A. N. Today's prompt comes from TemporarilyAbaft - Christmas during the retirement years. I probably completely sidetracked the prompt, and OOC!Holmes galore, but forgive me. Merry Christmas!
Sherlock Holmes will never cease to amaze me.
Once I had retired from profession myself, a bit later than him, never having remarried after my poor Mary and hence being a lonely man, Holmes offered that I called 'my' room (the one I used when visiting him in Sussex) mine in a more permanent sense and for us to share lodgings again. As fascinating as he found his bees, I suspect that he missed a company he liked (he didn't seem to bond well with the other villagers) and agreed promptly, all too glad. It wasn't the proposal with surprised me particularly though (not after how eager he'd been to resume our cohabitation in 1894).
It was Christmas 1921, with the both of us well nearing seventy. And yet that day I was once again astounded, and for once not by my friend's brilliance. We'd spent a quiet morning together, perfectly content in each other's company, when we decided it was time to open our presents (the time we were kids eager for it was so long past sometimes it looked like a wonderful dream).
Before I could open mine, Holmes cleared his troath and said, looking mildly uncomfortable but determined to press on, "I know, Watson, that out of the both of us you most easily gave words to feelings, and I to facts. I guess that's why I never told you in so many words – well, the one time I did try – and you even recorded it – it was so roundabout what I was truly talking about. But you deserve to hear it from me, and since it's forty years that I received the most precious gift of all, the privilege of your trust and friendship, I wanted to let you know how truly thankful I am for it."
I didn't have words to reply at first, emotion making a lump in my throat that wouldn't let me get word past it. I knew he appreciated my company, of course, but I'd never have expected him to be vocal about it in such a way. Hell, I never even expected for him to notice that forty years were past since that momentous (for me and – it seemed – for him too) 1881. My silence clearly made him nervous though.
"Oh no I blabbered didn't I? I told you, I don't have your way with words, Watson," he added with a grimace.
"No, no you didn't. I'm touched, really. And of course I'm thankful – so very thankful for your friendship too. If someone out of the both of us was privileged, it was clearly me," I reassured earnestly, smiling at him. "But I never thought I'd see the day you recognized me a mastery over words – are you sure to be well, Holmes?" I joked.
"I only protested because I felt that my job was better suited for a scientifical rather than a literary approach, but I do enjoy your talent, my dear. It didn't seem right to encourage you at the time, though," he confessed, laughing weakly.
Perhaps not at the time, but now he wanted to, if the luxurious pen with my initials engraved in silver and the leather notebook was anything to go by. I had gotten him, much more egoistically (because I'd take great pleasure from the end result too), a few sheets of music that I'd noticed him eyeing with interest. Nothing big, but I didn't know that we'd be celebrating our anniversary, so to speak.
Holmes had to be in a nostalgic mood, because after the gifts were out of the way, he said softly, "Would you read me a bit of 'A study in scarlet', old boy?" "
As soon as I find my glasses, with pleasure. Help me find them, please?" I agreed, starting to hunt for them. I swear that the damn things are alive because they up and leave on their own all the time. And I never find them anywhere reasonable either.
P.S. That time Holmes was roundabout about it was in Naval Treaty because it's my firm headcanon that he wasn't waxing lyrical about roses but talking about their friendship.