Prompt: A handmade greetings card
From: mrspencil
A/N: I only own Osbert Quinston 😊
...
From her armchair, where she was knitting, Mrs Hudson could see her Christmas cards quite nicely.
One was from her tenants upstairs; another one came from Mycroft Holmes; another card was given to her from her friend Mrs. Turner; one arrived from the coast from her younger sister; a small handful came from her old schoolfriends, and she even got one from the Inspectors of Scotland Yard; recognising her as someone as familiar to them as the good doctor or to the genius consulting detective.
The Irregulars, unable to write, instead made her Christmas tree decorations. Sticks and twine were recycled to make star shapes, and pine cones decorated to look like snowy trees. These now hung with pride on her tree- as far away from candles as possible.
As she finished knitting a new hat for the Irregulars, who needed new winter wear, she heard the doorbell ring. Putting her knitting needles down, she plodded along to the door to answer it. She passed the coat rack, ignoring the false head hanging from it, and opened the door.
On the doorstep stood a gentleman, of about 5'6. He was wearing a long black overcoat, a wonky top hat, and carried a scrimshawed ivory walking stick. In between his long, bushy black-grey beard and his wonky nose, a warm smile of recognition and affection broke out on his face.
"Good afternoon, Martha," he said politely in a gravelly voice, tipping his hat to her courteously.
"Afternoon, Osbert," Replied Mrs. Hudson warmly. "Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? You look as if you'd freeze to death!"
"That'd be most welcoming, thank you," he replied, and he stepped into the threshold. He eyed the head hanging from the coat rack with a detached interest.
"It's fake," Mrs Hudson explained.
"Hm," Replied Osbert. "I see you have you tenant still?"
"Oh yes. He's still trying my nerves daily." She replied, taking his hat from him to hang.
"As far as Australia?" He asked, with a smirk.
"Oh, Heaven forbid!" She answered, causing him to chuckle.
Osbert Quinston was a queer man. He never shaved his beard until half past two on Sunday mornings, he always carried the same walking stick with him, and resented his surname as he thought he sounded like a little-known cricket team. It was out of this dislike for his family name that he insisted on being called Osbert- and, although blurred by the passage of time, he and the good landlady had somehow begun referring to each other by their first names whenever they were alone in privacy. They understood their personal boundaries, but knew the society they lived in would only condemn it.
On another note, he also had a habit of chasing any mischievous boys up the street who called him 'Whittler'- anyone who made fun of his name was ignored or left alone. A dared utterance of 'Whittler' was rewarded by a half mile chase up the street with him riled-up.
But he was also a very creative man; always scrimshawing ivory and shells, and had the ability to fix shelves and furniture such as sideboards, tables and chairs. He had a penchant for collecting junk to reuse for creating beautiful things, big and small, and he also charged small fees to have him fix furniture that had suffered from a bout of misfortune.
But under his quirks and short fuse, he was in actuality a very kind man; he adored children and animals alike, was respectful and polite to women, and treated every man he met; pauper or prince, as a brother.
But if he caught sight of some miscreant abusing some poor creature; women, young children or animals- even if they were mice or rats- he would fly into a rage and rush in to defend those defenceless against humanity's cruelty. And it was this trait of his that had made him sympathetic to Sherlock Holmes, despite never having met the man.
...
Quinston watched as Mrs. Hudson poured out some tea for them both.
"So, Martha, how have you been since we last talked?" He asked politely.
"I've been keeping well, thank you," Replied she, with the dignity and warmth she possessed so. "I trust you have been doing the same?"
"As well as I can," he answered dismissively. "How is Mr. Holmes treating you?"
"He's been much the same; although he has now found a flatmate to lodge with." She answered with a smile.
"Good God, Martha!" Exclaimed Quinston, nearly spilling his tea, before regaining his composure. "Not that I doubt your patience, but surely Holmes himself is enough to deal with?"
"Osbert, this man- a Doctor Watson by name- is a wonderful man with a saint's patience." She replied. "He is a very kind soul, God bless him, and he does keep Mr. Holmes from getting into trouble."
"Ah," Smiled Quinston. "You, my dear, are the most formidable and compassionate soul I know." He was rewarded with a blush from Mrs. Hudson.
"And I could say the same about you, sir," she replied, causing him to chortle once again.
"Well, I try my best and only end up exercising my worst." He quipped.
Their conversation turned away to politics, such as the Suffragette movement; the olden days in which they reminisced on their memories and exchanged humorous anecdotes and had filled the other in on what had happened since they had last met, their conversation sprinkled with laughter and humorous, sometimes sarcastic, quips.
Hours flew by like minutes, and it was not until the front door banged open violently, sending something sprawling to the floor (from the thud that it made, Mrs. Hudson deduced it was the false head.) that Quinston dared to look at the clock, and gasped.
"Well, I say! I was here longer than I expected!" He exclaimed, rising. "Thank you very much for the hospitality, Martha- most delightful."
"As was the company," She returned, smiling. "It does make a nice change from having a dull, quiet flat when those two are out."
Fishing something out from his coat pocket, Quinston handed her something wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper. It wasn't heavy, but it was unusually thick.
"Your Christmas card, my dear." He explained, smiling warmly. "It's not conventional, but then you do like a slice of the unconventional in life."
"Thank you," She replied graciously.
...
Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson had indeed returned; and Holmes was in a foul mood when the two exited her rooms.
"I cannot believe that Ross escaped again!" the detective fumed to his companion, before storming upstairs.
"See you anon, fair lady," Quinston said, tipping his hat to her again.
"Anon, my good sir," she answered.
Once he had gone home, she turned to the good doctor.
"What's amiss, Doctor Watson?" She asked.
"Holmes is just cross because a cat burglar we were chasing eluded Holmes and Scotland Yard." Watson replied gloomily.
"Well, I shall prepare his favourite meal. I trust you do not object, Doctor Watson?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. I am in want of some of your fine cooking this evening."
She beamed. "Tell him it shall be ready in 20 minutes." She instructed.
...
Once Watson had gone after his flatmate, she went back into her rooms and carefully opened the brown paper.
Inside was a piece of wood, with a beautiful winged angel, playing a long trumpet carved into it. It had a wooden border around it, and at the bottom was emblazoned were the words 'Merry Christmas.'
Touched, she opened it- for it had hinges on the back- and, on noticing the message, she read the inside.
'Dear Martha,
I wish you a Merry Christmas, and all the best for the New Year. May our friendship remain long, and your life always fulfilled.
Yours sincerely, Osbert.'
He was right about one thing; she did appreciate unconventional things in her life; such as her tenants, and her close friend, Osbert Quinston.