Fic | Sherlock Holmes | The Sussex Carol
Dec. 12th, 2010 07:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: The Sussex Carol
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4790
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, Seasonal Fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Watson travels to Sussex to join Holmes for his first Christmas in retirement.
Author's Note: This story is set in the Granada universe, after the Memoirs and following my own fics Over the Edge, To Offer Solace and Thank You for the Music. My first attempt at a retirement fic! The idea of Mrs Hudson acting as housekeeper for Holmes comes from Laurie R King's Mary Russell books. You can listen online to Magpie Lane's versions of Here We Come a-Wassailing and The Sussex Carol.
THE SUSSEX CAROL
Sherlock Holmes’s retirement came, it seemed, as a surprise to everyone but the one who knew him best.
It had become clear to me over the few months before the decision was reached that he was not happy. The cases, while they still regularly came to our door, had changed in their nature: they were far more dangerous, the crimes murkier and more unpleasant than in the past. Few were solved to Holmes’s satisfaction, and in truth I did not feel the thrill of the chase as I once had. I had two years on my friend, and I could feel my past catching up with me as my old injuries made themselves known with greater intensity as I grew older.
The idea of dissolving our long partnership had been in my mind for some time before I broached the subject to Holmes – I could not bring myself to tell him how I felt until circumstances brought matters to a head and a succession of investigations culminated in his nearly losing his life in a carriage accident engineered by one of the criminals he was in the process of tracking down. When finally we did talk about it, the idea of winding up the practice and at last going our separate ways was not, as I had feared, an unpleasant one. In fact, much to my astonishment, Holmes admitted that he had been considering such a thing for almost as long as I had myself, being just as hesitant of giving voice to those thoughts. We had, after all, been working together for over twenty years, give or take the odd thirty-six month hiatus, and it is hard to bring such a comfortable and rewarding partnership to an end.
And Holmes had always lived for his work. For a while I could hardly believe that the morose creature that appeared after the conclusion of a case, when idleness was thrust upon him and drove him to the succour of the cocaine bottle, could be the same man who threw himself with enthusiasm into the acquisition of a cottage on the Sussex coast and sat before the fire at Baker Street poring over tomes dedicated to the raising of bees. The men with whom we had worked at Scotland Yard, and even Holmes’s brother Mycroft could scarce credit the change either, the latter proclaiming that his sibling had quite clearly run mad and if I required any assistance to let him know as there was a quiet little sanatorium in deepest Wiltshire to which their great-uncle Hieronymus had been admitted that would discreetly accept another patient.
Despite the jokes and snide remarks from some quarters, I knew that Holmes would never take so wholeheartedly to a scheme he did not truly wish to bring to fruition, and so it was, six weeks to the day after the idea had first been mooted, that we said goodbye on the steps of 221B. Though I would miss him dreadfully, I never felt anything but relief as the cab door shut and I watched it carry him away, towards Waterloo station and the south coast. I was too old for adventure now, and though it would take some adjustment I was quite content to begin again without the mad whirl which accompanied life with the world’s only private consulting detective. I had, after all, done it once before.
I stayed on at Baker Street for a fortnight while I sorted my belongings and had those I decided to take with me moved round to the rooms above my practice in Queen Anne Street. Over the past couple of years I had built up my list of patients once more, diving my time between Holmes’s cases and my own; concentrating once more fully upon medicine was comfortable, safe. I no longer had to worry that a gun-toting madman might appear in my waiting room, or find myself annoyed by an urgent missive from Holmes demanding my immediate attendance arriving in the middle of a consultation. My time was my own again.
Holmes was apparently just as contented in his new existence, as I barely heard from him in those first months. He had never been the most reliable correspondent, the sporadic letters I did receive telling me that he was still alive and little more, and so I was rather surprised to find an envelope post-marked Sussex on my blotter one morning, inviting me down for Christmas. This in itself was doubly unusual, as Holmes had always thoroughly detested the festive season. I recalled that it took me a good three years to persuade him to exchange presents on Christmas morning, for he hated sentimentality of any kind. Amused, and quite suddenly desperate to see my old friend once more, I replied return of post with my acceptance. Holmes’s response came in the form of a laconic telegram, which merely said: Good.
I laughed aloud, startling Jenny the maid in the next room, and set about considering what to take with me as a suitable gift for a country beekeeper.
***
I boarded the train at Waterloo in the early afternoon on Christmas Eve, having arranged with a neighbour the cover of my practice – the obliging Doctor Anstruther had emigrated to Canada some five years before and I tried to convince myself that his leaving had not been prompted by my regular calls upon his generosity and time.
The journey was not an excessively long one, but it was dark by the time I reached the tiny station that lay closest to Holmes’s cottage. I hovered uncertainly on the platform for a few minutes, wondering what to do as he had made no mention of meeting me and I did not think I would easily obtain a cab in these rural parts, before I was hailed by a ruddy-cheeked gentleman of indeterminate age who introduced himself as Wilf and asked whether I was ‘Mr Sherlock’s doctor friend’. Confused and also intrigued by this I confirmed that I was and he ushered me towards a waiting dog cart, bundling me against the biting wind with a heap of blankets before we set off into the evening darkness.
Away from the lights of London it was indeed dark. A clear sky above us presented a handful of twinkling stars which would have been obscured in the city by the smog and yellow aura of the gas lamps. I commented upon its beauty, only for Wilf to sniff and claim there would be snow before morning.
“How can you possibly know that?” I asked him. “There are no clouds, nothing to suggest - ”
“I can smell it,” he said, and there was little anyone could respond to that.
We rattled along in silence for a while, until my companion turned into a side lane, towards a building which was a sudden blaze of light in the blackness. A warm glow leaked around the edges of the curtains of the rooms on the ground floor, and above them one window held no drapes, the lamp within turned up full and a familiar figure silhouetted against the glass. I felt a smile crease my face as that figure moved quickly away, reminding me of the many times I had seen its shadow on the blind at Baker Street, its presence all the indication I needed of a successfully completed case.
By the time Wilf drew up at the front door it was open, that welcoming light spilling onto the front steps. As my taciturn driver took down my bags from the dog cart I hurried towards the entrance of the cottage, brought up quite suddenly short by the appearance on the step not of Holmes himself but someone equally familiar and entirely unexpected.
“Mrs Hudson!” I exclaimed, for so it was, and I most definitely heard a snort of amusement from somewhere behind her in the hall. She turned and threw a practised glare at the originator of this noise, and I knew then that Holmes had deliberately not told me of our long-suffering landlady’s presence in his new home.
“Bless you, Doctor, but it’s wonderful to see you!” the good woman declared, stepping aside to allow me over the threshold. She looked so happy that I worried for a moment that she was about to burst into tears, but our Mrs Hudson is made of stronger stuff than that. She concentrated upon mothering instead, crying, “Come in, come in out of that cold!”
This I did, rubbing my hands in order to try and restore some of the circulation and trying not to limp too much for she would only fuss. I was immediately divested of my hat and coat, and it was not until I turned, feeling in the narrow cluttered hallway as though I were at home in Baker Street again, that I caught sight of Holmes.
He was standing by the stairs, evidently deciding to keep out of Mrs Hudson’s way, and watching us with one of those half-smiles I knew so well. When I saw him last, getting into a cab that would take him on the first stage of the journey towards his new life, I will admit that I had been slightly worried. His health had never been perfect, for he had taken little care of himself over the years, and in those last months it seemed as though recent injuries and the abuse he had inflicted upon his iron constitution had finally caught up with him. It was a worn, exhausted man that left me on the step, his face prematurely lined and his eyes haunted by one tragedy too many.
Now, however, it was quite clear that rustication and the life of a rural beekeeper agreed with him. Though he would never have a healthy colour, he looked much, much better than I had seen in years, his skin tone good, his eyes bright. There was a little more grey amongst the dark hair than I remembered, and he was still thin to the point of gauntness, but he looked well. He looked...happy. That was a change indeed.
No words were needed between us. He approached me and clasped my hand before ushering me towards the staircase. Halfway up he glanced over his shoulder towards Mrs Hudson who remained below in the hall, and said,
“Tea, Mrs Hudson?”
Our landlady was still smiling, I saw as I turned to look myself.
“Tea, Mr Holmes,” she replied, and bustled off to fetch it.
***
Holmes said nothing more as we made our way up to the first floor.
I was overcome by a strange feeling, that sensation of what is known as déjà vu, as we reached the landing and my friend threw open the door at the end. Beyond was a large though chaotic sitting room, a jumble of worn, comfortable old furniture, books, papers and chemical equipment. There were two windows, their curtains not yet pulled against the night, and a blazing fire in the grate. As I stood just inside the doorway, attempting to gain my bearings, my eye settled on first one, then another detail which seemed oh, so very familiar.
There was the etching of the Swiss torrent that always hung above our fireplace, the one that after the dreadful affair of Reichenbach I thought Holmes would wish to be rid of but he, through some strange quirk of humour, had insisted remain; there was the old, stained deal bench which held his test tubes and retorts; I even spotted the jack-knife which transfixed unanswered correspondence to the mantelpiece, its blade stuck into a different piece of battered wood now but performing exactly the same function. Had I not known better, I would have sworn that I could see my old armchair, and the engraving of General Gordon that I had not removed from Baker Street even when I moved out after Holmes’s ‘death’.
I turned to my friend, to see him smiling broadly now, obviously awaiting my reaction.
“What do you think?” he enquired, arching an eyebrow.
“I think,” I said, “that you appear to have transported our old rooms to Sussex, Mrs Hudson and all!”
He threw back his head and barked a delighted laugh. “Ah, Watson, it seems that no amount of absence will remove my ability to surprise you. I am most gratified by the knowledge. Come and sit down.”
I did, and found myself sinking into the chair as though it had been made for me. Sitting up again, I examined it and found that, though it had been re-covered since I had seen it last, “This is my chair!”
Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his own seat. “But of course it is.”
“Holmes,” I said, “Exactly what have you been up to?”
“Nothing, my dear fellow, simply settling myself in. You must know from your own experience that to make oneself a new home after two decades of living in the same rooms is not at all easy. I merely decided to make that transition as painless as possible.”
“So you brought Baker Street with you.”
“Not immediately.” He reached up to the mantle for his pipe, and I was absurdly amused to see the Persian slipper there, still holding the tobacco. “Truth be told, I found myself rattling around in here alone. My housekeeper came from the village, refusing to live in after a week of my acquaintance, and though as you know I am not the most sociable of men within two months I found myself in need of company. A letter from Mycroft informed me that Mrs Hudson was not advertising for new tenants, despite the demand for our former rooms, and so...” He waved expansively before touching a match to the bowl of the old briar.
“You asked Mrs Hudson if she would also appreciate a change of scene.” I said.
Holmes glanced up at me, eyes dancing. “Something like that.”
“I am surprised she agreed so readily to come,” I told him, though in truth I was not. Mrs Hudson was very fond of Holmes, despite her having threatened to evict him many times over the years, declaring that he was ‘the worst tenant in London!’ After presiding over a house full of activity for so long, she must have found it rather empty after we had gone.
“Oh, there were negotiations. I won on some points, but she insisted upon others. For instance,” Holmes said, pointing towards the table with the stem of his pipe, “I have had to submit to the presence of that monstrosity.”
I looked for this bone of contention, but all I could see was a small Norway Spruce in a cheerful red pot, its branches decorated with brightly-coloured glass baubles. I could not suppress a laugh at the sight of it, for despite the urging of Mrs Hudson and myself Holmes had held out against such an invasion of 221B to the last, submitting to holly and ivy only with a very bad grace. “Holmes, it is only a Christmas tree,” I said, and he scowled.
“It is a defeat, Watson, and Mrs Hudson revels in it. Now she has beaten me on one point, goodness knows what she will try next!”
Now I did laugh, long and hard. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I said, “It is no wonder Mrs Hudson agreed to come. She knows as well as I do that no other housekeeper would ever put up with you.”
Holmes’s mouth twitched around his pipe. “Quite so.”
***
Between the tea and one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent dinners, my friend showed me over the house.
As had been the arrangement in London for so many years, the good lady occupied the ground floor while Holmes had his rooms on the first. Above these, half of the attic space was given over the lumber and the storage of the trunks which contained all of Holmes’s own records of his cases. They numbered at least five by now, all filled with carefully tied and labelled parcels of paper, and I could not contain the longing look I cast at the battered old tin box which I knew held the notes of my friend’s early investigations. I had been allowed to see inside it only once, and was given a tantalising hint of the tales stored within. Holmes saw my expression and smiled.
“Maybe I shall leave it to you in my will,” he said, not altogether in jest.
The other half of the attic had been converted into a small but cosy guest chamber, to which, Mrs Hudson later told me in confidence, Holmes always referred as ‘Watson’s Room’. I was assured by the detective that come the dawn I would find a stunning view of the countryside from my window, which looked across the rolling headland to the sea beyond. At present all I could make out were Wilf’s predicted snowflakes, drifting lazily down before the glass.
“Who is he?” I asked, recalling my introduction to this odd individual. “Wilf, I mean.”
“The gardener and handyman,” Holmes replied, leaning on the sill and withdrawing his silver cigarette case from the pocket of his jacket. Ten months in the country had not decreased his tobacco consumption, I noticed as he tapped one out on the lid and then and took a match to it.
“Yes, but he called you ‘Mr Sherlock’. The only other person I have ever heard do that is old Sherman of Pinchin Lane.” As I considered this a couple of pieces of the puzzle slotted together in my head and I said, “Is he perhaps an old family retainer? Are the Holmeses originally from Sussex?”
My friend sighed, and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Watson, these months apart have made you more inquisitive than ever. Very well, yes, my family do hail from this part of the world. There are, thankfully, none of my relatives here any longer – if there were I would have taken a house in the most remote part of Scotland rather than an area where I might encounter them.”
“And Wilf?”
“A local man, a young groom in my father’s stable when I was a child. He appeared on my doorstep the day after I arrived here, offering his services. Between his efforts and those of Mrs Hudson I am quite well looked after, I can assure you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said, adding mischievously, “Why, I can even see that Mrs Hudson might be succeeding in her attempts to fatten you up. Your stomach, old man - ”
Holmes snorted and led me back down to the sitting room.
***
After dinner we sat on either side of the fire as always, with our brandy and cigars.
As I dozed, listening to Holmes expound about his bees and the monograph (“Or perhaps a book...yes, a Handbook of Practical Beekeeping is an excellent thought”) he intended to write upon the subject, I reflected that in the past it would have been at this point that we were interrupted by the doorbell insistently ringing, heralding the arrival of a desperate client.
When there was a loud knock on the front door I nearly leapt into the air. We looked at each other, and Holmes frowned, evidently having been expecting the intrusion no more than I. He made his way onto the landing and I followed – by the time we were halfway down the stairs Mrs Hudson had answered the summons and the true reason for our nocturnal visitors became apparent as their combined voices filled the hall with sound that mingled with the scents of oranges and spices that wafted from the kitchen to make me feel warm and content inside.
Here we come a wassailing among the leaves so green
Here we come a wandering so plainly to be seen
For it’s Christmas time and we
Travel far and near
So God bless you and send you
A happy New Year
It was quite clear that Mrs Hudson’s invitation to come into her parlour and take some mulled wine and mince pies did not have Holmes’s approval as I could plainly see his dismay at the prospect of his home being invaded by the likes of the postmaster and the local vicar, but to his credit he did not object and we joined them for a drink, my friend drawing upon his considerable thespian talent to summon a cheerful smile to his face. From the interest shown by the wassailers in both the detective and myself, it became obvious that Holmes had been trying to keep himself aloof from the community for just that reason. Though he enjoyed recognition for his work, if he had ever wished to be truly celebrated he would not have allowed Scotland Yard to take the credit for so many of his successes. He was supremely arrogant and liked having his ego stroked it was true, but he had never wanted to be a curiosity, a talking point. To have the people of the village pointing out the great detective to friends and neighbours would make him feel like an animal in the zoo, and I could understand his reluctance for I had been in some way the instigator of it.
At length, after praising Mrs Hudson’s cooking, the visitors left, the Reverend Thomas hoping that he would see us all in St Margaret’s for the morning service. As they made their way down the lane their voices floated back on the still night air,
On Christmas Night, all Christians sing
To hear the news the angels bring
On Christmas Night, all Christians sing
To hear the news the angels bring
News of great joy and of great mirth
News of our merciful King’s birth
“The Sussex Carol,” said Holmes as Mrs Hudson closed the door. “Appropriate.” He turned to his one-time landlady now housekeeper and added as the hall clock struck the quarter hour, “Mrs Hudson, would you do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with Watson and myself? I perceive that Christmas Day is almost upon us.”
The good woman smiled. “Yes, Mr Holmes, I would like that very much.”
***
I awoke early in the morning.
This was unusual, and I lay there for some time waiting for Morpheus to reclaim me. When he did not, instead I reached for my dressing gown, rolling out of bed and trying not to shudder at the sudden chill. Light was beginning to trickle through the gap in the curtains, and so I pulled them back to reveal the countryside in the breaking dawn.
It was a breathtaking sight. As always, Holmes had not been exaggerating when he extolled the virtues of the view, he was simply stating the truth: it was indeed stunning. And particularly so after the heavy snowfall which had blanketed the fields while we slept. As the sunlight crept gradually over the headland the brilliant white began to glint and sparkle in its glow, which warmed the mellow stones of the church steeple a mile or two away and tinted the roofs of the buildings which clustered around it a delicate orange.
Strangely, the picture beneath my window lifted my heart as nothing had done in years. It was Christmas morning and I felt like a child again, the day filled with promise. Quickly I dressed and tiptoed down the stairs, boots in hand, to knock upon Holmes’s door. Surprisingly, he did not answer – it was unlike him so sleep heavily and so it seemed that the country air might have at last succeeded in helping to cure his insomnia where I had always failed. The door was unlocked and so I crept into the room. Holmes was barely visible, the blankets pulled almost over his head, and in the dim light I could make out little more than a lump beneath the eiderdown. I called his name twice, but there was no response and so I took hold of his shoulder, shaking it.
A voice, thick with sleep, mumbled something, culminating in an indistinct but heartfelt “...go away!”
“Holmes,” I said, shaking him again, “It is Christmas Day.”
He groaned, and a moment later the blankets were thrown back to reveal the dark, tousled head of my friend, his aquiline features creased in annoyance. “Could you not have waited until later in the morning to bring me that monumental news, Watson?”
I took down his old mouse-coloured dressing gown from the back of the door and threw it to him. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”
***
Ten minutes later we were striding out across the unblemished snow, warmly wrapped in coats and thick scarves, having quietly left via the back door so as not to wake Mrs Hudson.
Holmes grumbled, but by the time we reached the wicket gate behind the house he was smiling, the cold air stinging colour into his pale cheeks. “It is certainly bracing,” he remarked, and gave a theatrical shiver.
“It is glorious,” I said, and meant it.
He shot me a sly glance from the corner of his eye. “I take it that you approve of my decision, then, Watson?”
“Most assuredly. I will admit that I thought you mad to begin with, but - ” He laughed aloud at that “ – I have never seen you look happier.”
“It is true.” He surveyed the fields and the rolling downs around us – somewhere nearby a flock of sheep began to call to one another, bleats high-pitched and low. At the end of the garden, half-hidden by the low stone wall, I could just make out shapes covered in snow which I assumed must be his hives. “Perhaps I have at last found some contentment in my old age.”
Now it was my turn to snort. “Hardly old, Holmes!”
“Maybe not, but you will attest to the remarkable change in me that this move has brought about,” he said. I nodded, and opened my mouth to reply but he held up a gloved hand to forestall my words. “Have you considered what it might do for you, my dear fellow?”
It took me some moments for me to entirely understand what he was saying. When the implications did at last hit me I found myself sitting down quite heavily on a snow-covered tree stump. I did not even notice the cold and wet seeping through my coat as I looked up at him. “Holmes, are you saying what I think you are?”
He leaned upon his walking stick, the one with the silver handle I knew so well. “And what do you think I am saying, Watson?”
“I think you are asking me to come and live here. Is that true?”
“Well...” He inclined his head slightly, like a bird. “Would it be so dreadful if I were?”
I spread my hands before me, staring at the stitching of my gloves, the worn sections of the leather. “I...I am not ready to retire yet, Holmes.”
“Of course not. And I am not asking for an immediate decision. But I do happen to know that the local general practitioner, Doctor Holcroft, is looking to wind up his practice in a year or two and would no doubt be grateful for someone so skilled and reliable to take on his patients. And I hope it goes without saying that I would also greatly appreciate your company, my dear Watson. I find as I grow older that solitude does not have the attractions it once held. All I wish is for you to consider it. Will you do so?”
I thought of the cottage, where everything was laid out as close as it could be to Baker Street. All that was missing was the presence of myself in that little bedroom under the eaves.
“You know that I will,” I said, and Holmes smiled, his eyes crinkling. He offered a hand to help me up from the stump. “Of course,” I added as I brushed snow from my coat, “you do know that this offer makes my Christmas gift to you pale into insignificance.”
He laughed, and, arm in arm, we headed back to the house.
And why should men on earth be sad
Since our Redeemer made us glad
And why should men on earth be sad
Since our Redeemer made us glad
When from our sin he set us free
All for to gain our liberty
All out of darkness we have light,
Which made the angels sing this night,
All out of darkness we have light,
Which made the angels sing this night:
"Glory to God and peace to men,
Now and for evermore, Amen!"
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4790
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, Seasonal Fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Watson travels to Sussex to join Holmes for his first Christmas in retirement.
Author's Note: This story is set in the Granada universe, after the Memoirs and following my own fics Over the Edge, To Offer Solace and Thank You for the Music. My first attempt at a retirement fic! The idea of Mrs Hudson acting as housekeeper for Holmes comes from Laurie R King's Mary Russell books. You can listen online to Magpie Lane's versions of Here We Come a-Wassailing and The Sussex Carol.
THE SUSSEX CAROL
Sherlock Holmes’s retirement came, it seemed, as a surprise to everyone but the one who knew him best.
It had become clear to me over the few months before the decision was reached that he was not happy. The cases, while they still regularly came to our door, had changed in their nature: they were far more dangerous, the crimes murkier and more unpleasant than in the past. Few were solved to Holmes’s satisfaction, and in truth I did not feel the thrill of the chase as I once had. I had two years on my friend, and I could feel my past catching up with me as my old injuries made themselves known with greater intensity as I grew older.
The idea of dissolving our long partnership had been in my mind for some time before I broached the subject to Holmes – I could not bring myself to tell him how I felt until circumstances brought matters to a head and a succession of investigations culminated in his nearly losing his life in a carriage accident engineered by one of the criminals he was in the process of tracking down. When finally we did talk about it, the idea of winding up the practice and at last going our separate ways was not, as I had feared, an unpleasant one. In fact, much to my astonishment, Holmes admitted that he had been considering such a thing for almost as long as I had myself, being just as hesitant of giving voice to those thoughts. We had, after all, been working together for over twenty years, give or take the odd thirty-six month hiatus, and it is hard to bring such a comfortable and rewarding partnership to an end.
And Holmes had always lived for his work. For a while I could hardly believe that the morose creature that appeared after the conclusion of a case, when idleness was thrust upon him and drove him to the succour of the cocaine bottle, could be the same man who threw himself with enthusiasm into the acquisition of a cottage on the Sussex coast and sat before the fire at Baker Street poring over tomes dedicated to the raising of bees. The men with whom we had worked at Scotland Yard, and even Holmes’s brother Mycroft could scarce credit the change either, the latter proclaiming that his sibling had quite clearly run mad and if I required any assistance to let him know as there was a quiet little sanatorium in deepest Wiltshire to which their great-uncle Hieronymus had been admitted that would discreetly accept another patient.
Despite the jokes and snide remarks from some quarters, I knew that Holmes would never take so wholeheartedly to a scheme he did not truly wish to bring to fruition, and so it was, six weeks to the day after the idea had first been mooted, that we said goodbye on the steps of 221B. Though I would miss him dreadfully, I never felt anything but relief as the cab door shut and I watched it carry him away, towards Waterloo station and the south coast. I was too old for adventure now, and though it would take some adjustment I was quite content to begin again without the mad whirl which accompanied life with the world’s only private consulting detective. I had, after all, done it once before.
I stayed on at Baker Street for a fortnight while I sorted my belongings and had those I decided to take with me moved round to the rooms above my practice in Queen Anne Street. Over the past couple of years I had built up my list of patients once more, diving my time between Holmes’s cases and my own; concentrating once more fully upon medicine was comfortable, safe. I no longer had to worry that a gun-toting madman might appear in my waiting room, or find myself annoyed by an urgent missive from Holmes demanding my immediate attendance arriving in the middle of a consultation. My time was my own again.
Holmes was apparently just as contented in his new existence, as I barely heard from him in those first months. He had never been the most reliable correspondent, the sporadic letters I did receive telling me that he was still alive and little more, and so I was rather surprised to find an envelope post-marked Sussex on my blotter one morning, inviting me down for Christmas. This in itself was doubly unusual, as Holmes had always thoroughly detested the festive season. I recalled that it took me a good three years to persuade him to exchange presents on Christmas morning, for he hated sentimentality of any kind. Amused, and quite suddenly desperate to see my old friend once more, I replied return of post with my acceptance. Holmes’s response came in the form of a laconic telegram, which merely said: Good.
I laughed aloud, startling Jenny the maid in the next room, and set about considering what to take with me as a suitable gift for a country beekeeper.
***
I boarded the train at Waterloo in the early afternoon on Christmas Eve, having arranged with a neighbour the cover of my practice – the obliging Doctor Anstruther had emigrated to Canada some five years before and I tried to convince myself that his leaving had not been prompted by my regular calls upon his generosity and time.
The journey was not an excessively long one, but it was dark by the time I reached the tiny station that lay closest to Holmes’s cottage. I hovered uncertainly on the platform for a few minutes, wondering what to do as he had made no mention of meeting me and I did not think I would easily obtain a cab in these rural parts, before I was hailed by a ruddy-cheeked gentleman of indeterminate age who introduced himself as Wilf and asked whether I was ‘Mr Sherlock’s doctor friend’. Confused and also intrigued by this I confirmed that I was and he ushered me towards a waiting dog cart, bundling me against the biting wind with a heap of blankets before we set off into the evening darkness.
Away from the lights of London it was indeed dark. A clear sky above us presented a handful of twinkling stars which would have been obscured in the city by the smog and yellow aura of the gas lamps. I commented upon its beauty, only for Wilf to sniff and claim there would be snow before morning.
“How can you possibly know that?” I asked him. “There are no clouds, nothing to suggest - ”
“I can smell it,” he said, and there was little anyone could respond to that.
We rattled along in silence for a while, until my companion turned into a side lane, towards a building which was a sudden blaze of light in the blackness. A warm glow leaked around the edges of the curtains of the rooms on the ground floor, and above them one window held no drapes, the lamp within turned up full and a familiar figure silhouetted against the glass. I felt a smile crease my face as that figure moved quickly away, reminding me of the many times I had seen its shadow on the blind at Baker Street, its presence all the indication I needed of a successfully completed case.
By the time Wilf drew up at the front door it was open, that welcoming light spilling onto the front steps. As my taciturn driver took down my bags from the dog cart I hurried towards the entrance of the cottage, brought up quite suddenly short by the appearance on the step not of Holmes himself but someone equally familiar and entirely unexpected.
“Mrs Hudson!” I exclaimed, for so it was, and I most definitely heard a snort of amusement from somewhere behind her in the hall. She turned and threw a practised glare at the originator of this noise, and I knew then that Holmes had deliberately not told me of our long-suffering landlady’s presence in his new home.
“Bless you, Doctor, but it’s wonderful to see you!” the good woman declared, stepping aside to allow me over the threshold. She looked so happy that I worried for a moment that she was about to burst into tears, but our Mrs Hudson is made of stronger stuff than that. She concentrated upon mothering instead, crying, “Come in, come in out of that cold!”
This I did, rubbing my hands in order to try and restore some of the circulation and trying not to limp too much for she would only fuss. I was immediately divested of my hat and coat, and it was not until I turned, feeling in the narrow cluttered hallway as though I were at home in Baker Street again, that I caught sight of Holmes.
He was standing by the stairs, evidently deciding to keep out of Mrs Hudson’s way, and watching us with one of those half-smiles I knew so well. When I saw him last, getting into a cab that would take him on the first stage of the journey towards his new life, I will admit that I had been slightly worried. His health had never been perfect, for he had taken little care of himself over the years, and in those last months it seemed as though recent injuries and the abuse he had inflicted upon his iron constitution had finally caught up with him. It was a worn, exhausted man that left me on the step, his face prematurely lined and his eyes haunted by one tragedy too many.
Now, however, it was quite clear that rustication and the life of a rural beekeeper agreed with him. Though he would never have a healthy colour, he looked much, much better than I had seen in years, his skin tone good, his eyes bright. There was a little more grey amongst the dark hair than I remembered, and he was still thin to the point of gauntness, but he looked well. He looked...happy. That was a change indeed.
No words were needed between us. He approached me and clasped my hand before ushering me towards the staircase. Halfway up he glanced over his shoulder towards Mrs Hudson who remained below in the hall, and said,
“Tea, Mrs Hudson?”
Our landlady was still smiling, I saw as I turned to look myself.
“Tea, Mr Holmes,” she replied, and bustled off to fetch it.
***
Holmes said nothing more as we made our way up to the first floor.
I was overcome by a strange feeling, that sensation of what is known as déjà vu, as we reached the landing and my friend threw open the door at the end. Beyond was a large though chaotic sitting room, a jumble of worn, comfortable old furniture, books, papers and chemical equipment. There were two windows, their curtains not yet pulled against the night, and a blazing fire in the grate. As I stood just inside the doorway, attempting to gain my bearings, my eye settled on first one, then another detail which seemed oh, so very familiar.
There was the etching of the Swiss torrent that always hung above our fireplace, the one that after the dreadful affair of Reichenbach I thought Holmes would wish to be rid of but he, through some strange quirk of humour, had insisted remain; there was the old, stained deal bench which held his test tubes and retorts; I even spotted the jack-knife which transfixed unanswered correspondence to the mantelpiece, its blade stuck into a different piece of battered wood now but performing exactly the same function. Had I not known better, I would have sworn that I could see my old armchair, and the engraving of General Gordon that I had not removed from Baker Street even when I moved out after Holmes’s ‘death’.
I turned to my friend, to see him smiling broadly now, obviously awaiting my reaction.
“What do you think?” he enquired, arching an eyebrow.
“I think,” I said, “that you appear to have transported our old rooms to Sussex, Mrs Hudson and all!”
He threw back his head and barked a delighted laugh. “Ah, Watson, it seems that no amount of absence will remove my ability to surprise you. I am most gratified by the knowledge. Come and sit down.”
I did, and found myself sinking into the chair as though it had been made for me. Sitting up again, I examined it and found that, though it had been re-covered since I had seen it last, “This is my chair!”
Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his own seat. “But of course it is.”
“Holmes,” I said, “Exactly what have you been up to?”
“Nothing, my dear fellow, simply settling myself in. You must know from your own experience that to make oneself a new home after two decades of living in the same rooms is not at all easy. I merely decided to make that transition as painless as possible.”
“So you brought Baker Street with you.”
“Not immediately.” He reached up to the mantle for his pipe, and I was absurdly amused to see the Persian slipper there, still holding the tobacco. “Truth be told, I found myself rattling around in here alone. My housekeeper came from the village, refusing to live in after a week of my acquaintance, and though as you know I am not the most sociable of men within two months I found myself in need of company. A letter from Mycroft informed me that Mrs Hudson was not advertising for new tenants, despite the demand for our former rooms, and so...” He waved expansively before touching a match to the bowl of the old briar.
“You asked Mrs Hudson if she would also appreciate a change of scene.” I said.
Holmes glanced up at me, eyes dancing. “Something like that.”
“I am surprised she agreed so readily to come,” I told him, though in truth I was not. Mrs Hudson was very fond of Holmes, despite her having threatened to evict him many times over the years, declaring that he was ‘the worst tenant in London!’ After presiding over a house full of activity for so long, she must have found it rather empty after we had gone.
“Oh, there were negotiations. I won on some points, but she insisted upon others. For instance,” Holmes said, pointing towards the table with the stem of his pipe, “I have had to submit to the presence of that monstrosity.”
I looked for this bone of contention, but all I could see was a small Norway Spruce in a cheerful red pot, its branches decorated with brightly-coloured glass baubles. I could not suppress a laugh at the sight of it, for despite the urging of Mrs Hudson and myself Holmes had held out against such an invasion of 221B to the last, submitting to holly and ivy only with a very bad grace. “Holmes, it is only a Christmas tree,” I said, and he scowled.
“It is a defeat, Watson, and Mrs Hudson revels in it. Now she has beaten me on one point, goodness knows what she will try next!”
Now I did laugh, long and hard. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I said, “It is no wonder Mrs Hudson agreed to come. She knows as well as I do that no other housekeeper would ever put up with you.”
Holmes’s mouth twitched around his pipe. “Quite so.”
***
Between the tea and one of Mrs Hudson’s excellent dinners, my friend showed me over the house.
As had been the arrangement in London for so many years, the good lady occupied the ground floor while Holmes had his rooms on the first. Above these, half of the attic space was given over the lumber and the storage of the trunks which contained all of Holmes’s own records of his cases. They numbered at least five by now, all filled with carefully tied and labelled parcels of paper, and I could not contain the longing look I cast at the battered old tin box which I knew held the notes of my friend’s early investigations. I had been allowed to see inside it only once, and was given a tantalising hint of the tales stored within. Holmes saw my expression and smiled.
“Maybe I shall leave it to you in my will,” he said, not altogether in jest.
The other half of the attic had been converted into a small but cosy guest chamber, to which, Mrs Hudson later told me in confidence, Holmes always referred as ‘Watson’s Room’. I was assured by the detective that come the dawn I would find a stunning view of the countryside from my window, which looked across the rolling headland to the sea beyond. At present all I could make out were Wilf’s predicted snowflakes, drifting lazily down before the glass.
“Who is he?” I asked, recalling my introduction to this odd individual. “Wilf, I mean.”
“The gardener and handyman,” Holmes replied, leaning on the sill and withdrawing his silver cigarette case from the pocket of his jacket. Ten months in the country had not decreased his tobacco consumption, I noticed as he tapped one out on the lid and then and took a match to it.
“Yes, but he called you ‘Mr Sherlock’. The only other person I have ever heard do that is old Sherman of Pinchin Lane.” As I considered this a couple of pieces of the puzzle slotted together in my head and I said, “Is he perhaps an old family retainer? Are the Holmeses originally from Sussex?”
My friend sighed, and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Watson, these months apart have made you more inquisitive than ever. Very well, yes, my family do hail from this part of the world. There are, thankfully, none of my relatives here any longer – if there were I would have taken a house in the most remote part of Scotland rather than an area where I might encounter them.”
“And Wilf?”
“A local man, a young groom in my father’s stable when I was a child. He appeared on my doorstep the day after I arrived here, offering his services. Between his efforts and those of Mrs Hudson I am quite well looked after, I can assure you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said, adding mischievously, “Why, I can even see that Mrs Hudson might be succeeding in her attempts to fatten you up. Your stomach, old man - ”
Holmes snorted and led me back down to the sitting room.
***
After dinner we sat on either side of the fire as always, with our brandy and cigars.
As I dozed, listening to Holmes expound about his bees and the monograph (“Or perhaps a book...yes, a Handbook of Practical Beekeeping is an excellent thought”) he intended to write upon the subject, I reflected that in the past it would have been at this point that we were interrupted by the doorbell insistently ringing, heralding the arrival of a desperate client.
When there was a loud knock on the front door I nearly leapt into the air. We looked at each other, and Holmes frowned, evidently having been expecting the intrusion no more than I. He made his way onto the landing and I followed – by the time we were halfway down the stairs Mrs Hudson had answered the summons and the true reason for our nocturnal visitors became apparent as their combined voices filled the hall with sound that mingled with the scents of oranges and spices that wafted from the kitchen to make me feel warm and content inside.
Here we come a wandering so plainly to be seen
For it’s Christmas time and we
Travel far and near
So God bless you and send you
A happy New Year
It was quite clear that Mrs Hudson’s invitation to come into her parlour and take some mulled wine and mince pies did not have Holmes’s approval as I could plainly see his dismay at the prospect of his home being invaded by the likes of the postmaster and the local vicar, but to his credit he did not object and we joined them for a drink, my friend drawing upon his considerable thespian talent to summon a cheerful smile to his face. From the interest shown by the wassailers in both the detective and myself, it became obvious that Holmes had been trying to keep himself aloof from the community for just that reason. Though he enjoyed recognition for his work, if he had ever wished to be truly celebrated he would not have allowed Scotland Yard to take the credit for so many of his successes. He was supremely arrogant and liked having his ego stroked it was true, but he had never wanted to be a curiosity, a talking point. To have the people of the village pointing out the great detective to friends and neighbours would make him feel like an animal in the zoo, and I could understand his reluctance for I had been in some way the instigator of it.
At length, after praising Mrs Hudson’s cooking, the visitors left, the Reverend Thomas hoping that he would see us all in St Margaret’s for the morning service. As they made their way down the lane their voices floated back on the still night air,
To hear the news the angels bring
On Christmas Night, all Christians sing
To hear the news the angels bring
News of great joy and of great mirth
News of our merciful King’s birth
“The Sussex Carol,” said Holmes as Mrs Hudson closed the door. “Appropriate.” He turned to his one-time landlady now housekeeper and added as the hall clock struck the quarter hour, “Mrs Hudson, would you do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with Watson and myself? I perceive that Christmas Day is almost upon us.”
The good woman smiled. “Yes, Mr Holmes, I would like that very much.”
***
I awoke early in the morning.
This was unusual, and I lay there for some time waiting for Morpheus to reclaim me. When he did not, instead I reached for my dressing gown, rolling out of bed and trying not to shudder at the sudden chill. Light was beginning to trickle through the gap in the curtains, and so I pulled them back to reveal the countryside in the breaking dawn.
It was a breathtaking sight. As always, Holmes had not been exaggerating when he extolled the virtues of the view, he was simply stating the truth: it was indeed stunning. And particularly so after the heavy snowfall which had blanketed the fields while we slept. As the sunlight crept gradually over the headland the brilliant white began to glint and sparkle in its glow, which warmed the mellow stones of the church steeple a mile or two away and tinted the roofs of the buildings which clustered around it a delicate orange.
Strangely, the picture beneath my window lifted my heart as nothing had done in years. It was Christmas morning and I felt like a child again, the day filled with promise. Quickly I dressed and tiptoed down the stairs, boots in hand, to knock upon Holmes’s door. Surprisingly, he did not answer – it was unlike him so sleep heavily and so it seemed that the country air might have at last succeeded in helping to cure his insomnia where I had always failed. The door was unlocked and so I crept into the room. Holmes was barely visible, the blankets pulled almost over his head, and in the dim light I could make out little more than a lump beneath the eiderdown. I called his name twice, but there was no response and so I took hold of his shoulder, shaking it.
A voice, thick with sleep, mumbled something, culminating in an indistinct but heartfelt “...go away!”
“Holmes,” I said, shaking him again, “It is Christmas Day.”
He groaned, and a moment later the blankets were thrown back to reveal the dark, tousled head of my friend, his aquiline features creased in annoyance. “Could you not have waited until later in the morning to bring me that monumental news, Watson?”
I took down his old mouse-coloured dressing gown from the back of the door and threw it to him. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”
***
Ten minutes later we were striding out across the unblemished snow, warmly wrapped in coats and thick scarves, having quietly left via the back door so as not to wake Mrs Hudson.
Holmes grumbled, but by the time we reached the wicket gate behind the house he was smiling, the cold air stinging colour into his pale cheeks. “It is certainly bracing,” he remarked, and gave a theatrical shiver.
“It is glorious,” I said, and meant it.
He shot me a sly glance from the corner of his eye. “I take it that you approve of my decision, then, Watson?”
“Most assuredly. I will admit that I thought you mad to begin with, but - ” He laughed aloud at that “ – I have never seen you look happier.”
“It is true.” He surveyed the fields and the rolling downs around us – somewhere nearby a flock of sheep began to call to one another, bleats high-pitched and low. At the end of the garden, half-hidden by the low stone wall, I could just make out shapes covered in snow which I assumed must be his hives. “Perhaps I have at last found some contentment in my old age.”
Now it was my turn to snort. “Hardly old, Holmes!”
“Maybe not, but you will attest to the remarkable change in me that this move has brought about,” he said. I nodded, and opened my mouth to reply but he held up a gloved hand to forestall my words. “Have you considered what it might do for you, my dear fellow?”
It took me some moments for me to entirely understand what he was saying. When the implications did at last hit me I found myself sitting down quite heavily on a snow-covered tree stump. I did not even notice the cold and wet seeping through my coat as I looked up at him. “Holmes, are you saying what I think you are?”
He leaned upon his walking stick, the one with the silver handle I knew so well. “And what do you think I am saying, Watson?”
“I think you are asking me to come and live here. Is that true?”
“Well...” He inclined his head slightly, like a bird. “Would it be so dreadful if I were?”
I spread my hands before me, staring at the stitching of my gloves, the worn sections of the leather. “I...I am not ready to retire yet, Holmes.”
“Of course not. And I am not asking for an immediate decision. But I do happen to know that the local general practitioner, Doctor Holcroft, is looking to wind up his practice in a year or two and would no doubt be grateful for someone so skilled and reliable to take on his patients. And I hope it goes without saying that I would also greatly appreciate your company, my dear Watson. I find as I grow older that solitude does not have the attractions it once held. All I wish is for you to consider it. Will you do so?”
I thought of the cottage, where everything was laid out as close as it could be to Baker Street. All that was missing was the presence of myself in that little bedroom under the eaves.
“You know that I will,” I said, and Holmes smiled, his eyes crinkling. He offered a hand to help me up from the stump. “Of course,” I added as I brushed snow from my coat, “you do know that this offer makes my Christmas gift to you pale into insignificance.”
He laughed, and, arm in arm, we headed back to the house.
Since our Redeemer made us glad
And why should men on earth be sad
Since our Redeemer made us glad
When from our sin he set us free
All for to gain our liberty
All out of darkness we have light,
Which made the angels sing this night,
All out of darkness we have light,
Which made the angels sing this night:
"Glory to God and peace to men,
Now and for evermore, Amen!"
FIN
