"My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms." - Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter
Holmes' face scrunched at Watson's declaration. He glanced at the calendar Mrs. Hudson had hung on the wall and then back at his friend. Hesitantly, he took the large package out of Watson's hands, feeling it was relatively lightweight.
"Are you certain?" he asked. "Today is my birthday?"
Watson laughed, a genuine smile on his face. "I am your biographer, Holmes. Of course I know what day you birthday falls on, though it doesn't surprise me you have forgotten. Why else do you think Mrs. Hudson made you sweetbread and didn't scold you for having such a horrible smelling experiment going today? Now don't keep me in suspense. Open your gift."
Holmes couldn't help himself, he grinned and put the gift down on the table. Seeing Watson so happy, especially in the winter when his leg and shoulder gave him near constant pain, made him happy, too. He still wasn't entirely certain today was his birthday, but he let a small smile play across his lips as he unwrapped the parcel nonetheless.
"Watson," he breathed as he saw what it contained, "this is… where did you find this?"
"On our last trip to Paris," Watson replied, still smiling. "You left me for two whole days to investigate on your own, remember? I had some time on my hands. I had it packaged and sent to Baker Street so you'd be none the wiser, and Mrs. Hudson has kept it downstairs for me so you'd not be suspicious. I suppose I wouldn't have needed to hide it at all, though, seeing as how you weren't aware there was any reason you'd be receiving a gift today." He chuckled.
"You have surprised me completely," Holmes said genuinely. "Thank you, Watson. This is... almost too much. It is genuine?"
"So I am assured. I may not have art in the blood like you do, but even I can tell that even if it's a forgery, it's a masterful one. And besides, who would want to forge a painting of your grandmother?"
"Painted by her Vernet, her brother," Holmes said. "It is magnificent."
"Yes. I knew you'd like it," said Watson with a proud smile.
"I adore it," said Holmes. "Wherever did you find it?"
"Believe it or not, it was completely by accident," Watson replied. "I spent some time in the museums while you were off galavanting about the city, and remembered what you'd said about your grandmother. So, I perused Vernet's works for some time, and was observed doing so. I was approached by a chap who asked me if I was an admirer of his. I said I was, and he and I talked about his paintings for some time. He invited me to lunch and later to his home. He showed me some paintings he owned, and when I saw this one I revealed the connection I had to you. I didn't name you, only mentioned I could see my friend's face in her. He named his price after I'd explained myself, and I purchased it after a little negotiation. As I said, I had it sent to London and Mrs. Hudson hid it for me."
"It is perfect, Watson," Holmes said. "Thank you, my dear friend. Do you really think I look like her?"
"Oh, absolutely," Watson said, "the eyes and nose are quite unmistakable."
Holmes frowned. "Her nose fits her face," he complained, "my own is far too long."
Watson chuckled, and Holmes gave him an insincere glare before chuckling himself.
Watson smiled sheepishly but warmly. "Many happy returns, Holmes."
Holmes' response was place the picture on the table and to pour them both an excellent wine.
"To your very good health, Holmes," Watson toasted.
"And to yours," Holmes replied, and they spent the evening in pleasant conversation. As the light fell and they lapsed into a comfortable silence, Holmes coaxed a tune out of his violin and floated around the room, half-watching snow fall outside. He played all of Watson's favorites until the man himself nodded off in his chair, warm and content by the fire.
Finished playing, Holmes reverently placed his new beloved portrait on the wall next to a painting Watson had acquired. The other was of bright field where it was always sunny and warm and flowers grew year-round. In the background, as if in an afterthought, a cottage stood nestled amongst the scenery. Holmes had scoffed at the romantic painting at first, but now he look at it with fondness. The two paintings looked good together, he decided. Belonged together, just like himself and Watson. Maybe there was something to be said for pleasant painting after all, though he decided to keep his portraits of criminals up for now.
He threw a warm afghan over the sleeping doctor and patted his good shoulder, idly wondering how different their lives would be if they'd never met.
"Thank you for the birthday wishes, old man," he whispered. "I never before had reason to remember this day, but you've changed that just as you've changed many things about my life all for the better. Now sleep well."
He swiftly moved to Mrs. Hudson's calendar and began searching through it. For the first time, he wanted to learn when another person's birthday was.
Today is my birthday! :) Thank you for celebrating with me by enjoying this little story. With any luck, in another year I'll update this with another birthday story.
The title refers to "won't you celebrate with me" by Lucille Clifton. It is a striking poem true to her experience, but in a way also rings true of Holmes. And of Watson. And of us, all of us, of every person who has shaped for themselves a kind of life, model or no. So here's to her. Here's to you. Here's to us. Come, let's celebrate together.
won't you celebrate with me
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.