Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Mr Sherlock Holmes has one New Year's Tradition, and Dr John H Watson is about to find out what it is.
I am slowly getting through these!
"Holmes?" I called. He didn't respond.
I slowly climbed up the stairs, gripping the handrail and cursing the freezing rain outside, which had always made my wounds ache terribly. It was New Year's Eve, and I had just come in from a longer than usual shift at the hospital, offering extra help with the flu that was going around. I had done the same last year, still too sore over the loss of my beautiful Mary to attend any of the holiday parties we had previously attended together, and they had been so grateful for the help I had promised them to return this year as well.
"Holmes?" I called again, more softly this time. It was quite late, almost midnight, and if Holmes had actually managed to fall asleep I didn't want to disturb him. It seemed unlikely, for he nearly always waited up for me to come home just as I did for him, but unlikely was not impossible.
It occurred to me that Holmes could be out, but I almost immediately dismissed it. In all the time I had known him, Holmes had never attended a New Year's party, always waving off my invitations for him to join me at whatever event I was attending. Unless a new case had come up in the time I had been out, Holmes would not have left.
I finally dragged myself into the sitting room, disappointed but not surprised to find it empty. My disappointment only grew when I noticed the embers still burning in the grate. Holmes had clearly not long gone to bed, meaning I had only barely missed him. Still, my wanting for some company to ring in the New Year was not reason enough to wake Holmes from well-deserved rest.
"Watson?" Holmes stepped out of his bedroom, holding a pouch in one hand.
"Holmes!" A smile came effortlessly to my face, the wearisome night feeling much brighter just for the presence of my dear friend. "I thought you'd gone to bed."
He came to my side, helping me out of my drenched coat and stoking the fire back to brightness as I collapsed into my chair. "Not yet, Watson, not until midnight."
"I didn't think you celebrated." My teeth chattered with the cold, and I held my hands closer to the fire. I could still hear the rain thundering down on the cobblestones outside, and my old wounds began to ache anew. I winced, rubbing at my shoulder. Afghanistan seemed so far away from London's freezing winters, yet the pain was still very present.
Holmes looked at me with what I thought to be concern, but did not comment. Instead, he said, "I have a little tradition, that's all. On New Year's Eve, just before midnight, I add a certain chemical mix to my fireplace and watch the flames until they die."
"Dying away like the old year?" I asked. It appealed to my romantic nature, the idea of burning away the old year to welcome the new one in, though it was not something I ever would have expected of Holmes.
He hummed softly, taking up the small pouch he'd had earlier from where he'd left it on the mantle. "You do always see the poetry in things, Watson." He tipped some of the pouch's contents into his hand, sprinkling it onto the flames. Immediately, they began to burn a pale blue, flicking with unearthly beauty.
I watched in awe, barely noticing Holmes sink into his seat opposite mine. The flickering flames continued, colour not abating, and even as the clock struck midnight my fascination did not wane. Together, Holmes and I watched until the fires died down.
