Prompt: A silver ink pen, from Stutley Constable

In his retirement, my friend Sherlock Holmes was true to his word and has once again permitted me to chronicle and publish the adventures he and I shared after his return from the story I titled "The Adventure of the Final Problem." When I asked him what caused this change of heart, I received only a cryptic answer that he now cared more about the habits of his bees than his professional reputation in London. In my own mind, I have a guess that he is bored, for I have received no fewer than seven telegrams since then suggesting which cases I might choose, which is more interest than he has ever shown in these little stories. I take out my pen to begin, a handsome silver ink instrument, and I cannot help but remember the occasion on which I received it.

It was Christmas Day of 1902, and Holmes and I had risen late, as was our wont, and were just sitting down to breakfast. It had, as I recall, been a slow winter for crime, and Holmes had been much engaged recently in some studies he was conducting on the origin of the Phoenician alphabet. I expected no greater holiday cheer than a quiet day at home, with a good meal awaiting us later and perhaps a visit from Lestrade for a brandy in the evening. Holmes was not much given to making merry during the holiday season, though he observed the niceties as a gentleman must and indulged me my decorations, though perhaps he would have been less tolerant of this if he knew that Mrs. Hudson, not I, was responsible for the small Christmas tree that had appeared in the corner of our sitting room.

I spent the day engaged in my annual reading of Mr. Dickens's masterpiece, A Christmas Carol, which Holmes professed to dislike. Though I had read it aloud to him once, over his protestations, after which I noticed that he then added a moneylender to his array of disguises, and that when dressed in this way, he could have been Ebenezer Scrooge's twin. When I asked him about this, he merely said that inspiration may strike at the strangest of times, and that his opinion of Mr. Dickens' general worth was unchanged.

I was now adept at reading over Holmes's occasional interruptions to explain some feature of the Phoenician letters and little exclamations of interest in his work, so that I finished my book just in time for Mrs. Hudson to bring up our Christmas goose (this year, thankfully devoid of blue carbuncles). When I sat down to dine, I discovered at my place a small, wrapped package. Our Christmas exchanges were always small affairs; Holmes being so childishly impatient that I was forced to purchase any gift I had in mind for him at the very last moment, lest he find it to determine if it was something he actually wanted. There had been frequent times in the early years of our friendship that I found my gift to him unwrapped and left on the breakfast table two weeks or more before Christmas, he seeming to find it a challenge to his intellect to search out any hiding place. It goes without saying that hiding gifts from Sherlock Holmes is a trial, and I reached into our ventilation shaft to find the package I had carefully wrapped and placed there two days before. "Ah, I see you have found the music score for Mahler's latest," he said, without opening it. "Thank you, Watson, I shall certainly enjoy practicing this. His scores have the most unusual bridge sections."

"Holmes, can you not at least pretend to be surprised?" I asked, though with no real anger. Surprising Holmes is a feat that I have achieved on only rare occasions, and never with my Christmas gifts.

Holmes laughed in his silent way. "My dear Watson, I am surprised. I have been dropping hints for weeks that I should like to play Mahler's latest piece. You picked up on it most admirably."

"Holmes, you insisted I accompany you to a concert focused solely on Mahler's works and spent the entire evening discussing how much you would like to adapt his works for solo violin," I said. "That is hardly just a hint!"

"Nevertheless, you came through, old fellow. Thank you," he responded. "Now, it is your turn."

I untied the ribbon on the box next to my place setting. I had no doubt that I should be surprised. Holmes, thanks to his deductive reasoning, was adept at choosing gifts when he made the effort to do so. I had yet to receive anything from him for either Christmas or my birthday that I had not either found extraordinarily useful or enjoyed immensely. For his part, choosing gifts had gone from a task he was forced to do each December to a challenge he seemed to enjoy, though perhaps only as it allowed him to use his observational abilities.

The small thin box turned out to contain a handsome pen and small inkwell. Both were silver, and the pen was engraved with my name in fine script. Used as I was to using whatever pen I could find to write with, I had never owned so fine an instrument. "Holmes, this is magnificent," I said. "Thank you, very much."

Holmes, who disliked receiving credit in all instances, also disliked receiving thanks for his gifts, and merely said, "I thought you would enjoy writing with it. You see I had the shop engrave it for you?"

"Yes," I said. "This is not real silver, is it?"

"Of course it is," Holmes said.

I felt my cheeks warm. He must have gone to considerable expense for this, and I had only found some paltry sheets of music for him. Rarely did I take note of the difference in our respective finances, for the truth was neither of us had much of a head for money, but for me this led to multiple instances of financial distress as I overspent. Holmes, on the contrary, simply never had a need to purchase anything other than his monthly rent, and had amassed a considerable fortune by this time thanks to several high profile clients, though no one would know this from looking at him. I do believe he still owned and wore the same dressing gown he had had when we first took rooms together, and it had been threadbare even then. He, as befitted his bohemian nature, never once noticed that he was considerably better off than I was, only using his advantage to assist me by helping a buyer to purchase my practice in 1894 and to apparently purchase me extravagant Christmas gifts. He had never taken either money or class into account when taking on clients, and I knew he would consider them even less where I was concerned. "Really, Holmes, you did not have to," I said in some embarrassment.

"Watson, do not fuss about it," Holmes said. "It means nothing other than that I knew you would enjoy writing with so fine an instrument, especially if you are to continue chronicling our adventures."

I looked up in some surprise, for I had ceased publishing new stories after his return at his request. "Do you mean to say I can begin publishing stories again?" I asked.

"Not as of yet, perhaps," he said. "But I can see the end of my career at hand, Watson. Today's criminals are certainly not of the same quality as their predecessors. I can hardly imagine a man of Moriarty's caliber arising now, could you, Watson?"

I could name a few, but Holmes had seemingly formed his opinion and would not be dissuaded. "No, the time is coming fast where I must exit the stage," he said. "At that time, Watson, you may begin publishing again. There can be no danger in doing so at that time."

"You cannot mean to retire!" I exclaimed. I could not imagine a world in which Sherlock Holmes was no engaged in fighting crime, in waging a war against all that was unjust. I was not old, and he was younger than I. Surely he could not be serious.

"Not just yet, Watson," he replied. "But after this year, or the next, perhaps, I do indeed mean to retire. I wish to leave at the top of my profession, before I have become a caricature of myself." He smiled. "Do not look so shocked, Watson. I have many studies I wish to engage in during my retirement, and I know how you enjoy writing. It is merely a new stage of life, that is all."

"Yes, perhaps," I said. I held up the pen. "You know I shall not use this until you give the word."

"That is my Watson," Holmes said. "Now, let us enjoy this fine goose. I do believe Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself."

"Yes, indeed," I said. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."