Author's Note- Because it was late on a Friday night and I had nothing to do for the weekend... This is a short one, nothing more than an extended drabble, really... One-Shot, unless I am convinced otherwise.
Until next time- Jack of Cats.
Disclaimer- All rights, lefts and 'straight-ahead's belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The Empty House, or How Holmes Really Lost His Left Canine
Holmes sat with his face turned away from his companion in his old armchair, glaring moodily at the fire the night after his 'miraculous' return from the dead. With a contented sight, Watson settled back into his old seat by the hearth, gazing wistfully at the pile of unanswered mail stuck with a knife to the mantle, and at the Persian slipper overflowing with long-stale tobacco. His eyes flitted to the elusive detective, who sat curled up as of old with his arms wrapped around his knees.
"Holmes." He called suddenly, frowning slightly, brow twisting with unease as he received no reply. "Holmes!" He called again, his tone more insistent.
His companion huffed noncommittally, shifting in his seat but still not moving to meet the doctor's gaze. "What is it?" He called shortly, feeling weary and irritable.
"Are you alright, old chap?" asked Watson, face earnest as he leaned forward on his armchair, voice tinged with concern.
The detective turned a single malignant grey eye towards him, before abruptly veering towards him on his perch. His face was a riot of vibrant bruises, looking for all the world like a sky right after the sunset, dappled with splotches of red, indigo and purple. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right hand clutched a sodden bundle of what Watson assumed was ice, wrapped in cloth, to his jaw. "No, Watson, I should think I am not." He snapped, voice muffled with pain and yet dripping with exasperated sarcasm.
Watson blinked somewhat apologetically at him, biting down on his lip and lowering his eyes, as the detective glowered at him like a wild beast would at its captor from inside the clutches of a trap. If looks could kill, Watson felt sure his bones would have withered to dust by now.
All of a sudden, Holmes let out a mangled noise of frustration, sprawling back on his perch with an exaggerated moan. With a look of deep dejection, he let the ice fall away from his cheek and onto his lap, his face an image of abject misery. A slight smirk tugged at Watson's lip as he let out an amused snort at his friend's antics, at which Holmes turned his single baleful eye upon him.
"Honestly, Watson," he snapped, decidedly tetchy and irritable, "I understand my recent… resurrection might have made you slightly aggressive, but was it really necessary to pound me as you would a ball of dough?"
A timid, apologetic smile crept on Watson's features as he closed his eyes with some embarrassment, cheeks flushing slightly as he let his head fall back onto his shoulders.
"I fixed you an appointment with your dentist." He said by means of compensation through half-closed lids. "He should be here tomorrow morning at nine."
At this pronouncement Holmes' glare became, if possible, even more wrathful, though his face twitched with not-unwarranted trepidation of his future ordeal. Short of a general anesthetic, Victorian London offered no method of relief, making all an any encounters with the infamous "dentists" rather grisly and painful. His tongue crept to the hollow where a tooth had until recently resided, feeling the absent canine pang sympathetically in response. Silence reigned, the only sound being the crackle of the flames and the steady white noise of life that throbbed like the frantic pulse in a dying man's neck up into the wee hours of London nights.
"And what about the public?" The detective broke in, somewhat testily, unable to bear the oppressive hush after residing alone for what felt like, to him, an eternity.
"The public?" Dr. Watson asked, sounding mystified, before realization broke on his face. "Ah, you mean the bumbling fellow in the Strand magazine!" He chuckled heartily for a few moments. "You needn't worry about him. He shall rise from his chair in shock, before fainting dramatically upon your arrival."
"You did faint, old fellow" Holmes reminded him, voice tinged with wry, inadvertent humour. "Right after you knocked me to the ground."
Watson ignored him, carrying on, seemingly not caring to acknowledge this rapid change in his friend's mood. "Mrs. Hudson shall, of course, fall into violent hysterics at your arrival."
Holmes pondered this for a moment, face grave as he nodded. "That is at least accurate." He stated, voice grim. "It was she who, in a fit of misplaced anger, attacked me with a rolling pin."
At this Watson's face broke into a wide, impetuous grin, and as he threw his head back with sudden laughter, it seemed for a moment that neither of them had ever been separated.
Their pipes had invariably been long emptied and the fire dwindling to faintly glowing embers before Watson stood up to leave. Holmes nodded in farewell, with a slight smile on his face as he watched his friend pause at the doorway, gazing back at him with mirth dancing in his expressive hazel eyes, though his features were stony and indifferent. "Do not worry, Holmes," he said in mock seriousness, "I do not think readers of the Strand will ever find out how Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective, really lost his left canine."
"...and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross-" The Adventure of The Empty House