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charleygirlTitle: Trains and Winter Rain
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2083
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Angst, Friendship
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: The journey home after a pre-Christmas case reminds Watson of another trip in the spring of 1891...
Author's Note: First of two Christmas fics - I'm posting the melancholy one first, and the humorous fluff will follow next week. Some of this sprang from my noticing while watching Granada's Empty House that Watson didn't appear to have taken any of his things when he moved out of Baker Street! The title is from the song of the same name by Enya.
TRAINS AND WINTER RAIN
The night was dark and the weather foul as we rattled along the tracks towards London. The journey from the North Country had been long, and I tried to make out our current location, eager to see home and hearth once more, but the lights in the carriage and the condensation upon the windowpane made any orientation impossible. It was a dismal prospect, and one not at all suited to the festive season.
As I sat there alone, for some reason the darkness and complete isolation from reality and the outside world induced by the blank prospect before me recalled quite suddenly to my mind another train journey. It had been taken in completely different circumstances more than three years before, but the experience was etched into my memory. The weather, which had been beautiful, appropriately turned as I boarded the train in Switzerland, the spring rain pattering upon the glass as I was carried inexorably across Europe to a home that would have changed in just a few short weeks out of all recognition.
I ignored the press who awaited me upon my return. The news had reached them quickly, and I was rescued by a pale and solicitous Inspector Lestrade, who placed me in a hansom and paid the driver a good sum to take me to Baker Street as quickly as possible. I cannot recall if I ever thanked him for his actions – shock and grief still clouded my mind to the extent that I was not entirely conscious of my surroundings. Mrs Hudson met me at the door, her expression a curious mixture of sadness and relief. We exchanged no words, as none were needed – both of us could feel the sense of emptiness about the house which would never now be lifted.
I cannot truly express the feeling of complete desolation which came over me upon climbing the seventeen stairs and at last reaching the door of our familiar sitting room which had been the start of so many adventures. So much had happened within these walls, only to reach an abrupt end now in tragedy. I could hear the well-remembered voice declaring that tragedy and death were occupational hazards when dealing with criminals and the circumstances of crime, but I could take no comfort from the words. For the past week I existed in a kind of daze, enveloped in a numbness which would not quite let me believe that my dearest friend was really gone. It took the sight of his things – the pipe rack, the violin, the stacks of books and papers, the letters impractically impaled upon the mantelshelf with a jack-knife – to prove to me that it really was true.
I knew in that terrible moment that I would never see Sherlock Holmes again.
For three months I lingered on at Baker Street, attempting to live with the constant company of my memories and the ghost of my dear friend. He was always at my elbow, and I fancied so many times that I could smell his noxious shag tobacco or hear his familiar step upon the stairs. Eventually I could take no more and determined to find alternative lodgings. I would have to find the money to set myself up in general practice again at any rate, as I could not afford the tenancy of 221B alone. Mrs Hudson attempted to persuade me to stay, even going to far as to waive the rent for the next few months until I had settled myself, but my mind was made up.
“You will no doubt wish to let the rooms again as soon as possible,” I said when my new home was found and secured by a deposit. For several weeks I had been steeling myself about the offer I was going to make, but it was no easier as I forced myself to raise the subject. “If it will make things more convenient for you I will pack up Mr Holmes’s things with my own. Will you have the room to store them until you can make arrangement for Mr Mycroft Holmes to collect them?”
The good lady looked surprised. “Bless you, sir, did you not know? Mr Mycroft Holmes has given me strict instructions not to touch the rooms. I am to leave them exactly as they have always been, and very handsomely he is paying for the privilege, too! If you wish to remain, I am sure he would not object - ”
“No, no, Mrs Hudson, I will not bother him,” I said. Though I was glad to hear that Holmes’s belongings would not be packed away and forgotten, I was still too numb to wonder why Mycroft should make such a sentimental gesture. “I will call round for my things in a week or two, when I have settled in.”
“Just as you like, Doctor,” Mrs Hudson responded, and eyed me with motherly concern. “You will be all right, won’t you?”
All right. It is such a relative term. I may well have been all right if one can term trudging through a life which seems devoid of colour and interest as such. At first it was a relief to have work to consume my time and attention, but as the weeks went on and summer stretched ahead, at last becoming the red and gold shades of autumn, I found myself longing more than anything for the companionship of our old sitting room, of the conversation, the shared silences, even the irritations and annoyances. I woke in the night expecting to hear violin music in the early hours and was filled with pain deep in my heart when my ears met only silence.
I never did return to pack up my things. On reflection it did not seem right to disturb the remains of Holmes’s life and work to remove them, and in truth I could not bring myself to return to the rooms after my departure. I called in upon Mrs Hudson from time to time, and took tea in her back parlour, but I did not climb the seventeen stairs again. It was better to leave the ghosts where they were, even on Christmas Eve when I shared a glass of mulled wine and inconsequential conversation.
With a sigh, I now rested my head against the cool glass of the train window, wondering why such an inhospitable night could bring back all the loneliness of the past few years with such startling clarity. My heart felt quite suddenly unbearably heavy as I recalled how empty and cheerless my new rooms seemed upon that first Christmas without Holmes. It was true that tradition meant little to him and left to his own devices he would have treated the day as any other, but when one has been accustomed to sharing the company and friendship of another person their loss is only brought into sharper relief upon those days reserved for companionship and celebration. I remembered that I sat before the fire with a glass of port, trying, and failing, to convince myself that life must go on. It is a trite observation at the best of times – the dead stay dead, and nothing short of a miracle will alter the past or turn back time.
I was jolted from my reverie by the sound of the compartment door sliding across. A tall, thin figure in grey tweeds and a heavy black overcoat squeezed himself through the resultant gap and collapsed into the seat opposite mine.
“Why the devil can railway companies not provide more smoking compartments?” he demanded irritably. “I have just been forced to walk the entire length of the train for a cigarette!”
I smiled, feeling my melancholy lift. “I had to reserve our seats at short notice, if you recall. The clerk took little account of your inability to go without tobacco for a few hours.”
Sherlock Holmes scowled. “These conductors have become more vigilant of late,” he grumbled. “It was not as if there was any harm being done – the window was open and you made no complaint. Whatever happened to the season of goodwill?”
“Perhaps the man is a Methodist.”
“A jumped-up little jobsworth would be my description.” Holmes tried to peer through the rain-splattered window without success. “How far are we from Marylebone?”
“Another three quarters of an hour, I believe.” I checked my watch. “I thought that you would be able to tell me our location given the knowledge you have of the railway lines.”
“All such knowledge is rendered useless in the dark, Watson, especially on so inclement a night.” His tone softened a little as he added, “Another forty-five minutes, eh? It will be Christmas by then. Do you think that Mrs Hudson will have waited up for us?”
“I do hope so, particularly if there is a chance she has been mulling wine,” I said with an involuntary shiver. It was chilly in the carriage, and I felt the damp eating into my bones. Some mulled wine would be most welcome.
Holmes smiled slightly. “Yes, indeed.”
“And plum pudding,” I continued, warming to my theme as I imagined our rooms cosy and inviting and decorated with holly and ivy. “She is sure to have been making plum pudding.”
Now he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Oh, Watson, you know I cannot abide the smell of plum pudding.”
“Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it. And you only took a dislike to it because you chipped your tooth on the sixpence back in eighty-eight.”
“That is true,” he conceded. There was a pause, and then he sighed. “I have not seen a Christmas in so long.”
I wanted in that moment to ask him if he, in his travels around the world, during his solitary adventures, had felt the same loneliness and despair which had been my constant companions following his ‘death’. I wanted to ask whether the action of a moment, the decision of a split second above the Reichenbach Falls three years before, had held the same personal consequences for him as it had for me. We never truly spoke of the matter, each complying with an unspoken agreement to leave the past where it was and to make a fresh start. I would not have given up the last nine months for anything in the world, but I could not forget so easily.
The rain pattered and the train wheels clattered in time to the churning gears of my mind as I hesitated over whether or not to broach the subject. I was nervous of what the answer might be, but then again I might never get another chance to ask. At last I determined to take my opportunity and turned away from the window.
“Holmes, I - ”
I stopped and sighed. He was curled into the corner, head resting against the squabs. His eyes were closed, the lids slack, and his breathing had become deep and even. The lamplight flickered over his face as the train lurched around a bend in the track but he did not stir. I had rarely seen him so peaceful.
With a fond smile I shook my head and stood to retrieve a rug from my bag which I tucked over his slumbering form. Moments such as this were rare, and I doubted if there would be another for some time. My questions had waited this long, they would do for another day - I would not disturb him.
As I sat there watching him sleep and picking out the first lights of the city as we drew ever closer to home, it did not matter that this sudden case in Northumbria had prevented the buying of Christmas gifts. I received a miracle that year - my greatest friend had been restored to me. What man could ask for more?
Holmes shifted in his seat as the guard announced, “Marylebone Station, next stop! End of the line!”
I pulled down our luggage from the rack and set it by the door, but I did not wake him, not yet. Somewhere beyond the train as it began to slow I heard the chiming of a clock, announcing to all the first few moments of the twenty-fifth of December, 1894. I looked at my friend, huddled down under his blanket. We were together again, and, just at that moment, all was right with the world.
“Merry Christmas, Holmes,” I murmured, and he smiled slightly in his sleep.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2083
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Angst, Friendship
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: The journey home after a pre-Christmas case reminds Watson of another trip in the spring of 1891...
Author's Note: First of two Christmas fics - I'm posting the melancholy one first, and the humorous fluff will follow next week. Some of this sprang from my noticing while watching Granada's Empty House that Watson didn't appear to have taken any of his things when he moved out of Baker Street! The title is from the song of the same name by Enya.
TRAINS AND WINTER RAIN
The night was dark and the weather foul as we rattled along the tracks towards London. The journey from the North Country had been long, and I tried to make out our current location, eager to see home and hearth once more, but the lights in the carriage and the condensation upon the windowpane made any orientation impossible. It was a dismal prospect, and one not at all suited to the festive season.
As I sat there alone, for some reason the darkness and complete isolation from reality and the outside world induced by the blank prospect before me recalled quite suddenly to my mind another train journey. It had been taken in completely different circumstances more than three years before, but the experience was etched into my memory. The weather, which had been beautiful, appropriately turned as I boarded the train in Switzerland, the spring rain pattering upon the glass as I was carried inexorably across Europe to a home that would have changed in just a few short weeks out of all recognition.
I ignored the press who awaited me upon my return. The news had reached them quickly, and I was rescued by a pale and solicitous Inspector Lestrade, who placed me in a hansom and paid the driver a good sum to take me to Baker Street as quickly as possible. I cannot recall if I ever thanked him for his actions – shock and grief still clouded my mind to the extent that I was not entirely conscious of my surroundings. Mrs Hudson met me at the door, her expression a curious mixture of sadness and relief. We exchanged no words, as none were needed – both of us could feel the sense of emptiness about the house which would never now be lifted.
I cannot truly express the feeling of complete desolation which came over me upon climbing the seventeen stairs and at last reaching the door of our familiar sitting room which had been the start of so many adventures. So much had happened within these walls, only to reach an abrupt end now in tragedy. I could hear the well-remembered voice declaring that tragedy and death were occupational hazards when dealing with criminals and the circumstances of crime, but I could take no comfort from the words. For the past week I existed in a kind of daze, enveloped in a numbness which would not quite let me believe that my dearest friend was really gone. It took the sight of his things – the pipe rack, the violin, the stacks of books and papers, the letters impractically impaled upon the mantelshelf with a jack-knife – to prove to me that it really was true.
I knew in that terrible moment that I would never see Sherlock Holmes again.
For three months I lingered on at Baker Street, attempting to live with the constant company of my memories and the ghost of my dear friend. He was always at my elbow, and I fancied so many times that I could smell his noxious shag tobacco or hear his familiar step upon the stairs. Eventually I could take no more and determined to find alternative lodgings. I would have to find the money to set myself up in general practice again at any rate, as I could not afford the tenancy of 221B alone. Mrs Hudson attempted to persuade me to stay, even going to far as to waive the rent for the next few months until I had settled myself, but my mind was made up.
“You will no doubt wish to let the rooms again as soon as possible,” I said when my new home was found and secured by a deposit. For several weeks I had been steeling myself about the offer I was going to make, but it was no easier as I forced myself to raise the subject. “If it will make things more convenient for you I will pack up Mr Holmes’s things with my own. Will you have the room to store them until you can make arrangement for Mr Mycroft Holmes to collect them?”
The good lady looked surprised. “Bless you, sir, did you not know? Mr Mycroft Holmes has given me strict instructions not to touch the rooms. I am to leave them exactly as they have always been, and very handsomely he is paying for the privilege, too! If you wish to remain, I am sure he would not object - ”
“No, no, Mrs Hudson, I will not bother him,” I said. Though I was glad to hear that Holmes’s belongings would not be packed away and forgotten, I was still too numb to wonder why Mycroft should make such a sentimental gesture. “I will call round for my things in a week or two, when I have settled in.”
“Just as you like, Doctor,” Mrs Hudson responded, and eyed me with motherly concern. “You will be all right, won’t you?”
All right. It is such a relative term. I may well have been all right if one can term trudging through a life which seems devoid of colour and interest as such. At first it was a relief to have work to consume my time and attention, but as the weeks went on and summer stretched ahead, at last becoming the red and gold shades of autumn, I found myself longing more than anything for the companionship of our old sitting room, of the conversation, the shared silences, even the irritations and annoyances. I woke in the night expecting to hear violin music in the early hours and was filled with pain deep in my heart when my ears met only silence.
I never did return to pack up my things. On reflection it did not seem right to disturb the remains of Holmes’s life and work to remove them, and in truth I could not bring myself to return to the rooms after my departure. I called in upon Mrs Hudson from time to time, and took tea in her back parlour, but I did not climb the seventeen stairs again. It was better to leave the ghosts where they were, even on Christmas Eve when I shared a glass of mulled wine and inconsequential conversation.
With a sigh, I now rested my head against the cool glass of the train window, wondering why such an inhospitable night could bring back all the loneliness of the past few years with such startling clarity. My heart felt quite suddenly unbearably heavy as I recalled how empty and cheerless my new rooms seemed upon that first Christmas without Holmes. It was true that tradition meant little to him and left to his own devices he would have treated the day as any other, but when one has been accustomed to sharing the company and friendship of another person their loss is only brought into sharper relief upon those days reserved for companionship and celebration. I remembered that I sat before the fire with a glass of port, trying, and failing, to convince myself that life must go on. It is a trite observation at the best of times – the dead stay dead, and nothing short of a miracle will alter the past or turn back time.
I was jolted from my reverie by the sound of the compartment door sliding across. A tall, thin figure in grey tweeds and a heavy black overcoat squeezed himself through the resultant gap and collapsed into the seat opposite mine.
“Why the devil can railway companies not provide more smoking compartments?” he demanded irritably. “I have just been forced to walk the entire length of the train for a cigarette!”
I smiled, feeling my melancholy lift. “I had to reserve our seats at short notice, if you recall. The clerk took little account of your inability to go without tobacco for a few hours.”
Sherlock Holmes scowled. “These conductors have become more vigilant of late,” he grumbled. “It was not as if there was any harm being done – the window was open and you made no complaint. Whatever happened to the season of goodwill?”
“Perhaps the man is a Methodist.”
“A jumped-up little jobsworth would be my description.” Holmes tried to peer through the rain-splattered window without success. “How far are we from Marylebone?”
“Another three quarters of an hour, I believe.” I checked my watch. “I thought that you would be able to tell me our location given the knowledge you have of the railway lines.”
“All such knowledge is rendered useless in the dark, Watson, especially on so inclement a night.” His tone softened a little as he added, “Another forty-five minutes, eh? It will be Christmas by then. Do you think that Mrs Hudson will have waited up for us?”
“I do hope so, particularly if there is a chance she has been mulling wine,” I said with an involuntary shiver. It was chilly in the carriage, and I felt the damp eating into my bones. Some mulled wine would be most welcome.
Holmes smiled slightly. “Yes, indeed.”
“And plum pudding,” I continued, warming to my theme as I imagined our rooms cosy and inviting and decorated with holly and ivy. “She is sure to have been making plum pudding.”
Now he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Oh, Watson, you know I cannot abide the smell of plum pudding.”
“Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it. And you only took a dislike to it because you chipped your tooth on the sixpence back in eighty-eight.”
“That is true,” he conceded. There was a pause, and then he sighed. “I have not seen a Christmas in so long.”
I wanted in that moment to ask him if he, in his travels around the world, during his solitary adventures, had felt the same loneliness and despair which had been my constant companions following his ‘death’. I wanted to ask whether the action of a moment, the decision of a split second above the Reichenbach Falls three years before, had held the same personal consequences for him as it had for me. We never truly spoke of the matter, each complying with an unspoken agreement to leave the past where it was and to make a fresh start. I would not have given up the last nine months for anything in the world, but I could not forget so easily.
The rain pattered and the train wheels clattered in time to the churning gears of my mind as I hesitated over whether or not to broach the subject. I was nervous of what the answer might be, but then again I might never get another chance to ask. At last I determined to take my opportunity and turned away from the window.
“Holmes, I - ”
I stopped and sighed. He was curled into the corner, head resting against the squabs. His eyes were closed, the lids slack, and his breathing had become deep and even. The lamplight flickered over his face as the train lurched around a bend in the track but he did not stir. I had rarely seen him so peaceful.
With a fond smile I shook my head and stood to retrieve a rug from my bag which I tucked over his slumbering form. Moments such as this were rare, and I doubted if there would be another for some time. My questions had waited this long, they would do for another day - I would not disturb him.
As I sat there watching him sleep and picking out the first lights of the city as we drew ever closer to home, it did not matter that this sudden case in Northumbria had prevented the buying of Christmas gifts. I received a miracle that year - my greatest friend had been restored to me. What man could ask for more?
Holmes shifted in his seat as the guard announced, “Marylebone Station, next stop! End of the line!”
I pulled down our luggage from the rack and set it by the door, but I did not wake him, not yet. Somewhere beyond the train as it began to slow I heard the chiming of a clock, announcing to all the first few moments of the twenty-fifth of December, 1894. I looked at my friend, huddled down under his blanket. We were together again, and, just at that moment, all was right with the world.
“Merry Christmas, Holmes,” I murmured, and he smiled slightly in his sleep.
FIN
