The wind howled outside 221 Baker Street, rattling the windowpanes and sending scraps of litter blowing down the street.

Watson shivered, moving closer to the fireplace. "That is quite a night out there, Holmes. A night for ghosts and ghouls, I dare say."

"It's just wind, Watson," Holmes replied. In previous years, such a response would have been barbed, edged with disdain for such romantic notions. Now, after such long acquaintance, it had softened, more fond reproach than anything approaching harshness.

"I have not heard a wind like that for quite some time." Watson huddled closer to the fire, gaze drifting as he recalled a crisp Afghanistan wind, heavy with the scent of blood. However long he lived, some things were unforgettable.

Holmes, sensing the turn he had taken, retrieved his violin from its case. "Tonight, my dear Watson, I have a better sound for you." He took a few moments to tune the violin, then began to play, a happy jaunting tune quite at odds with the wind outside.

Watson sat back, a smile slowly growing as he watched Holmes and his violin. By the time the song had finished and Holmes had started the next one, the roaring wind outside was forgotten in favour of lighter pleasures. For the two in Baker Street, tonight would have no more blood.