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charleygirlTitle: Christmas With Old Friends At Home
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 5297
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A request from Mrs Hudson to take part in a Christmas concert results in more than a little confusion for Watson...
CHRISTMAS WITH OLD FRIENDS AT HOME
“It’s for the old soldiers, those fallen upon hard times,” Mrs Hudson explained as I perused the paper she had handed me advertising the Wigmore Street Mission’s Christmas Entertainment. “Mrs Arbuthnot asked me if I knew of anyone who would be willing to donate a little of their time and I naturally thought of you. It wouldn’t take much – just an hour or two on Christmas Eve. The ladies would be grateful for any assistance.”
“Of course I shall be delighted to help, Mrs Hudson,” I assured her, and she smiled with relief. “Though I fear that I am not much of an entertainer, so you must not allow them to expect a polished performance from me.”
“I’m sure you do yourself an injustice, Doctor,” said she, the smile becoming mischievous for a moment. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you singing in the bath.”
I blushed, but was thankfully spared any response for she had turned to Holmes. The detective had quite pointedly refused to contribute to the conversation, his attention instead focused entirely on the chemical reaction over which he had spent most of the afternoon silently hunched. He carefully filled a pipette from a beaker and was holding it delicately over the flask which bubbled away above the Bunsen burner when Mrs Hudson bustled purposefully over to his side.
“And what do you say, Mr Holmes?” she enquired. “The doctor has very generously volunteered his services – will you do the same? It is in a very good cause.”
Holmes paused, hand poised over the flask, and his mouth twitched in annoyance. Composing himself, he leaned forward a fraction more and dropped tiny amount of liquid into the steadily boiling water.
“Mr Holmes?”
A puff of smoke emerged from the flask, there was a sharp crack followed by a blinding flash of light and Holmes snarled, spinning round on his stool and surging to his feet. He stalked to the mantelpiece and snatched a pipe from the rack. “I am sorry, Mrs Hudson, but I have a prior engagement which cannot be cancelled,” he snapped, digging some tobacco from the Persian slipper and jamming it into the cherry wood bowl.
Mrs Hudson’s face fell, and I, surprised by his reaction, exclaimed, “On Christmas Eve? Come now, Holmes - ”
“You may do as you like, Watson. I have my own plans, and I would be grateful if both of you would respect them.” With that pronouncement, he vanished into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. One of the pictures on the adjoining wall swung furiously back and forth for a moment before the cord holding it broke and it dropped to the floor where the glass promptly shattered.
Mrs Hudson’s reaction was short: “Well!”
I hurried to apologise for my fellow lodger’s behaviour, but she shook her head.
“It’s no more than I should have expected, Doctor,” she said, gathering her skirts and sailing towards the door. “I’ll get a dustpan and brush for that glass. Tell Mr Holmes that supper will be ready whenever he decides to stop sulking.”
***
As it turned out, Holmes remained shut away in his room for the rest of the evening and I was forced to eat my supper alone. There was still no sign of him at breakfast the next day and so, rather disgruntled by his unreasonable reaction, I set off to browse the music shops of Oxford Street for a suitable song to perform. As it was barely a fortnight till the concert I had little time in which to rehearse.
I am not a particularly musical man, and it had been quite some time since I entered such an establishment so I was somewhat overwhelmed by the range of sheet music on offer. The proprietor was caught up with a large man complaining about a trumpet he had purchased the previous week, leaving me to peruse the racks rather aimlessly, hoping to come across something seasonally appropriate. Half an hour must have passed, during which the discussion at the counter with the trumpet man became more heated and I made very little progress.
At length, when I was on the verge of giving up and returning another day, much to my surprise I felt a tug on my coat tails. I turned to see the smiling faces of Ptolemy and Xanthe Cunningham behind me, both bundled up against the cold in fur hats and mufflers. They chimed excitable greetings, tripping over each other’s words in an effort to speak first, before being firmly shushed by their mother, Holmes’s formidable cousin Cressida. Though still imperious and somewhat frosty, she had at last begun to unbend a little towards me, and even smiled a little, shaking my hand with a firm grip. Our pleasantries exchanged, she expressed her surprise upon seeing me there.
“I had no idea you were musical,” she said, lifting one pale eyebrow.
“I fear that I am not. My business is of a…charitable nature,” I confessed, and explained about the mission.
“It sounds like a very worthy cause. Presumably Sherlock is assisting you in this venture?”
“I regret that he is not.” I would not have spoken of Holmes’s strange outburst to anyone else, but Cressida had known him from childhood and short of calling at the Diogenes to speak to Mycroft, there was no one else who might have been able to shed some light upon it. “To be perfectly honest, his behaviour has been most peculiar ever since Mrs Hudson broached the idea of his taking part. I know that he is rather mercurial in nature - ” At this Cressida’s perfectly plucked brow rose a fraction higher “ – but he has never displayed such an irrational – and illogical – reaction to a perfectly innocent request before.”
“Well,” she said, adjusting her cuffs, “That mystery is easily solved. Sherlock does not play in public.”
I blinked in surprise. “But he has a most definite talent!”
Cressida fixed me with a sharp blue gaze which was very reminiscent of Holmes’s. “Consider your own experience. You have shared rooms with my cousin for twenty years, but have you ever heard him play to an audience of more than yourself and your housekeeper?”
I thought about it and was forced to admit that I had not. Holmes played for his own amusement, or to divert me – he never picked up his violin when visitors or clients were in the house. I had not thought it strange that his obvious ability should go unremarked by the rest of the world, but now it did strike me as odd.
“But why?” I wondered. “He is not what one would call a modest man, by his own admission. He knows his own abilities. Why was he so incensed at the suggestion he should play in public?”
Cressida shrugged elegantly. “Because he has apparently never got over a childhood knock to his confidence. I thought that he might have grown out of such things by now, but he never did take criticism very well.”
I would have asked her to elaborate, but before I could open my mouth the children, who had been listening intently and then hurried over the make their way through the manuscripts on display, returned waving one triumphantly.
“We’ve found one for you, Doctor Watson!” Xanthe announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet as her brother handed me the sheets of paper. “We’ve found a song for you to sing!”
“It’s about soldiers,” Ptolemy added, “I thought that was appropriate, as you were a soldier and all.”
“A long time ago now. But thank you,” I said, scanning the title and the first verse. It was indeed about soldiers, having been written over forty years ago, during the Crimean War. Not being able to read music that well I could make out little of the tune, but it seemed acceptable and I could hopefully get round that difficulty at a later date.
“Do tell us when the concert is,” the lad continued, and I looked at him in confusion.
“Whatever for?”
Ptolemy rolled his eyes as only a ten year old boy can. “So that we can come and see you, of course!” He turned a hopeful gaze to his mother. “Can we, Mama?”
Cressida’s lips twitched. “We’ll see,” was her only answer.
***
I returned home in a thoughtful mood, my purchase rolled up in my coat pocket.
Any contentment I might have been feeling evaporated, however, when I tried to open the sitting room door and found it to be locked. Caught between irritation and concern, I knocked on the panel, and after a moment or two the key scraped in the lock and the door opened a fraction. A steel grey eye peered at me through the gap, and the lean, pale features surrounding it relaxed. Holmes threw the door wide, allowing me entry to our shared quarters, and strode back to his chair.
“What the devil is the matter?” I enquired, pulling the sheet music from my pocket and throwing it down on the table.
“I thought you might have been Mrs Hudson, back again to badger me about that confounded concert,” he replied, casting a sidelong glance at the manuscript as I unwound my scarf and shed my overcoat.
“She is only asking you to play your violin, Holmes, not dress up as Father Christmas.”
He threw himself into his seat and glowered at me. “Whatever she is asking, I have no intention of giving in. You, however, would appear to be entering wholeheartedly into this absurd scheme.”
“It is not absurd to give up a few hours in order to make Christmas a little better for one’s fellow man,” I told him, and went to hang up my things.
By the time I returned, Holmes had lit up a cigarette and was busy filling the room with a blue fug of smoke. As I sat down and opened my newspaper he gestured towards the music lying upon the table.
“You are evidently taking it seriously,” he observed.
“I would hope to endeavour not to disgrace myself.”
“What will you do for accompaniment? Presumably there will be some obliging lady upon the piano on the night, but in the meantime you will need some music if only to familiarise yourself with the tune.” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Or were you intending to sing unaccompanied?”
I shook the newspaper. “I had not given it much thought. You, however, appear to have done so despite refusing to become involved yourself.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “It was merely an enquiry. I venture to suggest that I have more knowledge of musical matters than you.”
“I do not doubt it,” I said, and turned my attention to the continental news.
***
The next hour and a half passed in silence, but for the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the flames in the grate and the rustle of my paper. I did my best to remain focused upon the columns before me and ignore my fellow tenant, but Holmes was in a restless mood, smoking continually and prowling around the room. Eventually he paused for more than a few seconds at the window, gazing down at the foggy, gas lit scene below, and I could no longer refrain from asking him if anything was bothering him.
He was immediately defensive. “What makes you think that anything would be bothering me?” he demanded.
“Because you are pacing the room like a caged tiger,” I retorted. “If you wish to say something to me then for God’s sake say it, or sit down and allow me to concentrate!”
Holmes hesitated for a moment, taking a long draw upon his cigarette, before striding across the room and pitching the end into the fire. He stared at the flames, red light flickering over his angular face, and then turned to me.
“If you wish for my assistance in this venture of yours, I shall be happy to offer my services,” he said abruptly, and swung round to resume his seat.
I cannot claim to have been unsurprised by this announcement. It took me several seconds to make sense of his words. “Do you mean that you will join me in - ”
“Not on the stage,” he said quickly. He flashed me one of his quirky half-smiles and added, “But should you require any help in your preparations for the evening you have only to ask.”
My mouth worked noiselessly for a few seconds before I could find my voice. “Thank you,” I said eventually, and Holmes nodded, apparently satisfied.
***
“No, no, no, Watson! You are beginning in quite the wrong key.”
I shuffled my manuscript and felt a frown descending upon my face once again. I was sure that by the end of the rehearsal I would have twice as many lines in my forehead as had been there before we started. “It seems to me that you are playing in a higher key than I am capable of reaching,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and not start another argument. Though the offer of assistance had been entirely his, Holmes was a hard task master, and now that he was involved he would accept nothing less than my absolute commitment to the project.
“Nonsense. The key is specified by the music as written,” he replied, lowering his violin to point with the bow to the score I held.
“Then could you not adapt it to an easier one for me to find?” I asked.
He looked disgruntled, but plucked the manuscript from my grasp and examined it for a moment before taking up his instrument once more. This time, the notes he drew from the strings were of a noticeably lower pitch. Holmes quirked an eyebrow in my direction. “Better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“Very well. Shall we try it again? One, two, three, four - ”
Come, my friends we will be merry, pass care away
Drink in brandy, wine and sherry, on happy Christmas Day
Can you form the least idea, now tell me do
What I endured in the Crimea, twelve months ago
I struggled manfully with the lines, but as I made my way through the song I knew in my heart of hearts I was no singer. I might just be able to carry a tune, enough for an impromptu sing-song or a hymn in the company of others, but a competent soloist I was not. I said as much to Holmes, and he shrugged.
“You can always withdraw.”
“And disappoint Mrs Hudson, not to mention the ladies organising the event? My name would be blackened forever more,” I replied.
“Then you must make your performance the best it can possibly be,” said Holmes. “There is no alternative, unless you wish to be the comic relief.”
“Well, perhaps if we did it together,” I ventured, and immediately wished I had not. As soon as the words were out of my mouth my friend’s face closed up as though shutters had been drawn down behind his eyes. He gathered his violin and bow and got to his feet.
“No, Watson,” he snapped, and disappeared into his room leaving me alone by the fire, mentally kicking myself.
***
Christmas Eve came round far more quickly that I expected.
After my foolish suggestion that we turn the song into a duet, Holmes had not repeated his offer of assistance. I did my best, at least now being aware of the tune, and practised in the bathroom for the acoustics were far better than there in any other part of the house. Mrs Hudson was rather surprised to come across me perched on the side of the bath, sheet music in hand, when she came to replace the towels, but was touched when she realised how seriously I was taking my performance.
“Everyone is looking forward to it,” she told me, and I found myself wishing that I had volunteered to do something that might have been easier to learn – a magic act, for example. Making myself disappear was a very attractive prospect just at that moment.
Holmes avoided me for the most part, spending much of his time out of the house. I had no idea whether he was at work on a case or was merely making himself scarce in the event of my trying to persuade him again to take part in the concert. I did notice that his violin was missing, however – when I mentioned it to Mrs Hudson she told me that Holmes had said he was taking it to have the bridge altered when she spotted him leaving the house with the case under his arm.
The evening of the twenty-fourth was cold and crisp, the fog all but gone and a hint of snow in the air. My stomach was fluttering so much from lunchtime onwards that I could eat little of the food Mrs Hudson put before me. I could not remember having been so nervous in years, even under fire in Afghanistan. I wished that Holmes were there to at least provide me with some moral support, but he had gone out early and not returned by the time I was ready to walk the short distance to the mission. Hiding my disappointment as best I could, I made my way there with Mrs Hudson, the pavement crunching under my feet as the frost began to make itself known.
As we entered I was heartened to see two small figures waving at me from seats towards the back of the hall. Cressida had not accompanied her children but their father, Colonel Charles Cunningham, had, and they all called out words of encouragement to me. Though it felt rather odd for Holmes’s family to be there for me but the man himself absent, I was grateful for their presence. Mrs Hudson ushered me through the hall and into the ‘backstage’ area behind the curtain that had been put up to separate those performing from the audience. There I discovered that I was to be the next act, after the small gentleman with impressive moustaches who was convincing a poodle to stand upon its hind legs.
“I have my music – is there someone who can accompany me?” I asked.
The lady in charge, a tall, stout woman with a dark grey dress and large feathers in her hat whom I discovered later was Mrs Arbuthnot, looked dismayed. “Oh, dear! We have a piano, but Mr Bunce has had to pop out to one of his flock who is in distress. We assumed that Mr Holmes - ”
“I’m so terribly sorry, Doctor, I gave them no cause to think that Mr Holmes would - ” Mrs Hudson began, glaring at her friend.
“It’s all right, Mrs Hudson,” I told her, my heart sinking into my boots. “I will sing without accompaniment.”
She looked sceptical, but said, “If you’re sure, Doctor…”
There was a round of applause from the other side of the curtain, and the small man and his poodle appeared. I had little choice – I was on.
***
I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything as nerve wracking as those first few moments on the stage. With no music to remind me where to start I forgot the opening words and had to begin again, much to the audience’s displeasure. Some of them appeared to have been less than impressed by the little man with the dancing dog, and were keen to vent their annoyance on me. It was to heckles and catcalls that I found my place and tried to follow the tune. When I stumbled on the chorus, a shout from the back suggested that I should get back to my surgery and leave the singing to the professionals. I heard a small voice that could only belong to Ptolemy protest shrilly before he was swiftly quietened by his father.
I was in the height of battle where the cannons roll
I heard the guns to rattle at Sebastapol
At Alma and at Inkerman, wounded I lay
Far from my wife and children on last Christmas Day
Despite the restlessness of the crowd, many of them it would appear only there for the food and drink to be provided afterwards, I carried on with the song, conscious that my voice lacked the control and volume for such work. I strayed from the tune more than once, and I fervently wished that the Reverend Bunce had not been called away at such an inopportune moment.
O could our lords and squires know what we endure
When fighting to protect them they would sympathise I’m sure
With the gallant tarts and soldiers, far, far away
From all their friends and kindred on happy Christmas Day
There was just one verse and a chorus to go when I became aware that the noise from the audience had all but ceased, and instead I could hear something else, something which for all the world sounded like the low tone of a bow upon taught strings. For a moment I thought that I might have imagined it, but no, there it was, rising and joining with my own voice, catching the melody with which I was struggling and expanding upon it. I cast a surreptitious glance towards the wings to see Holmes standing there, violin tucked beneath his chin and eyes closed as he concentrated upon the notes. I almost faltered in surprise, but recovered myself just in time and put my all into the final chorus,
I will in happiness by mingling
Never more to roam
With my dear wife and loving children
This Christmas at home
To my astonishment, the audience, its hostility apparently banished with Holmes’s glorious music, actually joined with me on the last lines, even drawing me into a reprise with their sudden enthusiasm. The violin died away with a final flourish and there was a pause, a moment of absolute silence before the hall broke into thunderous applause. Knowing that little of the acclaim was directed at myself for my performance had been mediocre at best, I strode to the side of the stage and caught my friend by the arm as he lowered his bow.
“Watson, what are you doing?” he demanded as I pulled him away from the wings. “I don’t - ”
He stopped protesting as the applause became louder on his entrance. I could see Ptolemy and Xanthe grinning from ear to ear, standing on their chairs in order to see over the heads of the adults, and Mrs Hudson at the front, her face wreathed in smiles.
Holmes just stood there in the face of this appreciation. As one who knew so well his occasional arrogance and utter faith in his own abilities, this hesitance was quite curious. He was a showman as well as a detective, delighting in his flair for the dramatic, but now he looked startled, taken aback by the audience’s reaction.
After a moment, thankfully, he recovered himself and gave a low and graceful bow. As he straightened I could see a small tugging at the corner of his mouth.
***
It was late, nearly midnight, by the time we were able to leave the mission after assisting the ladies with the food and drink and sharing a glass of mulled wine with Colonel Cunningham, fending off as we did the excitable chattering of the children. Not until we were comfortably ensconced in 221B once more, settled in our armchairs with a brandy and cigar, was I able to query my friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour.
Holmes exhaled a stream of smoke in a long breath. “The result of an incident from my childhood,” he said.
That much I already knew from Cressida, but I did not wish to embarrass him by saying so. “I always understood that you were quite at home in front of an audience.”
“Ah.” He smiled slightly. “In every aspect except one, and that is music. You may choose not to believe me, my dear fellow, but tonight was the first time in thirty-five years that I have played in front of more than one or two people.”
“I believe you, though I will admit to being surprised,” I told him. “Am I permitted to ask why?”
There was a pause. Holmes studied the tip of his cigar. “There was a time when others were not so appreciative of my efforts.”
“We all have to learn.”
“Some with more encouragement than others. The violin was my mother’s idea, something to keep me occupied. As you can imagine, I was a rather…inquisitive child.”
I could not help chuckling at that. “I can indeed.”
“Unfortunately, I thought that I could learn the violin within a week. Inordinately proud of myself, I was determined to show the rest of the family how expert I had become and so I sat them all down in the drawing room - parents, aunts, uncles and cousins - and played for them.”
I could imagine what was coming, for I had experienced the puncturing of childish enthusiasm myself, but I waited for Holmes to tell me in his own time. He glanced at me for a moment and then got to his feet, pacing over to the window.
“They laughed, Watson. I practised for days, convinced myself that I was a maestro, and they laughed. Mycroft still finds amusement in the memory of my inept rendering of Three Blind Mice. For years my violin gathered dust upon the shelf – I never truly forgave my mother for being the architect of my humiliation by giving me the blasted instrument in the first place, but after her death I found myself drawn to it once more. I was fortunate enough to have an exceptional music master at school, under whose tuition I became more than proficient.” Holmes fingered the fringe on the curtains, his back to me. “By the end of my educational career I was continually asked to take part in concerts and recitals but I always refused, and I never mentioned my talent to any of my family. After that first performance I vowed never to play before an audience ever again, and I kept that vow…until tonight that is.”
I was not sure what to say. He had never entrusted me with such a confidence before, and I was overwhelmingly touched that he had chosen to share this, something that, no matter how irrational it might be, still pained him now. Holmes did not often show his human side, preferring instead to pretend to be the automaton I presented to my readers in The Strand; consequently, when he did it was a moment to be cherished for one never knew when it would happen again.
“What made you change your mind?” I asked at last.
He turned and his lips twitched. “Cressida. She came to see me last week, and effectively told me to stop feeling sorry for myself over something that happened years ago. She did actually call me a coward, Watson, said that if I could play half as well as your writing had led her to believe then I had nothing to fear from any audience, and I owed it to you to lend my support. When she left she gave me a copy of your music for good measure.”
An image of Holmes leaving the house with his violin under his arm appeared in my mind’s eye. “The last few days…you were practising elsewhere!”
“Of course. I have my pride, Watson – I could hardly have come crawling back to you when I so vehemently refused to appear.”
“Naturally,” I agreed, knowing that it was not easy for him to admit to having been in the wrong. “I am very grateful to Cressida.”
“You are?” Holmes arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Whatever for?”
“Her bullying saved me from making a complete fool of myself,” I said. “Before you arrived to rescue my performance I was in danger of being booed off the stage.”
His mouth twitched again. Leaving the window he resumed his seat, this time relaxing back in the chair. “It was my intention to arrive just after your entrance, but I had not counted on the disappearance at the crucial moment of the Reverend Bunce. His absence caused the running order of the show to be hurriedly altered, and of course robbed you of your initial accompaniment. By the time I did get there the audience was already expressing its disapproval.” He must have caught the rueful face I pulled, remembering my ineptness, for he added, “I would not take it too much to heart, my dear fellow. Most of them had already been imbibing the mulled wine on offer and would not have known a decent tune if it did the can-can in front of them.”
“Perhaps,” I conceded, “but all the same I think I will leave the singing to the professionals in future. It was more nerve-wracking than facing down the most dangerous gang in town!”
The corners of Holmes’s eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. “In that case maybe we should agree to make tonight’s appearance our first and last. The criminals will hardly take me seriously if I embark upon a stage career.”
“It would be a good way to lull them into a false state of security. They would never suspect that you were investigating between performances,” I said with a grin.
Holmes threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Ha! I think I will stick to what I do best - as should you, Doctor.” Before I could respond there was a tap at the door, and he called out cheerfully, “Come in!”
It opened to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray which held a bottle of wine and three glasses. “I thought that the two of you deserved this,” she announced when we looked bemused. “I haven’t heard those soldiers talk so much about anything in years. Mrs Arbuthnot has been pressing me to ask you back next week.”
Holmes and I exchanged a glance over our landlady’s head as she poured the wine. “Flattering though it is to be in such demand, Mrs Hudson, I am afraid that Watson and I have just now announced our retirement from the stage,” he said with an apologetic expression.
“Oh, now, Mr Holmes,” she protested, but he winked and put a finger to his lips as the clock began to strike midnight. Through a gap in the curtains I could see that the snow was finally falling, lazy white flakes brilliant in the darkness.
I handed them both a glass. “Merry Christmas.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Merry Christmas, Doctor. God bless you.”
“Holmes?” I turned to see him taking his violin from its case once more and tucking it under his chin. He glanced up at me with a quick smile and the strains of the song I now knew better than any other filled the room. I lifted my glass in salute, and raised my voice once more,
God bless my wife and children, no more will I roam
But remain in dear old England with my kind friends at home
Push round the flowing glasses to all friends kind
How merrily the hour passes at this happy Christmas time
As the clock stopped chiming the bells began to ring forth throughout the city, welcoming Christmas Day. Laying aside the violin, Holmes picked up his wine glass and clinked the rim against mine.
“Merry Christmas, Watson.”
“Merry Christmas, Holmes.”
I will in happiness by mingling
Never more to roam
With my dear wife and loving children
This Christmas at home
FIN
You can hear a sample of Watson's song, performed by the Oxford Waits, here
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 5297
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A request from Mrs Hudson to take part in a Christmas concert results in more than a little confusion for Watson...
CHRISTMAS WITH OLD FRIENDS AT HOME
“It’s for the old soldiers, those fallen upon hard times,” Mrs Hudson explained as I perused the paper she had handed me advertising the Wigmore Street Mission’s Christmas Entertainment. “Mrs Arbuthnot asked me if I knew of anyone who would be willing to donate a little of their time and I naturally thought of you. It wouldn’t take much – just an hour or two on Christmas Eve. The ladies would be grateful for any assistance.”
“Of course I shall be delighted to help, Mrs Hudson,” I assured her, and she smiled with relief. “Though I fear that I am not much of an entertainer, so you must not allow them to expect a polished performance from me.”
“I’m sure you do yourself an injustice, Doctor,” said she, the smile becoming mischievous for a moment. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you singing in the bath.”
I blushed, but was thankfully spared any response for she had turned to Holmes. The detective had quite pointedly refused to contribute to the conversation, his attention instead focused entirely on the chemical reaction over which he had spent most of the afternoon silently hunched. He carefully filled a pipette from a beaker and was holding it delicately over the flask which bubbled away above the Bunsen burner when Mrs Hudson bustled purposefully over to his side.
“And what do you say, Mr Holmes?” she enquired. “The doctor has very generously volunteered his services – will you do the same? It is in a very good cause.”
Holmes paused, hand poised over the flask, and his mouth twitched in annoyance. Composing himself, he leaned forward a fraction more and dropped tiny amount of liquid into the steadily boiling water.
“Mr Holmes?”
A puff of smoke emerged from the flask, there was a sharp crack followed by a blinding flash of light and Holmes snarled, spinning round on his stool and surging to his feet. He stalked to the mantelpiece and snatched a pipe from the rack. “I am sorry, Mrs Hudson, but I have a prior engagement which cannot be cancelled,” he snapped, digging some tobacco from the Persian slipper and jamming it into the cherry wood bowl.
Mrs Hudson’s face fell, and I, surprised by his reaction, exclaimed, “On Christmas Eve? Come now, Holmes - ”
“You may do as you like, Watson. I have my own plans, and I would be grateful if both of you would respect them.” With that pronouncement, he vanished into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. One of the pictures on the adjoining wall swung furiously back and forth for a moment before the cord holding it broke and it dropped to the floor where the glass promptly shattered.
Mrs Hudson’s reaction was short: “Well!”
I hurried to apologise for my fellow lodger’s behaviour, but she shook her head.
“It’s no more than I should have expected, Doctor,” she said, gathering her skirts and sailing towards the door. “I’ll get a dustpan and brush for that glass. Tell Mr Holmes that supper will be ready whenever he decides to stop sulking.”
***
As it turned out, Holmes remained shut away in his room for the rest of the evening and I was forced to eat my supper alone. There was still no sign of him at breakfast the next day and so, rather disgruntled by his unreasonable reaction, I set off to browse the music shops of Oxford Street for a suitable song to perform. As it was barely a fortnight till the concert I had little time in which to rehearse.
I am not a particularly musical man, and it had been quite some time since I entered such an establishment so I was somewhat overwhelmed by the range of sheet music on offer. The proprietor was caught up with a large man complaining about a trumpet he had purchased the previous week, leaving me to peruse the racks rather aimlessly, hoping to come across something seasonally appropriate. Half an hour must have passed, during which the discussion at the counter with the trumpet man became more heated and I made very little progress.
At length, when I was on the verge of giving up and returning another day, much to my surprise I felt a tug on my coat tails. I turned to see the smiling faces of Ptolemy and Xanthe Cunningham behind me, both bundled up against the cold in fur hats and mufflers. They chimed excitable greetings, tripping over each other’s words in an effort to speak first, before being firmly shushed by their mother, Holmes’s formidable cousin Cressida. Though still imperious and somewhat frosty, she had at last begun to unbend a little towards me, and even smiled a little, shaking my hand with a firm grip. Our pleasantries exchanged, she expressed her surprise upon seeing me there.
“I had no idea you were musical,” she said, lifting one pale eyebrow.
“I fear that I am not. My business is of a…charitable nature,” I confessed, and explained about the mission.
“It sounds like a very worthy cause. Presumably Sherlock is assisting you in this venture?”
“I regret that he is not.” I would not have spoken of Holmes’s strange outburst to anyone else, but Cressida had known him from childhood and short of calling at the Diogenes to speak to Mycroft, there was no one else who might have been able to shed some light upon it. “To be perfectly honest, his behaviour has been most peculiar ever since Mrs Hudson broached the idea of his taking part. I know that he is rather mercurial in nature - ” At this Cressida’s perfectly plucked brow rose a fraction higher “ – but he has never displayed such an irrational – and illogical – reaction to a perfectly innocent request before.”
“Well,” she said, adjusting her cuffs, “That mystery is easily solved. Sherlock does not play in public.”
I blinked in surprise. “But he has a most definite talent!”
Cressida fixed me with a sharp blue gaze which was very reminiscent of Holmes’s. “Consider your own experience. You have shared rooms with my cousin for twenty years, but have you ever heard him play to an audience of more than yourself and your housekeeper?”
I thought about it and was forced to admit that I had not. Holmes played for his own amusement, or to divert me – he never picked up his violin when visitors or clients were in the house. I had not thought it strange that his obvious ability should go unremarked by the rest of the world, but now it did strike me as odd.
“But why?” I wondered. “He is not what one would call a modest man, by his own admission. He knows his own abilities. Why was he so incensed at the suggestion he should play in public?”
Cressida shrugged elegantly. “Because he has apparently never got over a childhood knock to his confidence. I thought that he might have grown out of such things by now, but he never did take criticism very well.”
I would have asked her to elaborate, but before I could open my mouth the children, who had been listening intently and then hurried over the make their way through the manuscripts on display, returned waving one triumphantly.
“We’ve found one for you, Doctor Watson!” Xanthe announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet as her brother handed me the sheets of paper. “We’ve found a song for you to sing!”
“It’s about soldiers,” Ptolemy added, “I thought that was appropriate, as you were a soldier and all.”
“A long time ago now. But thank you,” I said, scanning the title and the first verse. It was indeed about soldiers, having been written over forty years ago, during the Crimean War. Not being able to read music that well I could make out little of the tune, but it seemed acceptable and I could hopefully get round that difficulty at a later date.
“Do tell us when the concert is,” the lad continued, and I looked at him in confusion.
“Whatever for?”
Ptolemy rolled his eyes as only a ten year old boy can. “So that we can come and see you, of course!” He turned a hopeful gaze to his mother. “Can we, Mama?”
Cressida’s lips twitched. “We’ll see,” was her only answer.
***
I returned home in a thoughtful mood, my purchase rolled up in my coat pocket.
Any contentment I might have been feeling evaporated, however, when I tried to open the sitting room door and found it to be locked. Caught between irritation and concern, I knocked on the panel, and after a moment or two the key scraped in the lock and the door opened a fraction. A steel grey eye peered at me through the gap, and the lean, pale features surrounding it relaxed. Holmes threw the door wide, allowing me entry to our shared quarters, and strode back to his chair.
“What the devil is the matter?” I enquired, pulling the sheet music from my pocket and throwing it down on the table.
“I thought you might have been Mrs Hudson, back again to badger me about that confounded concert,” he replied, casting a sidelong glance at the manuscript as I unwound my scarf and shed my overcoat.
“She is only asking you to play your violin, Holmes, not dress up as Father Christmas.”
He threw himself into his seat and glowered at me. “Whatever she is asking, I have no intention of giving in. You, however, would appear to be entering wholeheartedly into this absurd scheme.”
“It is not absurd to give up a few hours in order to make Christmas a little better for one’s fellow man,” I told him, and went to hang up my things.
By the time I returned, Holmes had lit up a cigarette and was busy filling the room with a blue fug of smoke. As I sat down and opened my newspaper he gestured towards the music lying upon the table.
“You are evidently taking it seriously,” he observed.
“I would hope to endeavour not to disgrace myself.”
“What will you do for accompaniment? Presumably there will be some obliging lady upon the piano on the night, but in the meantime you will need some music if only to familiarise yourself with the tune.” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Or were you intending to sing unaccompanied?”
I shook the newspaper. “I had not given it much thought. You, however, appear to have done so despite refusing to become involved yourself.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “It was merely an enquiry. I venture to suggest that I have more knowledge of musical matters than you.”
“I do not doubt it,” I said, and turned my attention to the continental news.
***
The next hour and a half passed in silence, but for the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the flames in the grate and the rustle of my paper. I did my best to remain focused upon the columns before me and ignore my fellow tenant, but Holmes was in a restless mood, smoking continually and prowling around the room. Eventually he paused for more than a few seconds at the window, gazing down at the foggy, gas lit scene below, and I could no longer refrain from asking him if anything was bothering him.
He was immediately defensive. “What makes you think that anything would be bothering me?” he demanded.
“Because you are pacing the room like a caged tiger,” I retorted. “If you wish to say something to me then for God’s sake say it, or sit down and allow me to concentrate!”
Holmes hesitated for a moment, taking a long draw upon his cigarette, before striding across the room and pitching the end into the fire. He stared at the flames, red light flickering over his angular face, and then turned to me.
“If you wish for my assistance in this venture of yours, I shall be happy to offer my services,” he said abruptly, and swung round to resume his seat.
I cannot claim to have been unsurprised by this announcement. It took me several seconds to make sense of his words. “Do you mean that you will join me in - ”
“Not on the stage,” he said quickly. He flashed me one of his quirky half-smiles and added, “But should you require any help in your preparations for the evening you have only to ask.”
My mouth worked noiselessly for a few seconds before I could find my voice. “Thank you,” I said eventually, and Holmes nodded, apparently satisfied.
***
“No, no, no, Watson! You are beginning in quite the wrong key.”
I shuffled my manuscript and felt a frown descending upon my face once again. I was sure that by the end of the rehearsal I would have twice as many lines in my forehead as had been there before we started. “It seems to me that you are playing in a higher key than I am capable of reaching,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and not start another argument. Though the offer of assistance had been entirely his, Holmes was a hard task master, and now that he was involved he would accept nothing less than my absolute commitment to the project.
“Nonsense. The key is specified by the music as written,” he replied, lowering his violin to point with the bow to the score I held.
“Then could you not adapt it to an easier one for me to find?” I asked.
He looked disgruntled, but plucked the manuscript from my grasp and examined it for a moment before taking up his instrument once more. This time, the notes he drew from the strings were of a noticeably lower pitch. Holmes quirked an eyebrow in my direction. “Better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“Very well. Shall we try it again? One, two, three, four - ”
Come, my friends we will be merry, pass care away
Drink in brandy, wine and sherry, on happy Christmas Day
Can you form the least idea, now tell me do
What I endured in the Crimea, twelve months ago
I struggled manfully with the lines, but as I made my way through the song I knew in my heart of hearts I was no singer. I might just be able to carry a tune, enough for an impromptu sing-song or a hymn in the company of others, but a competent soloist I was not. I said as much to Holmes, and he shrugged.
“You can always withdraw.”
“And disappoint Mrs Hudson, not to mention the ladies organising the event? My name would be blackened forever more,” I replied.
“Then you must make your performance the best it can possibly be,” said Holmes. “There is no alternative, unless you wish to be the comic relief.”
“Well, perhaps if we did it together,” I ventured, and immediately wished I had not. As soon as the words were out of my mouth my friend’s face closed up as though shutters had been drawn down behind his eyes. He gathered his violin and bow and got to his feet.
“No, Watson,” he snapped, and disappeared into his room leaving me alone by the fire, mentally kicking myself.
***
Christmas Eve came round far more quickly that I expected.
After my foolish suggestion that we turn the song into a duet, Holmes had not repeated his offer of assistance. I did my best, at least now being aware of the tune, and practised in the bathroom for the acoustics were far better than there in any other part of the house. Mrs Hudson was rather surprised to come across me perched on the side of the bath, sheet music in hand, when she came to replace the towels, but was touched when she realised how seriously I was taking my performance.
“Everyone is looking forward to it,” she told me, and I found myself wishing that I had volunteered to do something that might have been easier to learn – a magic act, for example. Making myself disappear was a very attractive prospect just at that moment.
Holmes avoided me for the most part, spending much of his time out of the house. I had no idea whether he was at work on a case or was merely making himself scarce in the event of my trying to persuade him again to take part in the concert. I did notice that his violin was missing, however – when I mentioned it to Mrs Hudson she told me that Holmes had said he was taking it to have the bridge altered when she spotted him leaving the house with the case under his arm.
The evening of the twenty-fourth was cold and crisp, the fog all but gone and a hint of snow in the air. My stomach was fluttering so much from lunchtime onwards that I could eat little of the food Mrs Hudson put before me. I could not remember having been so nervous in years, even under fire in Afghanistan. I wished that Holmes were there to at least provide me with some moral support, but he had gone out early and not returned by the time I was ready to walk the short distance to the mission. Hiding my disappointment as best I could, I made my way there with Mrs Hudson, the pavement crunching under my feet as the frost began to make itself known.
As we entered I was heartened to see two small figures waving at me from seats towards the back of the hall. Cressida had not accompanied her children but their father, Colonel Charles Cunningham, had, and they all called out words of encouragement to me. Though it felt rather odd for Holmes’s family to be there for me but the man himself absent, I was grateful for their presence. Mrs Hudson ushered me through the hall and into the ‘backstage’ area behind the curtain that had been put up to separate those performing from the audience. There I discovered that I was to be the next act, after the small gentleman with impressive moustaches who was convincing a poodle to stand upon its hind legs.
“I have my music – is there someone who can accompany me?” I asked.
The lady in charge, a tall, stout woman with a dark grey dress and large feathers in her hat whom I discovered later was Mrs Arbuthnot, looked dismayed. “Oh, dear! We have a piano, but Mr Bunce has had to pop out to one of his flock who is in distress. We assumed that Mr Holmes - ”
“I’m so terribly sorry, Doctor, I gave them no cause to think that Mr Holmes would - ” Mrs Hudson began, glaring at her friend.
“It’s all right, Mrs Hudson,” I told her, my heart sinking into my boots. “I will sing without accompaniment.”
She looked sceptical, but said, “If you’re sure, Doctor…”
There was a round of applause from the other side of the curtain, and the small man and his poodle appeared. I had little choice – I was on.
***
I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything as nerve wracking as those first few moments on the stage. With no music to remind me where to start I forgot the opening words and had to begin again, much to the audience’s displeasure. Some of them appeared to have been less than impressed by the little man with the dancing dog, and were keen to vent their annoyance on me. It was to heckles and catcalls that I found my place and tried to follow the tune. When I stumbled on the chorus, a shout from the back suggested that I should get back to my surgery and leave the singing to the professionals. I heard a small voice that could only belong to Ptolemy protest shrilly before he was swiftly quietened by his father.
I was in the height of battle where the cannons roll
I heard the guns to rattle at Sebastapol
At Alma and at Inkerman, wounded I lay
Far from my wife and children on last Christmas Day
Despite the restlessness of the crowd, many of them it would appear only there for the food and drink to be provided afterwards, I carried on with the song, conscious that my voice lacked the control and volume for such work. I strayed from the tune more than once, and I fervently wished that the Reverend Bunce had not been called away at such an inopportune moment.
O could our lords and squires know what we endure
When fighting to protect them they would sympathise I’m sure
With the gallant tarts and soldiers, far, far away
From all their friends and kindred on happy Christmas Day
There was just one verse and a chorus to go when I became aware that the noise from the audience had all but ceased, and instead I could hear something else, something which for all the world sounded like the low tone of a bow upon taught strings. For a moment I thought that I might have imagined it, but no, there it was, rising and joining with my own voice, catching the melody with which I was struggling and expanding upon it. I cast a surreptitious glance towards the wings to see Holmes standing there, violin tucked beneath his chin and eyes closed as he concentrated upon the notes. I almost faltered in surprise, but recovered myself just in time and put my all into the final chorus,
I will in happiness by mingling
Never more to roam
With my dear wife and loving children
This Christmas at home
To my astonishment, the audience, its hostility apparently banished with Holmes’s glorious music, actually joined with me on the last lines, even drawing me into a reprise with their sudden enthusiasm. The violin died away with a final flourish and there was a pause, a moment of absolute silence before the hall broke into thunderous applause. Knowing that little of the acclaim was directed at myself for my performance had been mediocre at best, I strode to the side of the stage and caught my friend by the arm as he lowered his bow.
“Watson, what are you doing?” he demanded as I pulled him away from the wings. “I don’t - ”
He stopped protesting as the applause became louder on his entrance. I could see Ptolemy and Xanthe grinning from ear to ear, standing on their chairs in order to see over the heads of the adults, and Mrs Hudson at the front, her face wreathed in smiles.
Holmes just stood there in the face of this appreciation. As one who knew so well his occasional arrogance and utter faith in his own abilities, this hesitance was quite curious. He was a showman as well as a detective, delighting in his flair for the dramatic, but now he looked startled, taken aback by the audience’s reaction.
After a moment, thankfully, he recovered himself and gave a low and graceful bow. As he straightened I could see a small tugging at the corner of his mouth.
***
It was late, nearly midnight, by the time we were able to leave the mission after assisting the ladies with the food and drink and sharing a glass of mulled wine with Colonel Cunningham, fending off as we did the excitable chattering of the children. Not until we were comfortably ensconced in 221B once more, settled in our armchairs with a brandy and cigar, was I able to query my friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour.
Holmes exhaled a stream of smoke in a long breath. “The result of an incident from my childhood,” he said.
That much I already knew from Cressida, but I did not wish to embarrass him by saying so. “I always understood that you were quite at home in front of an audience.”
“Ah.” He smiled slightly. “In every aspect except one, and that is music. You may choose not to believe me, my dear fellow, but tonight was the first time in thirty-five years that I have played in front of more than one or two people.”
“I believe you, though I will admit to being surprised,” I told him. “Am I permitted to ask why?”
There was a pause. Holmes studied the tip of his cigar. “There was a time when others were not so appreciative of my efforts.”
“We all have to learn.”
“Some with more encouragement than others. The violin was my mother’s idea, something to keep me occupied. As you can imagine, I was a rather…inquisitive child.”
I could not help chuckling at that. “I can indeed.”
“Unfortunately, I thought that I could learn the violin within a week. Inordinately proud of myself, I was determined to show the rest of the family how expert I had become and so I sat them all down in the drawing room - parents, aunts, uncles and cousins - and played for them.”
I could imagine what was coming, for I had experienced the puncturing of childish enthusiasm myself, but I waited for Holmes to tell me in his own time. He glanced at me for a moment and then got to his feet, pacing over to the window.
“They laughed, Watson. I practised for days, convinced myself that I was a maestro, and they laughed. Mycroft still finds amusement in the memory of my inept rendering of Three Blind Mice. For years my violin gathered dust upon the shelf – I never truly forgave my mother for being the architect of my humiliation by giving me the blasted instrument in the first place, but after her death I found myself drawn to it once more. I was fortunate enough to have an exceptional music master at school, under whose tuition I became more than proficient.” Holmes fingered the fringe on the curtains, his back to me. “By the end of my educational career I was continually asked to take part in concerts and recitals but I always refused, and I never mentioned my talent to any of my family. After that first performance I vowed never to play before an audience ever again, and I kept that vow…until tonight that is.”
I was not sure what to say. He had never entrusted me with such a confidence before, and I was overwhelmingly touched that he had chosen to share this, something that, no matter how irrational it might be, still pained him now. Holmes did not often show his human side, preferring instead to pretend to be the automaton I presented to my readers in The Strand; consequently, when he did it was a moment to be cherished for one never knew when it would happen again.
“What made you change your mind?” I asked at last.
He turned and his lips twitched. “Cressida. She came to see me last week, and effectively told me to stop feeling sorry for myself over something that happened years ago. She did actually call me a coward, Watson, said that if I could play half as well as your writing had led her to believe then I had nothing to fear from any audience, and I owed it to you to lend my support. When she left she gave me a copy of your music for good measure.”
An image of Holmes leaving the house with his violin under his arm appeared in my mind’s eye. “The last few days…you were practising elsewhere!”
“Of course. I have my pride, Watson – I could hardly have come crawling back to you when I so vehemently refused to appear.”
“Naturally,” I agreed, knowing that it was not easy for him to admit to having been in the wrong. “I am very grateful to Cressida.”
“You are?” Holmes arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Whatever for?”
“Her bullying saved me from making a complete fool of myself,” I said. “Before you arrived to rescue my performance I was in danger of being booed off the stage.”
His mouth twitched again. Leaving the window he resumed his seat, this time relaxing back in the chair. “It was my intention to arrive just after your entrance, but I had not counted on the disappearance at the crucial moment of the Reverend Bunce. His absence caused the running order of the show to be hurriedly altered, and of course robbed you of your initial accompaniment. By the time I did get there the audience was already expressing its disapproval.” He must have caught the rueful face I pulled, remembering my ineptness, for he added, “I would not take it too much to heart, my dear fellow. Most of them had already been imbibing the mulled wine on offer and would not have known a decent tune if it did the can-can in front of them.”
“Perhaps,” I conceded, “but all the same I think I will leave the singing to the professionals in future. It was more nerve-wracking than facing down the most dangerous gang in town!”
The corners of Holmes’s eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. “In that case maybe we should agree to make tonight’s appearance our first and last. The criminals will hardly take me seriously if I embark upon a stage career.”
“It would be a good way to lull them into a false state of security. They would never suspect that you were investigating between performances,” I said with a grin.
Holmes threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Ha! I think I will stick to what I do best - as should you, Doctor.” Before I could respond there was a tap at the door, and he called out cheerfully, “Come in!”
It opened to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray which held a bottle of wine and three glasses. “I thought that the two of you deserved this,” she announced when we looked bemused. “I haven’t heard those soldiers talk so much about anything in years. Mrs Arbuthnot has been pressing me to ask you back next week.”
Holmes and I exchanged a glance over our landlady’s head as she poured the wine. “Flattering though it is to be in such demand, Mrs Hudson, I am afraid that Watson and I have just now announced our retirement from the stage,” he said with an apologetic expression.
“Oh, now, Mr Holmes,” she protested, but he winked and put a finger to his lips as the clock began to strike midnight. Through a gap in the curtains I could see that the snow was finally falling, lazy white flakes brilliant in the darkness.
I handed them both a glass. “Merry Christmas.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Merry Christmas, Doctor. God bless you.”
“Holmes?” I turned to see him taking his violin from its case once more and tucking it under his chin. He glanced up at me with a quick smile and the strains of the song I now knew better than any other filled the room. I lifted my glass in salute, and raised my voice once more,
God bless my wife and children, no more will I roam
But remain in dear old England with my kind friends at home
Push round the flowing glasses to all friends kind
How merrily the hour passes at this happy Christmas time
As the clock stopped chiming the bells began to ring forth throughout the city, welcoming Christmas Day. Laying aside the violin, Holmes picked up his wine glass and clinked the rim against mine.
“Merry Christmas, Watson.”
“Merry Christmas, Holmes.”
I will in happiness by mingling
Never more to roam
With my dear wife and loving children
This Christmas at home
FIN
You can hear a sample of Watson's song, performed by the Oxford Waits, here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-11 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-12 07:40 am (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it. There will hopefully be another to come before Christmas. *goes off to kick muse into action*
no subject
Date: 2009-12-12 11:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-11 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-11 07:23 pm (UTC)(all things considered)
- i suspect you may be a treasure :))
no subject
Date: 2009-12-12 07:38 am (UTC)Actually, I have no idea! I did write this one back in October, though. ;)
Glad you enjoyed it.
no subject
Date: 2009-12-11 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-12 07:39 am (UTC)I was worried it was a bit too fluffy, so I'm glad you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-13 02:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-13 07:48 am (UTC)Thank you for the Christmas wishes - I hope you have a lovely Christmas and a happy New Year.