Prompt: Holmes has one unusual Christmas tradition.

From: Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: This is a French Christmas tradition. It's not so much unusual, but I thought in Victorian England contexts, it would be odd, to say the least. But I can imagine Holmes doing it as a child when in France with his grandmother! 😊

This is set (or meant to be) in their earlier days of friendship.

...

I am very much aware of many of the eccentricities and quirks of my new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He shoots the wall out of boredom, takes cocaine when feeling a severe lack of stimulation, plays the violin to assist his thinking, forgoes sleep and consistent meals on cases, and uses his chemistry set for knowledgeable pursuits.

What I do not expect, however, is to trip over Holmes' shoes whilst trying to find my tobacco on the mantel.

"Holmes!" I call out, irritated. "What on Earth are your shoes doing here?"

He looks up from his monograph on how to identify different sleeping draughts and their effects, and glares. "You could watch where you step, Watson." He suggests, icily.

"I do not wish to have to step round your shoes by the mantel!" I retort. "If I had fallen, Holmes, I could have cracked my head open!"

I seize them at once, and was about to march up to the front door with them to put them away and remind my new flatmate of our agreed house rules when a quiet voice objects; "Put them back, Watson."

"Why, Holmes? I fail to understand the significance of this bizarre action. Is it for a case? Or an experiment?" I ask him.

"Neither. Please, return them at once." He answers.

I sigh, and I place them down. "Well, I'm not being held accountable for anyone hitting their heads." I warn.

"I know. I'll move them in the morning, Doctor." He informs me dismissively, rising to his feet. "I shall retire to my room. Goodnight." And he skulks off, leaving me standing by the fire in utter bemusement at my friend's actions.

I jump when the living room door opens not long after Holmes' departure.

"Had a row with Mr Holmes, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asks me gently, carrying a tray of tea in our room.

"Sort of, Mrs. Hudson. Only I'm not sure what it is about or why." I reply, still confused about the argument at hand. "He left his shoes by the fireplace, I tripped on them, and when I told him to move them, he told me to leave them there, and that he would move them in the morning."

"Ah. I see he hasn't told you, Doctor. Mr Holmes had a French grandmother whom he doted on, sir. He and his family would spend Christmas with her in France and he would leave his shoes by the fireplace so that small gifts could be lain inside. I am not certain why he does this still, but he has done this every Christmas Eve. I suppose he could just be honouring a childhood tradition, or perhaps he's trying to bring France to England. Either way, I never once questioned or challenged it in all the time I've known him, sir."

I realised with a sinking dismay that by ignorantly interfering with something cherished by my flatmate, I had soured our relationship, and I felt awful.

"I've been a foolish cad, Mrs. Hudson." I answer. "I never thought for a moment this was another one of his peculiarities. I must apologise."

"My advice to you, Doctor Watson, is to leave Mr. Holmes until morning. You and he can get a good night's sleep and then apologise in the morning."

With that, she turns on her heel and exits, leaving me with my tea and my thoughts on how to make it up to Holmes.

Staring at his shoes, I suddenly come up with an idea. It was a bit last minute, but hopefully, I could try and see if I could make it up to my new friend.

I run up to my room, and rummage around in my bags and coat pockets for anything of potential interest, but would be small enough for my plan.

...

The next morning, I smile warmly as Holmes comes to the table fully dressed but bleary eyed and grumpy looking. He sits down across from me and lets Mrs Hudson put a plate of bacon, sausages and egg in front of him with a silent acquiesce.

"Would you care for some coffee, Holmes?" I offer, holding the coffee pitcher towards him.

He waves his hand dismissively, which I know means a 'yes' in his language. We say nothing as I pour his coffee and push it towards him.

"Holmes," I say, before he thanks me. "I just want to apologise for my rude behaviour last night. I was not aware that it is your custom to leave your shoes by the fireplace."

"You are forgiven, Doctor." Holmes replies, with the ghost of a smile gracing his lean face. "I feel that I should have been more informative than defensive as to last night's actions."

Figuring that is as close to an apology from him as I can get, I let myself relax, and not another word was exchanged as we ate our meals.

...

After breakfast, Holmes decides to fulfil his promise to tidy his shoes away, and he shuffles over to remove them. From behind the newspaper, I watch him pause, stoop-

"Watson," he says in surprise. "There are things in my shoes."

Realising I could have made a mistake on acting on my spur of the moment idea, I was close to admitting that it is my fault that his shoes are in their current condition.

Instead, he makes a noise of delight and claps his hands in a childish glee I had never witnessed in the great Sherlock Holmes.

He fishes out some mint humbugs and chocolate creams, a new sachet of tobacco, a silver rupee from my travels in Afghanistan, a new oak pipe, a notebook and two new embossed red fountain pens for his note taking whenever he conducts experiments.

"Well, this... this certainly brings back some happy memories." He says to me with a smile more likely to be seen on a schoolboy than the Great Detective himself. "I do appreciate the thought behind this. Thank you, Watson."

I'm not at all sure why I am surprised that he knows it was me. I am living with London's most observant man (and the silver rupee could be a big giveaway) but I am, nevertheless.

"You're most welcome, Holmes." I answer. "Merry Christmas, old fellow."

"Merry Christmas, Watson."