December 11: Mrs. Hudson begins acting strangely. Why? (from Wordwielder)
A/N: Watson's POV. Takes place in July, so take off those mittens and scarves, everybody!
"Mrs. Hudson?" I asked as I reached the bottom of the kitchen stairs, where Mrs. Hudson was closing the oven door.
My landlady started and whirled around.
"Oh! Doctor!" she exclaimed, her voice shaking a little.
"I apologise for scaring you," I said.
"It's quite all right, dear; you surprised me a little, that's all," she replied, waving off my apology.
"I came down here to ask if you knew when Holmes would be returning," I said.
"No, I'm afraid he hasn't confided in me either," she answered.
"Well, thank you very much anyway," I replied, and turned to leave.
"You weren't planning on going anywhere this evening, were you?" she inquired suddenly.
"No, I wasn't," I answered, shaking my head and turning back to face her.
"Good—I mean, I was just wondering, thank you for telling me," she responded, looking flustered.
"You're very welcome," I replied somewhat awkwardly. "Well, I'm going back upstairs now."
"Yes, yes, you do that," she said, quickly turning away.
As I made my way slowly up the stairs to the sitting room, I wondered what on earth was bothering Mrs. Hudson. I spent the next few hours in alternating between reading, fanning myself with the pages of my book, and wishing it wasn't so confoundedly hot. However, all the while I found my thoughts continually brought back to our landlady's strange behavior. I should have to ask Holmes if he could throw any light on the subject when he returned, whenever that would be.
'Whenever that would be' turned out to be at about five-thirty.
"Good afternoon, Doctor!" he exclaimed, grinning widely at me, and apparently carrying something under his suit jacket. He disappeared into his room, returning without the jacket and whatever he had been hiding from me, but still maintaining the ebullient humor.
"Why so cheerful?" I asked, smiling in spite of myself. It was rare indeed to see Holmes in such a good mood.
"Oh, you know," said Holmes shrugging as he sat down on the settee.
I chuckled. "No, I don't, actually. You see, I, unlike you, am not a detective."
"Come now, Watson! One needn't be a Sherlock Holmes—oh, never mind, you'll find out soon enough anyway."
"Find out what?" I pressed, wondering what on earth was going on. "Does it have something to do with Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.
"Ah! He's beginning to make the connections!" Holmes noted to himself.
"Don't be so infuriating!" I exclaimed.
"I really don't think I have it in me to be any less infuriating," he answered. "Now, I have something very important to do that will not allow for any questions from inquisitive doctors!"
"And what's that?" I queried.
"Take a nap," he replied, stretching, and then curling up on the settee.
I shook my head fondly and returned to my book, unable to fathom what was going on around here.
I roused Holmes when Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner. She'd made pasta, which she had started doing more often after learning that I was fond of Italian food. I enjoyed the meal very much, despite—or because of, I really am not sure which—Holmes's continuously giving me oh-come-on-now-you-can-figure-this-out looks, and chuckling to himself when I only shook my head and rolled my eyes in reply.
Mrs. Hudson returned to clear away the dishes a while later, and Holmes began to bounce up and down slightly in his seat.
I stared at him incredulously and shook my head.
"Close your eyes, Watson!" he exclaimed.
"What? Why?" I asked.
"Just do it!" Holmes replied.
"Okay, okay," I replied, uncertainly closing my eyes and putting my hands over them and putting my elbows on the table. I was beginning to have a guess as to what this was all about, but how could Holmes possibly know…?
"No peaking!" I heard Holmes's voice as his footsteps retreated in the direction of his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps ascended the stairs, and then come toward the table and set something down on the table. Holmes returned quickly to the table as well.
"All right, you can open your eyes!" he exclaimed.
I did so, and beheld a spectacular cake and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting on the table next to it.
"Happy Birthday, Watson!" they both exclaimed.
"This is wonderful!" I replied. "But how did you know?! Holmes, did you just deduce that it was my birthday?"
"My dear Doctor, I'm a detective, not a magician! I asked Stamford."
A/N: Heehee. I'm kind of proud of that ending. And I'll leave it up to you what Holmes got for him.
Special thanks to my good friend Cole for inspiring Holmes's personality in this story. :)