Boxing Day, 2010


If anyone had been listening in to 221B Baker Street in the quiet of Boxing Day – the lull after Christmas was over with – they would have heard the virtuosic playing of a Stradivarius violin, eking out tunes quite unlike anything they might have heard before. At Mrs Hudson's insistence, Sherlock was playing the pieces he had written for her and for John: and the recipients were rather enjoying it.

Mrs Hudson's piece was cheerful enough, and really rather beautiful. A flurry of action in the central section perfectly depicted her bustling helpful nature. This part was "book-ended" by a rather more serious bit, which John suspected depicted parts of Mrs Hudson's character that he didn't know much about at all; and a warm, attractive ending that was more than a little maternal.

When Sherlock had finished playing, he bowed slightly, receiving with a blush John and Mrs Hudson's applause. Mrs Hudson was smiling broadly, and said that he had described her perfectly, and that he must record the piece so she could listen to it whenever she wanted.

'That's a good idea,' said John. 'I might see if I can get him to record mine as well... actually, I won't commit myself just yet, I haven't heard my piece.'

'Then let's hear it,' Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock said nothing, but merely smiled, and set aside Mrs Hudson's piece. He replaced it on the stand with John's. He was conscious of the fact that this one was much longer, and also that he had put a lot more effort into it. Hopefully the two of them, neither of whom was much educated in music, would not notice.

John's was a driving piece, not too energetic, nor especially bright, but very deep, and even John could tell that. Fragments of his distinct personality were melded into a chaotic but amiable piece of music: his kindness, warmth and affability all shone through, but they were pierced by the darkness of his past, the action of his present, the uncertainty of his future. Sherlock seemed to know John better than the doctor did himself, which was bizarre for one usually so incapable of understanding people.

Yet despite its turbulence the piece ended quietly, modestly, a perfect depiction of the man who now sat listening and contemplating the music that his friend played. The final note shimmered, and then vanished, plunging the room into a remarkable calmness.

John and Mrs Hudson applauded even more enthusiastically than they had the first time, having recognised that this piece was by far the better – a fact that Mrs Hudson did not in the least resent, knowing how great was the friendship between her two tenants. Sherlock blushed again, but tried to hide it, inclining his torso in the slightest hint of a bow.

When they had finished clapping, he began to run a silk handkerchief down his bow. His brow was furrowed but otherwise he did not acknowledge his success, nor react to his own composition in any way. It seemed that in musicianship, unlike most other matters, he was exceedingly modest.

'Sherlock, that was great. Really,' said John, receiving the sheet music to study it. 'Thank you.'

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He slid his violin and bow into their case and went to sit in his armchair.

'A really thoughtful Christmas present,' Mrs Hudson added.

John nodded in agreement. Sherlock's mouth twitched.

'Are we taking down the decorations this afternoon?' he asked, entirely skirting the subject.

'May as well start,' John murmured. 'I'll be back at work this week... God, I hope there aren't too many people who've overdosed on Christmas dinner. You always get a cohort who think that their indigestion is stomach cancer or something.'

Mrs Hudson chuckled at John's disparaging expression. 'Yes!... it'll be back to normal soon. That will feel strange.'

'It's been a bit like a dream,' John commented at length, lazily casting his gaze over the Christmas decorations, which looked a little tacky all of a sudden. 'I mean, I know I said Christmas magic and all that was ridiculous, but I don't know how else to explain how weird this December has been.'

'Well,' said Mrs Hudson, 'this year's been different for all of us. You've come back to England and settled down for the first time. Sherlock's also settling down for the first time. And I've never been a landlady before. Us three being together has been very different, for all of us – and add to that the chaos of Christmas, but also its power to unite, and –'

She broke off beaming, unable to continue in this philosophical manner that didn't quite suit her, and glanced towards the calendar. 'It'll soon be 2011! Can you believe it?'

John laughed and shook his head. Admittedly, even though it was the 26th of December, he hadn't even started to think about the New Year yet. 'I haven't got past Christmas yet... give it a few days.'

'Oh, God,' said Sherlock all of a sudden.

They turned to look at him.

'Mycroft's dragging me to Vienna...'

'You're going to a concert, aren't you?' John said. 'It won't be all bad –'

'Strauss,' said Sherlock at once. John blinked. 'Johann Strauss the Younger,' Sherlock explained. 'The Viennese light music composer. His music generally dominates the New Year's Eve Concert. I can't stand it. Cheap and cheerful nonsense.'

'Ah, well,' John shrugged, smiling. 'You have a few more days of freedom, though... unless something comes up in the next few days. Though cases have been a bit sparse this month.'

'It's the Christmas spirit,' Mrs Hudson grinned.

Sherlock scoffed a little. 'There's no such thing as a –'

'– Christmas spirit, we know,' Mrs Hudson and John said at the same moment, and all three of them laughed.

'Speaking of which,' Mrs Hudson continued after a moment, 'I've still got some of that mulled wine left.'

She disappeared into the kitchen, and, after letting out a small cry of distaste on finding a jar of something human on the wine rack, poured some mulled wine into a pan and let it simmer for a bit. Once again the scent of cloves and oranges pervaded the house.

She brought a tray through a short while later, carrying it like a waitress, and balancing three glasses with prodigious skill; each of them took a glass, and hesitated a moment before clinking them together in a toast.

'To 2011,' Mrs Hudson said.

'To 2011,' John and Sherlock echoed.

'And to the Baker Street gang,' Mrs Hudson added, with a grin.

'To the Baker Street gang!' they replied with great feeling: and the three drank to their friendship, smiling round at each other, and hoping with all their hearts that they would spend many more Christmases together.