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It was a pretty enough night. The moonlight reflecting off the snow gave them the light needed to see the drive they walked along and there was a promising glow around the next curve, no doubt some manor lit up for a party. But Watson was seventy-two years old and neither he nor his aching joints should have to put up with this sort of thing anymore, regardless of his affection for the great, and sometimes retired, detective.
"Holmes, you still haven't answered my question. What brings us here tonight, of all nights, when we have a perfectly cozy fire waiting for us and the housekeeper has promised hot chocolate?" There was snow down Watson's boots, and though it had melted that didn't make it much warmer. The mulled brandy they'd enjoyed earlier seemed like a long-distant memory.
Holmes tromped on for some moments before replying. "Legend has it, if you sit under a pine tree on Christmas Eve, you can hear angels singing." He left the drive where they had been walking and struck out across country, heading into the deeper shadows of an ornamental copse not far from the house itself.
Watson sighed and, as usual, followed, feeling for Holmes's footprints as he went along. The footprints led under a pine, of course. Watson gamely fought his way through the snow that had drifted up around the tree and past the branches to Holmes's side. At least the tree — and Holmes — managed to mitigate the force of the wind somewhat.
And without warning a breathtaking voice was borne upon that wind, a voice that could only come from the throat of an angel, a voice that—
Holmes pushed a branch to one side and gestured across the lawn. Through the french doors of the drawing room, Watson could see a singer standing by a piano. She was lovely, her expression beatific as she moved through a series of fluid gestures in accompaniment to her song.
A shadowy figure stepped away from a gazebo, only to be tackled to the ground by someone emerging from the carriage house. Holmes blew a whistle and dogs burst from a corner, bounding across the yard, circling the struggling figures. The song in the drawing room broke off as the audience surged to the doors to see the cause of such a ruckus.
"Coming, Watson?" As Holmes emerged into the light, his smile could only be described as smug.
Once they were inside the house, snow knocked off and jackets surrendered into the custody of the butler, Watson was almost too distracted by trying to get feeling back into his toes to pay attention to Holmes's enlightening monologue on how the singer was working with a burglar, using gestures to communicate information about the house's layout, staff routines, and the best targets.
The singer and her accomplice had worked together so smoothly in the past, taking only an assortment of small and valuable items, that people had thought their guests or various servants were stealing. The burglaries had often been hushed up or confined to gossip and social backstabbing instead of reports to the police. It had taken Sherlock Holmes to see the pattern, and Holmes to set up the sting.
Billie had been waiting in the carriage house to tackle the burglar and a dog trainer was waiting with dogs in one of the outbuildings. A constable had been at the piano to apprehend the singer when the time came. Once Holmes had set everything up, his role consisted of showing up and lending his name to the proceedings.
And for the rest of the evening Holmes was the center of the party, surrounded by people who admired the famous detective and wanted to bask in the glow of his genius. Watson managed to thwart a couple of old men who thought that he might find suitable inspiration in stories of their youth, then slipped off into the kitchen. The cook put up with him tolerably well, as a man of trade in the working areas of the house, and even came up with a cup of hot cocoa as Watson warmed himself by the stove. It was quite into Christmas morning by the time the host sent Watson and Holmes back in a carriage, hot bricks at their feet.
"I had hoped…" Holmes began, then stopped and sighed. "You always seemed to enjoy…."
"Holmes?" Watson ventured, after giving the detective ample chance to finish his thought. "Did you do this for me?"
Holmes sighed again. "I realize that I'm not so very terribly exciting anymore. I wanted to show you a little of that… magic… we used to have together."
Watson put one arm over Holmes's shoulders and pulled him close for a moment. "You will never need to entertain me to impress me. I will always find you riveting." He broke into a yawn. "That said, I think I could find you most comfortably enthralling back at the cottage in front of the fire."
The ride back felt even longer than the walk to the party. The carriage dropped them off in front of the small, homely cottage. They tromped past the snow decked branches in the garden and through their familiar front door. The housekeeper had already left for the day, but Watson stirred the fire up and put the kettle on before they even hung their outerwear on the hooks beside the door. Soon each of them had a mug and was settled back into his accustomed chair.
Holmes twined his long, lean bestockinged feet with Watson's. They warmed themselves and each other by the fire, all the Christmas magic they needed close at hand.