26. From Ennui Enigma: What is Holmes' favourite Christmas Carol and why?

Watson, 1883

When left to his own devices, it was Holmes' custom to play notes on his violin that complemented his mood. A cluster of light, airy notes meant he was alert and cheerful, a listless drag across the strings indicated the onset of a black mood. When he was thinking on a case, I could often tell how well or how poorly it was going by the sounds that trailed from his instrument. I might have been tempted to rebel at these frequent solos, except he inevitably finished them with a whole series of my favorite airs by way of compensation. And, despite his personal feelings of the holiday, he had easily determined my favorite carols and played them during Christmastime.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said as the last notes of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen," faded away. "That has always been my favorite."

From the look on Holmes' face, he thought this was a spectacularly obvious statement, but with unusual tact, he did not say so.

Then a thought struck me. "Do you have a favorite carol?" I could not remember him ever initiating a carol that was not a favorite of mine, and as his musical interest extended only to the violin, I had never heard him whistle or hum one absentmindedly.

Holmes shrugged. "There are some that are more interesting to play, of course, but I have never listened to one for my own enjoyment."

For some reason, the thought struck me as unbearably sad.

Holmes

I knew at once from Watson's expression that my answer had disappointed him. I was not surprised by this, of course — I learned in our first Christmas together how much the season meant to him — but I was struck by the realization of how much I had changed in the two years of our partnership. Evidently, at some point along the road, I had begun to care what he thought of me, beyond what was necessary to keep him paying half of the rent.

"Perhaps it is time to give the matter some more thought," I added hastily. "After all, 'peace on earth and goodwill to men' is a worthy sentiment."

Watson's lips quirked. "You really think so, Holmes? I should think you would be bored."

I stood there staring as he went back to his medical journal, quite taken aback. Apparently, Watson knew me better than I thought. And had an alarmingly pawky sense of humor.

Watson, 1919

"Watson!" Holmes cried warmly. "I hardly thought to see you before the New Year!"

He welcomed me inside at once, and I stepped gratefully into the little cottage at Sussex Downs. The fire was crackling cheerfully, and it was a welcome change from the cold and dismal front lines where I had spent four years. Even a full year after my return home, places like this, warm and cheerful, still seemed unreal, a time before the world had been so profoundly marred.

"I wish you had told me you were coming. I would have come to meet you at the station."

I could not help but smile. "I did not take the train, Holmes. I drove my new automobile."

He made a face, but nobly refrained from comment. Instead he led me into the sitting room and took my coat and hat. "I am very sorry that I have no food prepared. I will call up Mrs. Smythe at once and let her know of your arrival." I knew that Mrs. Smythe, though not as brave and patient as the inestimable Mrs. Hudson, was Holmes' current housekeeper. He bustled off into the next room, and I heard him speaking over the telephone. A few moments later, he returned. "Supper will be in about an hour. If you wish to rest from your journey…"

I demurred; it had been far too long since I had last seen my friend. Without the need for prodding, I sat in my customary seat by the fire. Holmes sat down opposite, and for some time afterwards, we spoke idly of everything that had occurred in the last few months. Holmes inquired after Violet, and I was able to pass along my wife's best wishes.

"I am surprised that she allowed you to visit so close to Christmas," Holmes said with a smile, and I laughed.

"She is indeed among the best of women."

Dinner was excellent; we passed much of the time in comfortable silence, and Holmes uncorked a bottle of particularly excellent Bordeaux to celebrate the occasion. At last, as we pushed away our empty plates, Holmes spoke.

"You will be glad to know, Watson, that I have finally acquired a favorite Christmas carol."

"Indeed?" I asked, much surprised. I vaguely remembered that we had discussed this shortly after we had met, but I hardly had expected Holmes to retain a memory of the conversation, particularly in light of the many things that had happened since. "Which one, old fellow?"

In answer, Holmes stood and vanished into his bedroom. When he returned, he held his violin.

"I believe," he said in answer to my look of concern — his arthritis had become quite bad in recent years — "that my fingers can withstand a single song."

And as I settled back into my chair, he began to play. Stiffness or no, Holmes' fingers still retained some of their old magic. In the tender caress of the music, I was carried back to 1914 and the single bright spot among the chaos and death that had surrounded me.

Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright…

"Are you alright, dear fellow?" Holmes asked gently as the notes finally faded away, and I realized that my cheeks were wet. "I did not intend…"

"It was beautiful, Holmes," I said softly but with feeling. "You must have practiced for days before my arrival."

Holmes shrugged that off even as he flexed his fingers. "No trouble at all, my dear fellow. I have actually found that my bees are calmer when I play the violin near to their hives; I am considering doing so more often."

I smiled at his attempt to deflect my gratitude; evidently that habit had not changed. "I must admit, however, that I would not have thought that "Silent Night" was your favorite carol. It seems too…simple to appeal to your tastes."

Holmes looked down as his violin. "It marked a day when you were safe," he said after a moment. "The only day of all that horrible war."

"Holmes…" I could not say more. So rarely was Holmes willing to admit to the softer emotions, or even speak of them. A warmth filled my stomach that had nothing to do with the crackling fire.

A/N: Look up the Christmas Truce of 1914. It's an incredibly beautiful story, and I couldn't resist adding in this reference. Funny how I fumed at how difficult this prompt was and then went and wrote something three times as long as normal…