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A stranger would have thought that Sherlock Holmes was absolutely impossible to tolerate on a daily basis. What with the obnoxious experiments, the nightly concerts, not to mention the dangers inherent to his chosen profession, likely to bring unsavoury guests in their rooms at any time.

Watson’s only remark to people concerned for him was that it was lucky that such inconveniences, then. There was the occasional old friend or brother in arms, who read the Strand and expressed their worry for his health and sanity, in his present living condition. Some even arrived as far as to offer their homes as a momentary place if the good doctor wanted to seek other accommodations.

If, even after reading his stories, people could not see the deep affection he held for his friend, or the thousands of qualities that amply made up for whatever annoyances the consulting detective caused him, nothing he could say would open these idiots’ eyes Besides, insinuating that he would forsake Holmes because of the dangers, which the man faced, was downright insulting.

Strangely, the one flaw almost no one empathises with him about is the one that drives Watson to distraction. Holmes’ drug use. Watson has tried to reason with his friend: assured him that there would be long-term damage if he goes on. Hell, they might be too late to avoid any lasting consequences if the sleuth stops today.

The consulting detective still would rather listen to the siren call of the drug whenever his mind is in need of stimulation, and cases are not forthcoming. The doctor has taken the habit of leaving their rooms when his flatmate will indulge. The sleuth will not even be aware of his existence anyway. Why stay in such unpleasant company?

Until the day Holmes, once again, takes out the Morocco case, while Watson leaves in a huff. But when he comes back – earlier than his usual, chased back home by a sudden downpour which might as well be a heavenly sign – he finds his friend not only out of it, but clearly in urgent need of medical attention. Watson switches immediately to doctor mode, and manages to pull his friend back from what is clearly an overdose.

When Holmes is back to himself, if still miserable, he croaks, “That never happened before.”

“Yes, but you never took so much,” his Boswell replies, as coolly as he can. He doesn’t need to examine how much is still in the case. It’s obvious.   

“Oh, yes…it wasn’t working, so I took another dose, I think…probably…” the detective admits, looking properly bashful.

“It was inevitable that you’d get used to your dose. You can tell me that instead of doubling it suddenly, you’ll be very careful. You’ll add just another 1%. But the fact is, your brain will require always greater doses for the drug to have its intended effect. And one day, the dose your brain asks for will be too much for your body to handle. When it happens,  I don’t want to be there. And not for an hour,” Watson replies simply, serious and calm. There’s not a hint of the frustration and anger he always faced this matter with.

“What?” Holmes breathes, leaning towards him despite being so weak, a panicked look in his eyes.

“I went to your funeral once already, my dear. You can’t ask me to do it again.” The doctor’s voice is very soft, but his tone is firm.

Especially because the first time, the sleuth went down a warrior, against Moriarty and his criminal empire. This time he would be succumbing to his own vices and lack of self-control. It’s not spoken, but Holmes hears it all the same, loud and clear. “Will you stay if I stop?” It’s not begging, but it sounds dangerously close to it.

“Of course, my dear boy,” Watson assures earnestly. “You don’t have to quit alone. I’m here. As always.” His hand finds his friend’s, squeezing.   

The ailing detective nods and allows himself to rest.

Tomorrow will be a new day.    

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Unless they were particularly out of tune or impinging on his precious sleep, Watson liked his flatmate’s violin concerts. So, when, one cold December evening, the doctor raised from his armchair near the fire and quietly went up the stairs to his room, Holmes was surprised. He wasn’t being purposefully obnoxious, and usually his friend would say goodbye at the very least.

The sleuth was half tempted to stop playing and investigate his companion’s mood instead, but stubbornness kept him there. It was his sitting room, too, the hour was perfectly reasonable for a bit of music, and he’s warned Watson about the violin from the start. He turned his back to the room and continued playing, this time louder.

When the trilling voice of a flute started accompanying his piece – correctly, at that – the violinist faltered and swivelled wildly, only to find his doctor back in the room, an instrument to his mouth and a fond glint in his eyes. A beat, and they both continued the tune until the end.

As soon as they put down their instruments, with identical flourishes, the consulting detective remarked, “You will never cease to amaze me, my dear boy. Why would you hide such a talent?”

“Ah, no, I’m not very talented at all,” Watson replied, shrugging.

“Allow me to dissent. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s  Duet for flute and violin H. 598 is not a piece for absolute beginners. And accompanying another man without any previous rehearsal is more difficult still,” Holmes pointed out sternly.

“Yes, but I do know you quite well, and honestly, that’s the only piece I could play by heart. So really there was no need to brag about it. Especially not to you,” the doctor retorted, sitting back. The sleuth wasn’t the only one who appreciated shocking his audience, though, so he couldn’t help but seize the occasion this time.

“How did you learn?” the detective inquired, sitting on his own armchair so he could observe better. There were so many things he missed about his friend!

“My sister, Lily. We didn’t have money for a piano or anything else so fancy, so dad bought her a flute. She was older than me, and she didn’t mind me sitting with her when she was practicing. I suppose I’ve always appreciated music. Like every curious child, I tried it too, and apparently I was good at it. At least as much as her, maybe more. Then Lily became friends with a girl of our town – the heiress of the richest family, actually. Her friend was studying violin, and she asked Lily to learn this so they could play together. My sister was obsessed with it – and I learned it too, couldn’t help it, really. Then the both of them got married, years later, and had some sort of falling out. Lily never went into details.  Since she doesn’t have a daughter, not any time to play anymore, she sent this to me. She probably thought she was being funny,” Watson explained with a little smile and shaking his head at the antics of both his sister and his child self.

“I am very grateful to your sister, then. I could never have discovered this otherwise,” Holmes concluded, with a soft smile of his own.

Chapter Text

In time, Holmes had become something of a minor international celebrity. Solving cases involving many noble houses would naturally do that.  In Italy, especially, after the case of the Vatican Cameos, everyone who ever lost a brush would have liked to hire the consulting detective to find it back. After all, the man came recommended by the Pope himself, and barring God descending Himself to add a post scriptum to His commandments, nobody else held more authority.

This annoyed Holmes greatly, but he would every now and then accept a case from aristocrats. The money allowed him to cover his expenses when someone who couldn’t afford to pay brought him an actually fascinating puzzle. It was an acceptable trade off.

Which was how the detective (and Watson, obviously, always by his side) found themselves once again in Italy – Turin this time – investigating the disappearance of a Duchess’ favourite necklace, along with her lover’s, which she swore high and low couldn’t possibly be connected. It turned out that they were, just not in the most cliché manner…but we’re getting ahead. This story happened when Holmes was still following clues, and they led him to the need for a stakeout.

Not anything unusual for them. So, of course, they went to the nearest coffee house and Watson asked for a litre (he’d researched on the new, odd measurements Napoleon spread through Europe) of coffee to go.

The old man serving them raised an eyebrow. “Stai scherzando, figliolo?” he asked, which – as Holmes would explain later – meant, “Are you joking, lad?” even if the old man looked supremely unamused.

At this point, the consulting detective stepped in, with his greater language prowess, assuring him that yes, they had properly studied the new measurements, yes, they knew just how much a litre of coffee was, and yes, they requested it still – and they would bring their order elsewhere if it offended the man’s delicate sensibilities. After such a vehement discussion, they were served, but the old man mumbled something suspiciously like, “Crazy strangers,” in his language by way of goodbye.              

So the two British men settled for their stakeout with much needed coffee, and since things didn’t happen as quickly as they’d hoped, they both drank to keep themselves alert. Watson more so than Holmes, as he couldn’t exert the ‘mind over matter’ power to his friend’s extent.

After a while, the doctor started refilling his cup quite quickly. Not to keep himself awake, but simply because he was very thirsty, as he explained in hushed tones to his companion. The men they were looking for didn’t show up still, and Watson started rubbing the root of his nose and his temples, obvious signs of a fierce headache, even for someone less observant than the sleuth.

 Holmes offered to continue alone, so that he could go back to the Duchess’ palace (she’d insisted to lodge them) and rest. The angry growl he received in response, however – softened by the requirements of their circumstances – persuaded him to shut up.

Apparently the shutting up didn’t apply to his Boswell, though – and the man was definitely in a mood – because soon he was grousing, saying the detective had to have mistaken the place, or time, because nothing was happening yet (plus some truly colourful slurs) and…

Holmes felt unreasonably livid because of the insinuation, and his heart was so quick – he’d thought at first that it might be the excitement of a case, but in such a situation, it was unwarranted. They weren’t themselves (Watson more so, because he’d drank more than him). The conclusion that their drink had been tampered with was immediate.

Abandoning the stakeout for more pressing concerns (they needed to know what they were dosed with!) he dragged a still very cranky Watson back to the coffee house, luckily still open for late theatregoers. The two of them bounded in, yelling, and Holmes intimated to the old man to confess what poison he’d given them. The detective dropped that they knew the Duchess – sadly, in these backwards countries, justice would still be far more promptly ensured if someone powerful pushed for it.

The barista had the gall to laugh in their face,  which made Watson – whose headache worsened – advance threateningly on him.

The man glared back. “Foreigners,” he sneered in his language. “Never tasted proper coffee and then think it’s doctored. My coffee, gentlemen, is the best in Turin. Obviously you’re unwell – that’s why I objected in the first place! What I can do to help is to give you as much water as you can drink, on the house. And since you’re friends of the Duchess, a doctor who’s a regular here told me bananas help with your condition, if the Duchess can spare one for your foolishness.”

The other guests of the place seemed to find the two British men’s plight hilarious, and not at all unusual, so – with lots of glaring and muttering – the two of them sat down and accepted the proffered water.             

Chapter Text

By the time Holmes had retired to his Sussex haven, candles were not as omnipresent as in his youth. It seemed as if in the few decades of his life, science and technology had taken wild leaps and advanced more than in the past several centuries.

As a rule, he refused to become a grumpy old man, grousing about the good old times. The former consulting detective had created his own profession, and done his best to help some of the new investigative techniques develop and take hold. He knew that the past – even the fondly remembered time of his prime – wasn’t necessarily better. It was, in some ways, decidedly more uncomfortable than the present. His home had been one of the first to adopt electric lights – and, when it had blessedly been invented, the telephone.

As keen on progress as the man was, there was one occasion in the year when the retired sleuth allowed himself to forget the practical side of things and indulge in sheer nostalgia. As amazing as electricity was, its light was cold. It had a sort of feel to it that would make it ideal for a laboratory, and that suited Holmes just fine most of the time.

At Christmas, though, he would insist on decorating the house and the Christmas tree (concession to the hope Watson might visit – his friend had always liked that tradition) not only with assorted baubles, but with as many candles as he had. Yes, it meant inviting fire accidents. And yes, his new housekeeper would grumble about melted wax dripping everywhere.

Still, once a year, the flickering warmth of dozens of tiny flames would light the small cottage, bringing a smile to an old man’s lips. Besides, he kept hives. It would be a sin to harvest only the honey and waste all the wax freely provided by his bees.          

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hudson didn’t entertain guests often. She had, once. But since Mr. Holmes and doctor Watson had taken the rooms, well...nauseous smells, violin playing which mostly resembled skinning cats alive, odd hours – which meant that at any time the both of them could be coming, or going, or having any sort of request (always urgent) – had become commonplace.

 Add to that Mr. Holmes welcoming people from all walks of life, and dressing up like one of them half the time... What happened in her house would have made one of her more delicate friends have a fit. So, their Thursday’s tea time had started skipping Baker Street in the rotation among her friends’ homes.    

Not this time, though. The doctor was at work, and she’d reminded him twice on the way out if he was perhaps forgetting anything, so he wouldn’t rush back in like that one time... it hadn’t been a pleasant sight. And as for Mr. Holmes, he had a dry spell and was by now bored out of his skull, which meant he should be taking out the Moroccan case any moment, unless a harried inspector  or distressed client arrived first. Mrs. Hudson knew that the good doctor disapproved of the habit, but an using Holmes was one of the quieter Holmes, and she would unashamedly admit to counting on that for ensuring her little party’s success.

She had the house cleaned in depth, took out the good linens and spent a good portion of the day baking – cakes and scones and biscuits. All had to be perfect. And indeed, when her friends arrived, for a moment it looked as if it would be. Everyone praised her cosy-looking sitting room, and was awed by the sweets’ collection. They started sharing tea and gossip, and wondering why they didn’t come more often.

Then, somewhere above them – Mr. Holmes’ sitting room was just on top of hers – echoed a shot. Alice Turner was stirring the sugar in her tea, and she jerked so violently that her cup was almost  knocked over, and spilled on the table cloth abundantly. Alice murmured an apology, blushing, though she could hardly be blamed.

Mrs. Hudson reassured them all that it was nothing, her tenant had to have accidentally overturned something. But this wasn’t the sound of a chair falling, and they all knew that. Naturally, she accepted graciously her friend’s excuses for the blunder, somehow managing to control even the least twitch of her brow at the ruined cloth.   

Somehow, the situation seemed contained – until, a few minutes later, another explosion made Eva Knightley jump and pour tea all over herself, with a shrill yelp. Once again, Mrs. Hudson assured her friends that there was no need to be upset, and helped the poor soul out. Thank God she hadn’t hurt herself too bad. At the third gunshot, though, the reunion was unanimously adjourned.

The housekeeper should have been terrified, but she was frowning instead. What was happening on the upper floor seemed to follow a rather strange routine for an attempted murder (not that she wouldn’t understand someone sneaking in to try and do the consulting detective in).

Shot, brief pause, shot. No other chaos from fighting. No yelling. Never shots overlapping, like when two people would aim at each other at the same time. This didn’t sound like a fight for one’s life. It did sound, though, like something that might require the intervention of her heavier skillet.        

Chapter Text

Holmes’ work – his whole adult life – had been a solitary one. The only one whose rhythms and needs the consulting detective had to account for was himself. But then doctor John Watson happened, entering his life, his home and his career like a mild mannered but surprisingly brave and talented companion.  

Honestly, the sleuth had expected to go through flatmates at the same rate he went through pouches of tobacco, if not more often. But the doctor had proved stalwart – most would probably say stubborn – and, shocking even himself, the consulting detective found that he wanted his new friend to stay. He was actually actively looking for ways to please – or at least not to excessively inconvenience – Watson.

One of their major points of contention came from their opposite rhythms. Holmes was and had always been a night owl, and was most likely to see dawn on the way to his bed, after having been up all night experimenting or thinking. Army and – the detective suspected – family before that had, instead, turned his flatmate into a true lark, up with the sun.

Which raised the question of how to raise his friend when, more than once, his nightly pondering brought him to a breakthrough and they needed to go and catch an evildoer now. Doctor and soldier, Watson’s sleep was naturally light.

But the man seemed to go back to war during his sleep, and a brusque wake-up call – like a sharp knocking – was indeed likely to have him up in seconds, but somehow keep his brain still overwhelmed by his dream landscape.

There would be a panic in the veteran’s eyes, an unspoken question of “Are we under attack?” that dampened the detective’s excitement entirely. Holmes wished he wouldn’t have to see such an expression anymore unless there was an actual criminal break-in inside 221B. His friend should feel safe in his own home.

So the sleuth did what he always did. He experimented. Only, his idea of contact as a softer approach – no loud noises, just a gentle touch – proved to be utterly counterproductive. An unexpected nudge, no matter how light and – Holmes would have thought – unthreatening made the former soldier react violently before he was even entirely awake. The consulting detective acquired an interesting collection of bruises, and found himself efficiently subdued a few times by a then utterly apologetic Watson, before he conceded that his error was not in the type of touch and accepted that a different plan was necessary.

The solution, surprisingly, came from overhearing two young mothers chatting, during one of his outings to acquire information. He would have never imagined that the removal of a stimulus could work to wake someone as well as adding it.

Very quickly and softly entering his friend’s room, and pocketing the clock on the nightstand before leaving the bedroom again, disturbed Watson’s sleep. The sudden absence of the familiar ticking caused the doctor to wake, but more in a puzzled than in a panicked mood, if the breathing patterns Holmes was keenly listening for were any indication. At this point, a soft knock would have his Boswell up with a dazed, put upon air, but no alarm in his countenance. Problem solved.          

Chapter Text

The consulting detective was in pursuit of a gang of counterfeiters, who’d finally crossed the line and murdered a victim which had not been duped by their banknotes. He’d been out all morning, his faithful Boswell at his side, because Watson would never let him face danger on its own.

Coming back to Baker Street was supposed to be a moment of rest, safety. Coming back to an obvious break-in and an absent Mrs. Hudson was a shock. The clues sadly were all too clear. Their housekeeper hadn’t left before the intrusion and was still to come back. No, she was taken. Not that the criminals thought she would be so dear to the detective that he’d drop the investigation, in exchange for her safety.

This was a statement, “We can get in and hit people close to you , when we please and how we please.” Bless Mrs. Hudson for being such a sweet old lady, that even hardened lawbreakers thought murdering her would be an excess of brutality. After all, a kidnapping would work as well.

Naturally, instead of dissuading Holmes from the case, this made both him and Watson only that much keener on solving it, and angrier. What might have taken two or three days to discover, without the added spur, was unearthed in a single afternoon. The promise of a plentiful bounty for any kind of information and the use of the full scope of their resources, plus the Irregulars’ own affection for the maternal woman, made impossible for the hiding spot of these naïve forgers to remain secret.

By dinnertime Holmes, Watson and a bunch of policemen were surrounding the gang’s den, looking to both capture and – most importantly – rescue the housekeeper. Many a jaw dropped when – after some wild yowls echoed – the to be saved old lady left the run-down house that was the criminals’ base under her own power and alone, looking a bit dishevelled but not hurt, besides for a scratch. She immediately noticed Watson, and beelined for him. “Oh doctor, it’s so lucky to find you here! Exactly whom I needed to see,” she clucked, wringing her hands.

“Are you hurt, Mrs. Hudson? What have they done to you?” Watson inquired. He was frowning in a mix of worry and anger, and a gentle hand automatically brushed her, nudging her to tilt her face so he could examine her scratch better.

“Oh no, it’s not for me. This is nothing, really. It’s for the gentlemen inside there. There’s been an...accident, you see, and they need care quite urgently,” she explained softly, but with a twinkle in her eyes.

The doctor shrugged and entered the house, nodding to some of the policemen to follow him for good measure.

“What happened, Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes rumbled, gently guiding her to one of the carriages they’d come in, so that she could rest.

“Well, these people insisted very earnestly that I should follow them,” she related, “and I didn’t see how I could refuse. When we arrived here, i could see why they would want a housekeeper at hand so vehemently.”

The old lady allowed herself a quirky smile, and the detective chuckled.

“I insisted that they had to let me clean and tidy up things a bit, and that raised a few eyebrows, but they had no objections in the end. Actually, they protested much less than you would do in their place,” she continued.

Mrs. Hudson’s look held a gentle, all too common chiding that the consulting detective was long since immunised against.

“Then it was dinnertime, and of course I couldn’t let everyone go hungry. There wasn’t much to work with, but I offered to whip up a soup, and this time nobody protested. Only I stumbled while serving, and I’m afraid these men are now horribly burned. The soup was boiling, you see, she concluded, sounding regretful like any homemaker who’d hurt their own boys.

“You stumbled,” the sleuth echoed, a new respect in his voice – not the one due to the frail and elderly, but the one bestowed on the powerful and cunning.

“I’m afraid that I’m more clumsy nowadays that in my youth,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, sighing. Who could have doubted that?   

Chapter Text

It was the start of December 1881, when Sherlock Holmes was summoned to his brother’s home. A different man would have expected a relative to call for some reason tied to the festive season. The consulting detective hoped for a case. Knowing that state secrets had accidentally been leaked would be the most welcome announcement...Probably best not to share the feeling with anyone else, though. They might not understand.

Mycroft welcomed him with a smile and then asked, “Remember Vamberry, little brother?” It was his habit to skip pleasantries with Sherlock. There was no reason to ask, “How are you?” when it was perfectly obvious at a glance.

“Of course,” the younger one confirmed. It had been his first international case, he wasn’t likely to forget it. A deeply outraged elder brother had been the one to bring the matter at him. Vamberry had been the shipper Mycroft ordered all his wines from, because of their excellent quality. When it had suddenly and “tragically,” – Mycroft’s own words – dropped, but the merchant’s baffled protestations had looked sincere, the politician had sent his little brother to investigate.

A young Sherlock had immediately discovered one of Vamberry’s employees was misappropriating part of the wine and using inferior quality alcohol to swap and replace what he took. The elder Holmes had already figured out as much, obviously. But pointing out the guilty man to the French police required a trip, and he really couldn’t allow to leave Pall Mall. Ultimately, it was a simple affair. “Don’t tell me his shipping is unsatisfactory again,” the consulting detective huffed. He’d expect the man to control his men now.

“Oh no, he’s never disappointed me since,” Mycroft assured, with a satisfied smile. “I was thinking about your recompense – the little extra Vamberry insisted to throw in besides the monetary remuneration.” A nod, and two of the elder brother’s servants came in the room, holding a wooden case.  

 “I thought you’d have already drunk it all. It’s been years,” Sherlock remarked, raising an eyebrow.

“I could never, brother mine. This is your reward. I agreed to hold onto it for you because in Montague Street there was no room to keep it, much less store it properly. And also because – let’s be frank – you had no one else but me with whom to share a drink anyway, I know alcohol is not and has never been your vice of choice, but removing temptation seemed wiser all the same,” the elder brother declared, leaning back in his armchair. “We did open it when you entrusted this to me, out of curiosity, and you can check – everything is still there, and nothing has been swapped,” he continued, gesturing for the case to be opened and allowing himself a smile.

Sherlock looked unimpressed. “I wasn’t interested in this back then and I’m not now. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if you had helped yourself to the whole contents,” he remarked.

“And I’m not telling you to take it all back. But the holiday season is coming up, and finally, you have someone with whom to share a fine drink. You could bring back to Baker Street just one of the bottles. The good doctor deserves a token of appreciation...For cohabiting with you on a daily basis and not yet having attempted to murder you, at the very least,” Mycroft Holmes explained, a teasing but not cruel glint in his eyes.

“Very funny, Mycroft,” the sleuth retorted, glaring without too much heat. To his deep annoyance, his brother was right – as always. If he could offer Watson even only a little of the finer things of life, he should – the man certainly deserved it, for befriending him. “I’m taking this one away from you for being irritating,” the detective announced, picking one of the bottles out of the case and turning sharply to leave.

“Suit yourself, brother mine,” the elder Holmes replied to the man’s retreating figure. He might not say it openly, shadow it in ribbing, but it was a deep relief and a joy that his little brother had found a friend with whom to share the bad and the good of life.       

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A.    N. Today’s prompt comes from Wordwielder: Mistletoe. I have struggled with it, because I know many people don’t like Johnlock, but honestly, not writing this as such seemed like such a waste. My compromise is: read it until the tjlc line-breaker, you can pretend there’s nothing between the boys. Go further, you know what you’ll find.

“Absolutely not,” Holmes declared that morning, vehemently taking down the sprig of Mistletoe Watson – as usual, the earlier riser – had decorated the sitting room with, among a few other Christmastide baubles.

“But Holmes...it’s traditional,” the doctor protested, in a weak attempt at defence. True, the depth of his flatmate’s frown might be due to being faced with sneak seasonal cheerfulness before coffee, and not to utter hatred. Still, there was little hope to reason with the man when he was so stern.

“And in the name of tradition, I’ll let you have the garlands – even if they’re a fire hazard – and the other trinkets. If you feel particularly festive, I’ll even consent to a Christmas tree, if you wish. But no mistletoe will inflict its parasitic self where I live,” the sleuth declared firmly, glaring at the twig in his hand as if it offended him personally.

At this, his Boswell frowned himself, clearly baffled. “If you’re not against decoration on principle, why so much heat against a tiny bit of greenery, my dear boy? Don’t tell me that you have bad memories about a case in which it was used as a murder weapon. I know it’s poisonous, but...” he wondered loudly, voice trailing off in sheer puzzlement.

“Oh no, nothing of the sort. If anything, it would make for an interesting addition to my collection,” the consulting detective replied, with an amused smile at the prospect. “No, it’s its common use I strongly object to. I simply cannot conceive how obligating people who don’t feel reciprocal attraction, or even affection, to kiss each other in the name of tradition and sheer happenstance might seem like a good idea. The only woman who should have to stand underneath mistletoe is Bellini’s Norma. And even she was cutting it, probably to protect herself and the other priestesses from idiots looking to exploit the tradition.”

Naturally, Watson’s first reaction was to chuckle. There was no need to point out to Holmes that Norma, in the homonym opera, cut mistletoe because she was taking part in a druidic religious ceremony and they worshipped the plant – of course the man knew. Then again, considering the amount of shenanigans these supposedly chaste priestesses got up to, the detective might have a point...   

The doctor’s second reaction, though, was to consider the sleuth’s description of the custom. “Well, when you put it like that...” he remarked hesitantly, voice fading out before he could follow that thought entirely. He’d always found it a fun and harmless practice...but had he accidentally made people – at least some of them – desperately uncomfortable for years? “

How else would you describe it?” the consulting detective challenged, raising an eyebrow. When no answer came, because Watson could change the adjectives he felt the habit deserved, but not the description of facts, Holmes smugly continued, “Besides, the only women likely to frequent these rooms are: Mrs. Hudson, whom I don’t think either of us particularly wishes to kiss. The maid, whom you don’t fancy kissing either or you could already have made a move. And obviously, clients. I hope you don’t suggest than a stranger’s kiss would be welcomed by a woman already anguished or ill, or they wouldn’t have come to see either of us in the first place.”

His Boswell sighed. “Fine. You’re right, as always. Take it down. Burn it, for all I care. I’m sorry, Holmes.”

tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc tjlc

“There’s no need to burn it,” the sleuth remarked, a soft glint in his eyes. “There’s a perfect place for that.” That said, he marched back into his room and pinned the mistletoe with a flourish over his bed. “Here, I wouldn’t be protesting its intended use.”

The doctor laughed. “So all that tirade against this poor plant was just you being jealous, wasn’t it? The jab against me making the moves on the maid should have clued me in. Don’t worry, love. You’re, and will always be, the only one I will want to kiss,” he assured, grinning. Of course, the both of them being men of science, such an assertion couldn’t be accepted without immediate – and multiple – evidence...          

Chapter Text

Holmes had a soft spot for children. It was supposed to be an unacknowledged truth, because it would ruin his ‘brain without a heart’ image. In truth, using the Irregulars was not only a clever move, because no one ever paid attention to them. It was a way to help them out without it looking – or feeling – like charity, so that everyone involved could hold onto their pride.

The first time the boys – all of them – had been summoned to Baker Street in December, during the holiday season, they’d assumed it was for a big, important, exciting case, one that had still been kept under wraps from the papers. Finding, instead, a proper Christmas party – “To thank them for their precious collaboration during the past year,” as the consulting detective had said – had required a quick mindset adjustment.

Not that there had been any objections. Not when it included hot chocolate and Mrs. Hudson’s homemade sweets. It had quickly become an annual tradition, the maternal old lady ensuring there would enough treats for the children to bring some home, to share with their families.

One of the candies Holmes especially requested of his very willing housekeeper, knowing the boys would likely not get it otherwise, was candied orange peel. It was one of the Irregulars’ favourites... until they discovered it could get even better.

Spence had taken two slices of candied orange peel, meaning to pocket one for his mummy, when the second one slipped from his excited fingers...luckily, right into the cup of hot cocoa Mrs. Hudson had handed him moments before. The result – once it was fished out of the drink, utterly coated in it – could be only described as heaven on earth. Of course, such a discovery couldn’t be kept hidden, and soon everyone else was dipping their candied peels in the chocolate and sighing in pleasure.

Apparently, Mr. Holmes wasn’t the only one who liked to experiment. Because the following Christmas, Mrs. Hudson’s candied orange peels came with an outer shell of hard chocolate that had taken her quite a few tries to perfect. (Not that her tenants had in any way protested being guinea pigs for her attempts.)

“After all, the chances that the little ones’ families have chocolate at home is slim, and there’s no reason their siblings should go without the improved version,” the kind housekeeper had declared to their tenants at the start of her undertaking.

It was no surprise that more and more kids wished to reform, and leave a life of begging and little crimes to be admitted in the Irregulars’ number.                

Chapter Text

It was not long after the good doctor’s marriage, that Holmes – now only tenant at 221B Baker Street – was uncharacteristically generous. He’d just finished a case for a very grateful member of the aristocracy...or so he claimed.

All Mrs. Hudson knew was that he disappeared for a week, and came back looking gaunt and high-strung, something that happened just after cases before the consulting detective inevitably crashed like a log. Her observations didn’t contradict the sleuth’s claim, and so she nodded politely.

To everyone’s surprise, Holmes decided that the best use of the hefty recompense was to offer everyone a week of paid holidays. That rang all sorts of alarm bells. They couldn’t possibly leave the man to fend for himself. At least one or two of the staff should stay, and benefit of his unexpected generosity at a later date.

But the consulting detective was adamant about it, and protested hotly that he was a grown man – he could certainly survive for a week without being tended to, thank you very much. In the end, his wishes were followed. No matter how much people could be worried by Mr. Holmes having free rein of the house, no one wanted to make the man angry enough to retire the holiday offer.

Still, when Mrs. Hudson’s nephew fell ill, and she had to cut short her vacation and come back to London a day early, she wasn’t as disappointed as one would normally expect. She knew that the young boy would not be the only one who needed tending.

Of course, she stopped by Baker Street first. She needed to freshen up, take a few things her sister might need, and inform Mr. Holmes of the new situation – if the man was even at home.

He was at home. And Baker Street was still standing. That’s all one could say about the situation that was positive. She screeched in horror at the sight of his flat.

The detective mumbled a weak, “Sorry.” As if that made it all fine.

Already mentally going through the people she’d need to call for help, she hightailed, forgetting her prepared speech. Priorities. Call someone who could fix this, leave the keys with the neighbour because she really couldn’t wait, and then go to her sister’s.

That day, Mrs. Hudson made a silent vow. Never leave Mr. Holmes alone for more than a day. Never again.        

Chapter Text

Professor James Moriarty was used to alumni knocking on his door to thank him. Not that he encouraged it, per se. He was a stern man, busy with his researches (and with his endeavours on the side, not that anyone in society knew about it). Still, not an entirely unheard of occurrence.

If there was a former student the mathematician would have wagered all his earnings, legal or not, on him never blackening his threshold, though, it was Sherlock Holmes. There had been no love lost between them during school days. The young Holmes’ passion was for hands-on scientific subjects, and the cool and abstract beauty of pure mathematics or astronomy, with its untouchable objects, was unfathomable to him. Which was a pity, because the boy’s brain promised brilliance.

And then the young boy had turned into a man, a man who’d forged his own career, a career which seemed crafted especially to bring him eventually to a brutal collision with Moriarty’s own side job and interests...almost as if on purpose. That moment was still far away, though, according to the professor’s calculations.

So what had brought his still lanky old pupil at his door? Nevermind. He’d know in a moment. The professor gestured impatiently at Holmes, who hesitated on the threshold, looking just as uncomfortable as more than a decade ago, to come in.

“I’ve come for a consultation,” the detective uttered, skipping pleasantries as Moriarty had always requested. Busy man, indeed. His policy had always been: if you need an explanation, let’s get down with that, he had no time for chatting about the weather.

A smile painted itself on Moriarty’s lips. The word choice had not been casual, obviously. For a moment, the professor flirted with the idea that his relatives had finally annoyed the impulsive young man enough to want someone dead. Be there for the crumbling of the world’s only consulting detective’s morals was both a treat and, to be honest, a bit of a disappointment. Though he supposed he could recruit the boy, now... “Do tell, Holmes,” he replied warmly.

“I trust you’ll keep our dealings secret,” the young man warned. Yes, that was definitely a warning, not a request.

The professor huffed in impatience. “Of course I will, now, if you want my help, you better explain your problem.”

“We’re stumped,” Holmes admitted with a grimace...and fell silent, looking as if he was trying to reorder his thoughts. Not something he was used to say out loud, certainly.

Still, there was no data in that, and instead of sympathizing, the consulting criminal was starting to feel definitely irked. “We being...?” he prompted, rather sternly.

“My brother Mycroft and I. I’m trying to word this in a way that will not sound entirely outlandish, but you’re probably going to be ecstatic at the news, so I’ll just say it plainly. We’ve been contacted by aliens. As in, interplanetary, grey, vaguely human shaped life forms. With how wide the universe is, I suppose it would be foolish to believe life developed only on Earth,” the sleuth finally expounded, all in a breath.

“Interesting. And...?” the professor said, inclining his head and leaning a bit towards him.

“And we cannot decode it!” Holmes confessed, bursting with frustration. “Mycroft started working on it first, and when he couldn’t figure it out, he asked me to collaborate. Cryptography is one of my favourite exercises, after all. Still, we’re getting nowhere. But this is not something we accidentally intercepted – it’s definitely aimed at us, so they have to have used some code they thought we were equipped to understand. Which is when I thought...well, maybe the one thing we have in common is astronomy. Maybe the message is coded through some astronomical constant, or something like that.” He was red with embarrassment.

“And why ask me, rather than any other astronomy professor in the United Kingdom?” Moriarty asked, sincerely interested. Not that he would tamper with what he decoded. He was smart enough to know that misunderstandings lead all too often to war, and if war started between them and aliens who had figured out interplanetary voyage, he would not find himself in the side which profited from it, but on the one who was smite.

“Because I don’t just need someone who knows his astronomy. I need someone brilliant,” the detective acknowledged.

“Well then, Holmes, get your codes out and let’s get to work,” the professor prompted. He couldn’t help himself, though. He added, with a smirk, “I told you astronomy would be useful someday.”             

Chapter Text

Theoretically, a best friend is someone who’ll be by your side – and in your heart – since the day you become friends to your last. Watson knew better than believe that, though. He’d assumed he’d found them – his best friend – more than once, and each time, it hadn’t lasted.

The first, obviously, had been Arthur Hart. They’d been neighbours, and as kids, they’d been inseparable, playing and having adventures together. Friends forever, John would have sworn.

But then puberty hit, and Arthur had gone from – like every other boy – ignoring girls to being downright awful to them. Oh, he liked them, allright. He just didn’t respect them at all. John was just as much suddenly interested in the other half of humanity, but he would never manipulate someone. Arthur growled that he didn’t need to, because no girl seemed able to resist him. John would counter that treating someone you’re trying to curry favour from with basic respect was basic decency, and if his friend tried that sometime, he might find that the ones who denied him might become more favourably inclined. In the end, there was an angry row and the two teenagers parted ways.

Watson’s next best friend had been Tom Appleby. He was funny, friendly, and a decent human being to everyone, which had become John’s basic requirement. They’d gone through annoying professors, played both pranks and sports together, and generally had a grand time. This time, though, it wasn’t a falling out, but life itself to part them.

When John had gone to University – in a different city, to boot – Tom had shared neither of these choices. They’d promised to keep in contact, and they tried to, at the start. But Medicine studies were more harrowing than John had expected – and he’d expected a lot. Tom, too, had become busy with his life – he’d actually found a job, and done well at it. Rather than a bitter break, it had been a gentle, slow fading, but they’d lost each other anyway.

During the university, no matter how hard the studies were, Watson had not been a loner. Once again, he’d made a circle of friends – and taking prime spot there had been Sean Causey. He wasn’t the brightest of the lot, and that was fine. John didn’t mind helping him revise and explain things for the fourth or fifth time – it ensured he remembered the lesson by heart. But Sean was the one who knew of the wildest parties, and every now and then, a bloke needed to unwind. John took care of the academical side and Sean ensured they had fun. It seemed like a perfect balance. The fact that both boys were passionate rugby players didn’t hurt, either.

But apparently this had not been a symbiotic, but a parasitic relationship. Really, the recent doctor thought bitterly, he was the worst at spotting manipulative people. As soon as they’d got their degree, Causey had disappeared, stopping all contact with him. Already working on the next people to use, certainly.

Disgusted, John had signed up for the army. At least he’d been doing something worthwhile. There, he’d met Bill Murray. His orderly, so you wouldn’t expect a true friendship to be born, possibly, when one was assigned to obey and cater to someone else. But both shared a wicked sense of humour, and in the midst of death and chaos, Watson had believed he’d finally found a definitive best friend.

Until a Jezail bullet had shattered his body and his plans. Murray saved his life, true. But Watson had been sent back ‘home’, when there was no home to be had, and Murray had remained in Afghanistan. The doctor knew he’d been lucky. He’d seen enough good people die, sawed off enough limbs, to know it could have been much worse. Still, he knew that Murray would have to let him go. Watson fully wished his friend to come back from war hale and healthy (someone did, though – him being the army surgeon – he was much more intimate with these who didn’t). And then his ‘old friend’ – the broken one – would be a ghost at the feast. Even if Bill would have wanted to meet him, the doctor already knew he’d use an excuse.

So maybe it was a temporary depression. But letting go of Murray had left his heart open, empty and seeking. And then there’d been Holmes. Holmes, with his sheer brilliance, being both exasperating and fascinating, and they’d become best friends (honestly, he possibly was Holmes’ only friend) before Watson could secretly wallow about his own sad fate. And for ten years he’d been happy. Oh so happy.

When Holmes had disappeared, in Switzerland, Watson had mourned. Of course he had. But this time, years had passed, and the sleuth-shaped hole in his heart hadn’t shown signs of closing, or being filled by another meaningful relationship. Maybe that was it, he thought. He’d become too old and weary to make new friends easily. He could expect a few decades with a number of casual friends and acquaintances, but no best friend. Then again, he’d always had the worst luck in picking them.

Until – when he’d been even more broken, having lost his wife, too – a lonely and adrift Watson had miraculously been returned his apparently not dead best friend. Holmes was back. Baker Street would once again be the welcoming home he’d known. Miracles did happen. And who knew, maybe this time his heart knew best. Maybe it was possible – best friends for life.               

Chapter Text

When an ‘old friend’ of her husband had invited himself over for tea, Mrs. Hudson had been surprised. It was the first time such a thing happened. Sean didn’t have that many friends – or even acquaintances, to begin with – and certainly none of them had cared to check up on the widow. Frankly, Sean had been a thoroughly unpleasant man, under the charming surface (a very thin one), and it wouldn’t shock her if his death was welcomed with relief by the people who knew him.

When this stranger – who seemed just like her departed husband’s type of person – hinted, between sips, that he knew what his host had done, she played dumb. Mrs. Hudson had done a great many things in her long life, after all.

This prompted the horrible man to say openly that she’d killed her own husband. Eeven if it had been ruled as an accident at the time, he could have the case reopened. She might think she had not, but she had left behind clues, and he’d thought best to gather them.

The housekeeper’s only outward reaction was to raise an eyebrow. “Hypothetically admitting what you said was true, and mind you, I’m not saying it is, that was ten years ago, dearie. Why come forward now?”

“Because I knew that I would eventually get something nice in exchange for my silence. Not to be rude, but you’ve never had enough money for me to ask, Martha. And I know that you still don’t have it, but these days you have something way better to offer. Your tenant. The famous sleuth who, for some reason, did not turn his own murderous housekeeper in. I don’t know what you have on him, and frankly, I don’t care. If you know what’s better for you, you will ensure he looks away from the cases I tell you to, though,” her guest growled.

Mrs. Hudson should have been upset at his rudeness. Instead, she laughed. Loudly and, she was afraid, a bit unladylike, but this was just too ridiculous. “Oh my. Such a naive child you are,” she remarked when she got her breath back, despite the man being no younger than she was. “I cannot even get Mr. Holmes to let the man in to tidy up the flat, some days. Do you really think I would be able to influence his profession?”

“Then how come you’re not in jail? Is his fame seriously overblown, maybe?” he countered, frowning.

She pursed her lips. “If anything, it’s understated. It would be considered implausible otherwise. But I’ll tell you a secret, there’s a fundamental misunderstanding there, you see. Most people – you too, apparently – think that Mr. Holmes is a man of the law, but he’s not. That’s the reason he’s not a policeman – well, that and the reason that he could never stand taking orders from someone more stupid than he is without going insane, and driving his colleagues crazy, too. My tenant is a man of justice...and he particularly despises blackmailers. Can you send me to jail? Perhaps. I don’t even know if you truly have what you say you have. In that case, Mr. Holmes would simply have to deal with another housekeeper...and believe me, if anything it will get him on your case, not keep him out of it. Sorry to be unable to help. Now, though, it’s really time for you to go,” the old lady expounded, sounding amused at the start but stern at the end.

The stranger left, glaring all the while.       

Chapter Text

Some cases came from the Yard. Others from private clients. Rarely, Mycroft required help. That was the life at 221B Baker Street. It was the first time, though, that Holmes’ Irregulars were – rather than an instrument in solving the problem, the ones bringing it to the sleuth’s door.

It was the December of 1896, and a gaggle of at least ten kids, led by a sombre Wiggins, had invaded unexpectedly the sitting room. One of them, Alex, about five years old, looked like he’d cried a while – and on the verge of starting again.

Of course, enquiries were made. And – with much overlapping by anxious children – the story went as follows. They’d all gone to a pantomime the night before, accompanied by more relatives...really, they’d snuck in (they were very good at that sort of thing). Sadly, Alex’s oldest sister – almost ten years older than him – had wandered at one point, during the interval. She’d never been seen again, and after much deliberation, the boys had looked for help to Holmes. If anyone could help, it was he.

Obviously, the consulting detective had accepted the case – anyone who would hurt a young, defenceless woman certainly needed to be brought to justice. He didn’t share his fear that, however soon, it might already be too late – people could be brutal. The Irregulars already knew, way too intimate with the darker side of life than any child ought to be.

A quick investigation, and something odd stood out immediately. When the actors had left the place of the play, they’d all changed from their getups, but the dragon (the play in question had been about saint George) had proudly left in full costume. Why would the most cumbersome of all outfits – the one who was specifically made to hide two people – not be folded, freeing the actors for a more relaxed evening?

Thankfully, a dragon’s tracks were particularly easy to follow...and lo and behold, Holmes and Watson discovered that – while certainly accomplices – not the same two people had come in the dragon costume and left with it. A bound, gagged and terrified girl made as well a dragon head as anyone else, and with a felon behind her, to steer and threaten the poor child, there had been no suspicions.

Little Alex’s sister was scared, but mostly unharmed. She wouldn’t have been if they’d dallied much longer, though. Before calling the constables, Holmes and Watson ensured the crooks got the comeuppance they deserved for their abuse.        

Chapter Text

Holmes had long since known that out of all the criminals, the doctors turned evil were the absolute worst. He had enough evidence for any person prone to logical thinking. The most terrifying proof of all, though, he knew he would never be able to divulge in his lifetime – not unless history turned down a horrendous path he hoped it never would.

Why? Because the events he witnessed included what he himself would have sworn were totally impossible, mere flights of fancy of writers (well, one writer most famously) that liked to concoct plots without any respect for reason’s and nature’s laws both.

The Sumatran branch of a celebre company had earnestly requested his intervention, because its employees had apparently started falling prey of murderous wild animals’ attacks – but the beasts’ tracks were so badly faked that no existing creature could possibly leave them. The conclusion of foul play had been immediate, but none of the local investigators seemed to have managed to solve it, a few of them being killed themselves.

At that, Holmes had accepted. More so for the occasion of a visit to an exotic and fascinating place than for the puzzle. Someone whose work was so slapdash would certainly not be hard to find.  Watson accompanied him, because of course he didn’t want to stay behind (and because he claimed veto power over what his flatmate would bring back home to study).

At their arrival, the disappointment doubled. They even had a rather obvious suspect. A doctor, who claimed to have formulated a poison which could kill the ‘creatures’, and was ready to sell it for a paltry sum. Given that the beasts could clearly somehow overpower the armed guards, making the weapons useless – all the blood on the scenes had belonged to the victims – he expected to even be thanked.

And still, for a while the consulting detective was stumped. Just like the policemen, he too couldn’t find – besides the impossible animal clues – not even the least sign of human presence on any of the crime scenes, or on the company’s property at all.

Frustrated, the sleuth and his Boswell broke in the suspect’s home while he was at a party. Police might be bound by the fact that there was no hint that the man had done anything more illegal than offering his services, but Holmes followed where logic led him.

The suspect’s basement was a scene out of a nightmare. Wide, robust cages held vermin, which could have – certainly had – left the impossible clues. Rat-like, but as big as wolves, and sporting leathery wings like bats, if adequate to their size.

The owner and certainly creator of these monsters came back from his party to Watson’s gun trained on him and Holmes’ stern interrogation. Unable to release his pets, the criminal confessed that he received a visitor from the future. One who taught him to...not crossbreed, there hadn’t been any breeding involved, for obvious reasons, but splice creatures together, to realise his fantasies. The stranger had even oh-so-kindly left him some of the necessary equipment.

Ordinarily they would have laughed at such a fairy tale, but the monsters downstairs attested to that. This couldn’t be solved by regular means. A bullet, to wipe the man’s knowledge out, and burning down the house with its trapped monstrosities (which had already been trained to murder and developed a taste for human flesh) was the only way to deal with it.

Then, a quick telegram to Mycroft. A visitor from the future, who taught people of dubious morals to create monsters – instead of bringing along the treatment for the plagues of their time –, was a danger they had to be on the lookout for.           

Chapter Text

Watson was out again. On a date with Miss Morstan. It was inevitable, Holmes supposed. Life went on. A loving, romantic soul like his flatmate was bound to find a woman, settle down and prosper. Their situation – having to go halves to stay in London, bachelors – ... it was simply untenable in the long run. Not something anyone would have considered a definitive settling, no matter how comfortable.

Never mind that he could have paid full rent or found another flat for his own two years ago and chose not to, because upsetting the current equilibrium was the last thing he wanted. Of course the doctor didn’t share the sentiment. The sleuth was...peculiar. And he had quite enough of loneliness, thank you.

Watson was his friend. Holmes was supposed to be happy for his budding romance. And he was, to a degree. For one, his friend could have done much worse. Miss Morstan had proven her cleverness, and she’d not been embittered at all by the sudden loss of her expected fortune, from what he could deduce. She’d seen the good doctor as the treasure he was, and – above all – made him happy. Watson always came back from seeing her grinning like a fool, walking on air, and the detective could not help but be reflexively glad and grateful to the woman causing this.

Still, his feelings weren’t all proper, or even acknowledgeable. Truth was, no matter how much he scolded himself for it, part of him wished bitterly that Miss Morstan had had relatives, or friends, or anyone really to help her out, so that she would never had entered Baker Street.

Because he loved Watson, may God forgive him. Not just as a friend, but as passionately as Miss Morstan or any other woman could – perhaps even more. He didn’t say it – couldn’t say it, of course. It would have meant to lose the doctor, his friendship, his respect...and that would have killed him.

But having Watson in Baker Street allowed him to feed that feeling (which shouldn’t exist but had somehow become the unshakable core of his being, keeping him alive, before he even realised it).Tiny glances, casual brushing ups sustained his soul. A million details nobody would have even noticed – nobody was supposed to notice – but that were as precious to him as oxigen.

The idea of suddenly losing it all ripped him apart. But Watson was happy. Nothing else (his mind had at first supplied nobody else – was he already starting to slip into madness? – on second thought, that wasn’t so wrong) mattered.

Chapter Text

At the time, it had been a nightmare. He was the brawn, the hand holding the rifle, and the Professor was the brain pointing it. Never mind how much admiration the former colonel held for his boss, he was not like the doctor. They weren’t meant for long-term cohabitation, just conversations – short and to the point – issuing the necessary orders. Afterwards, everyone would go back to his own well-ordered life and habits.

Because both thrived on order – it was just was order of the opposite kind to each other’s. True, it might seem ironic that they would, when their common job spread just the opposite in the world (common people would say), but odder things happened every day.  

Then the goddamned detective had forced them into close quarters – because the Professor preferred keeping his remaining weapons close at hand in such a dire circumstance, and Moran definitely qualified as one.

It was a quick discovery that this was an abysmal decision, though. The sniper managed to persuade his boss that keeping the lowest possible profile was the best choice for the moment. While he was used to much worse conditions, Moriarty couldn’t stop couldn’t stop grousing about the discomforts caused by anything below top quality, be it train or food or room. The former soldier found an arduous task not rolling his eyes all the time.

It was even worse when the Professor decided they had to share a room, afraid of Holmes sneaking on him despite his bodyguard being in the adjoining room, as Moran had thought it would be. Yes, the detective and his companion were supposed to be prey in this game, but cornered prey of any species will often attempt to strike back.

Only, forcing a lark (Moran, the habit of oversleeping definitely beaten out of him in the army) and a night owl (because apparently the best cogitation is done when most of the other people are asleep, hence quiet and not likely to interrupt one’s train of thought)  to share a room is not the best idea.

They reached a compromise – the sniper giving up the most, of course – but the morning after saw another small-scale war, for the most ridiculous reason. Moran was still unable to sleep in, despite the late night. Having woken up anyway, standing guard seemed the most reasonable thing to do. Sadly, the man didn’t function before his morning coffee. Not wanting to leave his boss alone for any longer than necessary, he’d brought a cup of the beverage back to their room...only to discover, thanks to loud – if broken – complaints, that waking up to the smell of the dreadful beverage made the Professor nauseous.

All in all, they’d spent a few very uncomfortable, downright aggravating days. Still, the sniper would have given anything to spend once again every waking hour listening to his (even so) favourite genius’ frustrated whining.      

Chapter Text

 Watson was a tidy man. Or, well, he always thought he was. Even if sharing a home with Sherlock Chaos-With-A-System Holmes for almost a decade might have slightly skewed his perception. Which was why he was so surprised when, during married life, so often things played hide and seek with him.

He didn’t want to believe that either Mary or that awful maid of theirs would move his things for the pleasure of watching him rooting around helplessly. So, he’d rather entertain the impossible thought that either his possessions had suddenly gained life – and an impish spirit to boot – or his memory was starting to fail.

Whatever might be the truth, this led to the good doctor delving into random drawers one morning – his work hours looming close – until he gave up and shouted, “Mary, have you seen my...”

He didn’t need to shout, because she was already at his side before he could end the sentence, offering the watch he’d been looking for. That lead to a quick kiss of thanks and Watson’s hasty exit...But a detail had caught his attention, and that evening (the lunch hour had been occupied by an urgent house call), he asked after the subject. “Anything in particular you wish for Christmas, love?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m not in need of anything, dear. I’m sure I’ll love whatever catches your fancy.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to answer like that to please me, you know. I’d be most happy if I can satisfy some whim of yours. I want to be able to give you the best, Mary...and to be honest, there’s a thing I noticed this morning, so I thought you might want a new one,” the doctor replied warmly. They were married, and in love. She shouldn’t be shy around him.

“What?” his wife asked, sounding honestly puzzled.

“I’m afraid I opened one of your drawers by accident... and the hair ribbon in it – on top of all the other things – however beautiful, was rather faded and slightly frayed. Might it be time for a new one?” Watson explained, hoping to have cleared enough that he didn’t question Mary’s taste for her not to be offended by a critique to her choice of hair fastener.

She surprised him by laughing. “Men!” she blurted out among peals of giggles. “You see me every day, and didn’t even notice I’ve never worn it. I do know better, John, don’t worry.”

“Then why...?” he retorted, reddening slightly out of embarrassment.

“Why is it on top, right at hand?” she concluded for him.

He nodded. She read his mind too, sometimes. Good, because with Holmes, he got used to it.

Her laughter suddenly died. “It was my mother’s,” she explained, voice suddenly soft. “I did wear it a lot as a kid. It made me feel close to her. And even today, sometimes I’ll just open the drawer and...stare at it.”

For this, he had no retort aloud. Instead, he just hugged her tight. There would certainly never be replacing that one ribbon.        

Chapter Text

Inspector Gregson was absolutely livid when he heard that Lestrade would receive a promotion at the end of the month. Until then, their careers had run parallels since the day they both joined (which happened to be the same). It was since the days they patrolled together that they’d developed a competitive sort of friendship... One that, Gregson was sure, had helped them furthering their careers. But for all the friendly sniping at each other, none outmatched the other. So why now? It just wasn’t fair!

The inspector – momentarily off duty – had been grousing a long while to anybody who would hear him out, in the nearest pub to the Yard. He probably bored people to tears, but most knew better than engage him in conversation, or offer more than a vague sympathetic murmur.

One of the younger constables had definitely had too much to drink – and probably little sense of self-preservation to begin with – because he finally remarked aloud, “Well, you have to admit he closed twice the cases you did this year!”

“He closed? He closed? Ah! That’s a good one! Everyone knows that he’s always running to Baker Street!” Gregson retorted, outraged. To be fair, Lestrade wasn’t ‘always’ recurring to the consulting detective. But his rival – since that case he’d worked together with Lestrade years ago – had never looked for Holmes’ help.

“Yeah, he is,” the other man nodded slowly, “and you could, too, you know. Lestrade has not reserved the man. He’ll work with any of us that brings him a puzzle.”

“I’ll work under my own power, thank you very much,” the inspector bit back, frowning. He loved his job, and was proud of it. He would not follow a random civilian’s direction, even an awfully smart one.

“And that’s why he gets promoted and you don’t. Don’t you know? The lower ranks are supposed to know how to do the job. The higher ranks’ job is to pick whom is best put on the job to get it done...and Lestrade has clearly shown he has that mindset already,” the anonymous constable slurred.

Of course, people joined up to remove him from the pub afterwards. The inevitable fight was best taken outside.          

Chapter Text

Holmes had missed his Watson very much, during his retirement years. So, when he fell prey to a summer cold (these ones where always the worst), if he called his doctor instead of going to the village’s medical practitioner, he could be excused.

Despite the years gone by, his former flatmate hadn’t lost the habit to come whenever summoned, and by the evening he was installed in the cottage. He wouldn’t say as much, but he was worried – illness at their age was never to be shrugged off, and Holmes especially had taxed his body for decades.

Luckily, be it Watson’s medical prowess or his sheer companionship strengthening the former detective – mood and will to heal often had as much to do with healing than medicines – in a few days Holmes was feeling better, and able to take a walk in the garden.

He was in for an unpleasant surprise, though. One of his hives (thankfully only one) had been ravaged, so many tiny dead bodies littering the ground. The murderers were quickly located – wasps had dared to invade his sanctuary.

Holmes couldn’t help it. “I asked you to overlook the hives while I was ill!” he chided his companion. After all, he hadn’t needed constant supervision. Watson had all the time, while he rested, to take a walk in the garden and check no catastrophes happened.       

“Sorry,” his friend apologised. “As long as something yellow and black is flying around, I’m afraid I don’t get the difference. I know, I know, I see but I don’t observe.”

Feeling guilty for his outburst – he knew it was unwarranted, and honestly, Watson should have chided him – the beekeper quipped, “No, sorry, I should have known. It just means you’ll have to stay a bit longer, if you can. Or we could plan some other holiday for you. We need to teach you the basics, if I’m ever going to need your help again, after all.”     

Chapter Text

Watson, leaving for the day, had casually mentioned, “I will probably be later than usual today, Holmes. After work I have a few house calls to make. You know, winter season, everyone seems to be down with something or another.”

Too casually, in fact. It was obvious that he was lying to anyone who was not blind. But he hadn’t asked for his cheque book back, and he certainly hadn’t touched the consulting detective’s desk, so he would not be out gambling. Whatever secret his Boswell thought he should keep, he was certainly entitled to them. Especially today that Holmes had a secret mission of his own.

So, instead of calling his flatmate out on it, the sleuth countered, just as airily, “I won’t even notice. There is something that I wanted to examine further since a few weeks, and I thought I would go to St. Barts and make use of their superior equipment. Besides, I feel that Mrs. Hudson will approve of me taking my experiments out of the house.”

“She certainly will,” the doctor agreed, before leaving with a smile.

Holmes really did go to the hospital’s laboratory. Watson’s deductive abilities were nowhere on par with his own, but he had friends – very chatty friends, damn and bless Stamford at the same time – which might have blown his cover. He just didn’t stay nearly as long as he’d meant to suggest.

After all, Christmas was nearing. A good book was always a perfect gift – and hopefully it would offer Watson a less lurid entertainment than the ones his friend seemed to pick up on his own.

He was peering along the shelves, looking for something that might catch the doctor’s interest and respect his own quality standards, when he bumped into someone else. His fault, really – or perhaps a shared one, but he couldn’t blame anyone if they were just as focused on the books as he was.

There was an immediate, simultaneous, “Sorry,” from the both of them...and it was enough to make the consulting detective’s eyes turn from the books in surprise. He knew that voice. He knew it very well indeed.

They should have been embarrassed, really, but great minds think alike, and it’s not like they were doing anything shameful. So, instead, Watson grinned at him and quipped, “Did you realise that you lack a reference book necessary for your experiments?”

“No, I just decided to check if there was an actual monograph on what I’m studying, though I found some of them are less than accurate. Were you calling at the house of a sickly child and are they so desperately bored that they begged you to pick up a new book for them?” Holmes bit back, smiling just as much.

“You could say that, yes,” the doctor confirmed, mirth dancing in his eyes.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t want to interfere. I’ll see you back at home,” the detective stated, ostentatiously moving further along. He was tempted to peek, or even direct Watson’s choice, but his flatmate knew him very well indeed. He preferred trusting him and being surprised. He didn’t doubt that it would be a fine choice.

“Later,” Watson replied, rather happy that he was buying almost everyone books this year. Even if Holmes observed him, the sleuth couldn’t possibly deduce what he picked as his gift. If he was lucky, not even the genre.

Chapter Text

 Mycroft had been told he could name his little brother, or sister, when the baby would be born. He honestly didn’t know if it was a way to make him feel involved, a test, or sheer laziness on his parents’ part.

In any case, he took the duty very seriously. He was almost seven years old already – practically a man! – so he applied to the task like he did to everything else. He started studying, for hours and hours. So many names to consider. Sound, significance, possible nicknames, whether it looked good paired with their last name or not...if he was less brilliant, he would have made a big, multi-coloured spreadsheet to account for all the variables. As it was, he kept it all in his mind, deleting names that were unworthy of his soon to be born sibling and keeping some for further examination

.When the big day came – a few days earlier than expected, and disrupting everyone’s holiday, which seemed to become a running theme in his little brother’s life – Mycroft had not still found the one and only perfect name, though he was down to a triad. He had to improvise. Well, he might as well get used to working under pressure.

Meeting his baby brother for the first time, Mycroft was enchanted by a tiny tuft of blonde curls. Well, that settled it. Sherlock. He rather liked it, because a nickname could be Sher, which sounded like dear in grandma Vernet’s language, even if the spelling was different. And it meant fair-haired. Certainly it would fit.

Nobody objected, either (to this day, Mycroft had no idea why they hadn’t) and his choice was sealed. Imagine his horror when, three years later, Sherlock’s hair darkened. Not to a honeyed blonde, or fiery blonde, but to a brown so dark it looked almost black in the right (wrong) lighting.

The eldest child asked mummy how to stop him, but it appeared that was a thing children did, and there was no way to make it go back to its lovely gold. Secretly, Mycroft would be forever persuaded that his little brother had done so in purpose. To his consolation, it was the only time – for decades – that Sherlock managed to prove his big brother wrong.         

Chapter Text

It was Christmas Eve, and Watson had been invited to an evening reception by some colleagues. He’d been looking forward to it for a solid week. With his relatives gone, the holidays could have become a sad affair indeed. The Watsons had always been a warm-hearted family, and Christmas – in the memories of his youth – was always a busy, lovely moment. With plenty of parties and merriment and games and laughter.

As for Holmes, he had no invitation for the evening, and was perfectly satisfied with it. The detective was someone who appreciated deeply his brother’s club, which provided all the comforts while explicitly forbidding, at the same time, any interaction further than a polite nod. For him and the other Diogenes enthusiasts, being forced to mingle, inquire – for politeness’ sake – about things he’d already deduced and did not care a jot about, and possibly gossip sounded like hell. Especially since there wouldn’t even be the reward of a puzzle to solve in it for him, this time.

No, he’d been remiss lately – between a few interesting cases and the lethargy that possessed him afterwards. His papers had grown more and more numerous and scattered about. There was no reason that Christmas Eve could not be an evening of filing and tidying up his documents. Mrs. Hudson would certainly appreciate it. If he kept himself busy, he wouldn’t even notice Watson’s absence for the evening, surely. Much less miss him.

The weather surprised both of them. As much as a ‘white Christmas’ could look postcard desirable, a sudden, violent snowstorm raging and in less than a hour trapping everyone inside their own abodes – and woe to the ones who did not have one! – was more of an inconvenience than a happy circumstance. Watson looked forlornly from the window to the deserted, snowy street, like a child who’d been unfairly punished.  

 “I’m sorry for you, my dear boy, but at least you’ll certainly not be the only one missing it. They’ll have to reschedule, and obviously they’ll invite you again,” the detective pointed out reasonably.

“Of course, you’re right,” the doctor agreed, his frown lightening. “I didn’t mean to imply that I was disappointed with your company, Holmes.”

Mrs. Hudson interrupted them with a spontaneous offering of hot chocolate and freshly baked ginger biscuits, bless her. It might look like a technique more suited to dealing with children, but both her tenants had quite the sweet tooth, and she figured it might be appreciated, as it indeed was.      

As for Holmes, he decided the papers would keep another day or two, and – after gaining his consent – regaled his flatmate with a true concert. Christmas carols, Watson’s favourite pieces, and as conclusion, a fantasy of his own composition. It might be wordless, but his deep affection was evident all the same in the music.

Later on, before retiring to bed, the doctor remarked, with a soft smile, “Today’s snowstorm was a rather lucky event after all. I enjoyed myself home more than I could possibly do anywhere else.”

Chapter Text

Holmes had never minded spending a Christmas working on a case. After all, he didn’t need a traditional party, much less an obligatory family get-together. He believed himself immune from the sentiment people attached to the holiday. He respected its religious significance, but that notwithstanding, the sleuth thought that too many expectations and feelings, both sure to lead to disappointment, had been piled on the day.

It seemed he was not the pure reasoner he had always fancied himself to be, though. Christmas 1891 saw him in Brazil. The ties Moriarty had in North America, once dismantled, had given him a lead to follow to the south of the continent. He should have been busy working, by all rights. But it was Christmas, and the traces he was following had cooled, and more than keeping up his investigation, he felt like grousing. This wasn’t what Christmas was supposed to be.

For one, being in the other hemisphere meant that the weather was downright sweltering. His brain would melt and drip out of his ears, he was sure. How was he supposed to work like that? Not even the hottest of London’s summers had ever been so stuffy.

And for another...the consulting detective thought he’d never wish to visit people because the occasion mandated him to. But seeing happy family and friends revel in public venues...well, that stung. He’d never imagined that he would stoop so low as to miss Mycroft. They worked best the rarer they met, after all. Still, if he got too maudlin he could wire his brother. He’d better be prepared for at the very least months of teasing, but he could have.

But Watson...well, that was another matter entirely. He’d spent the last ten Christmas of his life with Watson. If he was on a case, the doctor followed. When his friend married, he was invited to an intimate celebration, and Mary seemed sincerely happy to have him join them, despite his regularly leading her beloved husband into danger.

The detective always missed his Boswell – every hour of every day, since heartlessly (for his own good) abandoning him at the Reichenbach Falls. But today – oh, today it was worse. Watson often compared him to a hound. Well, it appeared he could be trained as well as any dog, with enough repetition and rewards. His heart had been conditioned to expect his friend’s company. As often as possible, but certainly today, of all the days of the year.

The lack of him, though something he should have gotten used to (even if he failed miserably) in the past months, suddenly felt as sharply wrong as a sudden change in some fundamental, comfortingly constant physics’ law. There was only a conclusion his troubled, overheated mind could draw to make sense of this reality. Today wasn’t Christmas after all.                                         

Chapter Text

After the Garribeds’ case, they joke about it. The awful aim of the younger generation. How criminals are becoming less and less clever, or perhaps people more gullible. Moriarty would have never concocted a plan like that – it’s a surprise that their client took the bait at all.

But jokes aside, there’s something that remains heavy and bitter inside the detective’s soul. Watson could have died. Hell, he should have, if Evans’ nickname wasn’t clearly empty boasting. Seriously, in such close quarters, and in an enclosed space, and hence with no wind to take into account, managing to just graze your opponent is ridiculous.

They’ve affectionately called each other old boy since the start. But the beginning of their friendship was decades ago, and now their hair has gone grey and – however fit – they’re obviously much less sprightly. Twenty years ago, they would have been on the man and subdued him before Evans had a chance to shoot. The consulting detective’s brain is as sharp as ever – of course it is, honestly it is rare to find s challenging puzzle nowadays – but his transport is more easily overcome. It feels unfair, but aging seems to be the only available way to live a long life, as Auber would say, with all its inconveniences. They still have decades to enjoy – that is, unless a younger, remorseless criminal with a better aim does them in.

There had been a time when Holmes hadn’t minded dying for (on) a case. But now... well, he wouldn’t be dying alone, that’s the crux of the matter. The good doctor – despite being a handful of years his senior – is way too stubborn to let him chase criminals on his own. Watson would be outraged if he suggested such a solution, and with good reason.

That left only one avenue open, didn’t it? He’d retire. Without being involved in criminal cases anymore, the both of them could look forward to the happy decades they deserve (his friend especially). He was – they were – too old for criminal investigations, however much he didn’t like to admit it. The soon to be former sleuth would certainly find some branch of science to apply his mind to, in the future.

Besides, Hopkins had learned his methods (well, most of them at least). The police force does not strictly need his services anymore, now that they had one of their own properly trained. That would make for a proper justification of his decision. He’d inform Watson in the morning.

Chapter Text

Holmes and Mrs. Hudson have had multiple spats during the detective’s tenancy. Mostly, the doctor would take their housekeeper’s side, if he took any side at all, and try to bring his friend and flatmate to see reason.

Nightly concerts would disturb everyone’s sleep – not just the poor housekeeper’s and various household staff’s, but his own, thank you very much, and the neighbours, who were complaining, so could Holmes kindly try to stop it?

Experiments were a noble endeavour, but this was the third tine the curtains burned down and had to be replaced, so at the very least watch over them properly and keep something at end to put chemical fires out with, Holmes, what would the client think if they came to a charred smelling sitting room?

Indoor gun practice is simply not on, Holmes. No way. I don’t care how patriotic you’re being, find another pastime.

Which is why their long-suffering housekeeper was shocked to find no support during their latest spat, after her spring cleaning of the whole flat (which had Holmes in a foul mood to begin with). “But doctor Watson, he knows how these things work – I checked the closet afterwards, and he has them! I saw a moth flying out of a hole in that old, ratty chest of his – no idea why he won’t get rid of it, honestly – and so I had to open it. Inside, there was the worst collection of ruined rags I’ve ever seen. It’ll take me a month to recuperate the ones that can be saved, I swear. In the meantime, I added some mothballs. He caught me in the act and if I’d been hiding a dead body, well, he might have made him less angry!”

Watson sighed. “I’m surprised he didn’t explain, he must have been frustrated with the cleaning in the first place. You see, Mrs. Hudson, you were entirely defeating the purpose,” he replied.

“What?” she countered, still clearly puzzled.

“These are Holmes’ costumes – well, some of them. If he needs to pretend to belong to the lower classes, to acquire information without making his targets suspicious, he needs to look the part. And a moth-chewed hole or two will do wonders to persuade whomever sees him that he’s really desperate for money. After all, as you illustrated brilliantly just now, nobody would expect a man to purposefully don holes-riddled clothes, much less ensure they were rags,” Watson explained, smiling.

“Oh. I’ll have to apologise, won’t I?” Mrs. Hudson groaned.      

Chapter Text

Mycroft coming to visit Baker Street was always a sort of event. It didn’t happen normally, and it meant that the elder brother had something either urgent or very dear to his heart (of course he had one, though certainly not on his sleeve, he wasn’t an idiot) to discuss. Possibly both.

The holiday season was no exception to the rule. Mycroft Holmes did not make social calls. Which is why Sherlock chose the direct approach, “What do you need this time, brother mine?”

“There will be a party coming Sunday,” the government official announced, ensconcing himself in the absent doctor's armchair. Which was the reason of the glare his sibling levelled his way was, at this point, a toss-up.

“You should know better than come here with such propositions,” the detective retorted, crossing his arms.

“I normally would, but this is a special occasion. The party is organised by a charitable organisation I can personally vouch for, Sherlock,” Mycroft brought up, with an earnest look.

“Meaning you founded it even if no one in London is probably informed of that little fact. Not that I can blame you using your influence for such an aim. I’ll be making a donation, of course. But I still fail to see how my presence at your party might be useful,” the sleuth remarked, his glare diminishing.

“You’re correct, of course. Why, you can even claim to have inspired me. What with the interest you take in your urchins. You look after your children, do you not?” the elder one quipped.

Sherlock frowned. “Really, Mycroft. You make it sound like I’m responsible of several... indiscretions. I simply find them useful – necessary, even – and of course I want to ensure they’ll be well when I have need of their help. You haven’t answered my question, you know. Avoidance tactics won’t work with me.”

Mycroft allowed himself a chuckle. “Of course I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. We both know you would never do anything like that. Fine, I’ll come clean. I need your presence because the good doctor turned  you into something of a celebrity, and boasting your presence will attract curious people – curious people who might donate very generously. I know a lady or two who have been literally begging me to introduce them to you, brother mine. Yes, I’d be using you. But it’s for a worthy cause.”

The consulting detective paled. “You want me to go to a party and interact with fans?” It wasn’t a screech, but it was close.

“Not necessarily interact. They’ll lap up a standoffish demeanour. Women are so illogic. But if I can make a suggestion, you might bring along something to block unwanted conversation and entertain my guests,” his brother suggested.

“The violin. You want me to play at your charity ball,” Sherlock mentioned aloud. It was obvious, but it was always best to specify things when dealing with Mycroft...in detail.

"Of course you wouldn’t be the only one. There are a few members of the Royal Philarmonic Orchestra I managed to rope into participating,” the government official mentioned casually.

Hook, line and sinker. Sherlock had been hounding him about meeting the woodwinds’ players of that orchestra for too long to pass up the occasion.

“My Stradivarius and I will be present at your party. It’s for the greater good, isn’t it?” the consulting detective agreed, an eager glint in his eyes.

“Of course. Thank you very much, brother mine. I’ll let you know the details – I’m still fine-tuning the party’s organization,” Mycroft concluded, raising himself from the armchair. And another thing accomplished. Seriously, people were so easy to manipulate.          

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes was informed of the Phelps blunder. Of course he was – not by the young man’s uncle, naturally, the Foreign Secretary would have preferred no one at all be informed of the accident. But Watson consulted him immediately – any political affair befell under the elder Holmes’ jurisdiction for its circulation.

While normally Mycroft would have asked to keep it indefinitely under wraps, this time he allowed his brother’s Boswell to publish as soon as the treaty would not be a secret among diplomats. It would hopefully be a warning for the boy’s colleagues to have one of their own exposed to a vast public’s blame.

The politician knew of the nepotism often practiced by his peers, and really, in some cases it made sense. Having people groomed for a career since young, aware of a family tradition to uphold... that meant that when they were picked up they were motivated and not entirely clueless.

Still, there had to be limits to that. He didn’t care how powerful Lord Holdhurst was, how brilliant himself or how deservedly honoured. If one’s young relative was foolish enough to ignore the function of a bell, or restless enough to neglect it in favour of stretching his legs (and who could know that about a man better than one’s family?), he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere close secret treatises. Preferably, not anywhere close to any office job handling somehow sensitive information. Not even if he belonged to the royal family.

His own brother was brilliant, but had Mycroft suggested he be hired by any government department? Of course not. Sherlock would have driven the whole bureaucracy insane in a week, and caused international incidents hourly just to have something fun to do containing the damage. If anything, Mycroft would have vehemently discouraged his brother from following his footsteps, but luckily Sherlock had never been tempted to do so.  

The young Phelps could have the best grades an university had ever seen, the elder Holmes didn’t care. Percy was clearly not cut for his job. He would have a talk with the Foreign Secretary and strongly suggest a reassignment of the young man. Why, they would do better to hire his wife-to-be in his stead.

Mycroft had always had strong ideals. Politics was far from a deeply ethical job, obviously. You had to make deals with unpleasant people and lie and generally forget most of your Sunday school’s teachings. But if people forgot to act for the good of the nation – that they were meant to serve the people, not treat the government as a source of benefices...Well, then Mycroft started to despair of what the future of Great Britain would be.          

Chapter Text

It was the first thing he’d mentioned about himself – the bull pup. Whyever the man had thought it might discourage anyone from cohabitation, Holmes still wasn’t sure. A short-barrelled revolver was not a fault in a man. If anything, it had been a gift from Heaven. With his profession, a companion with a firearm and the willingness and ability to protect him was only one more of Watson’s near-infinite qualities.

Then again, perhaps it had been a simple warning not to startle him awake. You don’t do that to a (former) soldier who still keeps his gun handy. Not if you expect to live long. Well, there were ways to pull Watson gently out of his dreams, and the sleuth had soon experimented all of them.

Now, though, he wouldn’t need to bother anymore. His Boswell was marrying, and he and his gun would become his wife’s problem now. Not that Holmes expected the kind woman to often have sudden need of her husband’s help in the wee hours of the night.

Hence, it was time for a gift. Or, in his case, multiple gifts (Mycroft had talked some sense into him, but could not dissuade him entirely). Besides a more traditional token, Holmes had got Watson, for his wedding...a bullpup. A tiny thing, with fawn coat and intelligent eyes. “It’s already housebroken, don’t worry,” he mentioned, mirth in his eyes. “But after the way all the clients insisted looking around for traces of a dog in our rooms, though they tried to do so covertly, I thought it was time you stopped disappointing your loving public.”

If Watson would have laughed at that or been irritated, even the consulting detective wasn’t sure. But Mary started cooing on sight, clearly enamoured with the small creature – maybe her maternal instinct acting up? – so the doctor’s only reaction was a smile and a heartfelt thanks. Anything that brought her this much joy couldn’t be criticised. “We’ll have to make a guard dog out of him, though. I refuse a bull pup of mine to be helpless in time of danger.”   

Chapter Text

The landlord of the rooms in Montague Street was a deeply annoying man, with all sorts of ideas about what should and should not go on in a proper household. There was a reason Holmes spent most of his time outside the flat, ensconced at the British Museum, or at Bart’s, or anywhere else he could find, if not a welcome, at least a degree of tolerance. Seriously, he paid for the rooms, so unless he was breaking the law (which he wasn’t), the young, ambitious consulting detective failed to see what business it was of anyone what he did in the privacy of his (rented) abode.

Until, after a number of small accidents, which the house owner groused at irrational length about, there was a fire. A tiny fire, for sure, really, nothing more than the curtain and a slightly singed rug. Holmes managed to put it out himself without even asking for anyone’s intervention. But the man was already on his way to complain about something or other (probably his music), and when he saw that, he lost it.

Now, Holmes rather liked having a roof on his head, so he’d long learned to tune out the man. But when the screams ended in his landlord not requiring repayment of some sort, but throwing the not-smoking part of his chemical equipment out of the window, something had to be done. In quick succession, the young sleuth subdued the older but enraged man and informed him haughtily that he would be out of the house by the end of the week. This situation couldn’t go on. What if the next time the clearly not compos sui proprietor damaged something irreplaceable, like his violin?

There was much yelling still, but his plan was accepted by the homeowner, whose eye now held a glint of wariness. That meant having to browse for rooms to let. And it was then that, surprising even himself, Sherlock Holmes fell in love. No, not with a person (or at least, not yet). With a flat. He saw a number of places, most of whom looked unfit for animal survival, much less human. Honestly, the lack of shame of some lessors was incredible.

But the flat in Baker Street...Well, it was not perfect – it lacked a bit of personality, which could easily be obtained with some decoration on his part – but it was as close to ideal as he’d ever seen. The big table next to the window, perfect for experiments. A hearth which drew well, with a high-backed armchair conveniently placed next to it (well, two). Plenty of room for his archive. He had to have this house.

The only drawback was the price. He couldn’t afford it – not until his cases were a lot more regular.  But the flat had two bedrooms. The owner (absent at the moment, but the housekeeper knew all the details and seemed to have the run of the building) did not mind who occupied the rooms – if a family, or friends, or unrelated gentlemen who just needed a convenient place. Not if they paid on time, at least.

Now, it was only a question to find a flatmate who would agree to share a house with him. In a week. Not easy, not with his deducing habit and the reaction of most people to that. (Keeping a flatmate in the long run would be a lost cause, he already knew.)    The only thing he could do was to let everyone he knew of his quandary and pray for the best. Maybe one of his acquaintances knew a man desperate enough – or hated the man enough – to suggest him flatsharing with Sherlock Holmes as a viable option. The consulting detective would have never dared to hope that the very same day would have brought him a companion. Much less a lifelong one.