I have a set moving date! Yay!

It's also smack in the middle of the holidays. (facepalm) the next couple of months are going to chaos.

"What did you buy?"

The suspicious question interrupted a monologue several minutes away from home, and I pointedly removed my hand from my pocket.

"Something."

Mischief lit his gaze—and his tone. "You found my Christmas present." He leaned back, eyeing me. He should know better than to think I would have bought his present this early, but he continued before I could voice as much. "The shopkeeper had something in his hand," he remembered, "so you probably paid for the item next to where you found it. The nearby shelves held war relics, encyclopedias, musical supplies, books, and medical equipment. The only present you would note from that list is something for my violin, and my tuner—" He paused, confusion appearing when he finally noticed the growing smirk I could not kill. "Why are you grinning?"

My amusement bubbled into a full laugh. I had an easy way to redirect his deductions.

"I did not buy your Christmas present. I bought my Christmas present." Or something that would lead to my Christmas present.

"Oh." He almost visibly deflated. At least half of his interest in the holiday rested on deducing his gift, but he soon refocused on this new mystery. "Is it something I might like?"

I considered. "I doubt you would even notice it." Why would he detect a lack of noise when he did not hear the full volume?

"It cannot be for an instrument," he mused, too deep in thought to note the smile I quickly hid, "nor would you have any interest in encyclopedias. A book would not fit in your pocket, and you would hardly call medical supplies a present. What relic did you find?"

"It is not a relic."

"Humph." He paused, thinking hard, but he did not have enough data, as he put it. With no knowledge of my favored pastime before my shoulder injury, he could not guess at my musical experience, and he had hinted ignorance of the small item I had found. He could not deduce my purchase if he did not know the item existed.

"Why do you need to know what I bought?" I asked when he let the silence stretch.

He merely frowned at me, no more willing to answer a rhetorical question than I was, and the glare deepened when I laughed again.

"Fine," I conceded. "If you have not figured it out by morning, I will tell you." One night of sleep was better than none, and perhaps he would make use of my present the next time he decided to scratch all night.

Or maybe not, I acknowledged when the frown grew slightly more genuine at having to wait. I had long given up on my "consideration of others" lessons taking root.

"There you are," Mrs. Hudson said when she heard us in the entry. "Have you been at that shop all this time?"

"We have," I confirmed with a chuckle, hanging my coat as Holmes bounded up the stairs, "and we did not look at a fraction of what they had. I have not seen such a store in quite a while."

Something fell with a thump, and faint grumbling carried down the stairs.

"What has him irritated?"

My smirk grew. "He is mad I would not tell him the early Christmas present I bought us."

A silent question appeared at the last word, and I nudged her further down the hall despite the continued noises upstairs. Surprise lit her face the moment I revealed the painted piece of metal.

"You found a mute?!"

I had half expected her to not recognize the device, but she plucked the piece from my fingers, turning it over in her hand as a large smile split her mouth. Made to attach to the bridge, the mute's extra weight would dampen the sound until only he would be able to hear the notes. If I heard anything at all, it would be no louder than the mutters I easily ignored, and the same would be true for Mrs. Hudson. I would have gotten one years ago if not for the price tag. True violin mutes—as opposed to the lighter performance mutes or the medium practice mutes—were somewhat rare and usually expensive. New, the small item she held would have been far beyond even our combined means.

"Will you use it tonight?"

I nodded. "He probably intends to keep working on that burglary case, but if you can get him out of the sitting room after supper, I can place it without his knowledge. He never checks his instrument when he is simply scratching."

She let out a laugh of pure pleasure. "Nor listens to it," she agreed. "I haven't taken his package upstairs yet. That should give you enough time. Do you think he will use it after he figures out what you did?"

I shrugged. "Possible, but unlikely. That would require he realize that no one can sleep through his nightly racket."

"You have never modified his violin before."

"No, just broke it," I quipped, and she chuckled again. We had once swapped Holmes' violin with a broken one, and I was relatively certain he had seen through the act the next morning. One would think that years of complaining and a few rounds of trickery would bring a realization, and I could only blame Holmes' stubbornness for why it had not.

"That is perfect, Doctor. He will never expect it." She passed it back to me, glancing at the clock. "I need to check on the oven. Supper will be up in a few minutes."

She disappeared toward the kitchen, still grinning mischievously, and another crash sounded as I mounted the stairs. I opened the sitting room door with a tired sigh.

"Holmes, why are you climbing the bookshelf?"

He plucked something from the top and hopped to the ground, ignoring the books he had knocked free.

"I put an acid there when the Irregulars were due to report yesterday," he answered carelessly, never looking at me as I exchanged jacket for dressing gown and claimed one of the books from the floor. The bottle took its place with his other supplies next to his chemistry table. "How long did Mrs. Hudson say?"

I directed my steps toward my chair, already flipping pages. "A few minutes. Did you—"

Ceramic shattered on the floor simultaneous to a painfully hard cough, and I dropped the novel, spinning to find him bracing himself on the chemistry table with one hand on his throat.

"Holmes!"

He made no answer, still coughing with a strength that said he was choking on something. I lunged across the room.

"Holmes, bend over!"

He did as I bid, and something hit the floor just before I reached him. His coughing stopped as he leaned on the table again, waving me off when I tried to help him to a chair.

"I am—alright," he nearly wheezed. The sentence tried to cut out mid-word, but he took a few deep breaths then slowly stood upright to claim the stool. "I simply did not expect—something solid in my cup."

Watching to ensure his breathing difficulty continued to ease, I quickly found the small, wet cork lying in one corner. I picked it up with my handkerchief as footsteps climbed the stairs.

"What trouble did you find now, Mr. Holmes?" she asked when she found us both upright.

"He tried to drink a cork," I answered, smirking at the irritated glare he supplied at my wording. His breathing had returned to normal, and the assurance that he had not caused more serious injury meant I was free to rib him for the oversight. "Corks are supposed to stop your vials, Holmes, not your vitals. Maybe now you will listen to me and keep edibles away from your chemistry set. Death by cork is hardly a dramatic way to go."

He rolled his eyes at both my pun and my chiding. I handed him the wrapped cork as Mrs. Hudson let out a faint laugh.

"Left his coffee on the shelf again, did he?"

"Got it in one."

Holmes' glower never faded, but he set the handkerchief on the table to lead the way across the room.

"There was nothing above the cup that should have been able to fall in," he told us, pointedly eyeing Mrs. Hudson. He knew we both hated this habit, and only something drastic would change the stubborn detective's mind. He would have been studying me as well if I had not been with him, but that did not change the displeasure that flared at his half-serious suspicion.

"Do not look at me like that," she scolded. "I have not been upstairs since you left, and you ought to know better than to leave your cup over there. Be glad it was a cork instead of one of your many poisons."

"It was probably on the bookcase," I said at his rather sheepish expression. "You were shaking it quite a bit trying to reach that acid."

He harrumphed but grudgingly agreed, but Mrs. Hudson pointedly turned her back on my friend.

"As if I would put a cork in your drink," she sniffed. The smile she hid from Holmes announced she was not as offended as she let on, but remorse appeared in his gaze. She swept out of the room before he could voice a reply.

He dished meat onto his plate with a sigh. "I shall have to apologize later."

"Perhaps when you take her the broken cup," I said mildly. Mrs. Hudson had just given him another reason to go downstairs after we ate, and I silently praised her for the creativity. An apology would give me more time than simply retrieving a package—especially since Holmes always stumbled through the words.

I successfully hid a yawn, but a smile twitched Holmes' mouth when my eyes tried to close mid bite.

"Are you going to stay awake long enough to eat?"

"Of course." I had only been awake for two nights. I would be able to keep myself conscious long enough to "give" my gift. I would probably go to bed soon after, however, though only partially in search of sleep. "Do you plan on sleeping tonight?"

He shrugged. "That depends on whether I solve that case. I still cannot determine a motive. She had no reason to break in that night."

"As opposed to another night?"

"As opposed to at all," he returned. "Their parents are dead, and the will explicitly states they are to divide specific things equally and everything else by preference. He has no use for his mother's jewelry."

"You hope." I smirked when his ears colored. "You said everything was faked," I remembered, "so they could not have been fighting over the money. Was only the jewelry taken?"

He nodded. "The thief emptied the jewelry box sometime in the night. Nothing else was touched."

Wait a minute. "Did he say that the box had been emptied or that jewelry had been stolen?"

Holmes' fork froze halfway to his mouth. "The box was emptied," he replied. "He never specified what was in the box. Well done!"

He abandoned the last few bites on his plate to dig through his notes, then mutters carried across the room as he compared testimonies with evidence. Perhaps he would solve the case before he reached for the violin.

"Mr. Holmes!" His attention jerked up to look towards Mrs. Hudson's voice, and she continued from the base of the stairs, the words just slightly terse, "Package for you!"

I hid a grin in my plate when footsteps immediately faded towards the kitchen. She normally would have waited for him to reach the stairs, if not simply brought the package up herself, and he obviously took this as proof that she was still irritated with him. He pulled a face but exchanged his notes for the broken remains of the cup, acting as if he went to his execution instead of delivering an apology.

I gained my feet the moment he was out of earshot, and the painted metal blended perfectly with the wood, further disappearing by attaching to the side of the bridge closest to the neck. Unable to see it while playing, he would have to specifically check his instrument to find it, but even then, the professionally made piece fit extraordinarily well. It was invisible until I looked closely.

I could not risk him guessing my actions from my expression, so I quickly cleared my plate, set my dishes aside for Mrs. Hudson to take later, and went to my room. I doubted he would sleep tonight.

I only hoped I would.

Hope you enjoyed! Did anyone guess the mute? Do you think Holmes will discover it? Don't forget to review! :)

And thank you very much to those who reviewed chapter 1