Fic: Christmas Present Part I
Betas: the lovely booklady and greenpea88.
“Holmes!” As I rushed into my closest friend’s room, the clock has just struck midnight. I had been woken not a moment ago by a horrendous explosion-like noise from below, from the direction of Sherlock Holmes’ bedroom.
The room was dark and bitterly cold. I at once noticed that one of the top windows was open. This was odd; what had possessed Holmes to open his window in the middle of winter? I searched for a sight of him, and saw a dark shape upon the bed. I hastily closed the window before going to the bed to check on him. I drew the cover back but instead of my friend, there was a glossy black cat sleeping right in the middle of the bed, atop of one of Holmes’ nightshirts!
“No, no, no” I thought to myself, “this will not do at all…”
Knowing how fastidious my friend was about his personal hygiene, I could not image what he would say to cat fur all over his favorite nightshirt.
“Where have you come from?” Gently picking up the sleeping tom, I noticed how soft and warm it was. The cat opened a pair of steel grey eyes to watch me, then purred slightly and snuggled right into my chest.
Maybe it was a Christmas present of Mrs. Hudson’s? I wondered where Holmes could possibly have gotten to on Christmas night - surely even the criminals would have taken a break on this most holy of holidays. Patting the cat slightly, I rubbed my face against his glossy dark fur, and caught the clean scent of Holmes’ cologne and a faint whiff of tobacco, a most delightful mix. The cat purred a bit louder.
“Well, aren’t you the nice one? How about sharing my bed with me tonight? This room is cold, and I could do with a warm company. As you are of the male persuasion, there shall not be a problem concerning your virtue?” Tilting my head to meet the cat’s glaze, I courteously asked for the honor of sharing my bed with this most wonderful creature in my arms.
The cat purred louder still; I took that as a yes.
Taking a last look about me, again wondering where Holmes could possibly be, I retreated to my bedroom with the night’s little intruder.
“This is most singular…” Holmes considered his current location and position on a beautiful Christmas morning. “Surely if I think this through, there must be a logical explanation for the current situation...”
After waking up from one of the warmest and most peaceful nights that he could remember, feeling perfectly content, he had become aware of several unusual points. For one thing, he could not recall owning the large chestnut traveling chest which now stood within his view. The setting of the room, however, was not an unfamiliar one. The neatly folded clothes on the chest confirmed his suspicion; they belonged to his most trusted partner and dear friend, Dr. John Watson.
The location solved, there remained the puzzle of his personal condition. He could feel an arm wrapping itself around his waist, its palm resting on his chest. A steady breath softly brushed against the back of his neck, tickling the fine hair at the base of his skull. Lifting the cover slightly, he observed the hand. Being the world’s first consulting detective, he could tell a lot from a person’s hand; in fact, he had published a study of it on a recent scientific journal - “The identification of occupations and characterization of habitual behaviors through observation of the hands and lower arms”.
Hmm… neatly trimmed muscular hand with no callus. Sun-tanned. It seemed somewhat surprisingly, intimately familiar… It did not require any of his particular scientific knowledge, however, as to put a name to the person this hand belonged to.
“It would also appear that I am currently very lacking on the personal coverage department… how curious…” With a detached manner, he gently replaced the cover so as not to disturb the other occupant of the bed, but the cold morning air had caused the body behind him to snuggle up closer and pull him into an even tighter embrace. A stiff object pressed slightly against the groove of his backside told him that this person would wake up with a common morning condition for the male population. He felt his heartbeat rapidly accelerating, and a faint tingle shivered down his spine, pooling blood into a particular part of his anatomy.
He suppressed a faint whisper of panic, and bent his considerable might of deduction to this new puzzle. He tried desperately to see things in the familiar, cold comfort of logic.
Drinks? I had the usual nightcap of brandy last night. A pleasant chat with Watson, then the usual bedtime routine activities. Sleepwalking? Certainly I would have known about it before now if I had that tendency. I seriously doubt Watson would drug me and drag me into his bed, and after eliminating all the improbable….
“Holmes…” There was a sleepy murmur from the person behind him, followed by a lazy circling of the hand on his chest. One finger touched a sensitive spot and caused Holmes to gasp.
What a strange dream I had had. In the sleepy fog of my mind, I saw the slick black cat slowly transform itself into my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Lying spooned together, he was very nice to hold, with such smooth skin under my fingers…
Sighing contently, I tightened my hold on the phantom of my affection. What would Holmes say if he knew about my silly dream? Undoubtedly something about the festive mood of Christmas and too much port for my nightcap. Well, perhaps I wouldn’t tell him about this one, knowing his distaste for all things sentimental. What that man needs, I thought to myself, is a nice warm bear hug. But who is going to give it to him? He was such a mix of contradictions that one simply could not help to be intrigued and fascinated by him. He was extremely knowledgeable in all things specific to his profession, awfully lacking in others. He upheld the image of logic and cold sentimentality, but was capable of deep emotion, which he tried unsuccessfully to hide from me. He was masterful and forceful in his personality, but nonetheless I perceived a wide streak of vulnerability underneath this which was at times painful to see. Artistic and sensual, but abstaining from any emotional attachments. Well, all except one. He has shown me the most steadfast friendship a person is ever likely to have, and I have secretly cherished the roles of closest friend, business partner, doctor and biographer beside him. I could not deny that the tenderness and love I felt for this man might in some part stem from the vanity of knowing I, and I alone, had tamed the lion by surrendering myself to the inner turmoil within his great mind. If only as an anchor, I wished to bring a sense of calm balance for him between the bipolar phases of rapture and depression, which thankfully were getting less extreme.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly emerged from the semi-awareness of this pleasant dream, and opened my eyes to a pair of stormy grey eyes darkened with unfathomable emotions.
“Holmes!” As I rushed into my closest friend’s room, the clock has just struck midnight. I had been woken not a moment ago by a horrendous explosion-like noise from below, from the direction of Sherlock Holmes’ bedroom.
The room was dark and bitterly cold. I at once noticed that one of the top windows was open. This was odd; what had possessed Holmes to open his window in the middle of winter? I searched for a sight of him, and saw a dark shape upon the bed. I hastily closed the window before going to the bed to check on him. I drew the cover back but instead of my friend, there was a glossy black cat sleeping right in the middle of the bed, atop of one of Holmes’ nightshirts!
“No, no, no” I thought to myself, “this will not do at all…”
Knowing how fastidious my friend was about his personal hygiene, I could not image what he would say to cat fur all over his favorite nightshirt.
“Where have you come from?” Gently picking up the sleeping tom, I noticed how soft and warm it was. The cat opened a pair of steel grey eyes to watch me, then purred slightly and snuggled right into my chest.
Maybe it was a Christmas present of Mrs. Hudson’s? I wondered where Holmes could possibly have gotten to on Christmas night - surely even the criminals would have taken a break on this most holy of holidays. Patting the cat slightly, I rubbed my face against his glossy dark fur, and caught the clean scent of Holmes’ cologne and a faint whiff of tobacco, a most delightful mix. The cat purred a bit louder.
“Well, aren’t you the nice one? How about sharing my bed with me tonight? This room is cold, and I could do with a warm company. As you are of the male persuasion, there shall not be a problem concerning your virtue?” Tilting my head to meet the cat’s glaze, I courteously asked for the honor of sharing my bed with this most wonderful creature in my arms.
The cat purred louder still; I took that as a yes.
Taking a last look about me, again wondering where Holmes could possibly be, I retreated to my bedroom with the night’s little intruder.
“This is most singular…” Holmes considered his current location and position on a beautiful Christmas morning. “Surely if I think this through, there must be a logical explanation for the current situation...”
After waking up from one of the warmest and most peaceful nights that he could remember, feeling perfectly content, he had become aware of several unusual points. For one thing, he could not recall owning the large chestnut traveling chest which now stood within his view. The setting of the room, however, was not an unfamiliar one. The neatly folded clothes on the chest confirmed his suspicion; they belonged to his most trusted partner and dear friend, Dr. John Watson.
The location solved, there remained the puzzle of his personal condition. He could feel an arm wrapping itself around his waist, its palm resting on his chest. A steady breath softly brushed against the back of his neck, tickling the fine hair at the base of his skull. Lifting the cover slightly, he observed the hand. Being the world’s first consulting detective, he could tell a lot from a person’s hand; in fact, he had published a study of it on a recent scientific journal - “The identification of occupations and characterization of habitual behaviors through observation of the hands and lower arms”.
Hmm… neatly trimmed muscular hand with no callus. Sun-tanned. It seemed somewhat surprisingly, intimately familiar… It did not require any of his particular scientific knowledge, however, as to put a name to the person this hand belonged to.
“It would also appear that I am currently very lacking on the personal coverage department… how curious…” With a detached manner, he gently replaced the cover so as not to disturb the other occupant of the bed, but the cold morning air had caused the body behind him to snuggle up closer and pull him into an even tighter embrace. A stiff object pressed slightly against the groove of his backside told him that this person would wake up with a common morning condition for the male population. He felt his heartbeat rapidly accelerating, and a faint tingle shivered down his spine, pooling blood into a particular part of his anatomy.
He suppressed a faint whisper of panic, and bent his considerable might of deduction to this new puzzle. He tried desperately to see things in the familiar, cold comfort of logic.
Drinks? I had the usual nightcap of brandy last night. A pleasant chat with Watson, then the usual bedtime routine activities. Sleepwalking? Certainly I would have known about it before now if I had that tendency. I seriously doubt Watson would drug me and drag me into his bed, and after eliminating all the improbable….
“Holmes…” There was a sleepy murmur from the person behind him, followed by a lazy circling of the hand on his chest. One finger touched a sensitive spot and caused Holmes to gasp.
What a strange dream I had had. In the sleepy fog of my mind, I saw the slick black cat slowly transform itself into my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Lying spooned together, he was very nice to hold, with such smooth skin under my fingers…
Sighing contently, I tightened my hold on the phantom of my affection. What would Holmes say if he knew about my silly dream? Undoubtedly something about the festive mood of Christmas and too much port for my nightcap. Well, perhaps I wouldn’t tell him about this one, knowing his distaste for all things sentimental. What that man needs, I thought to myself, is a nice warm bear hug. But who is going to give it to him? He was such a mix of contradictions that one simply could not help to be intrigued and fascinated by him. He was extremely knowledgeable in all things specific to his profession, awfully lacking in others. He upheld the image of logic and cold sentimentality, but was capable of deep emotion, which he tried unsuccessfully to hide from me. He was masterful and forceful in his personality, but nonetheless I perceived a wide streak of vulnerability underneath this which was at times painful to see. Artistic and sensual, but abstaining from any emotional attachments. Well, all except one. He has shown me the most steadfast friendship a person is ever likely to have, and I have secretly cherished the roles of closest friend, business partner, doctor and biographer beside him. I could not deny that the tenderness and love I felt for this man might in some part stem from the vanity of knowing I, and I alone, had tamed the lion by surrendering myself to the inner turmoil within his great mind. If only as an anchor, I wished to bring a sense of calm balance for him between the bipolar phases of rapture and depression, which thankfully were getting less extreme.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly emerged from the semi-awareness of this pleasant dream, and opened my eyes to a pair of stormy grey eyes darkened with unfathomable emotions.