Sherlock Holmes stood motionless, his hands in his jacket pockets, his chin tilted upwards, his lips parted very slightly. To anyone who didn't know him well it would have looked like his eyes were closed, but John Watson knew him well enough to know they were not. Watson stood by his friend's side in the darkness, waiting for his musing to end.

"You have great patience with my eccentricities, Watson," Holmes finally murmured. "It is an endearing quality in a friend."

Watson said nothing, knowing Holmes would continue when he was ready. He looked up, too, but the sky was black and cold and he could see nothing. He didn't mind watching the stars when they were out, and he enjoyed a good view as much as anyone, but he couldn't fathom what Holmes was seeing. He shivered, wishing he was indoors.

"I am afraid I am getting old, Watson," Holmes said after another minute or so had passed. "Old and sentimental. Is it strange that I miss them?"

"The stars? They'll come back, Holmes. Your knowledge of astronomy isn't as bad as all that," Watson replied pawkily.

The corners of Holmes' mouth quirked momentarily into a smile. "The streetlamps," he replied.

"The streetlamps like the ones all around us on either side?"

"The streetlamps that are gone, and will never be again."

"Do you remember, Holmes, that I once said that what the law has gained the stage has lost? That compliment was not an invitation to be dramatic at every turn."

Holmes looked over at him appraisingly. "You're cold," he said simply as if it wasn't close to freezing outside and he himself was not feeling any effects of the temperature. "Let us continue home."

"What streetlamps?" Watson insisted, not moving.

Holmes took him by the arm, steering him away. "The gas lamps, Watson. I miss them. I miss the flicker of them through the fog, the way they were so, well, real, I suppose. These new electric lights feel artificial and soulless, and I feel as if I should not feel so. After all, am I not a great supporter of progress? Should it not be a good thing that nearly half of all the lamps in London are now electric, including these on our own beloved street? Do I not have great hopes for the future and the advancement it will bring? And yet I do find myself looking upon them with dissatisfaction; I even miss Bert."

"Who is Bert?"

"The lamplighter who used to come down Baker Street on his route. I barely even spoke to him and yet it seems as though a part of Baker Street is missing without him coming around, like we have lost something instead of gained it. I know it is a ridiculous notion; as I said, it must be a sign of my age that I prefer things the way they were."

"Holmes," Watson said seriously, "it says nothing that you prefer things the way they were or the way they are or if you wish ardently for them to change. It just is, and we all must take what comes and do our best with it."

"Perhaps," Holmes replied noncommittally.

"What does say quite a bit about you, however," Watson continued, "is that you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to think about streetlamps."

"Oh? What does it say about me?" Holmes asked lightly. "That I am heartless for making you stand in the cold?"

"No. It shows you are a quiet, thoughtful man. You also happen to be an eccentric who leaves his friend to stand in the cold while he contemplates streetlamps, but that is easily forgiven."

Holmes chuckled, "Well, well, I suppose I cannot fault your logic, my friend. Let me atone: how does some good wine, a cozy fire, and at least passably decent companionship sound when we return home?"

"It sounds perfect, Holmes. And the room will be lit by gas lamps, just as you like."

"Indeed. Somehow, Watson, when I look out onto the street on a night like tonight, it is easy to imagine that the gas lamps are once more alight, and somehow it seems like the spirit of things will always survive the way they were in eighteen ninety-five."


For the prompt from Domina Temporis: Streetlamps

With a prompt like that, I couldn't resist the Vincent Starrett (or Mary Poppins!) reference :)