Fic: Bel Canto - 6b/16 (BBC Sherlock)
Op. 20, No. 6, coda
Mrs Hudson takes extremely well to the Christmas plans. Over the course of a few letters, they decide to attend mass together on both Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. For convenience’s sake, it’s decided that John will spend the night on Christmas Eve in her son’s old rooms. When John arrives somewhat early that day, she welcomes him with open arms. Within short order, Mrs Hudson and her maid settle John in. She doesn’t typically use the upstairs sitting room-too much trouble for her hip-but she repeatedly states how good it is to have someone using the space again.
Though the day consists of little more than church, dinner and reading silently together into the late evening, it is by far the best Christmas Eve John has had in four years.
The holiday only improves come morning. Warm food and warm stories start them off before their return to church. Warm stories even accompany them, Mrs Hudson only too delighted to bestow details of Holmes’ childhood upon him.
“He would never want to leave, you know. I’ve never known a boy so talented at sneaking backstage, not even my George. You could turn around and lose him, and there he’d be, hiding in the wings, tucked out of the way. Drove his poor mother to distraction. I remember a year when Mycroft tried to keep him in line. Failed terribly, I’m sure you can imagine.”
“He wouldn’t fall in line even for you?” John asks.
Mrs Hudson’s gaze is distant as they walk, her smile fond. It turns impish before she replies: “Only if I let him hide behind me first.”
That startles a laugh out of John. Mrs Hudson joins in until they both sigh, content. The mood lasts through mass and well into lunch.
“I was wondering,” John ventures at that point.
“Yes, dear?”
“About Vernet. In the coming year, I mean.”
Mrs Hudson’s expression turns strange, uncertain. “What do you mean?”
John leans back in his chair to look around the corner, checking that the maid isn’t in sight. He lowers his voice all the same. “Sneaking into the basement while the police search for some sort of corporeal opera ghost. It seems much too risky.”
“He’ll be back,” Mrs Hudson says.
“Has he told you that?”
She nods.
John’s good mood vanishes. If Vernet communicates with her outside of the opera house, she must know his true name. She must know his face.
Mrs Hudson frowns. “You’re not in contact with him? I was so certain you were.”
They ought to be. It frustrates John endlessly that they aren’t. A brief moment with the man is all he wants. It is Christmas Day and with Mrs Hudson’s hip, there will be no further walking today. Even with Regent’s Park so near Mrs Hudson’s home, John won’t be so rude as to set out for a walk on his own. He would only spend the time cursing his missing friend. “Beyond Mr Havill and Mr Holmes, you’re the only person I’ve been in regular contact with since the chandelier fell.”
“Oh,” Mrs Hudson says, eyes wide, as if realising a source of terrible sadness.
Unable to face pity, not today, not from her, John quickly turns the topic to his new patients. Mrs Hudson listens politely, if not attentively, and they move on from there. By mutual decision, it is time to open presents.
His gift to her is a pendant that had taken a great deal of searching. Though intended for her masquerade costume, the sheer effort in locating a golden trident necklace had turned the gift into a labour of love. Mrs Hudson coos over it before pronouncing it perfect. “I wasn’t looking forward to carrying a real one,” she admits with a chortle.
“Very symbolic for Britannia to carry a heavy weight, but perhaps another time. There’s already the shield to consider.”
She smiles at that. “Don’t worry about that. I found a shawl with a flag pattern.”
“Oh, brilliant!”
She fetches it to show him, as well as the mask that will serve as her helmet, a golden complement to his own silver. He’s left his at home, as well as his red and white tunic.
“Now if we could only find you a spear pin before New Year’s,” she muses. “Saint George has a spear.”
“I could possibly find a sword.”
“A sword pin?”
“No, a sword.” Miss Hooper promised to smuggle him one from the props table, but that had been before the chandelier crash. He has no idea whether the plan has held.
“Ah! Even better.” Mrs Hudson puts her masquerade things away and returns to the sitting room before John permits himself to reach for the remaining presents upon the table. Plural presents, he knows, because anyone who was ever a child in a doctor’s family knows the appearance of stacked, wrapped books. There are two, individually wrapped and bound together with a ribbon.
The first is a novel, not a history or a textbook. It’s new, unfamiliar in title.
“You’re always reading at the opera house,” Mrs Hudson explains.
John smiles and thanks her. He knows he’s difficult to shop for. Mary had berated him for it every year before managing perfectly all the same.
The second book is not a book but a journal. The supple leather cover folds about the smooth sheets within and can be tied shut. The heft is lovely, the scent perfect.
“This is... Thank you,” John says.
She beams at him. If she’s surprised at John’s degree of sincerity, she doesn’t show it.
They settle in for an afternoon warm before the fire upstairs, John reading to her from his new book. The sun begins to set by half three. More lamps, more fuel to the fire, and with the approach of dark at four o’clock John resigns himself to a day without Holmes as well as Vernet.
Five o’clock proves him wrong. A knock comes from the door. John and Mrs Hudson immediately rush to the window like a pair of children, peering down into the glow of streetlamps and carriage lanterns.
Mrs Hudson’s maid answers the door. Almost immediately after, footsteps race up the stairs, at least two steps at a time. Holmes bounds into the room, still wearing his gloves and as happy as John as ever seen him.
“The upstairs sitting room, Mrs Hudson? It must be Christmas!” Holmes exclaims, practically bouncing where he stands.
John smiles back, unable not to. Holmes’ immense joy renders John stupid and voiceless.
“Ooh, ooh, what’s happened?” Mrs Hudson asks, darting in to hug Holmes about the waist. He kisses her loudly upon the cheek. “Have they caught the vandal?”
“Better!” Holmes holds her out as if about to break into dance. “I’m to be an uncle again. My dear sister-in-law is expecting.”
“And healthy, I hope,” John hears himself say rather than “Congratulations.”
“She already has a physician, Dr Watson, but thank you for offering,” Holmes replies, a twinkle in his eyes and a grin on his lips. “Everything seems stable enough to risk the announcement. Ah, my earldom for a nephew! We can only hope the third time truly is a charm.” He tugs off his gloves and hands them over to Mrs Hudson’s maid who is already holding Holmes’ coat and hat. “Thank you, Eliza. Let Billy sit in the kitchen, won’t you? If you don’t woo him away with food, he may never leave the horses. There’s something in the carriage, should still be warm.”
“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Eliza murmurs before quickly returning downstairs.
“Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn’t have.” Mrs Hudson pets his arm appreciatively all the same. John’s stomach certainly pays close attention to the mention of something warm.
“Of course I should have,” Holmes counters. “This must be celebrated, Mrs Hudson. How could I do that at home?”
They all laugh, carried along more by Holmes’ exuberance than the jest. The moment the sound escapes John’s mouth, the sentiment strikes him as terribly sad, but Holmes permits no moment for thought, busily asking them about their day thus far.
They don’t sit, Holmes being incapable of it. Though he curtails his motions, he nevertheless seems about to fly away, some ever-constant weight upon his shoulders at last removed. The deep burgundy of his silk waistcoat shimmers with his movements, shining in the firelight like his sleek hair.
Though John wracks his mind to remember another instance, he quickly grows certain: this is the happiest he has ever seen Holmes. Not unguarded, not even now, not even among friends and friends alone, but happy. Holmes’ speech and movements are forever polished, forever deliberate. To expect them to be otherwise would be to expect refined sugar to reform into the rough cane.
Although blatantly present, Holmes’ veneer tonight is at least a clear one. His wit seems effortless, his charm innate, his generosity immense. For Mrs Hudson, there is a music box, beautiful wood with a crystal inlay. Rather than cylinders, it operates on metal discs.
Mrs Hudson is smitten instantly, and they listen to a chiming version of Moonlight Sonata before Mrs Hudson discovers a disc with a waltz upon it. She takes both John and Holmes for a sweeping dance about the room, John first and Holmes second. Where John’s steps were painstaking, Holmes’ are fluid, but Mrs Hudson outshines the pair of them without a second thought, a lithe whirl of a purple dress.
The supper Eliza brings out is no less a gift. Roasted duck and honeyed turnips, mince pies and mulled wine, this and more; they tuck in with gusto. Mrs Hudson sits at one side and the men across from each other, no one certain who is seated at the head of the square table.
Afterward, they settle down to digest, listening to the fire, sleepily broaching one old story after another. Mrs Hudson absolutely insists John tell the story about the thieving monkeys taking off with British supplies. John complies with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary, but the mulled wine was very good and there always seems to be more eggnog in his cup.
The storytelling shifts onto Holmes only momentarily. “My life is far too closeted to compare with either of yours,” he explains. “I’ve done absolutely nothing.” He passes the honour onto Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson, it seems, has done absolutely everything. She speaks of circuses and dancing halls, ballet schools and theatres. The focus of her tales meanders here and there, punctuated by sounds of her own amusement. The wait is worth the conclusions, the abrupt turns and unexpected jokes. She tells them about her late husband, about her son in Florida.
When she begins to grow melancholy rather than wistful, Holmes starts up with a story about the development of the music discs in Germany, a recent innovation of the past year. He seems to know a great deal about his purchase and speaks of it with fascination, not pride. John begins to look guiltily at the trident pendant about Mrs Hudson’s neck. Found within London, that piece of jewellery is a far cry from an import from the Continent.
Holmes notices this, because of course Holmes notices. He compliments her upon it. He doesn’t ask if it’s new, merely states that it is.
“It’s from our good doctor here,” Mrs Hudson responds, proud enough to make John’s ears burn. “For the Masquerade.”
Holmes barely pauses to think before stating, “You’re attending as Britannia.”
Mrs Hudson reaches across the sofa to swat at him. “You ruin all the surprises.”
“I’ll keep mine secret,” Holmes promises.
“And mine,” John adds. He’s fairly certain nothing present will give him away.
Holmes looks at him. “Saint George.”
“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolds.
Holmes merely laughs until Mrs Hudson laughs with him.
“Very nearly Saint George,” John answers. “I’m currently unarmed. A spear seems too dangerous. I suppose I’ll need to find a sword to borrow in the coming week.”
“Use one of mine,” Holmes replies.
“Really?”
“Of course.” There’s nothing gracious about his reply. To be gracious, he would have to be aware of his own generosity. This response is unthinking and sure, nearly instinctual in a way that warms.
“I... Thank you.”
Holmes clearly thinks nothing of it. He brings the conversation to roam yet again. He and Mrs Hudson knock it back and forth like children with a favoured ball. Listening and taking idle sips from his glass, John lets the warmth seep over him, through him. It’s the company more than the fire, but he can hardly imagine a more perfect sitting room. His armchair is deep. Content, he sinks into it. His eyes drift shut, heavy with food and drink.
He opens them at an abrupt silence. For one disorienting moment, he believes Holmes and Mrs Hudson have vanished. He sits upright, becomes dizzy, and promptly sinks back down a second time. He’d fallen asleep. As the world continues to wobble, he realises he’s also a bit drunk. Just a bit. But he’s happy, not like how Harry was, so it’s all right.
He lets his head loll back a bit, listening for his host. Voices from the hall, yes. Hushed voices. They think him asleep. Kind of them. John curls up a bit more in his armchair. He jolts awake at one indecipherable utterance, irrationally convinced the voice is Vernet’s, not Holmes’. But of course it can’t be. A moment later, Holmes’ voice resumes normally, as light as it ever was.
John’s heart slows, allowing restfulness to come over him once more. As if determined to be contrary, his ears adjust enough to catch snippets of conversation, just enough to keep him too interested to sleep.
“...still haven’t told him, Sherlock.”
“You’re perfectly aware...”
“...hardly fair to the poor man...”
“I’ve asked Mycroft,” Holmes says, his volume rising in agitation. “Beyond that, my hands are tied. What more do you want from me?”
Mrs Hudson shushes him gently. They continue on in whispers, and John slowly drops back toward slumber. He doesn’t wake again until the clock chimes nine. Alarmed at having overstayed his welcome, he wakes with an apology behind his teeth, nearly upon his lips, but Mrs Hudson simply looks up from her card game with Holmes and smiles.
“I should have warned you about the eggnog,” she apologises. “I prefer it with a bit of a kick.”
“’s nice,” John mumbles, resisting the urge to wipe at his face. “’s very nice.”
Holmes laughs quietly.
“It’s, um.” John closes his eyes and opens them again. This doesn’t make keeping them open any easier than before. “Drat. Um. It’s late. I should...”
“I’ll take you home,” Holmes says.
“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t, couldn’t ask...”
“No, I don’t believe you could either.” Amusement hangs onto Holmes’ voice, drips from his lips. He removed his jacket while John slept. Firelight stains his crisp shirt orange, puts a reflected flame in the burgundy of his waistcoat. He’s pristine, achingly untouched. “Your things are already in the carriage. We debated waking you for the past half hour or so.”
“You looked like you needed it,” Mrs Hudson explains.
Hunching over his knees, John rubs at his face. “Might be best to go Holmes. Home. I meant home.” He tries to sink into the floor but experiences only sad failure.
“Holmes to home?” Holmes suggests.
“But not Holmes to the Holmes home,” Mrs Hudson adds.
The mortification only deepens. It fades somewhat as they make their goodbyes, then dissipates when Mrs Hudson says, “This was lovely, nearly having all my boys home.” Holmes kisses her on the cheek for that. Not trusting his coordination or his breath, John merely hugs her.
John has to cling a bit to Holmes’ side as they brave the stairs down to the foyer. If he clings a bit more than strictly necessary, then he is drunk, Holmes is warm, and the stairs are dangerous. His coat and gloves are perfectly manageable, but Holmes helps him with these regardless of how John protests. John succeeds at manoeuvring outside and onto the pavement under his own power. When they turn around to wave up at Mrs Hudson in her window, he does sway a bit. Holmes rights him with a quick arm around his waist.
The warm touch remains warm in the carriage. Holmes isn’t at all soft, entirely bone beneath expensive fabric. But warm. He is warm. His arm was nice about John’s back and is now pleasant against John’s side.
All is slow and quiet, the sounds of hooves and breathing. John leans his head back, eyes closed. Much too soon, the carriage stops.
“No bumps this time,” John mumbles.
“Mm. Pity.”
John giggles. Holmes sounds so honest in his disappointment.
In climbing out of the carriage, John needs to hold onto Holmes more than he’d like. Standing, looking down at the still-seated Holmes, John wonders vaguely what would happen should his knees simply give out. If he could sit down in the centre of the carriage and lay his head in Holmes’ lap and simply sleep.
Probably not.
Best not risk it.
Holmes escorts him outside, then up his steps, then through the door. He even picks up John’s keys when John drops them. He’s such a nice man when he’s being a nice man.
It’s possible John says this aloud. Holmes is certainly amused enough, at least before he takes in the chill of the house.
“It’s freezing in here.” Holmes strips John of his coat all the same.
“Empty since yesterday,” John mumbles, holding still.
“Where’s your maid?”
John blinks at him oddly. “Martha’s home with her mum, where else?”
Holmes sighs and lights the small lamp on the entryway table. He picks it up. “Come on.”
John navigates the stairs with care and Holmes’ hand at the small of his back. He knocks into the doorframe on the way into his bedroom. It takes him a moment to realise he’s left Holmes in the hall. “S’all right,” he calls, trying to find another light.
Holmes enters slowly, respectful rather than tentative. John adores him for that, utterly adores him. Holmes surveys the bedroom, the dresser and the closet, the desk by the window.
“Is everything in your house over five years old?” Holmes asks. “Besides that bed.”
John tilts his head and the rest of his body tilts with it. He bought the bed after Mary died, their old one much too large. He sits down on it before he falls. “I...” He tries to think. He nods. “Yes.”
“You and your wife slept in the same bed?” As if this is some strange feat.
“Yes?”
“My parents never did,” Holmes explains. “My brother and his wife don’t.”
“You could.” He fumbles at the laces of his shoes.
Holmes sets the lamp on the bedside table and kneels, knocking John’s hands away. Where John had struggled, Holmes makes quick work. Impressive with Holmes still wearing his gloves. “I’ll never marry,” Holmes tells him, moving to the other shoe.
Holmes’ hat has vanished somewhere. His revealed neck is pale and lovely. His hair has some curl to it, even beneath the pomade. It curls at his nape and behind his ears. Across the floorboards of John’s bedroom, Holmes’ long coat is a dark puddle.
“You could,” John repeats, mind unwittingly full of Holmes and Miss Adler and bed sheets.
“Even if it’s another niece.” Holmes looks up at John as if this is about to mean something, but John becomes lost in the angles of his face, in the soft curve of his eyelashes against his pale cheek. “Never.”
John nearly asks how he can be so certain, but another thought jangles up through his sodden brain first. “Your sister,” John asks, abruptly urgent. “Is she, is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Holmes says. “She’s never miscarried before.” He says it so smoothly, as if he knows what’s in John’s mind, as if he truly knows about Mary when John never talks about the end, never tells. Holmes eases one shoe off and then the other. He remains kneeling on the floor, fingers encircling one of John’s sock-clad ankles. The leather feels strange through the cloth. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
John sighs. He sags a bit and unbuttons his jacket.
Holmes stands.
Halfway through shrugging out of his jacket, John stares groggily at his chest. John looks up at his face and asks, “Will you sit?”
Holmes sits beside him. His weight shifts the tilt of the mattress. Slowly, they settle against each other. John’s jacket winds up folded over the footboard.
“I shouldn’t be drunk,” John mumbles.
“No. We’ll try again when you’re sober.”
That doesn’t make much sense, so John ignores it. “Harry used to be drunk. So drunk.”
“Which was it that killed her?” Holmes asks. “The drink or the cold?”
“Love.”
“No one dies of love, Doctor.”
John shakes his heavy head, closes his heavier eyes. “My sister did.” Holmes’ shoulder is at a lovely height, perfect for John’s cheek. John wonders vaguely whether this could still be construed as brotherly. Wonders whether Holmes will tell him to move.
Holmes doesn’t tell him to move. Instead, he asks, “What was his name?”
“Who?”
“Your sister was in love with...?”
“Clara,” John supplies. Then, stomach lurching, corrects, “Clarence. Meant Clarence. Some, um. Some man named Clarence.” When Holmes doesn’t question this, John sighs with the relief of a lie well told. He snuffles a bit farther into Holmes’ shoulder. “You smell like mince pies.”
Holmes shakes against him, an amused vibration. His arm wraps about John’s waist. John could die content here and now, though he’d want to see Vernet first.
“I want,” John begins to say. He stops.
“Yes?”
John shakes his head, cheek rubbing against Holmes’ coat, stubble scraping fabric.
“What do you want for Christmas, Doctor?” Holmes asks.
John shakes his head, more emphatic than before. “What d’you want?”
“You know what I want. I’ve been patient.”
Oh: to not have to inherit. Of course.
“Though I must say,” Holmes adds. “I’m thoroughly enjoying the chase.”
John hums his agreement. He likes investigating.
“But what do you want?” Holmes asks. He asks as if it matters.
John giggles a bit because it’s silly. He says it’s silly and Holmes says to tell him anyway. “I want to hear my best friend sing,” John confides. “Silly.”
For a long lovely moment, Holmes holds him a bit tighter than necessary, a bit tighter than strictly makes sense. Then he eases away. “You should go to sleep.”
John flops down without Holmes beside him. Holmes takes up the lamp and does something at the fireplace until it stops being quite so dark, though still just as cold. Bone tired, John struggles beneath the blankets still dressed. He lies curled on his side. He’s nearly asleep when the mattress shifts beneath him.
“Holmes?” he asks.
Sitting in the curve of John’s legs and chest, Holmes looks down at his own hands. He toys with his left glove. “There’s something I need to tell you,” Holmes says. “I need my brother’s permission first. He’s a tyrant and a bully, you see, and he cuts me off if he thinks I’m being too foolish.”
John struggles to follow Holmes’ meaning, squinting up at him. “Are you? Foolish.”
“No. Not this time.”
John nods against his pillows, eyes once again closing. The heat in the room has already risen. It’s lovely. Holmes is lovely.
“I’ll tell you at the Masquerade,” Holmes promises. His hand presses against John’s shoulder, enough to be felt, not enough to hurt. Perhaps he hesitates. Maybe he lingers. Ultimately, he stands. “Good night, Watson.”
John hums quietly. Content beyond measure, he falls asleep before Holmes’ footsteps so much as reach the door.
da capo
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Mrs Hudson takes extremely well to the Christmas plans. Over the course of a few letters, they decide to attend mass together on both Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. For convenience’s sake, it’s decided that John will spend the night on Christmas Eve in her son’s old rooms. When John arrives somewhat early that day, she welcomes him with open arms. Within short order, Mrs Hudson and her maid settle John in. She doesn’t typically use the upstairs sitting room-too much trouble for her hip-but she repeatedly states how good it is to have someone using the space again.
Though the day consists of little more than church, dinner and reading silently together into the late evening, it is by far the best Christmas Eve John has had in four years.
The holiday only improves come morning. Warm food and warm stories start them off before their return to church. Warm stories even accompany them, Mrs Hudson only too delighted to bestow details of Holmes’ childhood upon him.
“He would never want to leave, you know. I’ve never known a boy so talented at sneaking backstage, not even my George. You could turn around and lose him, and there he’d be, hiding in the wings, tucked out of the way. Drove his poor mother to distraction. I remember a year when Mycroft tried to keep him in line. Failed terribly, I’m sure you can imagine.”
“He wouldn’t fall in line even for you?” John asks.
Mrs Hudson’s gaze is distant as they walk, her smile fond. It turns impish before she replies: “Only if I let him hide behind me first.”
That startles a laugh out of John. Mrs Hudson joins in until they both sigh, content. The mood lasts through mass and well into lunch.
“I was wondering,” John ventures at that point.
“Yes, dear?”
“About Vernet. In the coming year, I mean.”
Mrs Hudson’s expression turns strange, uncertain. “What do you mean?”
John leans back in his chair to look around the corner, checking that the maid isn’t in sight. He lowers his voice all the same. “Sneaking into the basement while the police search for some sort of corporeal opera ghost. It seems much too risky.”
“He’ll be back,” Mrs Hudson says.
“Has he told you that?”
She nods.
John’s good mood vanishes. If Vernet communicates with her outside of the opera house, she must know his true name. She must know his face.
Mrs Hudson frowns. “You’re not in contact with him? I was so certain you were.”
They ought to be. It frustrates John endlessly that they aren’t. A brief moment with the man is all he wants. It is Christmas Day and with Mrs Hudson’s hip, there will be no further walking today. Even with Regent’s Park so near Mrs Hudson’s home, John won’t be so rude as to set out for a walk on his own. He would only spend the time cursing his missing friend. “Beyond Mr Havill and Mr Holmes, you’re the only person I’ve been in regular contact with since the chandelier fell.”
“Oh,” Mrs Hudson says, eyes wide, as if realising a source of terrible sadness.
Unable to face pity, not today, not from her, John quickly turns the topic to his new patients. Mrs Hudson listens politely, if not attentively, and they move on from there. By mutual decision, it is time to open presents.
His gift to her is a pendant that had taken a great deal of searching. Though intended for her masquerade costume, the sheer effort in locating a golden trident necklace had turned the gift into a labour of love. Mrs Hudson coos over it before pronouncing it perfect. “I wasn’t looking forward to carrying a real one,” she admits with a chortle.
“Very symbolic for Britannia to carry a heavy weight, but perhaps another time. There’s already the shield to consider.”
She smiles at that. “Don’t worry about that. I found a shawl with a flag pattern.”
“Oh, brilliant!”
She fetches it to show him, as well as the mask that will serve as her helmet, a golden complement to his own silver. He’s left his at home, as well as his red and white tunic.
“Now if we could only find you a spear pin before New Year’s,” she muses. “Saint George has a spear.”
“I could possibly find a sword.”
“A sword pin?”
“No, a sword.” Miss Hooper promised to smuggle him one from the props table, but that had been before the chandelier crash. He has no idea whether the plan has held.
“Ah! Even better.” Mrs Hudson puts her masquerade things away and returns to the sitting room before John permits himself to reach for the remaining presents upon the table. Plural presents, he knows, because anyone who was ever a child in a doctor’s family knows the appearance of stacked, wrapped books. There are two, individually wrapped and bound together with a ribbon.
The first is a novel, not a history or a textbook. It’s new, unfamiliar in title.
“You’re always reading at the opera house,” Mrs Hudson explains.
John smiles and thanks her. He knows he’s difficult to shop for. Mary had berated him for it every year before managing perfectly all the same.
The second book is not a book but a journal. The supple leather cover folds about the smooth sheets within and can be tied shut. The heft is lovely, the scent perfect.
“This is... Thank you,” John says.
She beams at him. If she’s surprised at John’s degree of sincerity, she doesn’t show it.
They settle in for an afternoon warm before the fire upstairs, John reading to her from his new book. The sun begins to set by half three. More lamps, more fuel to the fire, and with the approach of dark at four o’clock John resigns himself to a day without Holmes as well as Vernet.
Five o’clock proves him wrong. A knock comes from the door. John and Mrs Hudson immediately rush to the window like a pair of children, peering down into the glow of streetlamps and carriage lanterns.
Mrs Hudson’s maid answers the door. Almost immediately after, footsteps race up the stairs, at least two steps at a time. Holmes bounds into the room, still wearing his gloves and as happy as John as ever seen him.
“The upstairs sitting room, Mrs Hudson? It must be Christmas!” Holmes exclaims, practically bouncing where he stands.
John smiles back, unable not to. Holmes’ immense joy renders John stupid and voiceless.
“Ooh, ooh, what’s happened?” Mrs Hudson asks, darting in to hug Holmes about the waist. He kisses her loudly upon the cheek. “Have they caught the vandal?”
“Better!” Holmes holds her out as if about to break into dance. “I’m to be an uncle again. My dear sister-in-law is expecting.”
“And healthy, I hope,” John hears himself say rather than “Congratulations.”
“She already has a physician, Dr Watson, but thank you for offering,” Holmes replies, a twinkle in his eyes and a grin on his lips. “Everything seems stable enough to risk the announcement. Ah, my earldom for a nephew! We can only hope the third time truly is a charm.” He tugs off his gloves and hands them over to Mrs Hudson’s maid who is already holding Holmes’ coat and hat. “Thank you, Eliza. Let Billy sit in the kitchen, won’t you? If you don’t woo him away with food, he may never leave the horses. There’s something in the carriage, should still be warm.”
“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Eliza murmurs before quickly returning downstairs.
“Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn’t have.” Mrs Hudson pets his arm appreciatively all the same. John’s stomach certainly pays close attention to the mention of something warm.
“Of course I should have,” Holmes counters. “This must be celebrated, Mrs Hudson. How could I do that at home?”
They all laugh, carried along more by Holmes’ exuberance than the jest. The moment the sound escapes John’s mouth, the sentiment strikes him as terribly sad, but Holmes permits no moment for thought, busily asking them about their day thus far.
They don’t sit, Holmes being incapable of it. Though he curtails his motions, he nevertheless seems about to fly away, some ever-constant weight upon his shoulders at last removed. The deep burgundy of his silk waistcoat shimmers with his movements, shining in the firelight like his sleek hair.
Though John wracks his mind to remember another instance, he quickly grows certain: this is the happiest he has ever seen Holmes. Not unguarded, not even now, not even among friends and friends alone, but happy. Holmes’ speech and movements are forever polished, forever deliberate. To expect them to be otherwise would be to expect refined sugar to reform into the rough cane.
Although blatantly present, Holmes’ veneer tonight is at least a clear one. His wit seems effortless, his charm innate, his generosity immense. For Mrs Hudson, there is a music box, beautiful wood with a crystal inlay. Rather than cylinders, it operates on metal discs.
Mrs Hudson is smitten instantly, and they listen to a chiming version of Moonlight Sonata before Mrs Hudson discovers a disc with a waltz upon it. She takes both John and Holmes for a sweeping dance about the room, John first and Holmes second. Where John’s steps were painstaking, Holmes’ are fluid, but Mrs Hudson outshines the pair of them without a second thought, a lithe whirl of a purple dress.
The supper Eliza brings out is no less a gift. Roasted duck and honeyed turnips, mince pies and mulled wine, this and more; they tuck in with gusto. Mrs Hudson sits at one side and the men across from each other, no one certain who is seated at the head of the square table.
Afterward, they settle down to digest, listening to the fire, sleepily broaching one old story after another. Mrs Hudson absolutely insists John tell the story about the thieving monkeys taking off with British supplies. John complies with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary, but the mulled wine was very good and there always seems to be more eggnog in his cup.
The storytelling shifts onto Holmes only momentarily. “My life is far too closeted to compare with either of yours,” he explains. “I’ve done absolutely nothing.” He passes the honour onto Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson, it seems, has done absolutely everything. She speaks of circuses and dancing halls, ballet schools and theatres. The focus of her tales meanders here and there, punctuated by sounds of her own amusement. The wait is worth the conclusions, the abrupt turns and unexpected jokes. She tells them about her late husband, about her son in Florida.
When she begins to grow melancholy rather than wistful, Holmes starts up with a story about the development of the music discs in Germany, a recent innovation of the past year. He seems to know a great deal about his purchase and speaks of it with fascination, not pride. John begins to look guiltily at the trident pendant about Mrs Hudson’s neck. Found within London, that piece of jewellery is a far cry from an import from the Continent.
Holmes notices this, because of course Holmes notices. He compliments her upon it. He doesn’t ask if it’s new, merely states that it is.
“It’s from our good doctor here,” Mrs Hudson responds, proud enough to make John’s ears burn. “For the Masquerade.”
Holmes barely pauses to think before stating, “You’re attending as Britannia.”
Mrs Hudson reaches across the sofa to swat at him. “You ruin all the surprises.”
“I’ll keep mine secret,” Holmes promises.
“And mine,” John adds. He’s fairly certain nothing present will give him away.
Holmes looks at him. “Saint George.”
“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolds.
Holmes merely laughs until Mrs Hudson laughs with him.
“Very nearly Saint George,” John answers. “I’m currently unarmed. A spear seems too dangerous. I suppose I’ll need to find a sword to borrow in the coming week.”
“Use one of mine,” Holmes replies.
“Really?”
“Of course.” There’s nothing gracious about his reply. To be gracious, he would have to be aware of his own generosity. This response is unthinking and sure, nearly instinctual in a way that warms.
“I... Thank you.”
Holmes clearly thinks nothing of it. He brings the conversation to roam yet again. He and Mrs Hudson knock it back and forth like children with a favoured ball. Listening and taking idle sips from his glass, John lets the warmth seep over him, through him. It’s the company more than the fire, but he can hardly imagine a more perfect sitting room. His armchair is deep. Content, he sinks into it. His eyes drift shut, heavy with food and drink.
He opens them at an abrupt silence. For one disorienting moment, he believes Holmes and Mrs Hudson have vanished. He sits upright, becomes dizzy, and promptly sinks back down a second time. He’d fallen asleep. As the world continues to wobble, he realises he’s also a bit drunk. Just a bit. But he’s happy, not like how Harry was, so it’s all right.
He lets his head loll back a bit, listening for his host. Voices from the hall, yes. Hushed voices. They think him asleep. Kind of them. John curls up a bit more in his armchair. He jolts awake at one indecipherable utterance, irrationally convinced the voice is Vernet’s, not Holmes’. But of course it can’t be. A moment later, Holmes’ voice resumes normally, as light as it ever was.
John’s heart slows, allowing restfulness to come over him once more. As if determined to be contrary, his ears adjust enough to catch snippets of conversation, just enough to keep him too interested to sleep.
“...still haven’t told him, Sherlock.”
“You’re perfectly aware...”
“...hardly fair to the poor man...”
“I’ve asked Mycroft,” Holmes says, his volume rising in agitation. “Beyond that, my hands are tied. What more do you want from me?”
Mrs Hudson shushes him gently. They continue on in whispers, and John slowly drops back toward slumber. He doesn’t wake again until the clock chimes nine. Alarmed at having overstayed his welcome, he wakes with an apology behind his teeth, nearly upon his lips, but Mrs Hudson simply looks up from her card game with Holmes and smiles.
“I should have warned you about the eggnog,” she apologises. “I prefer it with a bit of a kick.”
“’s nice,” John mumbles, resisting the urge to wipe at his face. “’s very nice.”
Holmes laughs quietly.
“It’s, um.” John closes his eyes and opens them again. This doesn’t make keeping them open any easier than before. “Drat. Um. It’s late. I should...”
“I’ll take you home,” Holmes says.
“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t, couldn’t ask...”
“No, I don’t believe you could either.” Amusement hangs onto Holmes’ voice, drips from his lips. He removed his jacket while John slept. Firelight stains his crisp shirt orange, puts a reflected flame in the burgundy of his waistcoat. He’s pristine, achingly untouched. “Your things are already in the carriage. We debated waking you for the past half hour or so.”
“You looked like you needed it,” Mrs Hudson explains.
Hunching over his knees, John rubs at his face. “Might be best to go Holmes. Home. I meant home.” He tries to sink into the floor but experiences only sad failure.
“Holmes to home?” Holmes suggests.
“But not Holmes to the Holmes home,” Mrs Hudson adds.
The mortification only deepens. It fades somewhat as they make their goodbyes, then dissipates when Mrs Hudson says, “This was lovely, nearly having all my boys home.” Holmes kisses her on the cheek for that. Not trusting his coordination or his breath, John merely hugs her.
John has to cling a bit to Holmes’ side as they brave the stairs down to the foyer. If he clings a bit more than strictly necessary, then he is drunk, Holmes is warm, and the stairs are dangerous. His coat and gloves are perfectly manageable, but Holmes helps him with these regardless of how John protests. John succeeds at manoeuvring outside and onto the pavement under his own power. When they turn around to wave up at Mrs Hudson in her window, he does sway a bit. Holmes rights him with a quick arm around his waist.
The warm touch remains warm in the carriage. Holmes isn’t at all soft, entirely bone beneath expensive fabric. But warm. He is warm. His arm was nice about John’s back and is now pleasant against John’s side.
All is slow and quiet, the sounds of hooves and breathing. John leans his head back, eyes closed. Much too soon, the carriage stops.
“No bumps this time,” John mumbles.
“Mm. Pity.”
John giggles. Holmes sounds so honest in his disappointment.
In climbing out of the carriage, John needs to hold onto Holmes more than he’d like. Standing, looking down at the still-seated Holmes, John wonders vaguely what would happen should his knees simply give out. If he could sit down in the centre of the carriage and lay his head in Holmes’ lap and simply sleep.
Probably not.
Best not risk it.
Holmes escorts him outside, then up his steps, then through the door. He even picks up John’s keys when John drops them. He’s such a nice man when he’s being a nice man.
It’s possible John says this aloud. Holmes is certainly amused enough, at least before he takes in the chill of the house.
“It’s freezing in here.” Holmes strips John of his coat all the same.
“Empty since yesterday,” John mumbles, holding still.
“Where’s your maid?”
John blinks at him oddly. “Martha’s home with her mum, where else?”
Holmes sighs and lights the small lamp on the entryway table. He picks it up. “Come on.”
John navigates the stairs with care and Holmes’ hand at the small of his back. He knocks into the doorframe on the way into his bedroom. It takes him a moment to realise he’s left Holmes in the hall. “S’all right,” he calls, trying to find another light.
Holmes enters slowly, respectful rather than tentative. John adores him for that, utterly adores him. Holmes surveys the bedroom, the dresser and the closet, the desk by the window.
“Is everything in your house over five years old?” Holmes asks. “Besides that bed.”
John tilts his head and the rest of his body tilts with it. He bought the bed after Mary died, their old one much too large. He sits down on it before he falls. “I...” He tries to think. He nods. “Yes.”
“You and your wife slept in the same bed?” As if this is some strange feat.
“Yes?”
“My parents never did,” Holmes explains. “My brother and his wife don’t.”
“You could.” He fumbles at the laces of his shoes.
Holmes sets the lamp on the bedside table and kneels, knocking John’s hands away. Where John had struggled, Holmes makes quick work. Impressive with Holmes still wearing his gloves. “I’ll never marry,” Holmes tells him, moving to the other shoe.
Holmes’ hat has vanished somewhere. His revealed neck is pale and lovely. His hair has some curl to it, even beneath the pomade. It curls at his nape and behind his ears. Across the floorboards of John’s bedroom, Holmes’ long coat is a dark puddle.
“You could,” John repeats, mind unwittingly full of Holmes and Miss Adler and bed sheets.
“Even if it’s another niece.” Holmes looks up at John as if this is about to mean something, but John becomes lost in the angles of his face, in the soft curve of his eyelashes against his pale cheek. “Never.”
John nearly asks how he can be so certain, but another thought jangles up through his sodden brain first. “Your sister,” John asks, abruptly urgent. “Is she, is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Holmes says. “She’s never miscarried before.” He says it so smoothly, as if he knows what’s in John’s mind, as if he truly knows about Mary when John never talks about the end, never tells. Holmes eases one shoe off and then the other. He remains kneeling on the floor, fingers encircling one of John’s sock-clad ankles. The leather feels strange through the cloth. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
John sighs. He sags a bit and unbuttons his jacket.
Holmes stands.
Halfway through shrugging out of his jacket, John stares groggily at his chest. John looks up at his face and asks, “Will you sit?”
Holmes sits beside him. His weight shifts the tilt of the mattress. Slowly, they settle against each other. John’s jacket winds up folded over the footboard.
“I shouldn’t be drunk,” John mumbles.
“No. We’ll try again when you’re sober.”
That doesn’t make much sense, so John ignores it. “Harry used to be drunk. So drunk.”
“Which was it that killed her?” Holmes asks. “The drink or the cold?”
“Love.”
“No one dies of love, Doctor.”
John shakes his heavy head, closes his heavier eyes. “My sister did.” Holmes’ shoulder is at a lovely height, perfect for John’s cheek. John wonders vaguely whether this could still be construed as brotherly. Wonders whether Holmes will tell him to move.
Holmes doesn’t tell him to move. Instead, he asks, “What was his name?”
“Who?”
“Your sister was in love with...?”
“Clara,” John supplies. Then, stomach lurching, corrects, “Clarence. Meant Clarence. Some, um. Some man named Clarence.” When Holmes doesn’t question this, John sighs with the relief of a lie well told. He snuffles a bit farther into Holmes’ shoulder. “You smell like mince pies.”
Holmes shakes against him, an amused vibration. His arm wraps about John’s waist. John could die content here and now, though he’d want to see Vernet first.
“I want,” John begins to say. He stops.
“Yes?”
John shakes his head, cheek rubbing against Holmes’ coat, stubble scraping fabric.
“What do you want for Christmas, Doctor?” Holmes asks.
John shakes his head, more emphatic than before. “What d’you want?”
“You know what I want. I’ve been patient.”
Oh: to not have to inherit. Of course.
“Though I must say,” Holmes adds. “I’m thoroughly enjoying the chase.”
John hums his agreement. He likes investigating.
“But what do you want?” Holmes asks. He asks as if it matters.
John giggles a bit because it’s silly. He says it’s silly and Holmes says to tell him anyway. “I want to hear my best friend sing,” John confides. “Silly.”
For a long lovely moment, Holmes holds him a bit tighter than necessary, a bit tighter than strictly makes sense. Then he eases away. “You should go to sleep.”
John flops down without Holmes beside him. Holmes takes up the lamp and does something at the fireplace until it stops being quite so dark, though still just as cold. Bone tired, John struggles beneath the blankets still dressed. He lies curled on his side. He’s nearly asleep when the mattress shifts beneath him.
“Holmes?” he asks.
Sitting in the curve of John’s legs and chest, Holmes looks down at his own hands. He toys with his left glove. “There’s something I need to tell you,” Holmes says. “I need my brother’s permission first. He’s a tyrant and a bully, you see, and he cuts me off if he thinks I’m being too foolish.”
John struggles to follow Holmes’ meaning, squinting up at him. “Are you? Foolish.”
“No. Not this time.”
John nods against his pillows, eyes once again closing. The heat in the room has already risen. It’s lovely. Holmes is lovely.
“I’ll tell you at the Masquerade,” Holmes promises. His hand presses against John’s shoulder, enough to be felt, not enough to hurt. Perhaps he hesitates. Maybe he lingers. Ultimately, he stands. “Good night, Watson.”
John hums quietly. Content beyond measure, he falls asleep before Holmes’ footsteps so much as reach the door.
da capo
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