Christmas Fic: In The Bleak Midwinter [G]
Title: "In the Bleak Midwinter"
Rating: G
Pairings: Watson/Mary, Holmes/Watson hinted at (or not, can be read either way really)
Genre: A bit angsty, a bit fluffy, a "bittersweet Christmas fic" as the kinkmeme requested.
Summary: A brief account of two Christmases-1891 and 1894.
Warnings: Character death, real and otherwise. Spoilers for AGOS and post-AGOS canon events.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
1891
Mr. and Mrs. John H. Watson are ensconced on their living room settee, bathed in firelight and the glow of the Christmas candles that line the mantlepiece. White steam rises from the cups of mulled wine that warm their hands. The plump fir in the corner, though of modest size, is exquisitely bedecked in the brightest red and gold. Gladstone dozes at his master’s feet. Patting a belly swollen from their sumptuous meal, Watson yawns, and his yawn melts into a sated smile. He brushes back a loose strand of Mary’s golden hair as they nestle closer together, oblivious to the figure peering through the frost-glazed window pane.
Holmes hunkers against the edifice, which is the colour of his coat, though the night is too dark to tell. The snow falls endlessly around him. He shivers, but not, he thinks, from cold. Such cold is nothing to him now. His breath has cleared the window glass just enough for him to see inside. The room sings with warmth and light, the picture of yuletide cheer. Mary’s dress of deep green taffeta harmonises perfectly with the tree, the wreaths, the fresh holly garlands. The only element missing is the children, and those, he supposes, will come soon enough.
Lazily, Watson rises from the couch and pulls a small package out from beneath the tree. Holmes surmises its contents before the woman’s fingers have torn the crimson paper-a radiant emerald necklace, twinkling in the candlelight. Watson unclasps it and lovingly drapes its chain around Mary’s slender neck. For a minute they disappear from Holmes’ view, presumably to find a mirror, and he crouches lower in case they should pass near the window. Each of his boots is capped with a little white hill of new snow. Away down the road, a small band of distant carolers sings “Silent Night.” For the first time, he notices the cold.
The newlyweds-they will always be newlyweds to Holmes-return to the fireside, and Mary coyly dips behind the tree and produces her gift to her husband: a gleaming walking stick. Watson’s old one, of course, has been scuffed, dinged, and bloodied over the course of their adventures; it’s only natural he should have a replacement. The new cane is burnished mahogany, with a brass knob that hinges open to reveal a watch inside. Nodding in admiration, Watson runs his hand over the length of the wood, then tests the grip as he plants the stick firmly on the floor. Then he rises to circle the room in an exaggerated strut, finishing with a twirl of the handsome gift. As the doctor pulls his laughing wife into an embrace, they sink back onto the cushion, and into an impassioned kiss.
Holmes turns from the window. Under the yellow street lamps, the snow falls as though it means to fall forever, and the faint chime of song still carries on the wind.
~*~
1894
The fragrances of fir and cloves and cinnamon have taken up temporary residence in the sitting room at Baker Street. Despite the absence of Mrs. Hudson, who has taken a much needed holiday to visit her sister’s family in Chelmsford, the room is passably presentable, or at least so festooned with evergreen that the mess fades into the background. Doctor and detective occupy their preferred armchairs. Holmes is slumped sideways in his seat, wrapped in the deep blue dressing gown Watson has just given him, as he plays a warm rendition of “Once in Royal David’s City” on his violin. Gladstone lies between them on the rug, his snores just audible over the crackling fire. As the final strains of the carol ebb out from Holmes' strings, Watson leans back in his chair and smiles.
“My dear Holmes, that was splendid,” he sighs. “If only you would play so sweetly the rest of the year, I might not be so pressed for sleep.”
Setting the instrument aside, Holmes smiles. “Well, it is Christmas, old chap.”
“Indeed, and you’re more moved by the spirit than I’ve ever seen you. You even cleared some of your clutter to accommodate the tree.” Watson chuckles. “The last time this place housed large plants, they were accompanied by sheep and goat.”
“It was an ample tree, or none at all,” Holmes says as he lights his pipe. “And I dare say Mary’s decorations are an improvement over mine.”
“Quite,” Watson agrees. He downs the last of his brandy, and his face grows somber. “It’s a pity the three of us could never spend a Christmas together.”
For a minute, Holmes puffs at his pipe in silence. “Well.” His eyes drift towards the ceiling, and the thought hangs unfinished in the smoke.
Very slowly, Watson sets his glass down, eyes widening in disbelief. “Holmes...”
“I must say emerald suited her complexion most remarkably, although surely your old cane bore some sentimental value- ”
“I cannot believe-”
“-You must understand-”
“- you let Mary and me feast on wine and pudding while you stood out in the bloody snow-”
“Crouched, actually,” Holmes corrects as he rises and goes to stand beside the doctor’s chair. “It was important for me to see you happy. Had I shown up at the door I’d have quite ruined it. Besides, I’d have needed a gift, and you know how I struggle with such formalities.”
“Holmes...” Watson shakes his head. “I thought you dead!” He swallows visibly. “Can you not see that no gift could have been more dear to me?”
Taken aback, Holmes averts his gaze. “Watson...” he replies delicately, “come now, we’ve been through this.” He puts his hand on the doctor’s good shoulder and meets his eyes. “Trust me when I say that I discovered the true bounds of my emotions that night. But you needn’t fear that I spent Christmas a wandering soul. I dined with Mycroft shortly afterward. Profusely, I might add. Judging by his table you’d think Christmas came but once a century.”
Watson chortles. “I confess I was not disappointed when he declined our invitation.”
“No, nor surprised. He’s gone to the Continent on state matters. I, however, am here.”
Looking up at Holmes, Watson reaches back to clasp the hand on his shoulder. “And I’m glad of it,” he says, but still the shadow hangs in his eyes as they linger on the tree’s shining boughs. “I’ve had such wretched luck these past few years.”
“A gambler’s luck always runs out sooner or later” Holmes says with a tender smile. “But sometimes it comes back again.” He refills Watson’s brandy glass and then his own. “Let us toast, shall we? To the season, and to returns?”
Watson nods and manages to return the smile. “To returns,” he says, raising his glass towards Holmes’. The brandy is delicious, a gift from Lestrade and the Yard. Holmes sinks back in his chair, watching the fire.
"You know, Holmes," Watson adds after a few minutes, “I never could bring myself to part with my old walking stick."
“I’d hoped not,” Holmes replies, a glimmer in his eye. “I’m confident it will continue to serve a purpose. As should my gift to you, for the time being, that is.”
Watson’s eyes flicker over towards his partner’s present: a handsome dust cover for his typewriter.
“As you wish, old cock,” Watson smiles, and Holmes takes up his violin once more.