Prompt: From a woman's point of view.

From: I'm Nova

A/N: this was a take on a scene from 'Unquiet Spirits' by Bonnie MacBird. My favourite book from her series, and I loved that she had a backstory for Holmes. So, I decided to expand on a little scene between him and Charlotte Simpson (who belongs to Bonnie MacBird)

…

I fished out a fruitcake I had made using my Grandmama's recipe, and a cravat I had knitted for my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes. Although chemistry, history, and other scholarly subjects were the passions of my life, I found knitting an excellent way to relax, and it benefitted myself, Grandmamma, and dear Peanut over the years, due to my ability to knit hats and scarfs.

"I hope you like them, Mr. Holmes," I smiled affectionately.

Whilst we had built a powerful connection, bound by smuggled books and notes by my 'Sherpa Holmes' that bond ran no deeper than an affectionate friendship.

I watched his face, and he had gone quiet. Fearing that he was embarrassed, I went on, "You have been a dear friend to me, Sherlock, one who has risked scandal and damage to your academic reputation at Camford by helping me the way you have. But I deeply appreciate all that you do, and that you think my mind worthy of education, and my heart worthy of friendship, as so few here have seen me as such.

"Hopefully, one day, women can attend- and graduate- university alongside men, but, in these uncertain times, I appreciate you doing all you have done for me. These gifts are not only Christmas presents, but a thank you for your help and your kindness this year."

His lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile.

"Thank you, Miss Simpson," he said to me, warmly. "I… I appreciate those words." He looked shy, and I bit my lip, wondering if he was perhaps embarrassed by this display of affection. It was entirely innocuous, of course.

He reached into his satchel, and pulled out a gift, wrapped in silver paper. "A gift for you, my friend," he said.

Bemused, I opened the paper gingerly- and out tumbled a beautiful, electric-blue French chiffon scarf, like water pouring out of a jug. I picked up the scarf and eyed the details- red roses, blazing alongside cream and peach flowers.

These colours were all colours I was most partial to, and I was surprised that he knew that.

"My great uncle was a French artist," He said, when I paid my compliments. "It is from him that my brother Mycroft and I have likely inherited our gifts of observation."

"And deduction?" I asked him.

"I mostly learned through Mycroft," he admitted. "My brother has taught me more than I care to admit," he gave me a wry smile, and I chuckle.

"I would like to meet your brother, Mr. Holmes, he sounds most charming." I told him.

"I dare to contradict your opinion, Miss Simpson," he replied cheekily, and I laughed. I loved how honest and wry he is.

Looking at my beautiful scarf again, I could not resist giving my dearest friend a quick peck on the cheek.

Mr. Holmes blushed, and began stammering in earnest, but I only chuckled. It was funny, seeing his face turn as red as the roses on my new scarf. And, quite endearing as well, considering his normal, aloof exterior.

"Thank you, Sherpa Holmes," I teased, but my gratitude was heartfelt. In return, he took my hand and kissed it gently, making me blush.

He grinned at me, his grey eyes now shining with kindness and affection.

I did not mention this part in my letter home to Grandmamma, not because I did not trust her, but because I wanted to treasure the moment forever.