Prompt: Tobacco, from goodpenmanship
Author's note: Hello again! I am thrilled as always to be back, and as usual huge thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for managing all the fun every December.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when he answered Mrs. Hudson advertisement, had presented himself as a quiet, studious gentleman seeking his livelihood in London, as so many young gentlemen did. Mrs. Hudson had not pressed for much beyond assurances that he would be able to manage the rent each month; his references were impeccable (how exactly he knew the Commissioner of Scotland Yard was a mystery to her, though it would not remain so for very long) and his habits were indeed, quiet. That had been of tantamount importance, for she did not want the loud gatherings she had heard tell of from the other women on her street who took in boarders to take place on her first floor. Mrs. Hudson insisted on her sleep and her time to herself undisturbed by goings-on upstairs. She was, at least, assured of this. Dr. Watson certainly would not make any noise, poor man recovering as he was, and she was delighted to find that Mr. Holmes kept to his promise and was often silent for days on end, occupied with either his monographs or his chemicals.
The smells were another matter entirely. Mrs. Hudson regretted deeply that she had not insisted her lodgers maintain an atmosphere of breathability in her first floor rooms, but it certainly had not occurred to her beforehand. Mrs. Turner next door never complained about her lodger, Mr. Edwards. At least, not about that, Mrs. Hudson thought. Mrs. Turner did complain about Mr. Edwards quite a bit.
The chemical smells were bad enough; Mrs. Hudson was quite sure she would at least threaten to throw that blasted chemistry set out the window if he caused one more odor of rotten eggs to drift throughout the entire house. The last time he had done so she, the maid and the page had to stand outside in the freezing January weather for half an hour with all the windows thrown open to allow the smell to dissipate.
The house did not warm up again until the next day, and Mrs. Hudson thought Dr. Watson might very well decide to leave, if not for the fact that the man appeared to have the patience of a saint.
But something far worse greeted Mrs. Hudson when she arrived to bring breakfast one February morning. "Good morning-" her greeting was cut off as she began to cough, only then realizing that she was unable to see more than the barest outline of furniture through the haze in the room. "Good heavens!" she cried through coughs. Her first thought was to throw open the windows, then she realized she would hardly be able to find them through this fog. Perhaps the flue was plugged and she ought to have the sweeps come in? But smoke from the fireplace hardly smelled this pungent and sharp. "Mr. Holmes, what happened?"
"Hmm? Oh, it is merely my cigarettes," he answered. "I have been engaged on a most pressing problem since late last night and I find smoking is better for thinking than anything else save music."
Why did you not play that blasted violin then? Mrs. Hudson thought, feeling her way to the window and opening it so that the smoke might go out the window. Not that it would help much, with the ever-present fog outside now making its way in. "My word, that must have been nearly all the cigarettes you and the Doctor bought!" she said as soon as she was able to take a breath.
"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson," Mr. Holmes answered. "It is a specialty blend I discovered on a case several years ago, a very strong one grown in the Andes and rolled with carefully treated paper. Someday I shall do a study on whether certain blends of tobacco are better for brain-work than others. I am sure I have closed more cases since I began smoking this blend than with any other."
"It is a wonder you can think at all with this fog in here," Mrs. Hudson grumbled. "It's nearly as bad as outside."
Mr. Holmes, now becoming visible again through the smoke, shrugged his thin shoulders. "I hardly noticed. You know that when I am engaged upon a case my mind is so intensely focused my surroundings matter not at all."
Mrs. Hudson stared at him incredulously. "You mean you did not notice the smell? It smells like a mix of high tide and freshly turned fields in here." A Cornish girl at heart, Mrs. Hudson remembered well the smells of the seaside country, and did not much appreciate finding them in her upstairs flat.
"I am used to it. I find I rather enjoy it," he answered.
"Perhaps it is not as strong smelling to you, given that you're used to it," Mrs. Hudson said fairly.
"On the contrary, I have developed my sense of smell so that I can pick out individual scents, at least as far as a human nose is able, from the mix of scents in London," Mr. Holmes said. "There are many applications for such a skill; indeed, I have a theory that smell is in fact the strongest of the human senses in that it is the most stimulating to brain work. I have often found that a scent is the key to unlocking whatever mystery I have at hand, whether it is chemical or criminal in nature. Why, the other day-"
He continued on in such a way for some time, until the smoke had finally dissipated enough to bring the room into focus again and Dr. Watson appeared from the upstairs bedroom with a cheerful "Good morning!" and not a word about the smell still hanging about the room. Mrs. Hudson made her escape as Mr. Holmes turned to his fellow-lodger and began regaling him with tales of the importance of scent to a student of, well, anything, according to him.
Mrs. Hudson had discovered his fondness of discoursing aloud about whatever subject had his attention at the moment, usually one of little interest to anyone but himself, early on. It was of much greater interest to her that Dr. Watson seemed hardly to mind serving as the audience for these impromptu lectures. Perhaps the man truly was bored, and possessed of a particularly weak sense of smell. He had to be, between the tobacco smoke and the chemicals.
Mr. Holmes truly must have believed smoking was important to his thought process, because the pungent scent of his specialty tobacco was soon a familiar one throughout the house, until Mrs. Hudson almost understood how one might become used to such an odor. It was only a matter of weeks before the scent stopped bothering her at all, and soon was beyond her notice.
That, or the smell had simply destroyed her olfactory sense entirely. She was not positive it had not.
Though this theory was disproved in the most surprising way on May morning when Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner only for Dr. Watson, now much improved, while Mr. Holmes was away engaged on a case in Kent. She opened the door only to find the room filled with smoke, of an entirely different, though equally strong scent.
"My word, Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson said, coughing and holding her sleeve to her nose. The tar-like smell brought tears to her eyes. "Whatever is that smell? Did Mr. Holmes come back early?"
"Oh, no, he did not. Do forgive me," Dr. Watson said, hastily putting out a cigar and hurrying to open a window. "I was smoking while I read my newspaper and rather lost track of time, and how many cigars I was having." He smiled apologetically as Mrs. Hudson stared at him.
"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said. "I thought it was some chemical experiment gone wrong, it smelled so!"
"Yes," Dr. Watson said. "Like tar, very heavy. I developed a taste for this type of tobacco in India. I understand it is a favorite of sailors and navy men. I do apologize, I had no intention of making the room uninhabitable. I often forget how very strong it is. Even Holmes says he cannot abide it."
"Well," Mrs. Hudson said. "I suppose that answers the question of how you manage to live with the constant smell of Mr. Holmes's tobacco and chemicals."
Dr. Watson began to laugh heartily. "Yes, his is rather strong, though not nearly as much so as this. It is true, it hardly bothers me. Neither do the chemical smells. They remind me of St. Bart's, rather. Neither of them are anything compared to the hospital in Bombay or the belly of a ship after weeks at sea." He cleared his throat, seeming to remember such topics were not suitable for conversation with one's landlady. "I will try not to foul up the rooms too much again, Mrs. Hudson. Though I cannot speak for Holmes."
"Doctor, it is hardly fouling up the rooms to smoke," Mrs. Hudson said. "I enjoy a cigarette myself now and again. Only try to ensure that the smoke inside remains less thick than the fog outside."
Dr. Watson laughed appreciatively. "I believe I can promise that, Mrs. Hudson."