Fic for winryweiss: Last Christmas
Title: Last Christmas
Recipient: winryweiss
Author: mistyzeo
Characters/Pairings: Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson, Inspector Hopkins, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: A final Christmas at Great Scotland Yard deserves a proper party.
Thanks owed to Carla for the polishing!
The snow had been coming down all afternoon; by sunset it blanketed the pavement and was turning to slush in the streets underneath the wheels and hooves of the cabs that passed Scotland Yard. But two storeys up, where my office looked out upon Whitehall Place with just a sliver of the river visible beyond, the snow sparkled on the windowsill and glittered in the air as it fell.
I realise, of course, that the image is a sentimental one, but I was in a sentimental mood. It was less than a week until Christmas, and I had a notion that we would not be called out again tonight on any particular matter. It might have been sheer optimism: downstairs, thanks to the efforts of a few of the younger police constables and under the watchful eye of Inspector Hopkins, they were setting up for a little party.
Why Hopkins had volunteered for the post had initially eluded me, but he seemed very keen to see the soiree go off smoothly. When I asked him about it, in an undertone, he got a wistful look in his eye and blushed a bit.
"Well, it's to be our last Christmas here," said he, twining his fingers together and releasing them again. "I just thought it ought to be a special one."
It was indeed our last year in these buildings: we were outgrowing our walls and needed more room. The buildings in Victoria were nearly finished, and only needed the final touches of our own desks, files, and equipment to be truly ready. We had a few months yet before the move, but my colleagues and I had already begun to pack up our belongings.
As I stared out the window, chin in hand, paperwork forgotten under my elbow, a knock on the frame of my open door startled me back to awareness. It was Tobias Gregson, out of breath from an apparent dash up the stairs to my office.
"Yes?"
"Mr Holmes is here," he panted. "And the Doctor."
I stood with a sigh and reached for my hat, casting a sorry glance at the snowscape that was certain to be less lovely under my boots and down the back of my coat.
"No, no," Gregson said quickly, "I mean they've arrived for the party."
"Mr Holm- Mr Holmes is here for the party?"
"Well, and the Doctor," Gregson said, as if that explained everything.
To be fair, it rather did.
"Is Hopkins ready for them?" I asked. "Or have they interrupted and alarmed him?"
Gregson flashed a grin, showing the gap between his top front teeth, and then schooled his features into a more appropriate level of humour. "If he isn't ready now, he'll be ready soon enough," said he.
I closed my office door behind me, happy to let my paperwork marinate overnight, and Gregson and I went down together.
The briefing room fire was burning brightly, and lengths of tinsel and ivy had been strung up around the rafters. The table had been pushed to the side and on it were plates of cheese and bread, sliced fruit, mince pies, and cold cuts of meat. This too was decorated with tinsel and ivy, and sprigs of holly had been scattered around among the dishes.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson stood by the fire, the snow melting off the shoulders of their coats. Mr Holmes looked vaguely perturbed. Perhaps he was uncomfortable being here without a crime to solve, but Dr Watson smiled brightly at me as I entered, and we shook hands.
"Inspector," he said, "Happy Christmas.”
"And to you, Doctor," said I, "and yourself, Mr Holmes. Terribly glad you could join us tonight."
"Inspector Hopkins dropped it into conversation the other day," Dr Watson said, "and Holmes, of course, was very keen to come."
Mr Holmes shot the Doctor a look that was both amused and reproving, and shook my hand as well. "Watson, likewise, does not take a lot of convincing."
Hopkins returned at that moment, carrying an enormous tureen of mulled wine with the assistance of Constable Wilkins. Together they hefted it onto the table, and then Hopkins turned to us with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Well," he said, "I hope you gentlemen are thirsty, because we have quite a lot of this to get through and the Commissioner wants us finished with our merry-making by ten o'clock."
"You have done a great deal of work," I said, indicating the room. "Perhaps your caseload has been too light?"
Hopkins blushed and shrugged and just managed not to glance at Mr Holmes. "I saw a need and I filled it, Inspector," said he. "It’s just a bit of cheer this winter, what with the last few weeks."
There was a moment of silence. The month of December had so far been rather rough, if not particularly heavy, on us all. Even Mr Holmes glanced down at his feet. The body of the orange-seller in the Thames had perturbed him for some reason, more than usual. I felt the weight of the young, well-dressed man found dead of exposure mere streets from his home in Mayfair. The Doctor had lost a patient to pneumonia, Mr Holmes had told me over a cup of coffee the week before, and I glanced at the Doctor to find him gazing blankly into the fireplace.
"Anyway," Hopkins said, clearing his throat and breaking our melancholy reverie, "we can look forward to what the new year will bring in good company."
"Hear, hear," Dr Watson put in, and shook his overcoat off his shoulders. "Mulled wine, Holmes? Inspector?"
By the time we five had been served, a few more off-duty constables and one or two of the other Inspectors had trickled in, and the noise level in the little room had increased. Mr Holmes had moved to Inspector Hopkins and was congratulating him on the work he had done in November on the matter of the orphan and the overturned turnip cart. Gregson and the Doctor were discussing a sporting match behind me, and I caught sight of two young constables standing together by the door and whispering, their eyes fixed on Mr Holmes.
The whispering trailed off as I approached.
"Shall I introduce you?" I asked.
Constable Turner, who was very near promotion to Sergeant, lit up at the suggestion. "Oh, could you, Inspector?"
"Surely you've worked with Mr Holmes before?"
"Once," Turner said, "but I doubt he remembers me."
I snorted. Mr Holmes remembered a very great deal. If Turner had made any impression on him whatsoever, Mr Holmes would recall.
Mr Holmes did indeed recall. He greeted Constable Turner with a warm handshake and ignored the young man's stammering. Hopkins pursed his mouth against a smile, no doubt recalling his own early days in Mr Holmes's presence doing much the same. Mr Holmes did not praise Turner as quite as generously as he had Hopkins at the time, but Turner appeared flattered and charmed all the same.
Gregson offered me a mince pie, which I accepted. We ate in companionable silence by the fire, gazing out the window at the snow. The flakes were big and wet now, showing signs of stopping. The skies would be clear by midnight, I decided.
Hopkins climbed up on a chair and addressed the room, which was now almost full of constables, sergeants, inspectors, clerks, and a few chaps from the mortuary.
"I have a bit of a treat tonight," said he, his arms wide. "Beyond the wine, which I insist you all have another cup of. Thank you, Sergeant Bratton, that's the spirit. No, we are very fortunate tonight to have a few musicians among us, and they are not often afforded the opportunity to perform in public. So, we will have a little concert, if you could give the gentlemen your attention please. Thank you."
He jumped down, and a space on the other side of the room cleared, leaving four police officers and Sherlock Holmes standing at the rarely-used piano. I blinked in surprise. Mr Holmes had loosened his collar and cuffs and was holding a pristine violin under his arm, laughing at the remark the sergeant with the flute beside him had just made. A constable sat down at the piano and played a chord. Again Hopkins had rather outdone himself: he'd had the piano tuned. A constable with a 'cello and Inspector Peter Jones with his battered fiddle under his chin rounded out the group.
They nodded to one another, Mr Holmes counted, "Three, four," and they broke into a merry, practiced version of “Two Girls Walking On The High Street.” I had no idea Mr Holmes even knew popular tunes. Whenever Dr Watson and I discussed a music hall performance or a musical production Mr Holmes scoffed and left the room, but he apparently had been hiding a great deal from me. He was an enigmatic one, Mr Holmes.
Dr Watson did not look surprised in the slightest. He was holding Holmes's cup of wine and smiling widely at his friend as he played. I went to stand beside him.
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"Two or three weeks," Dr Watson admitted. "Inspector Hopkins mentioned the party and, in an attempt to lure Holmes but I think genuinely without knowing he played, mentioned he might have a couple of the lads give a little concert."
"And they've been practicing, obviously."
"Well, Mrs Hudson is used to music at inappropriate hours."
"They've been practicing at your flat?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Whenever they could all find time off at once," he lamented.
"Well, I am sorry," said I, patting him on the shoulder, "but they seem to have come out remarkably well."
The song ended on a flourish, and we applauded mightily. Dr Watson handed Holmes his drink and took it back again after the detective had had a sip.
"You're in for a treat, Inspector," the Doctor said. The tinsel strung around the room caught the light and reflected it back in a thousand glittering fragments. Outside, the snow had finally stopped. "They have quite a programme planned for this evening."
Recipient: winryweiss
Author: mistyzeo
Characters/Pairings: Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson, Inspector Hopkins, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: A final Christmas at Great Scotland Yard deserves a proper party.
Thanks owed to Carla for the polishing!
The snow had been coming down all afternoon; by sunset it blanketed the pavement and was turning to slush in the streets underneath the wheels and hooves of the cabs that passed Scotland Yard. But two storeys up, where my office looked out upon Whitehall Place with just a sliver of the river visible beyond, the snow sparkled on the windowsill and glittered in the air as it fell.
I realise, of course, that the image is a sentimental one, but I was in a sentimental mood. It was less than a week until Christmas, and I had a notion that we would not be called out again tonight on any particular matter. It might have been sheer optimism: downstairs, thanks to the efforts of a few of the younger police constables and under the watchful eye of Inspector Hopkins, they were setting up for a little party.
Why Hopkins had volunteered for the post had initially eluded me, but he seemed very keen to see the soiree go off smoothly. When I asked him about it, in an undertone, he got a wistful look in his eye and blushed a bit.
"Well, it's to be our last Christmas here," said he, twining his fingers together and releasing them again. "I just thought it ought to be a special one."
It was indeed our last year in these buildings: we were outgrowing our walls and needed more room. The buildings in Victoria were nearly finished, and only needed the final touches of our own desks, files, and equipment to be truly ready. We had a few months yet before the move, but my colleagues and I had already begun to pack up our belongings.
As I stared out the window, chin in hand, paperwork forgotten under my elbow, a knock on the frame of my open door startled me back to awareness. It was Tobias Gregson, out of breath from an apparent dash up the stairs to my office.
"Yes?"
"Mr Holmes is here," he panted. "And the Doctor."
I stood with a sigh and reached for my hat, casting a sorry glance at the snowscape that was certain to be less lovely under my boots and down the back of my coat.
"No, no," Gregson said quickly, "I mean they've arrived for the party."
"Mr Holm- Mr Holmes is here for the party?"
"Well, and the Doctor," Gregson said, as if that explained everything.
To be fair, it rather did.
"Is Hopkins ready for them?" I asked. "Or have they interrupted and alarmed him?"
Gregson flashed a grin, showing the gap between his top front teeth, and then schooled his features into a more appropriate level of humour. "If he isn't ready now, he'll be ready soon enough," said he.
I closed my office door behind me, happy to let my paperwork marinate overnight, and Gregson and I went down together.
The briefing room fire was burning brightly, and lengths of tinsel and ivy had been strung up around the rafters. The table had been pushed to the side and on it were plates of cheese and bread, sliced fruit, mince pies, and cold cuts of meat. This too was decorated with tinsel and ivy, and sprigs of holly had been scattered around among the dishes.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson stood by the fire, the snow melting off the shoulders of their coats. Mr Holmes looked vaguely perturbed. Perhaps he was uncomfortable being here without a crime to solve, but Dr Watson smiled brightly at me as I entered, and we shook hands.
"Inspector," he said, "Happy Christmas.”
"And to you, Doctor," said I, "and yourself, Mr Holmes. Terribly glad you could join us tonight."
"Inspector Hopkins dropped it into conversation the other day," Dr Watson said, "and Holmes, of course, was very keen to come."
Mr Holmes shot the Doctor a look that was both amused and reproving, and shook my hand as well. "Watson, likewise, does not take a lot of convincing."
Hopkins returned at that moment, carrying an enormous tureen of mulled wine with the assistance of Constable Wilkins. Together they hefted it onto the table, and then Hopkins turned to us with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Well," he said, "I hope you gentlemen are thirsty, because we have quite a lot of this to get through and the Commissioner wants us finished with our merry-making by ten o'clock."
"You have done a great deal of work," I said, indicating the room. "Perhaps your caseload has been too light?"
Hopkins blushed and shrugged and just managed not to glance at Mr Holmes. "I saw a need and I filled it, Inspector," said he. "It’s just a bit of cheer this winter, what with the last few weeks."
There was a moment of silence. The month of December had so far been rather rough, if not particularly heavy, on us all. Even Mr Holmes glanced down at his feet. The body of the orange-seller in the Thames had perturbed him for some reason, more than usual. I felt the weight of the young, well-dressed man found dead of exposure mere streets from his home in Mayfair. The Doctor had lost a patient to pneumonia, Mr Holmes had told me over a cup of coffee the week before, and I glanced at the Doctor to find him gazing blankly into the fireplace.
"Anyway," Hopkins said, clearing his throat and breaking our melancholy reverie, "we can look forward to what the new year will bring in good company."
"Hear, hear," Dr Watson put in, and shook his overcoat off his shoulders. "Mulled wine, Holmes? Inspector?"
By the time we five had been served, a few more off-duty constables and one or two of the other Inspectors had trickled in, and the noise level in the little room had increased. Mr Holmes had moved to Inspector Hopkins and was congratulating him on the work he had done in November on the matter of the orphan and the overturned turnip cart. Gregson and the Doctor were discussing a sporting match behind me, and I caught sight of two young constables standing together by the door and whispering, their eyes fixed on Mr Holmes.
The whispering trailed off as I approached.
"Shall I introduce you?" I asked.
Constable Turner, who was very near promotion to Sergeant, lit up at the suggestion. "Oh, could you, Inspector?"
"Surely you've worked with Mr Holmes before?"
"Once," Turner said, "but I doubt he remembers me."
I snorted. Mr Holmes remembered a very great deal. If Turner had made any impression on him whatsoever, Mr Holmes would recall.
Mr Holmes did indeed recall. He greeted Constable Turner with a warm handshake and ignored the young man's stammering. Hopkins pursed his mouth against a smile, no doubt recalling his own early days in Mr Holmes's presence doing much the same. Mr Holmes did not praise Turner as quite as generously as he had Hopkins at the time, but Turner appeared flattered and charmed all the same.
Gregson offered me a mince pie, which I accepted. We ate in companionable silence by the fire, gazing out the window at the snow. The flakes were big and wet now, showing signs of stopping. The skies would be clear by midnight, I decided.
Hopkins climbed up on a chair and addressed the room, which was now almost full of constables, sergeants, inspectors, clerks, and a few chaps from the mortuary.
"I have a bit of a treat tonight," said he, his arms wide. "Beyond the wine, which I insist you all have another cup of. Thank you, Sergeant Bratton, that's the spirit. No, we are very fortunate tonight to have a few musicians among us, and they are not often afforded the opportunity to perform in public. So, we will have a little concert, if you could give the gentlemen your attention please. Thank you."
He jumped down, and a space on the other side of the room cleared, leaving four police officers and Sherlock Holmes standing at the rarely-used piano. I blinked in surprise. Mr Holmes had loosened his collar and cuffs and was holding a pristine violin under his arm, laughing at the remark the sergeant with the flute beside him had just made. A constable sat down at the piano and played a chord. Again Hopkins had rather outdone himself: he'd had the piano tuned. A constable with a 'cello and Inspector Peter Jones with his battered fiddle under his chin rounded out the group.
They nodded to one another, Mr Holmes counted, "Three, four," and they broke into a merry, practiced version of “Two Girls Walking On The High Street.” I had no idea Mr Holmes even knew popular tunes. Whenever Dr Watson and I discussed a music hall performance or a musical production Mr Holmes scoffed and left the room, but he apparently had been hiding a great deal from me. He was an enigmatic one, Mr Holmes.
Dr Watson did not look surprised in the slightest. He was holding Holmes's cup of wine and smiling widely at his friend as he played. I went to stand beside him.
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"Two or three weeks," Dr Watson admitted. "Inspector Hopkins mentioned the party and, in an attempt to lure Holmes but I think genuinely without knowing he played, mentioned he might have a couple of the lads give a little concert."
"And they've been practicing, obviously."
"Well, Mrs Hudson is used to music at inappropriate hours."
"They've been practicing at your flat?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Whenever they could all find time off at once," he lamented.
"Well, I am sorry," said I, patting him on the shoulder, "but they seem to have come out remarkably well."
The song ended on a flourish, and we applauded mightily. Dr Watson handed Holmes his drink and took it back again after the detective had had a sip.
"You're in for a treat, Inspector," the Doctor said. The tinsel strung around the room caught the light and reflected it back in a thousand glittering fragments. Outside, the snow had finally stopped. "They have quite a programme planned for this evening."