Snow Days
Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Mrs. Hudson
Summary: Snow days
Warnings: Fluff, (slush; not slash)
Word Count: originally 1190; now 3305
Author's Notes: At the time of writing, author was stuck in limbo with her University closed due to snow, city buses cancelled, and her car buried in metre-deep snow drifts.
This story has now been expanded to include two more days of fluffy snow.
.oOOo.
Sunday December 4, 1881
London usually did not see accumulations of snow this early in December, but the snow started falling on Sunday afternoon. Until then, the weather had been mild, in fact, quite pleasant for late autumn. It started with small wisps under almost clear skies, but by afternoon tea, clouds had rolled in and the snow fell in earnest. The darkening skies foreshortened the dwindling daylight hours and the amount of snow continued to increase through the night, swirling into deep drifts with the increasing wind.
Monday December 5
Monday morning saw the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street sheltered safe within while the howling blizzard raged outside. Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, decided the best thing for her to do would be to get the week’s baking out of the way. Before breakfast had been laid out for her two lodgers, the house was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
The smallest bedroom, on the upper storey of flat 221B was the coldest in the house. John Watson lay in bed, up to his nose in warm blankets, confronted by a serious dilemma. On one hand, his body required him to rise, but on the other hand, he was warm and comfortable where he was. The faint smell of frying bacon finally tipped the balance and he marshalled his forces in the direction of breakfast, and hopefully, coffee.
Sherlock Holmes had been awake for several hours. His inquisitive mind calculated the probabilities leading up to his morning client actually calling as previously arranged. The odds were severely stacked against it, he concluded as he scowled at his toast.
Snow continued to fall so Billy, the houseboy, set to clear the doorways. By late afternoon, there was no sign of abatement so Mrs. Hudson sent Billy and Lori, the maid, home.
Tuesday December 6
Tuesday morning was worse. Watson’s room was colder than ever and sleep had eluded him for most of the night. It was too cold to stay put, he concluded as he forced himself upright and hurried through his morning ablutions. Shaving would have to wait until his hands thawed out and stopped shivering; sometime around mid-May, he estimated, and tried to picture himself with a beard.
Watson’s leg was aching so he retrieved his cane and carefully made his way down the stairs to the sitting room. Consulting his watch, the doctor realised it was far earlier than he expected. The fire had died down and was in need of stoking, and the windows were opaque with frost. He added more coal from the scuttle, and as the fire grew, was cheered to feel its warming relief. Breakfast was still over an hour away, so he moved his armchair closer to the fire, retrieved the small ottoman for his leg, and the wool blanket from the settee.
“I’m your housekeeper, not a mind-reader, Mister Holmes,” hissed Mrs. Hudson. “If the doctor doesn’t have enough coal to keep his room sufficiently heated, I expect him to tell me so. If he doesn’t, it is his own fault… Oh! Good morning, Doctor Watson!”
Watson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and regarded the pair of them. Their belligerent stances indicated the recent argument that they were now both trying to hide from him. Holmes wore a disappointed expression which told of not being able to get the last word in. Mrs. Hudson hustled to the door saying that breakfast would be right up.
Buoyed by the restorative powers of breakfast, Watson stretched and wandered over to the window. There he scraped a hole in the frost and looked down into the street below. There were no visible wheel tracks, nor any signs of foot passage on Baker St. It was as if all London had retreated into hibernation. Billy’s efforts from yesterday had vanished under the past night’s accumulation. The wind had died down but snow continued to fall. If left to build, the snow could be a safety hazard for anyone who had to leave in an emergency. Watson secured his muffler around his neck and reached for his overcoat.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” asked Mrs. Hudson, clearing away the breakfast dishes
“I thought I would sweep the snow from the stairs since Billy isn’t here to do it,” Watson replied.
“Oh no, Doctor,” exclaimed Mrs Hudson, guiding Watson back to his armchair, “I wouldn’t send a dog out on a day like today. Mr. Holmes can see to it!”
Holmes shot him one of those I-told-you-she-likes-you-best glares as he reluctantly reached for his own overcoat. At least Watson had the good grace to lower his eyes and try to hide his grin, albeit unsuccessfully, behind his cup of coffee.
“Holmes, please use my overcoat,” said Watson “It won’t matter if it sees more weather, and yours is practically new.”
Watson’s overcoat was more suited to autumn than to London’s winter. No wonder the man complained about the cold so often. After half an hour’s labour, Holmes felt a chill settling in his back and admitted to himself that he should have worn a hat. He stopped briefly to blow on his reddened, exposed hands, and looked up at the sound of rapping coming from the sitting room window. Watson opened it and tossed a couple of what might be socks out to him. They were green and white stripy woollen mittens and he donned them with some misgivings.
“They’re your colour, Holmes,” the doctor called down.
Rude finger gestures are lost in mittens, but Watson correctly interpreted his flatmate’s two-fingered motion without difficulty, feigned indignant shock, and quickly closed the window. This action had the unfortunate consequence of loosing a small avalanche of wet snow on to Holmes’ upraised face. Watson opened the window to apologise, causing yet another cascade, and closed it again just in time to avoid an incoming snowball.
Holmes cursed the weather, he cursed houseboys who had to go home to their mothers, he cursed housekeepers and their favouritism, but most of all, he cursed a certain war veteran for his selective maladies which conveniently excused him from such tedious chores.
A short while later, the broom and shovel were retired and a wet, cold, and worn detective climbed the stairs to his flat. The sitting room felt warm and comforting and the detective made his way to his armchair by the fire.
“Dry clothes first. Doctor’s orders,” said Watson, moving to block his path.
When Holmes returned, the doctor handed him a steaming mug of cocoa.
"Really, Doctor, I am not a child,” the detective said, not refusing the hot drink.
“Indeed, you are not. That is why it is laced with Scotch,” he said,
“Before noon, Doctor? People will talk,” said Holmes, allowing the warmth from the cocoa and the heat from the alcohol thaw the chill in his bones.
“Strictly medicinal, I assure you,” Watson smiled, returning to his seat by the fire.
“Whatever am I to do? There has been no newspaper for days and any perspective clients will not venture out into this arctic wasteland,” Holmes moaned.
“I could lend you a book, or you could tidy your room,” Watson suggested.
“As to the former: your taste in reading material is dreadful. And, let’s just pretend that Mrs. Hudson did not put you up to suggesting the latter, shall we?”
“Touché, Holmes,” said Watson with a smile, opening his notebook to a drawing he had been working on. “We could try to build this. I think your chemistry set has all the vital components.”
The detective inspected the diagram then raised surprised eyebrows at his flatmate.
“This is a diagram for a simple distillation of alcohol,” Holmes said with a curious expression. “You didn’t learn that in medical school.”
“Well, yes, and no. Formal instruction did not cover that subject specifically, but we were encouraged to use our own initiative and experiment.”
Holmes returned to give the diagram closer inspection, his grin widening as he considered the possibilities.
.oOOo.
That afternoon and again that evening when Mrs. Hudson appeared she found he two lodgers huddled around Holmes chemistry bench, deep in whatever endeavour they were up to. Their intense concentration reminded her of years ago when her own sons, stuck indoors in foul weather, worked together constructing improbable structures with their building blocks, or re-enacting historical battles with their tin soldiers. The thought made her feel old and lonely. How she hated this time of year.
Wednesday, December 7
A bright sunny morning greeted Watson as he willed himself awake. He had slept well and his room seemed warmer this morning for some reason. He could not decide if Holmes stepping in and adding more coal in the early morning hours was recollection or dream. The evidence told that the small fireplace had been resupplied sometime in the night. So, recollection it was. He vowed that he would thank Holmes as soon as he saw him.
Although the skies were clear and sunshine was glittering off the winter white, Watson could tell by the frost on his window that it was much colder than the previous day. That, and his leg ached more so than yesterday. He kneaded the stiffening muscles in the hope that increased circulation would relieve the pain. If anything, it made matters worse so he fumbled through his bedside table for a packet of analgesic. The water in the pitcher was very cold, and rather than dissolving properly, the powder remained mostly in suspension. Since it did not matter much, Watson drank it as quickly as possible to avoid the terrible taste. He lay back and hoped the medication would take effect soon.
A gentle shake of his shoulder roused him some time later.
“Do you plan on joining us this morning?” asked Holmes.
“Sorry Holmes. I’m fine; just a bit slow this morning, is all.”
“No. No, that’s not right. If you plan to prevaricate, you would do better to remove contradictory evidence first,” said the detective, indicating the glass with the painkiller’s residue coating the inside. Watson muttered something about nosey, interfering flatmates under his breath before remembering what he had meant to say.
“Holmes? Thank you for fixing the fire this morning.”
“Think nothing of it, old man,” Holmes replied as he left, closing the door behind him.
They spent most of the morning around the chemistry set, but since Watson’s heart was not in it, Holmes, too, quickly lost interest and his eyes wandered to his violin. Before noon, heavy clouds returned to chase the sun away. Gone were the blue skies of the morning; replaced once more with swirling snowfall. Watson retired to his armchair by the fire and remained there the rest of the day, not even having the energy required to read his book.
After dinner, Watson realised that he was alone in the flat. He hobbled to the window to see the shadowy figures of Holmes and Mrs. Hudson clearing the front steps with humourless determination. It hurt to know that they had planned to do this behind his back. He wished, more than anything, that he was capable of helping with these menial chores. Feeling crippled, miserable, and useless, the doctor retreated to his room, and crawled into bed.
Thursday, December 8
Doctor Watson woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, and struggling to catch his breath. Thankfully, he did not remember the dream’s contents this time. It was still very early so he donned his dressing gown and crept down the stairs to the sitting room. He was startled to find Holmes asleep in his armchair by the fireplace. As carefully and quietly as he could, Watson settled another woollen blanket over his sleeping flatmate and added more coal to the fire.
“Watson, what are you doing?” grumbled Holmes, not fully awakened.
“Just returning the favour. Go back to sleep,” the doctor replied. He then went to his writing desk and turned up the lamp, hoping to finish a letter he had started days ago. When, at long last, he heard Mrs. Hudson stirring about in the kitchen, Watson repaired to his room to refresh and dress into day clothes, then returned to the sitting room in anticipation of breakfast.
By the time breakfast arrived, it was clear that the detective had been set upon by one of his dark moods. Having been snarled at, and after Watson determined there was no physical illness, the doctor left Holmes alone.
“Mr. Holmes, one of your wayward imps is here. Shall I send him up?” called Mrs. Hudson from the front entrance way.
When Holmes did not respond, Watson went to the door and looked down the stairs to see Mrs. Hudson helping Danny with his coat.
“Hullo, Danny. Come on up,” the doctor invited.
Danny was a foot soldier in Wiggins’ little gang, and Watson knew very little about him, except the others sometimes teased him for being dim-witted. The doctor knew that there was some truth behind the mockery, but he had, in his rare dealings with the boy, found him to be good-natured and, mostly, honest.
Without any pretence, Danny told Watson about his circumstances. The boy’s meagre supply of food had run out yesterday so he was forced to emerge from his bolt-hole in search of something to eat. The population of London were all safely nestled in their homes and that made begging impossible. He had a few coins in his pocket but all the shops were closed so there was nothing available to buy, or steal. He had made his way to Baker Street with the hope that Mr. Holmes might need some errands run, but seeing no signal in the window, he stood outside for a long time before ringing the bell.
“Mrs. Hudson, would it be possible to fix Danny up with some breakfast?” asked Watson when Mrs. Hudson arrived to clear away the breakfast dishes.
“Well, I suppose,” she replied with a hint of a scowl, “But we are starting to run low on eggs.”
“Then, perhaps a large bowl of oatmeal and some cold ham?” Watson suggested “Toast, too, and something warm to drink?”
“I’m your housekeeper, not the matron of a foundling home,” she scoffed.
Watson looked over at Holmes, then back to Danny, then meeting her eyes, indicated himself with a small shrug, and gave her a wry smile. Yes, you are.
“Anyway, it will have to be tea,” she conceded, “We’ve just had the last of the coffee.”
“Nooo…!” moaned Holmes in despair, proving that he was paying some attention after all.
Minutes later, Danny was filling his empty stomach with warm oatmeal and smiling in sheer enjoyment of a hot meal. Watson mouthed his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as the boy slurped his tea.
When he finished, Danny profusely thanked Watson saying it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. Sadly, the doctor suspected this was true and suggested that the boy show his thanks too to Mrs. Hudson by shovelling the front steps. Danny agreed wholeheartedly and applied himself to the task. It took him just under an hour but he shovelled and swept the front and back steps so that not a single snowflake threatened to impede the way of foot traffic.
Danny’s face was flushed with exertion and beamed with pride when Watson joined him outside to inspect his work.
“You know, Danny,” suggested the doctor, “You could earn good money today doing this type of work. Mrs. Hudson has two shovels as well as the broom. I’m sure she would let you use them. Do you think any of the other boys would help you?”
Danny looked puzzled for a while, and then his smile widened as the suggestion took root. He handed Watson the broom, promised to return as soon as he could, and scampered away.
“You do good work, Doctor,” said Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared behind him, and watched Danny make his way down the street through the drifts. “Now get yourself inside before you catch your death.”
That afternoon, Watson periodically checked on the progress outside. Danny had been joined by Freddie and a younger child who he did not recognise. They were making their way along Baker Street, knocking up the inhabitants and offering their services; the two older boys using the shovels and the little one employing the broom. The doctor smiled as he witnessed one obligatory snowball fight during his surveillance; sure that he had missed many others. He could almost remember a time when he used to love winter.
An hour before supper was to be laid out, Mrs. Hudson suggested to Holmes that he put out the signal for the intrepid shovellers. She had made enough thick pea soup to feed a small army. Within ten minutes of Holmes placing his handkerchief in the window, a small army, in the form of three children, crowded the front entryway, and were ordered to remove their wet boots and socks before heading upstairs.
“Hello Freddie. Did you have a good day? And who have we got here?” asked Watson, regarding the smaller child as woollen layers were being shed into a pile near the door.
“We made a good haul, Doctor. It was brilliant. Oh, and this is Stassie. She lives near Danny. Her folks are from Russia.” Freddie nattered on.
She? Her? Indeed, there was a rosy-faced little girl with big, blue eyes underneath the overlarge hat and muffler. As if she was the finest lady in the land, Watson insisted on making formal introductions, making Holmes roll his eyes. How the doctor managed to get away with such behaviour without being condescending or patronising was a mystery to him.
Supper was announced and everybody trooped down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s dining room. The housekeeper, in her matronly glory, encouraged the children to eat their fill. Stassie entertained them with her chatter about her cat. Danny inhaled his soup with gusto. Holmes caught Freddie watching Watson, mimicking the doctor’s genteel table manners and trying not to slurp his soup.
.oOOo.
After supper, Holmes, feigning reluctance, was goaded into playing the violin for them. The children stayed late into the evening as their boots and outerwear were given a chance to warm up and dry out. The clock struck eight shortly after the children bundled up and left, but within half an hour, Freddie was back, with a call for the doctor. He had only gone a few blocks when he found Mr. Neilson in a snow bank outside his home, leaning on his shovel, and clutching his chest.
Freddie alerted the man’s family and helped get him into the house, then at their request, came running for Dr. Watson. He now stood anxiously in Mrs. Hudson’s entry way waiting to see if Watson would come with him.
“Don’t let him go, Mr. Holmes,” pleaded Mrs. Hudson with undisguised worry in her voice.
“Mrs. Hudson. I know well enough to pick my battles. There is no force on this earth that will keep the doctor from attending such a call,” the detective insisted, but he promised to accompany Watson before the housekeeper could even suggest it.
Watson reappeared with his medical bag, fully restocked, in one hand, and his cane in the other.
“Let me help you with your overcoat, Doctor,” Holmes insisted, assisting Watson into his own new overcoat; he himself donning the doctor’s thread worn one. The doctor’s protests were quelled by the resolute detective, and the three made their way to the sick man’s house.
“I’ll send word when it’s time for me to come home,” Watson promised. “Thank you, Holmes; and thank you too, Freddie.”
“It’s just like you to leave us now that we’ve run out of coffee,” Holmes chided, waved his goodbyes, and turned back to Baker Street.
.oOOo.
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