For Stutley Constable's prompt: Mrs Hudson's cigar
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Holmes was at a concert that evening, something modern and not at all to my taste. I had been intending to spend a few hours at my club, but a sudden flurry of snow sent me back home in search of gloves and a warmer coat.
As soon as I entered the front hall, I was met by the unmistakeable smell of cigar smoke, coming from under the door which led to Mrs Hudson's rooms. My surprise brought me up short in my tracks. I had never known Mrs Hudson to have a gentleman caller in all the years I'd known her, and that covered a period of almost two decades.
I was still staring at the door in amazement when it opened, and Mrs Hudson herself appeared.
"I wasn't expecting you back, Dr Watson," she said. "Will you be wanting dinner after all?"
"Ah, er - " I said, caught off balance.
"I see you're puzzled by the smell of my cigar," she added, in the most matter-of-fact tone possible.
"Your cigar?" I echoed, even more astonished now than before. A lady smoking a cigar was almost unheard of.
"I smoke one every year, on the 2nd of December. In memory of the man with whom I often used to share a friendly cigar and glass of port, many years ago."
I managed to gather my wits enough to say, "That would be Mr Hudson, I presume?"
There came the slightest of pauses then, before she spoke again.
"His name was Mr Carstairs." She cleared her throat. "There never was a Mr Hudson, as a matter of fact."
Mrs Hudson and I had known each other for many years by that point. We had in fact grown quite close, during those horrible years when we believed Holmes to be dead. I used to call around to Baker Street to share a pot of tea with her, and we would keep each other company, and try not to think about Holmes. However, in all our conversations, we had certainly never discussed such things as her past or private life, or mine.
"A respectable widow is an easier thing to be than an unmarried woman," she added with a small, unexpected smile, as though detecting my bewilderment. "Forgive me, Dr Watson. I am in a nostalgic mood tonight, it seems." She gave her skirts a quick smoothing down, as though to provide some punctuation to the conversation, and then said briskly, "I believe I asked you about dinner a few moments ago?"
"Oh - ah - no, thank you, Mrs Hudson. That won't be necessary. I just came back for my gloves."
"I wish you a good evening, then, Doctor."
"Good evening, Mrs Hudson," I echoed faintly.
Once back out on the street again, I walked slowly, deep in thought, scarcely noticing the snow. I was trying to imagine Mrs Hudson as a young woman, with the mysterious Mr Carstairs. That must have been the '50s or '60s, I supposed, when I was still in short trousers. It was hard to picture her thus, for even when we first met she had seemed to me to be a middle-aged widow. But in her youth she had shared cigars and port with her gentleman friend. I wondered what had happened to Mr Carstairs. I would certainly never know. All I knew was that he must have been a good man, to have left such fond memories of himself with dear Mrs Hudson.
