Sherlock Holmes - Advent Calendar Day 4
Title: Day 4
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson (subtle)
Disclaimer: Not mine, too lazy to think of something witty.
Summary: Watson learns that Holmes only sends two Christmas cards a year.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 500
Author's Notes: The fluff monster is trying to eat me.
“You know, Watson, those are really quite a new innovation.” Holmes pointed to the stack of Christmas cards his friend was addressing in tidy handwriting, conveying palpably warm messages.
“Oh yes?” Watson replied distractedly before going back to his work, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, just poking out of his mouth.
Holmes paused for a moment, inexplicably having lost his train of thought, before recovering with a false cough. “Quite. The first mass-produced Christmas card was created in 1843, commissioned from the artist John Calcott Horsley, by Sir Henry Cole. He was too strapped for time to write letters to each of his friends, and so came up with the solution of having cards printed. One can only assume that he was a frightfully popular man.”
“Why, how many cards are you sending?” Watson finished with his thick stack and tapped them on the table triumphantly.
“Two. I'd send you one, and Mrs. Hudson, naturally, if not for the fact that you live in the same house, and sending letters to one's own address seems a little ridiculous.”
“Two?” Watson frowned in confusion, “one to Mycroft, and one to your parents? Is that all?”
“Not at all. One to Stamford, and one to the Yard.” Holmes corrected, “neither Mycroft nor my father would expect a card, or appreciate it if they got one. They know I think of them at Christmas.”
“All right,” Watson began, “I can see some purpose in sending one to Scotland Yard, considering the trouble you give them the rest of the year, but Stamford? I didn't think you'd spoken to him since the day we met.”
“Not face to face, though I am obliged to acknowledge him from year to year through the post.” Holmes headed over to his own desk to take out two cards, pen, and ink.
“Obliged how?” Watson was still lost, wondering if Stamford had been closer to Holmes than he'd been led to believe at the time.
“Obliged in that he did me the greatest good turn anyone ever has when he introduced you to me, my dear Watson. I am obliged, because I am immeasurably grateful.” Holmes answered simply, writing and addressing his cards efficiently as he spoke.
“Oh.” Watson spent a moment trying to find something more intelligent than 'oh'. “That's... I mean to say, it seems rather out of character for you, Holmes.”
“It is not in my nature to be grateful for long periods of time, because people so rarely do me such great favours, Watson. The only other man I would thank for his participation in my life, besides those I already do, is quite dead. And he was the person who set me on to the possibility of being a detective.”
“Holmes,” Watson began cautiously, “that almost sounded as though you consider me nearly as important as your work.”
“I consider you a great deal more important, actually. If it meant keeping you with me, Watson, I would give it up at a moment's notice.” Holmes answered, and left the room without another word.
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson (subtle)
Disclaimer: Not mine, too lazy to think of something witty.
Summary: Watson learns that Holmes only sends two Christmas cards a year.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 500
Author's Notes: The fluff monster is trying to eat me.
“You know, Watson, those are really quite a new innovation.” Holmes pointed to the stack of Christmas cards his friend was addressing in tidy handwriting, conveying palpably warm messages.
“Oh yes?” Watson replied distractedly before going back to his work, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, just poking out of his mouth.
Holmes paused for a moment, inexplicably having lost his train of thought, before recovering with a false cough. “Quite. The first mass-produced Christmas card was created in 1843, commissioned from the artist John Calcott Horsley, by Sir Henry Cole. He was too strapped for time to write letters to each of his friends, and so came up with the solution of having cards printed. One can only assume that he was a frightfully popular man.”
“Why, how many cards are you sending?” Watson finished with his thick stack and tapped them on the table triumphantly.
“Two. I'd send you one, and Mrs. Hudson, naturally, if not for the fact that you live in the same house, and sending letters to one's own address seems a little ridiculous.”
“Two?” Watson frowned in confusion, “one to Mycroft, and one to your parents? Is that all?”
“Not at all. One to Stamford, and one to the Yard.” Holmes corrected, “neither Mycroft nor my father would expect a card, or appreciate it if they got one. They know I think of them at Christmas.”
“All right,” Watson began, “I can see some purpose in sending one to Scotland Yard, considering the trouble you give them the rest of the year, but Stamford? I didn't think you'd spoken to him since the day we met.”
“Not face to face, though I am obliged to acknowledge him from year to year through the post.” Holmes headed over to his own desk to take out two cards, pen, and ink.
“Obliged how?” Watson was still lost, wondering if Stamford had been closer to Holmes than he'd been led to believe at the time.
“Obliged in that he did me the greatest good turn anyone ever has when he introduced you to me, my dear Watson. I am obliged, because I am immeasurably grateful.” Holmes answered simply, writing and addressing his cards efficiently as he spoke.
“Oh.” Watson spent a moment trying to find something more intelligent than 'oh'. “That's... I mean to say, it seems rather out of character for you, Holmes.”
“It is not in my nature to be grateful for long periods of time, because people so rarely do me such great favours, Watson. The only other man I would thank for his participation in my life, besides those I already do, is quite dead. And he was the person who set me on to the possibility of being a detective.”
“Holmes,” Watson began cautiously, “that almost sounded as though you consider me nearly as important as your work.”
“I consider you a great deal more important, actually. If it meant keeping you with me, Watson, I would give it up at a moment's notice.” Holmes answered, and left the room without another word.