Thanks for the reviews! And no worries, I would never abandon this or any other story. That's just wrong. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I liked where this ended up. Thanks for putting up with my snail's speed of movement.
Being ill with influenza (which I have never had, not even once) was very different from a coma, obviously. I remember most of what happened over the next several days, or at least I thought I did, but for the most part I simply slept. I had more sleep in the month of December of that year that one would wonder why I ever needed to lay down again. Holmes kept his word, I assumed, and did indeed stay with me most hours of the day.
However, I was not as cognizant as I would have thought because I was more than a little surprised when I awoke to a bright afternoon, feeling cool and comfortable. My fever had broken. And my son was sitting over me on the bed, starring intently.
Now one is not normally used to awakening and seeing into two large blue eyes belonging to someone else. That would be why I sat up, banging my head on the headboard.
"What the Devil?...Oh, it's...Josh, you nearly put me into an early grave!"
"No, sir, I didn't! I couldn't put you anywhere! You're very big and I'm very small!"
"It's a figure of speech, boy," said I, not especially caring for his analogy, whether innocent or not. "What on Earth are you doing here?"
"Uncle brought me on the train," he said, flopping hard next to me. "It took a very long time. But it was very fun 'cause I've never been on one. We went so fast I thought we were flying."
Actually, it wasn't true. Josh had been on a train once. About a year and a half ago, his mother, he and I took a holiday at Cornwall, right on the beach. He had just forgotten. But I never would.
"You were asleep for an ever long time, Papa. Are you done being tired?" I must have looked rather confused for he added: "Uncle said you were dreadfully tired and needed to sleep for a few days."
I smiled. It was a simple observation for Holmes to make, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. "I am feeling rather better, yes," said I, patting his soft little head. "And I'm very glad Holmes brought you here. I feel positively vile that we haven't seen each other much of late." And it was true, I did. I certainly didn't want him growing up feeling ignored by his father, as I had, only to see him die at a young age, never really knowing the kind of man he was.
"That's all right," the boy said. "Because tonight is Christmas Eve. Father Christmas will come tonight! You got untired just in time, Papa." He paused, looking terribly pensive for several seconds. "He will find us here, won't he, Papa? Because last year we were in our house that we had with Mummy. Will he know to bring my presents here to Switzerland?"
Normally, I am always somewhat relieved and amused when Josh asks me questions that don't correlate with the meaning of life or some other some such thing that I cannot begin to answer. But this one filled me with regret. Regret that I realized I hadn't time to shop for him do to circumstances, and how in the world could I explain that he was going to have a bare Christmas? Perhaps I could explain that Father Christmas really would not be able to find us here, and he would have to wait until we got back to London. Our perhaps there were shops near here, in the town, and I could persuade Holmes to go there and buy a few things.
"I...well, Josh..." I began, stalling for time.
"But of course he will find you here! Of all the learned men in the world, one must rank Father Christmas among the most ingenious. If he can find every other child on this planet, than I should think that he shouldn't misplace one who just happens to be away for the Holidays. I wouldn't worry, John Sherlock. I expect that this shall indeed be a happy Christmas for us all," said Holmes, appearing suddenly in the doorway, grinning madly.
"Are you certain, Uncle?"
"Have I lied to yet, my boy?"
Josh shook his head and beamed, delighted no doubt at the prospect of all the presents he would receive. So with his head filled with bobbles and trinkets and sugar plums1, he skipped out of the room I was in, saying that he was going to go write down a letter for him to throw into the fire.2
Holmes smiled and patted his head as he left, leaving me feeling more than a little guilty, I can assure you. "Was that really necessary?" I asked. "Making him false promises? You know that I hadn't had the time or health to buy him any gift. I was on the verge of postponing this whole thing until we were home..."
"Postpone Christmas? Now that hardly seems the holiday spirit, Watson."
"But..."
He held up a finger, placing it to his lips. As quietly as a mouse, he made his way over to a rather ugly, stained oak cupboard that stood opposite my bedstead. As he opened one side of it, I saw a huge mountain of various sized packages, all wrapped in various bright golds, silvers and reds and tied with tinsel. Some, like the food items including walnuts, oranges, gingerbread and peppermint sticks were in clear bags tied with blue ribbon. There was a beautiful rocking horse with a real bridle and reigns that swung from springs and coils, rather than just rocked back and forth. One package had to be a drum-it was circular. And there were books, sweets, boxes of every shape and size...I had to swallow back just taking it all in. I had never imagined...
"Where-I mean how did you manage to do all of this? Really, Holmes, I am quite speechless."
He instantly lost the gleeful expression that he wore and took one of more dignity and arrogance that I expected from him. "Now, Watson, do you think me so inexperienced and impassive that I would expect a child, even a gifted child like John Sherlock, not to expect to have what every child wants on this most special of days? I would hardly be fulfilling my duty as his Godfather if I led him all the way here for a bare Christmas, now wouldn't I?"
"It is quite remarkable...I don't know how I can...I mean, I can repay you of course, but only monetarily...not in...well..."
For a brief second, he narrowed his eyes contentiously and I knew that I must have turned red for I felt the familiar fever flush over me momentarily. I should have realized how that could have been interpreted, although it was not at all how I meant. I had meant that I could not repay him for what he had done emotionally, first by bringing my son to me, and then by securing that he would have a happy Christmas. I hadn't meant that I would dream of repaying him in any physical...God, to even think the thought made me nervous and quite uneasy.
"I knew what you meant," Holmes said at last, clearing the look from his face, thankfully. "I think we can call this repayment in itself. Repayment for all of the things I have said and done to you over the years that I now regret. And of course, for not throwing me off the ledge of Reichenbach when you most certainly had an understandable chance to do so."
Oh, how I wished that I could have laid my head back upon that soft pillow and slept forever, never having to have this most unavoidable of conversations with him. But I knew that where the last one had ended was not really an end at all, but more a beginning rather. And I was dreading it.
"Er-about what happened, Holmes. Don't you think"-
"No, I don't," he interrupted tersely. "Not now anyhow. For now, for the sake of Josh if nothing else, the two of us shall enjoy a comfortable holiday over this holy day, and be in the mindset that nothing between us has changed. If indeed you believe anything has. If you are unwilling in that respect, I shall have to insist. We can call it your Christmas gift to me."
"I am more than agreeable. You needn't worry."
"Capital." He smiled once again, the same brief and nearly worrisome smile that previous to these events I only found upon his face during especially troublesome cases. That is, cases he feared he may not be able to win. You may call this whole situation such a case. "How are you feeling?" He asked as an afterthought.
"Physically far more like myself than I have in months."
He nodded. "Than you shall notice that I brought you some clothes and your dressing case. It is Christmas Eve after all, Watson. And I have a goose and pudding being prepared to send up in a short while. I think even I can do with a good meal tonight."
The meal was delicious. Not only goose and plum pudding, but sweetbreads, rice croquettes, peas, Parisian salad, potatoes a la Maitre, and even turtle soup. For dessert, besides the wonderfully decadent pudding, there was also a mincemeat pie and macaroons. Holmes and I drank the local red wine of an excellent vintage with the feast and heavily rich café noir for dessert. It was a feast fit for a king, but Holmes had insisted that the Haus (for we were back in the Englischer Haus of the last adventure) was deserted for the Holidays, and the staff were eager to supply us with anything their only guests might require. I ate more than my fair share, partly in attempt to compensate for the days of sickness, and partly to avoid thinking unpleasant and unworthy thoughts.
After dinner, Holmes built up the fire and we sat around on cushions on the floor watching the candles of the tree glow. For there was a tree of course. Holmes had left nothing out. I never would have thought him capable of all this. Or not so much capable as willing. It was...incredible.
We sang carols at Josh's insistence, although there are very few that he knows the words to yet. I initially protested, as I have never had a singing voice, but with even Holmes goading me on, I managed to get through 'Silent Night', 'The First Nowell3' and 'Good King Wenceslas'-(which Josh pronounces 'Good King Wenches'). Holmes, on the other hand, has a very agreeable voice, something I never paid a mind to before, although I had heard him sing, however occasionally.
"Wherever did you learn to sing like that?" I was compelled to ask.
"What makes you think I learned it anywhere?" He seemed almost put off by my question.
"It's only"-
"At school, I sang in the choir," he interrupted. "Indeed, though, before I came of age and faced the unbearable reality of all young male altos in puberty, I truly had the voice of an angel. I was lucky I was able to withhold any of my ability."
"You do have a lovely voice," I said without thinking.
He gazed at me wondrously. "Thank you, Watson."
And then I found myself staring at his curled form on the floor, relaxed with his boots and jacket off; his collar undone, the smoke from his recently lit pipe swirling about him...the outline of his body engulfed by the crackling flames. He looked younger than he actually was, younger than we both were.4 I saw how the light darkened his pallor complexion, and highlighted the black slickness of his hair. Shadows danced around the circles of his eyes, and I could smell the wine on him. He looked very vulnerable. Very un-Holmesian. Very human.
He knew I was looking at him. Knew before I did myself. He could have asked why I was looking at him in such a way. But he did not. He didn't say anything, in fact. We sat in that very...suggestive manner for some minutes until Josh moved to climb in my lap, and I awoken from my self made trance. I jumped to my feet and swiped him into my arms.
"Come along," I said to him. "I'll tell you the Christmas story of the baby Jesus before you go to sleep. And then..."
"Father Christmas! Presents!"
"Yes, yes."
"Good-night, John," Holmes said, not moving from his spot on the floor.
"Good-night, Uncle!"
I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out. For I had only heard him call me by my Christian name once, and that was in a moment of emotional distress. Yet he always referred to my son either by Josh, or more usually, John Sherlock. I actually wanted to say something at that moment. No, I didn't just want to say something. I think...I think I wanted to go to him. To stay with him by that oh so comfortable fire and even just sit forever, taking in the vulnerability he seemed to let me absorb this night. He was not iron or steel but flesh.
Something dashed through my mind. I couldn't place the quote but it went such as 'the thread breaks where it is weakest'5. And I knew that I had found his one weakness. It was a weakness such as I would never have imagined, and it was one that could have been his very un-doing. I alone knew it. And I could not stop thinking of this. The gifts...caring for me after I had rejected him...his voice raised in song...it was all the little things.
Was I out of my right mind? Or coming to it?
It would be several more months before I would arrive at the answer. But it would at last come to me in a way that pains my memory. But at last I would come to know just how much Sherlock Holmes would risk for me.
And I for he.
1In case anyone was wondering, I checked to make sure the reference to "The Night Before Christmas" was historically accurate. It was published in 1823, so Watson, Holmes, and Josh were probably familiar with it.
2 A British tradition of the time for children to throw their letters to Father Christmas in the fire because, of course, he can read smoke!
3 This is the original, Old English spelling
4Of course, no one knows exactly how old Holmes and Watson were because they never give the years of their births, except in 'His Last Bow' which is mis-leading if you do the math. Both would have to have been born in 50's, and because Josh is so young and I want the two of them around for a long while, I'm going to make them both slightly younger than they probably would be. Therefore, because he is slightly older, in this year, 1894, Watson would be 38, and Holmes about 36 or 37. Of course, back then, that was considered close to middle aged.
5 Geroge Herbert, from his book on Outlandish Proverbs (1640)