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One pound and eighty-seven p. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Coins saved one and two at a time by going without a few times a week – easy enough when your flatmate never eats, and nearly never lets you stop to – and by frugally taking the tube instead of cabs.
Running along behind a brilliant nutter doesn't pay very well, and as the all too little pile of currency stares glumly back at him, he regrets having cut down on shifts at the surgery to do more of the aforementioned. Three times John counts it. One pound and eighty-seven p. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but make tea and carry on. So John did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of tea, strops, and smiles, with tea predominating. (Strops a close second.)
While the blogger of the home is keeping calm and soldiering on, take a look at said home. A furnished flat at ₤200 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the refrigerator was a crisper into which no vegetables would go, and a carton marked “Fingers, assorted,” which no sane person should open. Strewn would be a popular word in any descriptive writeup, but amidst the annoying mess a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes calls a certain Dr John Hamish Watson – whom you have already been introduced to – “Jawn” and thus makes him smile, which is all very good.
Having finished his tea, John stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and he had only ₤1.87 with which to buy a present for Sherlock. His Sherlock. Many a ponderous hour he had spent planning for something nice for him. Something unique and fine– something up the standards of the world's only consulting detective, and Chief Prat of the Flat.
Across the way, a parted curtain shows passerby the house's green and softly glowing centerpiece. But instead of the salutary effect a conifer might reasonably expect to confer, conifers being, at this time of year, conferrers of conviviality, its cheery form only makes the corners of our Dr Watson's mouth turn just a bit further down. ₤1.87. A resigned sigh and the move to step away from the window; these, dear friends, you observe. But then!–
As much as a stout man can whirl, he does. His eyes shining brilliantly, nearly as brilliantly as the conifer's crown, a gleaming Bethlehem star – because the classics are always in fashion, aren't they? – he bustles from the kitchen and bounds, as much a short man can, up the stairs.
Now, there were two things under the roof of 221B which they both cherished. One was Sherlock's coat. The other was John's Victoria Cross. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the street, Sherlock would have hung his coat out the window some day just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and finery. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, John would have pulled out his medal, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
Well, no– he wouldn't have, would he? John, that is. Sherlock; yes. But in any case, it is a thing of value, John's VC; moral, emotional, but also– well. Value. Coin of the realm and all that. A jingle in one's pocket, the long green, cabbage, filthy lucre, the folding stuff.
On went the jacket; on went the gloves. In went a four-pointed treasure to a safe pocket, and out went a very good man into the street.
Where he stopped the sign read: "Madame Moriarty. Trader in special goods." One flight up John ran, and collected himself, panting.
"Do you buy war medals?" he asked the beady-eyed woman behind the counter. “I've a– VC.”
“If you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes. Let's see it.”
Out came the cross, shining with valor.
"Five hundred pounds," said the dodgy proprietress, reaching for her ledger.
"Give it to me quick," said John.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. He was ransacking the stores for Sherlock's present.
He found it at last. It surely had been made for Sherlock and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the shops, and he had turned all of them inside out. It was an antique Victorian coat brush, posh and well made. Its sterling silver base held a rich velvet surface to capture lint, and one edge stood ready with boarhair to perfect nap. It was even worthy of The Coat. As soon as he saw it he knew that it must be had for Sherlock.
Five hundred and one pounds they took from him for it, and he hurries toward home with the 87p.
Unbeknownst to our happy doctor, just a block away Sherlock is not happy at all.
The shopkeep, however – a bitter, greasy, grub of a man, given to cruelty and general unpleasantness – is very happy indeed. Well– sadistic joy, more like, but grinning, certainly. Sherlock looks every inch ready to knock the Cockney's six extant teeth down his throat.
“As may be, my grammar ain't to your likin', but I'm the one who's got what you want, so you'll give me what I'm saying is the price. Ain't that right, perfesser?”
Sherlock's gloved fist twitches. But. John. And it's true, what this beast says: The item on the counter between them is the only one, and it's the one for John.
“But it's irrational- why would you want my coat? I can give you twice what the pricetag says- more than twice; I'll give you ₤1000 for it. Be sensible. It won't even fit you, given your obesity.”
Inexplicably, the fellow does not appreciate a useful observation of a relevant fact.
“So now oy's fat as well as stupid? Well. I wants what I says: yer fancy coat. Bee-spoke, yeah? Made just fer you, I'd be bettin', and a favorite thing. It'll hurt you a solid bit to have to give it to me, see?”
Sherlock narrows his eyes, swallows hard against the words seething to erupt. See he does, and all too clearly.
The December wind drives sharply through the thin cloth of his shirt, but there is warmth waiting at home.
§
Half seven, dinner held in the oven, fire churning brightly, a very nice single malt John brought back from the office holiday party last week, and someone who knows you for real: not bad, as things to come home to go.
John slips the carefully wrapped gift under a sheaf of forensic photographs strewn across the coffee table and settles into the armchair with as convincing a look of innocence as he can manage. And not a moment too soon: Door, stairs, brisk stride. Welcome home, Holmes.
Sherlock stops inside the doorway, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon John, and there was an expression in them that he knew all too well: He was being deduced.
“What's on?”
“I've no idea what you're–”
“You've something planned. What's happening? Did Mycroft put you up to-”
Oh dear friends; it wasn't supposed to be like this, Sherlock grimly suspecting a Danger Night meddling, lips pursing in contempt, eyes instantly colding up, dimming from the warm fire his thoughts on the trip home had banked! If only John had something close at hand that could immediately turn this train onto a better track.
“It's nothing like that. I- Oh, bollocks. It was supposed to be a surprise. –Here.”
“What's this?”
“Just- unwrap it. It's your present.”
“My present?”
John's outstretched hand is having to be very patient. Fortunately it is attached to a very patient man.
“Yes. Christmas. Gifts. The normal thing to do.”
Sherlock's hand, then. Reaching; what hands do.
“I- um...”
Such an articulate fellow. Known for his clever tongue.
“...uh- here. You, too.” He extends the rumply bag toward John, who impressively originally greets it:
“What's this?”
“Your present. Obviously.”
Obviously.
They stand a moment, mildly gaping at one another, bathed in firelight like saints in a manger. Wise men, these two idiots.
The plastic is crinkly, the paper rustly, all the breathing tinted with just a bit of awe.
“You first,” our boffin says, uncharacteristically.
John appears to be blushing, but surely this is just an effect of the twinkling fairy lights. As it's not proper wrapped, only traveling in its shop bag, the carved military medal display case appears quickly into the suffused glow of the room. The wood is from an ancient Joshua tree, the glass reclaimed from a ship's compass, and the hand-tooled interior made especially for cross-shaped medallions.
“Isn't it perfect, John? I went all over London hunting for something, and I knew this was it. Get your medal, let's put it into the case and set it on the mantel.”
“Oh, Sherlock.”
Armchairs are so often handily placed; just near when you want them, when a sit is a needful thing, as your head is a bit swimmy.
“It's beautiful, but-”
“But?” Sherlock's face falls four stories. “Well. It can't be returned. Donate it, if it doesn't suit you.”
Sleeves, too, are often handily situated; you can grab at one when words fail you for a moment.
Fingers strong on broadcloth; a quick hop up from the chair brings eyes level with chin. “Sherlock. The case is fantastic, it's just... I- sold the medal to buy you-” he nods, gesturing to the parcel still held unwrapped in slim white hand.
“You sold your medal? To buy me-”
He smiles, John does.
“Worth it.” More quietly: “go on, open it.”
Proper wrapped, the coatbrush makes a more dramatic delayed entrance into the room. And to boot, seems to emerge with an air of slight haughtiness – superior as it is to any ordinary such implement.
Sherlock blanches. There is a lip tremble, though one hesitates to report such a personal detail. He stares at the beautiful tool, looks back up to John, then down again.
“It's posh, yeah? The shopkeep says there's only one of its kind in the world. Hand-made for some duke or viscount or something back in the day. Just the thing for the Belstaff, I thought. D'you like it?”
But it is just now that a certain sartorial oddity will make its way into the conversation. Not being all too observant, John, having looked but not seen, now suddenly sees, looking.
“Hey. It can't be two digits out there- Where is your coat?”
“Sold.”
“Sold?”
“Yes, do catch up. Sold. To buy–" he nods, gesturing at the fine, empty case.
“Oh.”
“Indeed.”
Sociopaths, of course, don't get misty at such moments, and soldiers don't either tear up at the drop of a hat, so. Even though that's most assuredly not happening at this moment, for ten seconds let us nevertheless regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction – here, have a quiet gander at a skull.
The notion of value is one to be considered this time of year. ₤200 a week or a million a year – what's the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them.
The magi, as you know, were wise men - wonderfully wise men - who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. And here I have related to you the chronicle of two foolish men in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest.
Everywhere, that is, except perhaps 221A.
§
An old lady she is, but not dim for all that, ta. It didn't take any especial brilliance to put two and two together – John walking off in the direction of the pawn shops looking anxious, returning happy; Sherlock coming home without the coat he'd left in. (And voices do travel awfully well in the vents, dearies.)
Nor was it particularly difficult, getting their treasures back; her rainy day money in the coffee tin was enough for John's VC, and a stern scolding had a certain brute sheepishly handing Sherlock's coat back with a mumbled apology in just under forty seconds. Even the weather was accommodating, the snow waiting until she was in the last block before starting to drift down.
A soft wave of quiet greets her as she slips the black door open; the boys gone off to their beds for the night, it sounds. She'll just leave the parcel in the sitting room, something for them to wake up to on Christmas morning. Someday, if they're very lucky, they'll come to realise what this wise, gift-bearing magi already knows: Only one bedroom really needed.
There are many scenes one might enjoy coming upon 'round a doorway of a wintry holiday evening: A cosy fire burned down to just its tenderest last light; two mugs side by side, empty of tea but full of meaning. Yes, there are many things that make a heart-warming tableau of a Christmas Eve in a sitting room, but do you suppose there are any moreso than tender firelight and a companionship of mugs and, there on the sofa, the owner of a medal case and the owner of a coat brush dozing, shoulder against shoulder, and hands, languid and careless in sleep, starting a twining that portends a reprise – of the waking sort – next year?