And it goes on and on and on?
On the eighteenth of December, 1883, I awoke to the sound of a raging storm. Outside my window, the entire world had been blanked out and replaced with a white screen of snow, making a rather grand entrance this particular winter. When I turned away from the window, I found a half-dressed Sherlock Holmes looking down at me, an innocent smirk upon his lips.
“You do realise,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse from sleep, “that I may have no trouble at all this morning.”
“I realise that there is a slight possibility,” Holmes agreed, and his smile widened - “but I do not want to rely on chance.” He held out his hand, bending slightly in a mock bow. “Would you care to dance?”
I chuckled, taking his hand and swinging out of bed. As it turned out, Holmes had been right not to trust to luck, as I quickly toppled into his arms with a short, sharp cry, my fingers gripping at him tightly, trying to hold myself up against the burning agony in my thigh. As I hung from his strong hands, my leg shivered violently, and Holmes graced me with a concerned glance.
“Is it worse than it has been before?” he asked curiously. I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain under control if I let it out. I screwed my eyes shut against the white of the snow, glaring and bright in its attempt to blind me, and while I was distracted, Holmes gently laid me back in my bed, pulling the covers up and over my chest. As I concentrated on keeping my breaths at least steady, if not in any way relaxed, Holmes strode over to the window and yanked shut the curtains. He then stepped out into the hall and shouted for Mrs Hudson before pulling a chair to my bedside and resolutely sitting down, his manner saying that he would absolutely refuse to leave under any circumstances.
My breakfast was brought up to me, as was my lunch, and it was mid-afternoon before Holmes suggested another attempt to move me. I agreed, and swept aside the covers, ready to try to stand once more, but Holmes had another idea. He settled his hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving, then bent down beside me and slid his arms carefully underneath my body - one around my shoulders and one behind my knees. I linked my arms around his neck as he lifted me, resting my head against his chest; his heartbeat by my ear was oddly soothing.
That night, there was never any question - Holmes simply scooped me up once more and settled me in his own bed. I woke the next morning with him still asleep beside me, lying on his side facing me. Moments later, his eyes opened suddenly in a flash of grey.
“My dear Watson,” he said softly - “it appears that we are only a wreath short of a Christmas tradition.”
“Christmas is in six days, Holmes,” I replied, just as quiet.
“Irrelevant,” he said dismissively. “It is the holiday season nonetheless.”
I grinned at him and let him help me up. Outside, the storm had abated, and the glare of the snow had faded into a simple, white glow on the streets and rooftops.
1884
Christmas Eve, 1884, dawned amid the empty silence of a fresh snowfall, the first of the season. Though I called for Holmes, he did not answer, and I supposed he was out, on a case or a walk, or some other venture. I doubted that I would be able to get up on my own, and so I shifted down to the end of the bed so that I could lean on the bedpost if necessary. I tried to stand but, as I had predicted, my leg only shot through with pain and refused to hold my weight, leaving me wide-eyed and leaning with both hands on the bedpost.
I called for Mrs Hudson, who agreed to bring my meals up to me, apologising that she would be unable to bring me dinner as she would be leaving in the afternoon to spend Christmas with her niece. She informed me that Holmes had gone before she woke, leaving no indication as to his whereabouts, and I could not hide my disappointment. Holmes had already proven that he knew that the first snow would inhibit me - why had he left? Did he really care so little?
Holmes did not return all day, and I found myself feeling utterly miserable, despite the season. I ate little of what Mrs Hudson brought me, and frowned to myself when the sound of carollers reached my ears, floating through the silence of the house in the early evening. I curled up to sleep early, drifting into a fitful doze quickly enough. I woke often, each time refusing to look at the clock on the mantel and slipping back into slumber after a few moments of lucidity. Sometime during the night, at what I guessed was probably a few hours past midnight, I woke to the warmth of another body behind me - not close enough to touch, but still sharing the bed and the blanket. The heat of a slim, long-fingered hand graced my waist, and, if I concentrated, I imagined I could feel the ghost of another’s breath on the back of my neck. Before I fell asleep once more, I managed to whisper an almost-silent “Merry Christmas” to the room; I both hoped and feared that Holmes had heard me.
When I next woke, the sun had risen and the bed beside me was empty, but not yet cold. I managed to change out of my nightshirt and limp heavily down into the sitting room, where Holmes lounged before the fire with his pipe. I opened my mouth to wish him a merry Christmas, but he cut me off before I could speak.
“There is no need to repeat yourself, Watson,” he said quickly, not looking at me. I stared, but decided to remain in the spirit of the season and forgive him, honouring his roundabout request to not mention the previous night. He met my silence with a quick glance, his eyes holding something which I could not quite fathom, but which nonetheless appealed to something in my heart.
1885
1886
1887
Epilogue
“You do realise,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse from sleep, “that I may have no trouble at all this morning.”
“I realise that there is a slight possibility,” Holmes agreed, and his smile widened - “but I do not want to rely on chance.” He held out his hand, bending slightly in a mock bow. “Would you care to dance?”
I chuckled, taking his hand and swinging out of bed. As it turned out, Holmes had been right not to trust to luck, as I quickly toppled into his arms with a short, sharp cry, my fingers gripping at him tightly, trying to hold myself up against the burning agony in my thigh. As I hung from his strong hands, my leg shivered violently, and Holmes graced me with a concerned glance.
“Is it worse than it has been before?” he asked curiously. I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain under control if I let it out. I screwed my eyes shut against the white of the snow, glaring and bright in its attempt to blind me, and while I was distracted, Holmes gently laid me back in my bed, pulling the covers up and over my chest. As I concentrated on keeping my breaths at least steady, if not in any way relaxed, Holmes strode over to the window and yanked shut the curtains. He then stepped out into the hall and shouted for Mrs Hudson before pulling a chair to my bedside and resolutely sitting down, his manner saying that he would absolutely refuse to leave under any circumstances.
My breakfast was brought up to me, as was my lunch, and it was mid-afternoon before Holmes suggested another attempt to move me. I agreed, and swept aside the covers, ready to try to stand once more, but Holmes had another idea. He settled his hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving, then bent down beside me and slid his arms carefully underneath my body - one around my shoulders and one behind my knees. I linked my arms around his neck as he lifted me, resting my head against his chest; his heartbeat by my ear was oddly soothing.
That night, there was never any question - Holmes simply scooped me up once more and settled me in his own bed. I woke the next morning with him still asleep beside me, lying on his side facing me. Moments later, his eyes opened suddenly in a flash of grey.
“My dear Watson,” he said softly - “it appears that we are only a wreath short of a Christmas tradition.”
“Christmas is in six days, Holmes,” I replied, just as quiet.
“Irrelevant,” he said dismissively. “It is the holiday season nonetheless.”
I grinned at him and let him help me up. Outside, the storm had abated, and the glare of the snow had faded into a simple, white glow on the streets and rooftops.
1884
Christmas Eve, 1884, dawned amid the empty silence of a fresh snowfall, the first of the season. Though I called for Holmes, he did not answer, and I supposed he was out, on a case or a walk, or some other venture. I doubted that I would be able to get up on my own, and so I shifted down to the end of the bed so that I could lean on the bedpost if necessary. I tried to stand but, as I had predicted, my leg only shot through with pain and refused to hold my weight, leaving me wide-eyed and leaning with both hands on the bedpost.
I called for Mrs Hudson, who agreed to bring my meals up to me, apologising that she would be unable to bring me dinner as she would be leaving in the afternoon to spend Christmas with her niece. She informed me that Holmes had gone before she woke, leaving no indication as to his whereabouts, and I could not hide my disappointment. Holmes had already proven that he knew that the first snow would inhibit me - why had he left? Did he really care so little?
Holmes did not return all day, and I found myself feeling utterly miserable, despite the season. I ate little of what Mrs Hudson brought me, and frowned to myself when the sound of carollers reached my ears, floating through the silence of the house in the early evening. I curled up to sleep early, drifting into a fitful doze quickly enough. I woke often, each time refusing to look at the clock on the mantel and slipping back into slumber after a few moments of lucidity. Sometime during the night, at what I guessed was probably a few hours past midnight, I woke to the warmth of another body behind me - not close enough to touch, but still sharing the bed and the blanket. The heat of a slim, long-fingered hand graced my waist, and, if I concentrated, I imagined I could feel the ghost of another’s breath on the back of my neck. Before I fell asleep once more, I managed to whisper an almost-silent “Merry Christmas” to the room; I both hoped and feared that Holmes had heard me.
When I next woke, the sun had risen and the bed beside me was empty, but not yet cold. I managed to change out of my nightshirt and limp heavily down into the sitting room, where Holmes lounged before the fire with his pipe. I opened my mouth to wish him a merry Christmas, but he cut me off before I could speak.
“There is no need to repeat yourself, Watson,” he said quickly, not looking at me. I stared, but decided to remain in the spirit of the season and forgive him, honouring his roundabout request to not mention the previous night. He met my silence with a quick glance, his eyes holding something which I could not quite fathom, but which nonetheless appealed to something in my heart.
1885
1886
1887
Epilogue