This is a sugary Christmas treat and nothing more, so if you want a serious read please skip this chapter, (actually if you only 'seriously read' ACD Holmes then you should never have found yourself in 'My Dear Miss Watson' at all!)
December 1896
A small grey shell button, with the fine silk threading still intact, lay precariously on our top stair and I wearily wondered what mischief had caused its abandonment as I plucked it from oblivion.
Holmes never shed bits of his clothing, ever.
Indeed Holmes never lost anything; excluding of course his deerstalker hat and only then since the Padget illustrations had popularised it. I kept finding it stuffed in various odd locations and eventually buried in our coal shed. However everything else stayed with him as a constant.
On-the-contrary, I was forever the White Queen, leaving half of my bits about the place and losing the other half whilst tearing after Holmes through the streets of London. Of course my long suffering husband pretended never to notice I was missing anything, unless of course it interfered directly with a case, then he would loudly bemoan 'female adornments' and send me packing until I found whatever it was I had lost again.
Everything in his world was expected not to deviate, despite being ridiculously placed, everything behaved correctly and deliberately or miraculously never lost itself for long. I have known Sherlock Holmes sit amongst piles of paper, spread across our rugs, quite contented that whatever he was urgently looking for was happily where he had last placed it, wherever that was.
This deliberate expectation of everything being present applied especially to clothing and as such my husband was patron to the finest gentleman's tailor in London; a privilege passed down by generations and acquired by right of birth and current character. Mr Soloman was the type of tailor where one was thoroughly investigated before eventually being allowed to cross his threshold and even then there was an interview by his junior staff and the possibility of being thrown back out on the streets again. A century of references was what counted to Mr Soloman, a calling card, (no matter how much gold leaf embossed it) was frowned upon and discarded. His creations certainly never 'shed' or indeed fell apart, they lasted for eternity. Indeed on one infamous occasion Holmes had spared Sargent Peterson a fall off the parapet of London Bridge by throwing his tailored jacket as a lifeline. Peterson had hung onto the garment for hours.
Both the Holmes brothers rather excelled in the fine art of dressing entirely immaculate; contrasting with the atmosphere of widespread chaos that reigned about them and consequently striving to redeem methodical order back to civilisation and especially the great British Empire. They were certainly anomalous.
Therefore, as the unthinkable had occurred I braced myself as I entered our sitting room.
He sat on the writing table next to the main window, sheets of discarded paper lay scattered at his feet and a neat pile, (which no doubt was a new monograph) was being neatly stacked next to his elbow.
"I say Holmes, you dropped this," I feigned nonchalance as I tossed it across to him, "it looks as though it belongs to your waistcoat?"
At first he looked at the button with some confusion, (admittedly a rare expression for him) and then he gazed further downwards, pitifully pulling at his clothing, then upwards again and in my direction, a look of slight horror now seized his features. "You are correct, it does belong to me!"
I quickly scanned his midriff, "bottom buttonhole, I am afraid it rather appears to have burst off."
He looked downwards again and his beautiful long fingers continued to prod the empty space, "yes, the garment has shrank, have you been attempting to wash my clothing again Jane?"
"Good-lord no, not after that 'winter trouser' incident last year, in fact never again. I fear I am rather scarred for life old chap! Should Mrs Hudson pop-off I am afraid you will soon follow, rotted to death in your filthy clothing and your righteous views of laundry. I myself will survive with scrubbing my belongings in a simple basin and thus proving the basic theory in Charles Darwin's 'Origin of the Species'.
"The destruction of my Harris trousers was not an unassuming 'incident,' and considering you are a female of Scottish origin, I simply do not comprehend your ignorance in valeting tweed, especially concerning the fabrics natural aversion to both hot water and carbolic soap."
"I was removing blood stains at the time, fibres in fabrics were far from my thoughts and if I can remember correctly, you took advantage from your lack of trousers and my subsequent feelings of guilt for days. Never-the-less, I will never again touch your sacred trousers or indeed your jacket, both of which now appear to be suffering from a corresponding shrink as that waistcoat. I rather fear that it is you expanding as opposed to everything else shrinking."
"Surely not?" He stood up and breathed in sharply, patting his stomach and squaring his arms.
"You see, I am right. You are gaining pounds, I would say you are looking rather healthy for a change, perhaps it has something to do with that half-eaten Christmas pudding next to you and that sponge cake behind it, you have two people feeding you. Of course I cooked the pudding myself using my own ingredients, however Mrs Hudson has taken my venturing into her kitchen as a challenge and is now experimenting with all her old recipes. Yesterday it was goose and berry pies, the day before I believe it was peach fruitcake, today she has deliberately placed that lemon and cinnamon sponge next to my pudding. You are enjoying your food again and have a taste for the exotic, she is employing that to exceed me."
"Good-god you are right, I am turning into Mycroft!" His face went ashen as he fell back into his chair.
"Oh come now, it cannot be as bad as all that?"
He looked sharply at me, "it could be I am gaining weight through sheer survival at the utter exhaustion of matrimony."
"Absolute poppycock! You have no complaints so you shan't blame me, I am certainly not stuffing the food into your mouth. You are simply eating healthy and happily for a change."
He sighed and patted his stomach again, "I am not starving myself to keep the mind keen, so of course my body has now surrendered to the inevitable monotony of domestic bliss. It appears I am content and thus indulgent."
I stood in frustration, "would it be such a crime to admit that you are now enjoying your meals, especially when I am cooking more of them?"
"It is hardly surprising, Mrs Hudson's cold curried chicken holds little hope against your roast beef in red wine and walnuts. You have less culinary talent then our good housekeeper yet a more tantalising imagination with ingredients. It certainly does not help that you have started experimenting with puddings, that apple and blackberry was a sinful luxa-"he abruptly stopped and wrapped his arms around himself. "Good-god, I even sound like my brother."
"No Holmes, you are not turning into Mycroft, you are just converting to normalcy. Look, you have only taken a large slice but not the whole pudding and have even neglected to add a cream dressing. As you are rather fond of saying, 'we are over theorising a simple problem' and perhaps we need to order a new set of clothes to fit your now healthy physique?"
He sniffed in distaste, "I rather like my old wardrobe."
"Then I will announce my resignation from the kitchen and declare Mrs Hudson the winner, you will go back to picking at your dinners and enduring periods of starvation."
He shifted uneasily in his seat and tossed me another pitiful look, "perhaps not until after Christmas, you know she has ordered a brace of pheasants, they are hanging on the back door with some twigs."
"Twigs?"
"Yes twigs, ones that smell of your closet."
"Have you been in my closet again, I do hope you are not removing more of my undergarments?" I rubbed my hands together in delight, "so she has pheasant and rosemary planned for Christmas dinner, my-my that is rather a tempting treat, I shall have to think of something equally delicious to beat her. Of course she gave us that three years ago for Boxing Day, do you remember, we had just returned from Norfolk. We had it with port, parsnips and pickled pears. "
"I remember being in a rather foul mood at the time."
"'Foul', was that a pun or are you serious?" He was ignoring me, looking into the distance, "oh-yes you were in a temper, it snowed like the devil, the train was delayed and we had to spend Christmas in Great Witchingham, it was horrible… Holmes, are you even listening?"
His expression had changed and he seemed to be engrossed in his own thoughts, the little button was turning in his hand, threading neatly through his fingers. When he looked upwards, the grey eyes recognised me only momentarily, however they moved quickly across my body, slowly absorbing every part of my frame and eventually settling on my chest. He bit his lip and his cheeks appeared to slightly redden.
This was an odd combination of both desire and guilt and I attempted to fathom what was going through his mind when I suddenly remembered that night in Norfolk with greater clarity, that hungry look and the thoughts of clothes abruptly sparked my memory. The shame of an incident that had been buried for years returned anew and my face also reddened.
"Good-god I have just remembered. That was the night you accidentally wandered into my bedroom by mistake, you were lost." I turned to face him as a thought occurred, "that's what you told me, you were lost?"
His face reddened a little deeper.
"I always assumed you disinterested, but you have since shown some considerable interest. Perhaps you were not lost after all Holmes?"
He was still starring but slowly shook his head.
"I should have known, a Holmes never loses anything, especially himself."
His face changed again, a small wicked smile took over.
"You never took a wrong turn at all! Indeed you deliberately burst into my room that night, just at that vital moment when I was thoroughly undressed."
He had mercifully moved those grey eyes and began a study of his fingernails, (a habit of his when feeling both self-satisfied and guilty.)
"Admit it Holmes!"
"It was ridiculously simple to both plot and accomplish Watson, staging the misunderstanding and fooling you afterwards was child's play, so one cannot blame a fellow for taking the open opportunity. You should lock your doors old girl, I am forever reminding you of that fact, lock doors and cover keyholes, you know it almost got you hanged once."
"And trust?"
"Trust no one, I taught you a valuable lesson that night and reminded you of how hazardous open doors can be, you were becoming careless again."
"But I-I was completely-completely naked. I was desperately trying to cover myself with my arms and wot-not, a bit difficult as I never even had so much as a hair clip to cover my modesty!"
"Yes. I remember."
"You are an absolute cad! This is not funny, I am now terribly cross, terribly cross! O-oh but not as cross as you pretended to be, you were fuming at the time! You hypocrite! You actually snapped at me to cover myself and stormed out of the room again, not before you had a proper gander." I now sat on the floor in sheer disbelief, "I was totally mortified and-and horribly ashamed and you were irritable for days. I still believed you to be an outright introvert and indeed actually felt sincere compassion for you!'
"Would it help if I told you that I was examining your body for wounds and bruises caused by your fall from the train?"
"That was a mere slip on the snow as well you know."
"Arh- you seem to be remembering the entire venture with more lucidity now."
My face had advanced to scorching, "this is not right, such behaviour was morally wrong, indeed even unlawful Holmes! I- I could have had you arrested."
"On what charge?"
"Well, for something."
He looked at his nails again.
"For voyeurism! There is a law against that, I think. I am serious Holmes, you ought to be absolutely ashamed of yourself."
"No-doubt Lestrade would have relished taking down all the details of said crime in that notebook of his." He turned away, examined the pudding and moved the cake forward, considering which to attack next. Then deliberately pushing the cake aside he took the last portion of pudding onto his spoon, popping it in his mouth and then making a dramatic show of tasting it. "Delicious, absolutely no need for dressing with something so beautiful and tempting. The cherries were admittedly a little small, but quite ripe. Yes that fruit was defiantly desirable and ready for picking, sheer sumptuousness, it was well worth a little sacrifice to experience." he patted his stomach once more.
"Are you using that pudding as a metaphor?"
He made a snorting sound that I understood as his sharp laughter, "in my defense hunger has been known to drive a fellow insane and often results in thieving treats."
"Nonsense and do stop looking at me like that, you will never be forgiven for this, ever. You do realise how much of a pig you can sometimes be."
"It appears I can, however unlike the Sherlock Holmes of The Strand I will readily admit to the weakness and do not pretend pre-eminence. Like this little button, I often reach my limit and have been known to fall."
"Well you can fall away for all I care. I am not concerning myself with either you or your clothes." I picked myself off the floor and dumped myself onto the settee, kicking at a cushion for extra emphasis.
"Ah-well perhaps my clothing may fit again if I am forced to face a future of starvation, a pity as my world has recently been full of such tempting delights as these," he skimmed his spoon through the air encompassing his now empty plate and myself. "Particularly when such treats are now continuously on offer," his eyes were dancing despite my poor mood. "As for the sins of my past; I have always maintained, even in my more ardent times, that no matter how much a fellow deprives himself, he deserves to treat or two at Christmas."
"I am not a 'treat' Holmes. I would have hoped, despite being a hopeless misogynist that you held me in a little higher regard."
"My dear Watson, you are far more than a mere 'treat.' His voice had changed, a note of sincere solemnness and even emotion tinted the beautiful modulation, "you have always been my indulgence, my certainty and also my sustenance. I do realise how entirely fortunate I am to have been privileged with your presence, aided by your help and enriched by your companionship." He was clearly placating me and I now considered wither to allow myself to fall for it again. "Indeed it is a pleasure each day to experience such camaraderie and I feel rather honoured to behold your- well…" he seemed to run short of steam here, realising that his true preoccupation of thoughts had lead him to choose an erroneous sentence direction and he desperately attempted to right himself. "Well behold your-" now he was eagerly scanning me to find something of significance to 'behold' and that was entirely innocent, he eventually shrugged, looked down at his plate again for inspiration and spread his hands apart in inevitable resignation, "your small cherries?"
… the cushion did manage to clip his left shoulder as he dived for cover.
"Dash-it Watson" said a slightly pitiable voice from behind the refuge of an armchair, "I think I have just lost an additional set of trousers. Something has most defiantly split apart and I rather doubt it was another button."
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As usual I apologise for my poor spelling and rather hope people do not take my scribbling too seriously.
Merry Christmas Tegan.