Prompt: Cookies, from SheWhoScrawls
It was, as I recall, a dull, grey day in December while Holmes was occupied in some sort of chemical experiment and I was being rather lazy by the fire with a novel when there was a knock at our door. "That will be Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said.
"Yes," I said, somewhat peevishly. I may not have mastered the science of deduction but I had lived at Baker Street long enough to recognize when our landlady was at the door. I put my book aside and opened the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson with a basket, which she promptly handed to me. "What is this?" I asked.
"Cookies, from Mrs. Hitchens in 230," Mrs. Hudson said. I then noticed the attached card and read its message out loud.
"'For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to celebrate his first Christmas on his return to London.' Well, that was thoughtful, wouldn't you say, Holmes?"
"I dislike butter cookies," he said, as Mrs. Hudson took her leave down the stairs.
"Well, I like them very much," I said, taking one. It was delicious, soft and rich, and I doubted the batch would last much more than two days, even if Holmes did not eat any.
No sooner had I thought this than Mrs. Hudson was again knocking on our door. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she said. "Mrs. Roberts in 219 sent these." She was holding another basket of cookies, which turned out to be raisin, a flavor of which neither Holmes nor I are fond.
"'Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, on your return to London.'" I read aloud. Holmes wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It was a nice gesture," I said. "Perhaps we can bring the basket to Scotland Yard." The officers would no doubt appreciate the bounty, and we certainly could not eat all these cookies by ourselves. I put both baskets of cookies on the sideboard and turned to close the door behind me, but at that moment Mrs. Hudson appeared again, this time with yet another basket of cookies. "Where are all these coming from?" I exclaimed.
"This one is from Mrs. Edwards across the street in 220," Mrs. Hudson said. "Chocolate chip, by the smell of them."
"'Welcome back, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'" I looked at the three baskets of cookies in some despair, knowing we could not possibly eat all of them without making ourselves sick. "Why did everyone choose today to send us cookies?" I said.
"Well, Christmas is approaching," Holmes remarked. This, in my view, did nothing to explain why we were suddenly receiving cookies today and at no other time. Save for the past three years, Holmes had lived at 221b Baker Street since 1881 and at no time during those years had anyone sent him Christmas cookies. He was more likely to receive complaints about his midnight violin solos or the occasional gunfire emanating from our shared rooms than compliments of the season.
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, indeed," I grumbled under my breath. The three large baskets stood on our sideboard, leaving no room for anything else. Holmes, of course, heard me and laughed silently. "Well, what are we to do with all these cookies?" I asked.
"I daresay the Irregulars will make short work of them," Holmes said. "The remainder can, as you suggested, go to the Yarders."
I doubted very much that anyone would want to eat what was left of the cookies after the Irregulars had been at them, and was about to say so when Mrs. Hudson knocked again. I turned to see her with an even larger basket. "Oh, who is that from?" I asked in some exasperation.
"The Pendletons, in 226," she answered. "Shall I put it with the others?" She looked at the precarious balance of baskets on the sideboard and miraculously found a clear space large enough for the new basket.
I peeked inside and found another card. "'Dear Mr. Holmes, a very Merry Christmas to you, on your return to London,'" I read. The cookies inside appeared to be sugar cookies, and I reflected that if we had the makings of a bakery with the amount of cookies we were receiving. "What are we going to do with all these cookies?" I asked despairingly.
"I have an idea," Holmes said, finally getting up from his experiment to examine the cookies. He knocked on the wall and within moments, there appeared from a crack near the floor, two small mice. Far from being alarmed by this, Holmes simply smiled and knelt down to them. I remained upright, not entirely sure why my friend was suddenly so welcoming to what everyone else considered household pests.
However, nothing Holmes had ever done, including returning from his seeming death, surprised me as much as what he did next. "Ah, Basil," he said. "I have received rather a large amount of cookies for the Christmas season and thought that perhaps you and Dr. Dawson would like to share them with us."
"Er, Holmes," I said gently, for I was now worried for his sanity. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, Watson," Holmes said, jumping up as if he had only just remembered something. "I entirely forgot you have never been introduced. Dr. Watson, meet our fellow-lodgers." He gestured down at the two mice, and I bent to get a closer look.
The taller of the two swept his hat off his head and introduced himself with a flourish. "Basil of Baker Street, my good sir. This is my friend, Dr. Dawson."
"Very pleased to meet you," the shorter mouse said.
"I - well, yes, you as well," I said, still in shock. The two mice were wearing clothes, for heaven's sake! Miniature versions of gentlemen's clothes, hats. The taller one - Basil - even had a tiny version of the deerstalker hat that Holmes was always depicted wearing. In fact, this Basil of Baker Street had very much of Holmes's look about him, not only in his outfit. His eyes were as keen and sharp as my friend's were, and as for Dr. Dawson, well he even affected a small mustache similar to my own. I turned to stare at Holmes, dumbfounded.
My friend laughed to see my confusion. "I discovered Basil and Dr. Dawson here some years ago, after you and I were no longer sharing these rooms. It was quite a mystery. Mrs. Huson noticed some candies missing, you know, the little ones she keeps for the Irregulars?" I did indeed and I nodded for him to continue. "Well, I searched everywhere for the culprit, until at last the only possible solution revealed itself to me. Mice were evidently stealing our candy. I laid a trap and remained in wait until at last I caught these two at it."
"Though it took some convincing before your landlady allowed us to stay," Basil said with some asperity.
"She is most fond of you now," Holmes assured him. "She even sets some candy aside for them now, Watson."
"They are Basil's favorite," Dawson said. I was still amazed that our fastidious landlady was apparently happy to share her home with mice in addition to Holmes and myself. Regardless of the intelligence of those mice.
"Now, let us see what kind of cookies you have," Basil said, climbing up the leg of the sideboard. "Sugar, butter, chocolate chip, ahh, raisin! Dawson's favorite."
"I shall leave the baskets here for you," Holmes said. "Though I cannot promise my Irregulars will not get into them."
Basil, meanwhile, had piled his arms full of raisin cookies, before dropping them to give his companion a helping hand. Soon they both had armloads of cookies, and Holmes brought them down the floor by his own hand so they could return to their own living quarters.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Dawson said as they disappeared into the crack in the wall.
"We shall certainly return!" Basil added dramatically. I confess I stared at the crack in amazement for some time before looking at Holmes in confusion.
Holmes laughed at my expression. "Well, I admit, Watson, that I was just as confused as you when I discovered them. I expected to find ordinary mice, not these little gentlemen. But it turned out they had been living here for quite some time before they came to my notice."
I simply stared at him. "They can talk," I finally said.
"Yes, they can indeed," Holmes said. "I have met them several times since, Watson, and it is quite fascinating. Would you believe that Basil is a consulting detective as well?"
This proved beyond my capability to believe and I burst into hearty laughter at the thought. "Come now, Holmes! That is just unbelievable!" I said.
"Nonetheless, it is true," Holmes said. "I was reluctant to believe it at first myself, but eventually it proved to be true. Basil has told me there is a whole society of mice, much the same as our own world, living under our feet that we never notice. Truly ingenious! Perhaps I shall make a study of it one day."
"Perhaps you should," I said. "So Basil solves crimes and-"
"And Dr. Dawson writes of his cases," Holmes finished for me. "They are a most interesting mirror, are they not? As it happens I have read some of Dawson's stories and they are full of the same romantic nonsense as yours, Watson. Though he has taken some cases on interest."
I was long past being insulted by his opinion of my writing, and instead thought only that it would be very pleasant to talk with another author of similar stories - though perhaps it would turn only into complaining about our respective fellow-lodgers! "Well, they certainly seem like quiet little fellows," I said. "I shall certainly be glad if they can help us eat these cookies!" I glanced at the door, relieved when Mrs. Hudson did not appear with yet another basket of cookies. "Though perhaps I should go inform Mrs. Hudson to send any further baskets to the Yard," I said. I smiled. "Perhaps there is a mouse version of the Yard under their feet they can share the cookies with."
A/N: You know I always have to include Basil every year :)