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charleygirlTitle: The Puzzle Box 2/2
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2372
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Humour, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Aunt Sophronia's box proves a little more difficult to open than Holmes expects...
THE PUZZLE BOX
PART TWO
And so it was.
Holmes devoted the rest of the afternoon to the puzzle, poring over the box with the aid of his magnifying glass and microscope until the light faded, barely noticing when I pulled the curtains and turned on the gas, so engrossed was he. I could imagine him as a child, consumed with determination to force the box to give up its secrets to him, and could equally see his chagrin as he failed, time after time. Failure did not sit well with my friend, and his frustration with the toy was just as palpable now as it must have been all those years ago.
The hours ticked by in our cosy, holly-decked rooms, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of O, Little Town of Bethlehem being played on a barrel organ the only accompaniment to Holmes’s grunts and mutters of annoyance as he subjected the little box to every scrutiny. Mrs Hudson came and went with supper. Carol singers arrived at the door and delighted us with their harmonies. The clock struck midnight. Nothing roused him from his concentration.
Eventually, when I attempted to wish him a Merry Christmas before I took myself off to bed and he did not respond, I decided to put my foot down. I strode over to his desk and plucked the box from his hands. He whirled upon me with a glare which would have struck another man dead and tried to snatch it back but I held it out of his reach.
“For pity’s sake, Holmes, it is twenty past two on Christmas morning!” I cried. “To work yourself through what remains of the night – especially this night – is madness!”
“I cannot lose to Mycroft!” he snarled, making another grab for the box. Tiredness and lack of food was catching up with him, however, and he all but tumbled from his chair. I caught him before he could hit the floor, placing the box well away on the table.
“This is ludicrous,” I said.
“I have to open it, Watson,” he insisted, shaking his head to try and clear the sleep that was evidently encroaching and fogging his brain. For the past week he had been intent upon a case – I doubted if he had even looked upon his bed for more than an hour or two in that time. “I would rather be proved wrong before the entire Metropolitan Police force than lose a bet to Mycroft. He will never allow me to forget it.”
“That is no reason to work yourself into the ground, old man. After all, it’s only a box.”
Holmes sat back in his chair, massaging his forehead with his long white fingers. “Then tell me how to open it. The damnable thing refuses to reveal its secrets to me – evidently the passing of the years has not brought the required wisdom after all. You may as well take a look.”
This I did, settling the little box in my hand, where it fitted neatly into the palm. Now that I looked at it more closely, I could see that there was a groove running round the middle, indicating the presence of a lid, even if there were no obvious latches or hinges. There was not even a catch, and my nails could gain no purchase upon the shiny surface as I attempted to lever it open. I had never seen anything like it, and my frustration mounted as I, like Holmes, failed to find the ‘key’ that would unlock it.
“It is absurd!” I exclaimed as the clock chimed four and still I worked at it, all thought of sleep banished. “I do not believe that the person who made this ever intended it to be opened. It is a trick!”
“It is a trick indeed, but not one without resolution,” Holmes said, smothering a yawn. “My aunt was a most devious woman. Where other females merely practise the arts of guile and deception, she was the extreme mistress of both. She once hatched a plot to marry me to my cousin Cressida, but fortunately my father got wind of it and packed me off to university just in time.”
This revelation came as no little surprise to me, having never, in all the years I had known him, heard Holmes mention a connection with a woman in such a way before. I could only account for this highly unusual dropping of his reserve by putting it down to a combination of his exhaustion and the liberal quantities of port we had both consumed since I opened a bottle in desperation nearly two hours before. “I take it that came as something of a shock.”
He chuckled a little drunkenly. “Not half as much of a shock as it was to Cressida. Despite the fact that we never could stand the sight of one another, she was also engaged to a captain of dragoons at the time.”
“Would I be right in thinking that your distrust of women springs from your encounters with the female members of your family?” I enquired, turning the box upside down and squinting at it. “Particularly your aunt?”
Holmes grunted. “Would such a relative not have had a similar effect upon you? As the family matriarch, she attempted to rule us all with a rod of iron. Having imposed such conditions upon her own offspring, she insisted upon my parents endowing Mycroft and myself with these encumbrances we bear as Christian names.”
“Well,” I said, “at least she provided you with a name which will be remembered. The Adventures of William Henry Holmes does not have quite the same ring to it.”
His head was now resting upon the blotter, the rest of his body curled up in the chair like a bundle of black pipe cleaners, but he somehow still managed to look thoughtful. “You could be right.”
“Of course I’m right,” I told him, and he snickered into the blotting paper. “However, I hate your aunt.”
“The sentiment is entirely mutual, I assure you.”
I turned my attention back to the box. Though not as logical and analytical a man as my friend, I cannot stand to leave a problem unsolved. I may have thought the puzzle a trivial one to begin with, but now that I had set my mind to it I was unable to let it go, however much the port in my stomach and the sleep tugging at my eyelids tried to tell me otherwise.
While Holmes was snoring quietly, slumped over his desk, I was still doggedly working away at the Chinese box when the clock in the hall struck six o’clock, and had not relinquished it over an hour later when I heard Mrs Hudson moving about below.
The good lady herself knocked on the door at half-past seven, a carol on her lips and her face wreathed in smiles, no doubt having in turn heard my own movements. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen,” she said cheerily, “It’s a fine morning out there, and I’m sure that - ” She stopped, eyes wide, upon regarding the two of us, Holmes still sleeping soundly and myself dishevelled and somewhat desperate. “Good Lord, Doctor, have you been up all night? Whatever have you been doing?”
The puzzle box sat in the middle of the table, still sealed and mocking me with its red and black brightness. I glared at it. “Mr Holmes was left that by a relative,” I explained. “It has defied every attempt to open it.”
Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue in disapproval. “And you’ve spent all this time trying?”
I yawned and rubbed a hand over my unshaven chin. “Yes. Silly, I know.”
“Well, I know Mr Holmes when he gets a mystery to solve. It is a pretty little thing, though…may I take a look?”
“By all means.” Privately I wanted to throw the blasted thing out of the window and never set eyes on it again. I did not think I had ever felt so frustrated in my life as I did at that moment. “I do not think it can be opened – there must be some fault with the design.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said our landlady, picking up the box and regarding it for a moment. As I watched, she carefully exerted a little pressure first on the side of the thing, and then on the top, before sliding her nails into the very groove which had earlier repelled me and smiling in satisfaction as the lid sprang upwards. “There, you see? I had one just like it as a girl – an uncle in the merchant navy brought it back from China for me as a Christmas present.”
I stared at her in amazement. “Mrs Hudson, you are a marvel,” I told her when I had regained my voice, and turned to shake Holmes by the shoulder. “Holmes! Holmes, wake up! Mrs Hudson has solved the puzzle!”
Holmes was awake in an instant, gazing in disbelief at the open box as I held it before his eyes. “How in the world..?”
“Deduction and analysis are all very well,” said Mrs Hudson loftily, “but sometimes they can make you miss what’s right under your nose!”
“Of course…” Holmes snatched the box and peered at it through his most powerful lens. “Hidden catches…I should have seen it!”
“There is a paper inside,” I said, spotting the twisted scrap and plucking it out. In strong, bold handwriting was printed the following:
Never underestimate a woman.
When I showed this to Holmes he threw back his head and laughed.
“What does it mean?” I asked, confused.
“That note is from Cressida, no doubt left many years ago after an argument. She could open the box, much to my annoyance, but would never tell me how it was done. Her claim was that if I could not work out something so simple I would never succeed in my chosen profession. Naturally, I have proved her wrong, but the defeat still rankled. No doubt Aunt Sophronia believed that if I persisted in mistrusting women I would get nowhere in life, and this was her way of proving it to me.”
“Well, she was right in this case,” I pointed out, earning myself another glare. However, before he could say anything a thought seemed to strike him and he scrabbled for his watch.
“Quick, Watson, what is the time?”
“Nearly a quarter to eight, I believe. Why?”
“Brother Mycroft! We must telegraph him immediately!”
“But, Holmes – you did not solve the puzzle! The bet is off,” I said.
“He is not to know that. If I could prevail upon Mrs Hudson to say nothing, I would greatly enjoy getting the better of my brother, and I am sure that you, Watson, would appreciate not losing a portion of your Christmas dinner…” Holmes said, directing his most charming smile towards Mrs Hudson and proving once again that, though he may not have trusted women, he knew exactly how to deal with them.
Our landlady tilted her chin. “Well, now, Mr Holmes, that very much depends.”
“Depends?” He blinked in surprise. “Upon what?”
There was a definite steely glint in Mrs Hudson’s eye. “On whether, when I return from the telegraph office, there is a prettily-decorated Christmas tree standing in that corner, that’s what.”
Holmes looked towards the window and his face fell. “I really don’t think - ”
“That is the condition, Mr Holmes. You may take it or leave it.”
“The clock is ticking, Holmes,” I said, trying to keep my face neutral. “Of course, you could send the wire yourself – I am sure that Miss Rainsby would be glad to see you…”
He gave a visible shudder. “God forbid.”
“I will have to hurry, Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Hudson, exchanging a wink with me.
Holmes looked torn, but as the clock struck the quarter hour he had to admit defeat. His shoulders slumped, and he reached for a telegraph pad, scribbling on it for a moment before tearing off the topmost sheet and handing it to her. “Very well, Mrs Hudson. Please send this wire to my brother – he will be joining us for Christmas dinner, if that will not trouble you.”
The good woman turned towards the door with a triumphant smile. “Very good, sir.”
“I have no idea what is amusing you, Watson,” Holmes said as the door shut behind her and I gave way to the grin that was trying to make its way onto my face . “We have barely ten minutes, and you are the one who know how to decorate a Christmas tree. Where the devil does one start?”
I picked up the box of baubles from the sideboard and dumped it on his desk, much to his horror. “Oh, it’s quite simple, Holmes. Any idiot can do it. And you have picked the ideal time to learn…”
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2372
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Humour, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Aunt Sophronia's box proves a little more difficult to open than Holmes expects...
THE PUZZLE BOX
PART TWO
And so it was.
Holmes devoted the rest of the afternoon to the puzzle, poring over the box with the aid of his magnifying glass and microscope until the light faded, barely noticing when I pulled the curtains and turned on the gas, so engrossed was he. I could imagine him as a child, consumed with determination to force the box to give up its secrets to him, and could equally see his chagrin as he failed, time after time. Failure did not sit well with my friend, and his frustration with the toy was just as palpable now as it must have been all those years ago.
The hours ticked by in our cosy, holly-decked rooms, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of O, Little Town of Bethlehem being played on a barrel organ the only accompaniment to Holmes’s grunts and mutters of annoyance as he subjected the little box to every scrutiny. Mrs Hudson came and went with supper. Carol singers arrived at the door and delighted us with their harmonies. The clock struck midnight. Nothing roused him from his concentration.
Eventually, when I attempted to wish him a Merry Christmas before I took myself off to bed and he did not respond, I decided to put my foot down. I strode over to his desk and plucked the box from his hands. He whirled upon me with a glare which would have struck another man dead and tried to snatch it back but I held it out of his reach.
“For pity’s sake, Holmes, it is twenty past two on Christmas morning!” I cried. “To work yourself through what remains of the night – especially this night – is madness!”
“I cannot lose to Mycroft!” he snarled, making another grab for the box. Tiredness and lack of food was catching up with him, however, and he all but tumbled from his chair. I caught him before he could hit the floor, placing the box well away on the table.
“This is ludicrous,” I said.
“I have to open it, Watson,” he insisted, shaking his head to try and clear the sleep that was evidently encroaching and fogging his brain. For the past week he had been intent upon a case – I doubted if he had even looked upon his bed for more than an hour or two in that time. “I would rather be proved wrong before the entire Metropolitan Police force than lose a bet to Mycroft. He will never allow me to forget it.”
“That is no reason to work yourself into the ground, old man. After all, it’s only a box.”
Holmes sat back in his chair, massaging his forehead with his long white fingers. “Then tell me how to open it. The damnable thing refuses to reveal its secrets to me – evidently the passing of the years has not brought the required wisdom after all. You may as well take a look.”
This I did, settling the little box in my hand, where it fitted neatly into the palm. Now that I looked at it more closely, I could see that there was a groove running round the middle, indicating the presence of a lid, even if there were no obvious latches or hinges. There was not even a catch, and my nails could gain no purchase upon the shiny surface as I attempted to lever it open. I had never seen anything like it, and my frustration mounted as I, like Holmes, failed to find the ‘key’ that would unlock it.
“It is absurd!” I exclaimed as the clock chimed four and still I worked at it, all thought of sleep banished. “I do not believe that the person who made this ever intended it to be opened. It is a trick!”
“It is a trick indeed, but not one without resolution,” Holmes said, smothering a yawn. “My aunt was a most devious woman. Where other females merely practise the arts of guile and deception, she was the extreme mistress of both. She once hatched a plot to marry me to my cousin Cressida, but fortunately my father got wind of it and packed me off to university just in time.”
This revelation came as no little surprise to me, having never, in all the years I had known him, heard Holmes mention a connection with a woman in such a way before. I could only account for this highly unusual dropping of his reserve by putting it down to a combination of his exhaustion and the liberal quantities of port we had both consumed since I opened a bottle in desperation nearly two hours before. “I take it that came as something of a shock.”
He chuckled a little drunkenly. “Not half as much of a shock as it was to Cressida. Despite the fact that we never could stand the sight of one another, she was also engaged to a captain of dragoons at the time.”
“Would I be right in thinking that your distrust of women springs from your encounters with the female members of your family?” I enquired, turning the box upside down and squinting at it. “Particularly your aunt?”
Holmes grunted. “Would such a relative not have had a similar effect upon you? As the family matriarch, she attempted to rule us all with a rod of iron. Having imposed such conditions upon her own offspring, she insisted upon my parents endowing Mycroft and myself with these encumbrances we bear as Christian names.”
“Well,” I said, “at least she provided you with a name which will be remembered. The Adventures of William Henry Holmes does not have quite the same ring to it.”
His head was now resting upon the blotter, the rest of his body curled up in the chair like a bundle of black pipe cleaners, but he somehow still managed to look thoughtful. “You could be right.”
“Of course I’m right,” I told him, and he snickered into the blotting paper. “However, I hate your aunt.”
“The sentiment is entirely mutual, I assure you.”
I turned my attention back to the box. Though not as logical and analytical a man as my friend, I cannot stand to leave a problem unsolved. I may have thought the puzzle a trivial one to begin with, but now that I had set my mind to it I was unable to let it go, however much the port in my stomach and the sleep tugging at my eyelids tried to tell me otherwise.
While Holmes was snoring quietly, slumped over his desk, I was still doggedly working away at the Chinese box when the clock in the hall struck six o’clock, and had not relinquished it over an hour later when I heard Mrs Hudson moving about below.
The good lady herself knocked on the door at half-past seven, a carol on her lips and her face wreathed in smiles, no doubt having in turn heard my own movements. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen,” she said cheerily, “It’s a fine morning out there, and I’m sure that - ” She stopped, eyes wide, upon regarding the two of us, Holmes still sleeping soundly and myself dishevelled and somewhat desperate. “Good Lord, Doctor, have you been up all night? Whatever have you been doing?”
The puzzle box sat in the middle of the table, still sealed and mocking me with its red and black brightness. I glared at it. “Mr Holmes was left that by a relative,” I explained. “It has defied every attempt to open it.”
Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue in disapproval. “And you’ve spent all this time trying?”
I yawned and rubbed a hand over my unshaven chin. “Yes. Silly, I know.”
“Well, I know Mr Holmes when he gets a mystery to solve. It is a pretty little thing, though…may I take a look?”
“By all means.” Privately I wanted to throw the blasted thing out of the window and never set eyes on it again. I did not think I had ever felt so frustrated in my life as I did at that moment. “I do not think it can be opened – there must be some fault with the design.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said our landlady, picking up the box and regarding it for a moment. As I watched, she carefully exerted a little pressure first on the side of the thing, and then on the top, before sliding her nails into the very groove which had earlier repelled me and smiling in satisfaction as the lid sprang upwards. “There, you see? I had one just like it as a girl – an uncle in the merchant navy brought it back from China for me as a Christmas present.”
I stared at her in amazement. “Mrs Hudson, you are a marvel,” I told her when I had regained my voice, and turned to shake Holmes by the shoulder. “Holmes! Holmes, wake up! Mrs Hudson has solved the puzzle!”
Holmes was awake in an instant, gazing in disbelief at the open box as I held it before his eyes. “How in the world..?”
“Deduction and analysis are all very well,” said Mrs Hudson loftily, “but sometimes they can make you miss what’s right under your nose!”
“Of course…” Holmes snatched the box and peered at it through his most powerful lens. “Hidden catches…I should have seen it!”
“There is a paper inside,” I said, spotting the twisted scrap and plucking it out. In strong, bold handwriting was printed the following:
When I showed this to Holmes he threw back his head and laughed.
“What does it mean?” I asked, confused.
“That note is from Cressida, no doubt left many years ago after an argument. She could open the box, much to my annoyance, but would never tell me how it was done. Her claim was that if I could not work out something so simple I would never succeed in my chosen profession. Naturally, I have proved her wrong, but the defeat still rankled. No doubt Aunt Sophronia believed that if I persisted in mistrusting women I would get nowhere in life, and this was her way of proving it to me.”
“Well, she was right in this case,” I pointed out, earning myself another glare. However, before he could say anything a thought seemed to strike him and he scrabbled for his watch.
“Quick, Watson, what is the time?”
“Nearly a quarter to eight, I believe. Why?”
“Brother Mycroft! We must telegraph him immediately!”
“But, Holmes – you did not solve the puzzle! The bet is off,” I said.
“He is not to know that. If I could prevail upon Mrs Hudson to say nothing, I would greatly enjoy getting the better of my brother, and I am sure that you, Watson, would appreciate not losing a portion of your Christmas dinner…” Holmes said, directing his most charming smile towards Mrs Hudson and proving once again that, though he may not have trusted women, he knew exactly how to deal with them.
Our landlady tilted her chin. “Well, now, Mr Holmes, that very much depends.”
“Depends?” He blinked in surprise. “Upon what?”
There was a definite steely glint in Mrs Hudson’s eye. “On whether, when I return from the telegraph office, there is a prettily-decorated Christmas tree standing in that corner, that’s what.”
Holmes looked towards the window and his face fell. “I really don’t think - ”
“That is the condition, Mr Holmes. You may take it or leave it.”
“The clock is ticking, Holmes,” I said, trying to keep my face neutral. “Of course, you could send the wire yourself – I am sure that Miss Rainsby would be glad to see you…”
He gave a visible shudder. “God forbid.”
“I will have to hurry, Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Hudson, exchanging a wink with me.
Holmes looked torn, but as the clock struck the quarter hour he had to admit defeat. His shoulders slumped, and he reached for a telegraph pad, scribbling on it for a moment before tearing off the topmost sheet and handing it to her. “Very well, Mrs Hudson. Please send this wire to my brother – he will be joining us for Christmas dinner, if that will not trouble you.”
The good woman turned towards the door with a triumphant smile. “Very good, sir.”
“I have no idea what is amusing you, Watson,” Holmes said as the door shut behind her and I gave way to the grin that was trying to make its way onto my face . “We have barely ten minutes, and you are the one who know how to decorate a Christmas tree. Where the devil does one start?”
I picked up the box of baubles from the sideboard and dumped it on his desk, much to his horror. “Oh, it’s quite simple, Holmes. Any idiot can do it. And you have picked the ideal time to learn…”
FIN
