Thursday 25th December 2104 - Christmas Dinner with Lestrade

I am tired this morning. Perhaps we should not have stayed up so very late last night. It is deucedly cold as well - with a sniff and chill shiver I roll over and pull my coverlets up to my chin. I wish that I had a fireplace in my bedroom.

"Are you awake Holmes?" John enquires as he enters the room without even thinking about knocking. He is impatient this morning.

I wish that I was not. I may be over the worst of this damned cold, but it is still there when I am weary. I want to stay in bed a little longer - my feet are like ice, my nose and throat are dry and my head is aching.

"Holmes? Will you get up? Lestrade is expecting us and it is quarter to ten now. Come on! It is high time that you roused yourself."

"Not so loud please John," I groan.

He approaches my bed to sit at my side and pulls away my coverlets to look into my face. "You do not look well. You are also congested by the sound of you."

"I am still waking up John."

"You should have went to bed when I told you," he retorts with a wag of his finger. "You should also have not had so much port; I am not at all surprised that you are feeling unwell. You should -"

"Attishoo! Ah-ashoo!" Ow. I am dreadfully thirsty. Perhaps I should have had some water last night.

He pats my shoulder but is clearly rather more annoyed than sympathetic. "Bless you. You should learn to listen Holmes."

I am all right. "I just need to wake up - really John."

He hums quietly. "I should see that Doctor Watson is all right. He has also been somewhat unwell and he was just as foolish as you were last night."

I sniff and wrap my muffler about my sore, dry throat. "We had company, if you recall. What would you have us do? Abandon the inspector and retire to our beds as soon as we had eaten?"

He grumbles. "Dress warmly when you get up. You feel the cold keenly enough when you are well."

"I assure you I am quite all right," I snap back at him, causing my throat to protest and set me coughing. I do not need to be bossed and bullied by a well-meaning robot that does not even know what pain or illness is like.

His shoulders slump. "Forgive me Holmes. I did not mean to upset you. I shall check on Doctor Watson and then make you some tea. Would you like some tea?"

The moment that the concerned compudroid has left the room, Briar is up on my bed. He is a big dog and quite heavy, but he is warm and gives me much more comfort than a hot water bottle would. Perhaps I would not feel so dreadful if the setter was permitted to sleep at the foot of my bed. I shall suggest as much to the robot when he returns with my morning cup of tea.

Watson is also tired and unwell, John informs me when he brings me a breakfast tray. All the same, he also insists that he is well enough to go visiting. He will never change.

When we go out to the car, my Boswell seems less sure of himself. He touches my arm and quietly asks if we could walk, as he often does, but there is some urgency in his tone on this occasion.

"What ever is the matter?" I ask of him. "You know that the car will be much quicker - to say nothing of the warmth and comfort that it offers - why would you prefer to walk?"

He shrugs his shoulders, but I can see that he is still somewhat nervous.

"Are you feeling ill? Is your digestion upset?"

"No, it is nothing of that sort. It is only..." he shakes his head and squares his shoulders. "I shall be all right. You are quite right of course - it will be much better for us in the car."

"If you are quite sure." I cannot help feeling concerned - I have not seen my dear friend like this in at least a month and had thought that he was getting over his fear of flying cars.

He smiles and touches my arm before scrambling into the front passenger seat beside John while Briar and I take to the back.

It does not take long for me to begin to understand my Boswell's apprehension. The wind is strong and blows snowflakes all about us, despite the clear sky overhead. To say the least, conditions are treacherous and still some drivers insist on driving at the usual speeds. I am myself becoming nervous, though I use all my powers to maintain a confident façade while I grip my seat.

In the front passenger seat, my dear old friend is tense. On every occasion a motorist comes too close or overtakes too quickly he gives a gasp and flinches. Poor Watson! I suspect that this experience is going to set him back somewhat.

We have not gone very far before the sky becomes grey and snow begins to swirl about us, causing John to reduce our speed still further.

"Is everyone all right?" our friend asks with concern as he continues to focus on the road.

"Yes thank you," I assure him in my most confident tone. "Briar and I are fine. Watson?"

He makes rather an odd sound and shifts in his seat. "I am all right, though I shall be very glad to be able to get out," says he in a somewhat strained tone. Poor fellow! He is clearly very frightened.

"Would closing your eyes help?" John asks him. "Perhaps you should rest your eyes."

He shakes his head. "That would appear to make matters worse. At least I can see what is happening when my eyes are open."

I do know what he means. Poor Watson! I wish I could do something to help him.

When we reach Lestrade's apartment, we are terribly late. I help my old friend out onto the crunchy, snow-encrusted pavement while John informs our hostess that we have arrived. He then leads us through the little entryway and into the lift.

It is while we are standing still that I realise that Watson is in some discomfort, though he is doing his utmost to disguise it. He is shifting his weight on his feet in much the way that I do when I am trying to be polite. I gently touch his arm as an indication that I know what is amiss but remain silent.

John realises soon afterward. "I thought you paid a visit before we went out to the car," says he with a reproachful frown.

My old friend grimaces and stamps his feet. "I have a cold and I have been nervous. It is not the best of combinations."

I squeeze his arm gently. "Lestrade has a very modern attitude - she would not be offended if you immediately ask her -"

"I could not do that Holmes. Thank you for your concern but I shall be all right."

"Do you know where the lavatory is?" John quietly enquires.

"If you would be so good as to distract our hostess, John, I shall show Watson where it is," I interject. "There is no need to embarrass the chap. Ah. Here is Lestrade's floor."

We step out into the passage and John takes Briar's leash and the remaining presents from yesterday and leads the way to Lestrade's door while I remain at Watson's side. There is little that I can do to alleviate his suffering but I can at least offer my support. I know how unnerving it is to have a body that one has not grown into and it is worse still when that body is ill, for it then does not behave quite as it should.

John is already talking with the inspector, describing the weather and driving conditions. She immediately grimaces and asks my friend of old how he is as we step inside.

"I am all right," my polite companion responds. "I simply need a moment to compose myself; would you excuse me?"

While Lestrade busies herself with tea things (with an extra pair of hands volunteered from John), I show my friend to the tiny all-in-one bathroom that I have been informed is called a wetroom.

My Victorian sensibilities still protest that a lavatory should never be kept in the same room as a bath or shower, but these modern homes are too small to have two separate rooms. Lestrade has insisted (on more than one occasion) that this arrangement is perfectly sanitary, but I have never liked the idea of tending to one requirement while being reminded of the other; that was simply never considered to be healthy in my - our - day.

Watson hesitates a moment and then thanks me and steps inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Knowing my friend to now be all right, I turn my steps in the direction of the small kitchen area to discover that Lestrade has a cup of tea waiting for me.

"Is Watson OK?" she asks of me. "He didn't look too good."

I nod and sip at my drink. "The driving conditions unnerved him. I cannot say that I blame him either; I was not exactly comfortable myself."

She grimaces. "Poor Watson. If you were scared, he must've been terrified!"

"I was most certainly not scared!" I hiss back at her. "And I shall thank you for not suggesting as much in front of Watson; he would not respond well if he thought that these cars also frighten me - we have always drawn courage from one another."

She smiles. "I understand. Look, if the weather doesn't let up before nightfall, you can stay the night - you know the couch 'n' armchairs fold out into beds and I've still got a charger here for John. And Briar won't be any trouble."

"Very well then - if you are sure."

"I am," she assures me. "That old house o' yours lets the cold in, anyhow, and you 'n' Watson 're still sick. Maybe you should stay here 'til your colds 're gone."

We are not that unwell! All the same, the house will most assuredly feel colder after spending the day in this luxuriously warm apartment.

"Lunch'll be ready pretty soon - about an hour our so, probably," my friend says. "John's gonna give me a hand with it. Why don't you 'n' Watson go curl up on the couch with the throws I left out? You can watch some TV or something while I neglect you."

I must confess that it is very tempting. I did not sleep restfully last night, having become too weary to remain restful or even comfortable, and the thought of a siesta in a warm sitting room is a welcome one.

"Come on Sherlock."

She takes my arm and leads me through to her tiny sitting room just as Watson is entering it from the wetroom. He has washed his face and is looking better.

"Come sit down Watson," the inspector suggests. "I'm sorry you guys had a rough journey. You both look kinda tired 'n' I don't blame you. Come on, curl up on the couch. Want something warm 'round you? Sure? Well, I'll leave you these fleece throws in case you change your mind - they were meant to make the place look more Christmassy, but they should be pretty warm 'n' cosy if you want a blanket."

The two of us are quickly made comfortable on Lestrade's settee with the back set to recline and our feet up on its inbuilt foot rests.

"There you are; I bet that feels better. I'll just go get your tea that I made you Watson."

"Thank you Inspector. You are very kind."

I give a sigh as the irritating woman rushes off to the kitchen. I should be - I am - grateful to Lestrade. All the same, I do wish that she would not fuss; colds are not considered at all serious in this era and she must surely know that we are both quite recovered.

"Are you all right Holmes?"

I nod and rub a hand across my eyes. "Tired is all."

"Yes, we did have rather a... Huh... Hashoosh!" he groans and sniffs as he retrieves his handkerchief from his sleeve. "Excuse me. We did have rather a late night; perhaps John was right when he said that we should have retired sooner..."

"Really Watson! It would not have been polite to ask Lestrade to leave early. Besides, we can make up for our late night by resting now."

I had not heard Lestrade coming back with the tea. She looks a little upset.

"I would've went if you'd said you needed to rest," she informs us. "I would've understood; I know you're still getting better."

"Never the less..."

She gives me the ghost of a smile and touches my arm. "Did you want another drink?"

"No thank you." I would not be able to remain restful if I drink too much and I know that well enough.

We begin to watch television, but my eyes are weary and I am unable to keep them open. I am soon quietly dozing, listening to the film with half an ear.

When I awake I feel better - brighter and less congested. There is music playing in the kitchen and I listen to it intently. It is a modern Christmas song that I am unfamiliar with - one that describes what it is like to be out walking on a cold, wet night and then coming home to a lit fire and companionship. Yes, I can relate to that - a friend can indeed make any day feel like Christmas.

Watson is quietly snoring beside me and I ensure that he is warm enough - an old habit from the days when his leg and shoulder would become troublesome if he did not keep warm, for he never did take nearly as much care of himself as he did of me. I then get to my feet and go through to the little kitchen.

Lestrade is busy ensuring that the turkey is dead by poking it with a knife when I enter the hot, stuffy room. She looks up briefly and grins at me.

"Hi Sherlock! Feel better?"

I nod and narrow my eyes. "Yes. Thank you. Ha... Ha-ha..."

"Something funny?"

"N-n- Ah..." I spin on the spot so that I have my back to her and pluck my handkerchief from my pocket. "Ashoo! Eeishoo!"

"Aw zed," she gazes up at me when I turn back again with a mumble of an apology. "It sounds like you're getting worse. Want some tablets?"

I shake my head. "I feel much better than I sound. Besides, Watson has often told me that one sneezes more when recovering from a cold."

"To rid oneself of the congestion, perhaps," muses John as he busies himself at the hob. "Now that you come to mention it, he is quite right in his observation."

Good! Perhaps they will not fret quite as much now. Really! They have seen me much worse than this; surely they must know that my condition is not severe.

"Did you want a drink?" Lestrade offers. "I got a sparkling wine to have with our lunch, so maybe you'd best not have any more tea. There 're fruit juices, sodas, mineral water and ginger beer..."

"Were you expecting an army to descend upon you?"

She laughs. "Not an army, no. My cousins were coming over for a few days, but they can't get through with all the snowstorms."

"Snow is such a damned nuisance," I grumble. "Even as a boy, I never much liked it."

"Huh, I always thought kids loved it."

Big houses were always dreadfully cold and draughty and my mother had a delicate constitution; snow, as a result, always caused my father to become pensive and bad tempered. No, I have never felt that there was very much to like about such weather and I certainly cannot remember ever playing in it as a child.

"Many do, I am sure."

"Did you catch cold easy?" she asks with a smirk.

I pierce her with a glare. "No, I most certainly did not. My constitution has always been a strong one."

"Then you must have had regular colds," John announces. "They may be unpleasant Holmes, but they do keep the immune system up-to-date and make it rather more difficult for nastier ailments to get through the defences. Think of them as being the human body's version of a computer's antivirus updates."

Robotic philosophy. It is a fine thing. "And yet you fuss if Watson or I so much as sneeze."

He shrugs his shoulders and turns his back to me. "I do not enjoy watching my friends suffer, that is all. Besides, there is still a very slender possibility of it becoming serious if you do not rest - which you both tend to conveniently forget."

"Pah!"

"I consider that argument won. I always know that you have ran out of ammunition when you make that noise."

"Irksome robot," I mutter. That is beneath me, but I am irritated and still (clearly) not quite myself.

He turns to glare at me. "Foolish human!"

"Guys! That's enough!" Lestrade steps between us. "Come on, it's Christmas Day; let's not fight, OK? Zed! Your Irregulars don't act like that."

That is very true; my Irregulars never fight between themselves. I apologise and turn to make my retreat.

"You should drink something," the Yarder says. "You've only had one cup o' tea since you got here and I'll bet you're thirsty. Maybe you'll feel a bit better, huh? Here, try this..."

I am given a glass of spiced fruit juice that would appear to have gold dust in it. Interesting.

"Don't disturb Watson," Lestrade warns me as I again turn toward the door. "Look, why don't you sit up to the counter? You'll probably get bored, watching Watson sleep, and I don't want you waking him up."

I grudgingly seat myself at the little breakfast bar and watch the cooking. The turkey, now confirmed to be dead, has been returned to the oven and the Yarder has retrieved a small box from the cupboard on the wall.

"Think you could make up some stuffing, Holmes?"

"What with?" I mumble as I look about me at the rather empty unit tops. "Do you have a recipe book?"

She laughs. "For stuffing? Are you kidding? You don't need a cookbook for stuffing - it's easy!"

It is absurdly simple as it turns out - a mere matter of mixing a packet of instant stuffing with boiled water and some butter. However, I very much doubt that it will be as tasty as John's stuffing - or Mrs. Hudson's, for that matter. Packet foods rarely are as good as homemade dishes made of fresh ingredients.

With the stuffing in the oven, I return to my seat. The Yarder then tells us of her cousins, with whom she stayed while she was training in America. She goes on to tell of New York winters and Thanksgiving dinners, her descriptions causing me to long to visit the country (as I so often did in my youth, for I have always longed to see the place). I am somewhat envious of the inspector.

"Are the western areas still wild, as it was in my day?" I ask of her. "Or has it been tamed?"

She smirks at me. "Such a romantic! No, it's not so wild these days, but there are parts that are still hard places to live in - especially if you're used to English climates. The winters are a lot colder over there - they get a lot o' snow."

"As we did here in my era," I retort. "The weather would not bother me so very much; the problem in Britain is the shortage of adequately warm clothing when the weather is cold - as your uniform demonstrates."

"Yeah, I guess so."

I wipe at my nose and sniff. "If America has harder winters, I am sure that the clothing is rather the more sensible. Perhaps I should shop there for winter garments."

"It is a place that Holmes longs to visit," John explains to her.

"Maybe we can take a vacation there," the Yarder muses. "I've got family in the States - and in Canada - maybe we could go visit them. Well, if you'd like to join me."

Why would I not? "I should like to meet your family. When I am rather more agreeable, of course."

She shrugs. "Nobody's great company when they're sick; it isn't your fault. Are you hungry?"

"A little." In actual fact I am absolutely starving, but politeness dictates that I do not say as much.

"I expect you'll feel better once you've eaten," she predicts with a knowing smile. "Maybe you'll be better company then."

I hope so. I do not like to be an ungracious guest and I know that I have been behaving very badly. The manner in which John is looking at me informs me that he is also well aware of that and far from approves.

With no further tasks to occupy me I return to Watson's side and attempt to return to slumber - but cannot. I am not able to wind down as Watson is and I am dreadfully restless. If this is what I am like without having partaken of cocaine or morphine, what the deuce was I like in my own era?

When lunch is served, it comes as a relief. Digesting might help me to wind down, if only a little. Oh! But the spread is marvellous! Turkey, stuffing, pigs in blankets, red cabbage in red sauce (I am not very sure of the cabbage, but I shall at least try some), roast potatoes and parsnip. Accompanying the meal is the sparkling wine that Lestrade mentioned and a choice of sauces.

I enjoy the meal. Even after the large Christmas dinner that we had last night, I am starving - more than likely due to the cold night spent in my bedroom - and I even try the red cabbage (and discover that the method of cooking it in vinegar, sugar and spices much improve the flavour).

When dinner is over, Lestrade pours us each a whisky topped with ginger beer (which she calls a whisky mac) and we sit around the little tree in her living area quietly sipping at our drinks and chatting idly, as we would have done with her ancestor in our day.

"Now," the Yarder sets aside her glass and stands. "Presents."

Briar wags his tail and holds up a paw hopefully.

"Aw, look!" Lestrade pets the little chap. "He knows the word. Isn't he cute?"

Cute indeed! "He is certainly clever."

She huffs. "I'll bring Briar's presents in. They're in the kitchen, aren't they John?"

"Yes, they are. But I could get them."

She shakes her head. "You're my guest. I only let you help out in the kitchen because you insisted. No, sit down 'n' relax."

Lestrade rather unwisely sets Briar's gifts down on the floor in a pile beside the tree while she pulls out her presents for John, Watson and myself from beneath the branches. The dog helps himself, tearing his parcels open and scattering paper all over the room in his excitement as he charges about in circles.

"Hey! Briar! Sit! Sit Briar!" Dratted dog!

He sits, but only because he is trying to open a bag of dog chocolate. John quickly grabs him and takes it away.

"Bad dog!" he scolds. "If you will not listen you will not have any treats. Naughty dog! Yes, you might well hang your head in shame."

The dog sobs beneath his breath and then begins to cry as he gazes mournfully at Watson and I.

"He just got excited John," Lestrade says. "Yelling and over reacting isn't gonna teach him how to behave. Here, gimme his leash."

The Yarder sits the dog down beside her and pets him gently. "Look how good you're being," she says softly. "This is good. This is very good. See John? No need to yell at him; you can give him a treat now he's being good - that's how you train 'em."

I am impressed and say as much. I am accustomed to dogs that are already trained, but have never had to train one myself.

She shrugs and blushes. "My aunt in the States had a labrador retriever - they're working dogs too. Working dogs need a lot o' stimulation. Ha! Like you, Holmes."

I shall ignore that.

"Anyway, now that Briar's calmed down, maybe you can open your presents now. Watson, here's yours..."

Lestrade has bought him a box of games - some of which I recognise, like chess, while some I do not. The set is wooden and is clearly very special. It should certainly keep all three of us occupied (and also the inspector, when she visits us).

John's present is a book about crafts. Like me, the Yarder has clearly felt that he should find a hobby for his own enjoyment (though I am not at all sure about some of the skills that it teaches - I may be old fashioned, but I consider needlework and knitting to be women's work).

Then comes my present. It is apparently a shared gift, like Watson's, and it is also in a box that has been brightly wrapped in Christmas-themed paper. As I take it, I am warned not to shake the box and to set it down to open it.

What the deuce can it be? I am almost afraid to open it, in case something is about to jump out. The only creature that I can think of that might survive in a box without food is a snake - and I do not care for the things.

With hands that I cannot quite keep from trembling I unwrap the present and uncover a plain cardboard box. Still I have no idea what might be concealed within, but there are no airholes. A snake would need airholes, surely?

"Come on, Sherlock! Zed! You don't have to be that careful."

Slowly, cautiously, I unseal one flap. I then pick away the tape on the second. Within is a very old, battered violin case.

"I hope it's OK," Lestrade says softly. "I was told that it's in great condition. The case isn't much to look at, but..."

She is saying something about being unable to find a new case for the instrument, but I am not really listening. I am far too busy unfastening the lid of said case. What lies inside is beautiful! It is not my old violin, but it is quite probably in better condition.

Carefully, with a reverence that I have never felt quite like this, I pick up the violin - a beauty of a Stradivarius - and begin to tune it. I then apply rosin (she even remembered the rosin!) to the bow.

Some skills fade with a lack of usage, but others are never forgotten. My playing is not what it was, but I do remember how the instrument should be held and I am slowly beginning to recall how the notes are best achieved.

I first play a piece that I composed for Watson (I shall never forget that song) and then I attempt the Red Weed for Lestrade. To me, it sounds even more atmospheric on the violin than it does when coming from a synthesiser.

Each piece sounds better and comes more naturally than the last and I play on and on until my fingers, arms and neck protest so much that I fear that I might drop this treasure and I (grudgingly) return it to its case.

"That was beautiful Sherlock," the Yarder whispers. "I'll bet you're tired though; you aren't used to playing like that, are you? Come 'n' sit down. That's it. Want a drink? Another ginger mac?"

"Yes please. And... thank you. I did not - I never would have... Thank you. I know not how to..."

She takes my hand and squeezes it as she smiles at me. "It was my pleasure. Merry Christmas."

I return her smile warmly and then pull her into an embrace almost before I know quite what I am doing. I do not usually 'cuddle' anyone. "Merry Christmas," I whisper back to her.

"How ever did you find a violin in such wonderful condition?" Watson asks.

She smiles. "I've got my methods y'know. I got Holmes his place back didn't I?"

"The house was empty," I retort.

She shrugs and smirks at me. "I've got connections, OK? Winters has got some pretty powerful friends too - one o' his friends from Uni is our Prime Minister's right hand man."

Fascinating. "And how is Winters?" I ask of her. "Have you heard from him?"

She smiles. "Yeah and he's fine. Well, not fine exactly, but he's a lot better 'n' he's in good hands."

That is good news. I must confess that he has not been from my mind since John and I rescued him from that storm drain.

"Maybe we could go visit him tomorrow," the Yarder suggests. "If you feel well enough and he's up to seeing visitors, anyway. What d'you say?"

It is an excellent idea. I should like very much to see the children again as well and I say as much.

Lestrade hands me a drink and we then settle down to play a game from Watson's box, while the snow continues to fall outside. We might well have to spend the night here, but I already know that it would not harm the lady's reputation and if she has no objections then neither do I. Who am I, after all, to complain? Especially when the company is good and the setting warm and comfortable.