The Silver Cigarette Case
A/N: I always wondered if Watson ever gave Holmes back his cigarette case that he left at the falls. This is my take on how it might have happened if Watson decided to return it. When I had finished it, it struck me as a bit… sappy. Or overly fluffy, if you will. Well, I guess it's not my opinion that matters, but yours, so R&R!
I felt the case in my pocket when I sat down across from Holmes in my customary armchair. I had thought about it often in the last few days, and I had finally come to a conclusion: I was going to give it back to him.
When I first came home from the falls and Mary saw the cigarette case, I explained its significance to her and assured her I was not going to keep it. When she asked me why ever not, I merely replied that looking at it would bring back too many painful memories for me. However, my wife, being the thoughtful soul she was, suggested that in time those memories would fade, and I would grow to associate it with the many adventures Holmes and I had shared together.
My wife was correct, and in the three years of Holmes's "death" it was the only thing I had left to remind me of him. It was two years since his return, though, and I now had his presence to satisfy me, and it was high time it was returned.
We had hardly spoken of the incident at Reichenbach since that fateful day he appeared in my sitting room to me, back from the dead as if he had never left. I was loathe to dredge up those events, but I found it impossible in light of the task I was now to undertake.
"Holmes," I slowly began, eliciting his attention from his contemplation of the fire, "I have something I would like to return to you." He nodded, a light of curiosity in his eyes. I had no doubt his mind was whirring to figure out what I had of his that I was now to return. I took the silver cigarette case out of my pocket and held it out to him.
"I have had this for five years now, Holmes. I do not want it anymore." Holmes reached out a thin hand for it, but he gave the case hardly a glance and instead fixed his gaze upon me.
"I had quite forgotten you had this, Watson. I can scarcely believe you kept it all this time. Surely, it was not out of sentimental reasons?"
I know I blushed, for I felt the heat in my cheeks and the embarrassment that accompanied it. It was as well that I told the truth, I reasoned, for as Holmes so often said, I was no use at prevaricating.
"Actually, that is exactly the reason. I was at first averse to keeping it, but my wife convinced me otherwise, and in your absence it was the only thing I had to remind myself of the adventures we shared. Now, however, I think it best if I give it back to you," I said, echoing my recent thoughts.
Holmes opened the case, and to his apparent astonishment, the note he had left me telling of his confrontation with Moriarty fell out. He picked it up and cried,
"Watson! Surely you did not keep this, too?" I smiled.
"Isn't it obvious, as you now hold it in your hand?"
"It was purely rhetorical, Watson. But why in the world-?"
"As I said, Holmes. It was a reminder." Holmes nodded thoughtfully. Then he swiftly slipped the note back into the cigarette case and handed it back to me.
"Keep it." I looked up in some surprise, refraining from taking it.
"What?"
"Keep it!" he repeated, offering it to me again. I took it this time and put it back into my pocket.
"But why, Holmes? I wanted you to have it back." Holmes shook his head and looked into the fire.
"Clearly it means more to you than it ever could to me." I studied Holmes's face intently, but he would not look at me, and as his face was at the best of times inscrutable, I could divine no reason for this strange action. I was, however, surprisingly glad he had let me keep it. I had grown curiously attached to the little thing in his absence, and that had not changed in his return.
"Thank you," said I, and I was about to pick up a novel when Holmes said to me in a curiously thick voice,
"Before you occupy your time with that book, I humbly suggest the theater as a more interesting diversion. I believe that if we hurry, we shall just make the last showing of that little play you so like. What was it, ah-?"
"The Scottish play, you mean?"
"Yes, that one! Now don your coat and hat, and we shall leave."
I had the strange feeling this sudden invitation to the theater was a bit of a subtle show of emotion on Holmes's part. What emotion I could only ever guess, as I would never ask my friend outright. But guess I could, and I think I had a very good idea.