Prompt: roasting chestnuts, from mrspencil
A/N: I have NO idea why this prompt gave me so much trouble. I literally spent two days trying to answer it, and now I think I finally got there. I will attempt to catch up later this week *fingers crossed*
Few, if any, would call me a sentimental man. I am not prone to exhibiting or even allowing myself to feel emotions of any sort, but especially not the softer emotions. I had always said of myself that I am a brain, devoted to reason and logic above all else, and that emotions are the grit in the lens. Bothersome things that get in the way until removed, leaving only that perfect faculty for reasoning that all are born with but few develop.
Perhaps it was from the tone of my telegrams that Mycroft responded by asking me, soon after I had taken lodgings in a tiny, drafty attic in Montpellier, if I was sinking into homesickness. I scoffed at the notion - I, homesick? Not only was such a feeling utterly useless when I simply could not return home with my work incomplete, I had been far too busy for the past two and a half years to feel anything other than fear. Another emotion I do not like to admit to, but alas, one cannot help being afraid when being chased across the world by the remains of the greatest criminal network the world has ever known. Yes, I frequently sit down and think longingly of Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson's meat stew while I am spying on our adversaries for you and dismantling the most well-organized crime empire anyone has ever created, I nearly sent back, before thinking better of it and merely asking him to purchase me a decent set of chemistry equipment. My stay in France, where Moriarty's empire was strongest, would be long and I would have much waiting to do while I set my plan in motion. It would not do to sink into boredom, not here where I had no respite. I shudder to think what would happen if one of Moriarty's henchmen should find me in one of the black moods that plague me when I am without work.
Though now that I view myself in the mirror and note the loss of nearly another stone, I do find myself thinking fondly of Mrs. Hudson's meat stew. The woman to whom I am paying three francs a month for this tiny, miserable room, is not nearly so good a cook and I had not had anything even half so good as that in the previous two years.
Such unwelcome intrusions of my old life into my thoughts were becoming more frequent, and to me, only proved the point that the softer emotions represented a danger. Once, when I stopped briefly in Jerusalem to note how different even the light of the sky appeared, one of Moriarty's men threw a knife and missed me by a hair. I was not so careless again. So perhaps I should not have taken nearly three years to undo Moriarty's network if I had not spent any time wishing for the familiar sights of London. Though it is equally true that it would not have taken me so long if my brother had not insisted on using me as a spy. I spent much time I could have been using to finish my own work engaged in the sort of international politics I have no interest in. But then he certainly has no sentimentality; I do believe he would keep me out in the world as his spy if I did not insist on returning to finish the job, brother or not.
Still, it is most annoying to try to plan the downfall of a criminal network while running for one's life while at the same time reporting on sensitive political and cultural information to the Foreign Office if one's thoughts are constantly interrupted by intrusive reminders of the past. It was the most arbitrary things that seemed to bring thoughts of London to mind. Once, I heard the barking of a dog in Persia and my thoughts drifted of their own accord to Toby and whether he was still among the living. The gangs of street boys in Egypt put me in mind of my Irregulars, many of whom I had promised positions to, promises I would be unable to fulfill until my return. The occasional notes of a violin came closest to stirring my soul to homesickness, and I learned to avoid the opera houses while in Italy. But these were mere trifles, over in a moment; to be truly homesick would have been a luxury in the life I was currently living.
Restless, I donned my latest disguise (for I had taken these rooms as a stonemason) and descended the stairs to take a walk. This was reckless, because I knew Moriarty's gang was everywhere and I was not unknown in France to begin with. Each time I went about in public I was risking discovery or even death. But I could not remain trapped within those walls for months on end, and in any case, I would have to get to know the city if I was to stay here for months.
Perhaps it was the thoughts of homesickness that refused to dislodge themselves from my mind, for I could not concentrate on memorizing the streets. It was small, and quaint, and what many termed picturesque, and I glowered at it. I disliked being anywhere I did not know, for I could not then make allowances for circumstances I could have predicted in London. What 'bus lines were likely to run late? What routes did cab drivers ordinarily take? These are the details on which a city runs, and no criminal expert can do his job without knowing them. For all the beauty of Montpellier, I say, give me London in all its grime and soot. At least there, where I know every alley and corner as well as I know my own name, I can be sure of myself.
I hurried along, more annoyed at this outlandish display of emotion. Wishing myself back in London would not help that happen, and I reminded myself that this was the final step before I could at last return to finish the job. Once Moriarty's French enterprise was defeated, all that would remain was to apprehend Colonel Moran in London and than my task would be complete. What a relief that would be! But only the work would get me there, and I focused again on memorizing the streets of Montpellier.
But it seemed as if I was not free from these pesky thoughts of home, for I soon smelled a familiar aroma that cut through the winter chill. A man, an itinerant peddler by his clothing and mannerisms, was seated on the street corner, roasting chestnuts over a small fire. I am not prone to flights of fancy, yet the smell of those chestnuts immediately reminded me of London at Christmas, the streets full of carolers and the smell of chestnuts and Christmas pudding. The memory was so strong that I very nearly turned to my right to ask Watson if he would like some before I hastily strode away, seeking the poor refuge of my attic rooms.
Once safely within my walls - my prison - again, I sank onto the dirty armchair. I had heard little of Watson since leaving him at the Reichenbach Falls. Only the account of my meeting with Professor Moriarty, which had appeared in the Strand and found its way to me some months later. I still carried it with me, though I had not read it since its publication. Even reading between the lines deemed fit for publication, I knew what I had done to him by forcing him to believe me dead. My dear Watson is that sentimental fellow that I am not, and I knew before I escaped the Falls how he would grieve, and that is what I read in his account. Knowing how he agonized over his writing, I could only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to write this account. But since then Mycroft has only mentioned once or twice that Watson is doing well, working at his practice. There is an old adage that "no news is good news," and I suppose I must abide by that, though it is a trial to me for anything to remain unknown. I knew my brother would not allow my friend to fall into danger, whether from Moran or anyone else, and if I heard nothing, then it surely meant he and his wife were safe, living the lives of ordinary Londoners far removed from the dangers I faced. That, of course, was why I was doing this in the first place. If any hint of my survival should reach London, Watson would be the first Moran would hunt down. Few would think to look for my brother and anyone who did would likely be surprised by the welcome they would receive. Mycroft is not so helpless as he looks and his rooms are the best protected in the country outside of Buckingham Palace.
Still, as I stoked the fire in the tiny grate, it was as if I saw our Baker Street rooms - for I could never think of them as other than ours, even after Watson married and left for his own home - instead of the tiny garrett I was living in. I had often envied Watson his travels, listening to his tales of India, Afghanistan and Australia in front of our fire, and it occurred to me that I finally was more well-traveled. Though he had always made his journeys sound exciting and adventurous, even when I knew they had been in truth dangerous and highly unpleasant. No doubt this was because Watson is a born storyteller while I am a scientist (though he will certainly never let me live it down if he knew I ever admitted this). How pleasant it would be for us to finally trade stories of the places we had seen. He would forgive the clinical nature of my reminiscences, I am sure, for he had always remained rapt with attention whenever I relayed the facts of one of my early cases. I do believe that Watson would have come with me should I have asked, and I will not pretend I was not tempted to, that first night after Moriarty's demise. It would have been an easy thing to find Watson's room at the inn in Meiringen. I could not help a smile, thinking of how charming he would have found this town I disliked so much. But I could not ask my friend to join me on a journey that could still easily end in my death, and leave his wife to roam the world with me for the amount of time this has taken. No, I shall have to explain everything when I return, and hope he will forgive me. Though the longer my exile lasts, the less likely that will be.
I glanced at the paper and pen I had bought for my chemical experiments. It would be a simple thing, to explain it all in writing. But no, I reminded myself, coming to my senses, for I had thought of this before and always talked myself out of it. If I wrote to him Watson would no doubt appear here in Montpellier within a week of receiving my letter, and then what was I to do? I could not keep another safe with me, and I knew his presence would alert Moriarty's gang to my survival. He has moved on, or at least, I would like to think so. Though I hope he will forgive my deception, I am not so heartless that I expect him not to live his life while I am gone. Perhaps he and his wife have by now had the child they so wanted. He had promised me that in the event this occurred, I should be named godfather. It is strange to think that if this has, in fact, happened, he has had to find someone else. Not that I particularly wanted the duties of godfather to begin with, so it really should not be so unsettling that he would have had to name someone else. I do hope that he did not choose to honor me by bestowing my name on the child, or else the mite shall be very unhappy indeed. Sherlock is a burden I would not ask anyone to bear.
What are these devilish flights of fancy? I do not know what Watson is doing, but to imagine what his life might be is a waste of time I can hardly afford. All this because of the scent of roasting chestnuts? I do not even like chestnuts; what an arbitrary reason to be plunged into this melancholy reminder of Watson and my old life. Perhaps someday I should do a study of the effects of various scents and tastes on the human mind. Undoubtedly that would be of more use than my maudlin daydreams. How I wish I had my violin, for nothing is better than chasing away demons and occupying the mind than music, but I shall have to content myself with the sharp scent of chemicals instead. At least they shall remove the scent of chestnuts from my memory and allow me to continue with my work.