twisted the cane, bringing it down sharply on his wrist. The knife dropped. I turned the cane and jabbed the man's stately paunch; he doubled over, winded.
Handing the cane back to Holmes, I quickly moved behind the blackguard and twisted his arm behind his back.
"Well done, Watson!" said Holmes, "Although I'm sure I had things well in hand before you arrived."
"Yes, indeed," I grunted, as I forced the thief out into the crowd which had gathered. "You'll do anything to catch your man, even seduce him under the mistletoe!"
I grinned, thinking that I was quite the wag, but Holmes speared me with his sharp glance, and I lost the urge to chuckle at my own joke.
In order to preserve his dignity as the great detective and to prevent further unpleasant scenes, Holmes remained in disguise, while I received credit for capturing the jewel thief. It was a bit embarrassing, and I was glad that I normally stayed in the background where I belonged.
"Now, Sir," said a young overdressed journalist wearing an over-abundance of houndstooth.
"As this here fine lady owes you for saving her diamonds and possibly her life, I think she should reward you under that mistletoe."
There was a smattering of applause from the some of the more curious partiers.
I was, of course, appalled. It was disrespectful in the extreme to suggest this sort of nonsense to a respectable widow, even an imitation widow.
And that led to the second problem. How on earth could I kiss Holmes under the mistletoe?
I sputtered my objections citing the lady's respectability and virtue and my own sense of right and wrong.
"Hush, young man," hissed the stately widow, "The sooner it's done, the better."
Oh dear, this was payback for my reckless comment about seducing men under the mistletoe, but the widow's apparent acquiescence, I could no longer protest, without looking churlish.
Sir _, our host, pushed and prodded me, until I stood next to the widow underneath that mistletoe, which had already played such mischief.
The widow took charge, as well she might. After all, I had been ready to fight for her honor, and she had stopped me.
She bent slowly forward, her dry lips unmoving as she…he…whispered, "Only recall that many European men share kisses daily."
A hand wrapped around my neck.
Then the dry lips touched mine. I smelled tea and tobacco and found them surprisingly warm against mine. They touched me again, the second kiss captured for the public and for posterity by the hack photographer.
The widow, grinning wickedly, curtseyed. I bowed, and overcome by gallantry and the lack of air (I had temporarily forgotten to breathe), I kissed the widow's hand.
"Breathe, Watson," hissed Holmes. Used to following his instructions, I took a breath and managed a smile.
That Christmas, Holmes gifted me with the silver-topped cane, which I had coveted so badly. I cherish this gift from my particular friend and only use it on very special occasions. The elegant cane serves as a support for my leg and as a reminder of the never-to-be-published Case of the Ballroom Bandit.
There are other reminders too. Holmes framed the photo of Mrs. Carruthers kissing her hero under the mistletoe. He insisted on hanging it in our already cluttered parlor, supposedly in honor of my pugilistic skills…I suspect he merely wanted to tease me.
Then there is the annual reminder of this case, because every December, my best friend and constant companion decorates our shared flat with at least a dozen sprigs of fresh mistletoe, grinning wickedly all the while.
FINIS
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