Work Text:
In the waning days of 1884, circumstances and duty called me away from Baker Street. An old acquaintance from my Army days wrote me in mid-November, asking for my professional advice. By early December, it was clear to me that he would both appreciate and benefit from my personal attendance while he underwent treatment for his complaint. Accordingly, I made the necessary arrangements, packed a bag, and bid farewell to Holmes and Mrs Hudson in the firm belief that I would be back within a fortnight at most.
Holmes waved a lazy hand at me from where he sat in his armchair, placidly smoking his pipe. He was clearly in one of his mellow moods. “Take your time, dear fellow, and enjoy the change of scenery. Mrs Hudson’s decorations can wait a few extra days and no one shall take any harm, I assure you.”
I laughed, well understanding his joke. Holmes, while happy enough to enjoy Christmas dinner and Christmas presents, did not particularly appreciate the sprigs of holly, ivy, and other Christmas evergreens that Mrs Hudson placed around 221. Last year, I had been well enough to assist her and the servants in decorating, and had even brought a few bits of seasonal greenery into our own sitting-room. Holmes had greeted the appearance of these decorations with resigned forbearance at best. He much preferred his own clutter to remain uninfringed-upon.
My Army friend’s course of treatment went well enough. I was able to provide timely assistance, advice, and a friendly ear, all of which were appreciated both by the patient and by the doctor treating him. It was, I admit, rather enjoyable to have my efforts and opinion valued so openly. It was a salve to my professional confidence that I had not even realized I needed, with my return to regular medical practice still hindered by my ongoing recovery. I was happy to agree to stay long enough for a small celebratory dinner on the 18th, with the idea that I would leave the following morning for London. I wired Holmes accordingly, and received a typically terse reply:
ACKNOWLEDGED STOP ENJOY STOP SH FINAL STOP
I do not know what went wrong with that dinner. It tasted well enough. But something must have been spoiled or otherwise off, for that night, every single one of us who had dined became miserably ill. I myself was not as quickly affected as my friend, his housekeeper, and his cook, but I too succumbed just as the first messages of illness came in from the households of others who had come to the party. Once I did fall ill, it seemed to affect me more severely than anyone else. My friend was relatively well again within a day, but it was several days before I felt well enough to consider travel.
I did think to have one of the servants unaffected by the illness take down a brief message and send a wire to Holmes about the unfortunate change in plans. The next day, while still quite ill, I received the following response:
MOST UNFORTUNATE STOP PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF SWIFTLY STOP SH FINAL STOP
The mild absurdity made me smile despite feeling wretched.
I finally left my friend’s house on the afternoon of December 22nd and boarded the local train that would take me to the main line, where I would change trains for London.
Circumstances again conspired against me. The weather was already taking a turn for the worse when I left my friend’s house. By the time the local train left the station, wind and sleet were sheeting sideways. About halfway to the main line, our train stopped at a small station, and there we were forced to stay. A tree had blown over, blocking the tracks further down the line, and the weather made it impossible for workers to clear it. We had to wait out the storm as best we could. The station, small as it was, did have a telegraph office. I waited in line to wire the news to Holmes and then followed my fellow passengers into the village.
Fortunately, the hamlet where we stopped had a fairly large inn, and relatively few customers in this, their slow season, until our unexpected arrival. The innkeeper and his staff did their best to make us all welcome and accommodate us to the best of their ability. Additional helpers appeared, undoubtedly recruited from the local villagers. Rooms were opened and aired out as best they could without letting in the storm, linens were brought out of storage, and the fire was built up in the common room and kept blazing merrily day and night, providing extra warmth for those who found the unheated rooms too cold to sleep in.
And it was cold, both when we arrived and in the ensuing days. Strong winds and sleet turned into heavy snow that quickly froze into hard drifts. We were essentially snowed in for almost a week while we waited for the train line to be cleared.
The morning after our unexpected halt to our journey, a young boy waded through the snow to deliver telegrams from the station telegraph office to our inn. Among them was one for me, from Holmes:
WATSON STOP INN COOK LIKELY BETTER THAN YOUR FRIENDS STOP SMALL BLESSING STOP MRS HUDSON WILL DELAY GOOSE UNTIL YOUR RETURN STOP SH FINAL STOP
I chuckled. Holmes’ telegram reminded me that my circumstances could have been much worse than they actually were. I was thankful for the reminder and did my best to show the proper spirit at the Christmas Eve service in the local church, and again on Christmas Day. Not everyone was so good-natured, but most tried, particularly around children. My fellow stranded travellers, our unexpected hosts, and I even shared an odd sort of camaraderie over a somewhat improvised Christmas dinner. We were all safe, and relatively warm and fed. Still, it was not the Christmas any of us had expected, myself not least.
The weather finally allowed men to clear the tree off the tracks, and on the morning of the 28th, we were able to proceed to the main line. From there it was a relatively simple matter to complete my return to London. I arrived at Baker Street late in the afternoon, tired, chilled, and feeling as grey and leaden as the lowering skies. Even the bits of festive greenery in the entryway did not lift my spirits as I trudged up the stairs to our sitting-room.
The sight of similar bits of greenery there, however, in a room largely cleared of clutter, warmed my spirits. Holmes rose from tending a blazing coal-fire in the grate, a small but genuine smile on his face. “Ah, Watson,” he greeted me. “I consulted your Bradshaw and expected you just about this time. Mrs Hudson has an early supper planned, and in the meantime, you can see she has prepared an excellent tea.” A glance at the side-table indeed revealed a tea-pot and coffee-pot in their cosies, a plate of sandwiches, and an equally large platter of cookies and tarts. “I believe she has missed your appetite as much as you have missed her cooking. Your travels and adventures look to have cost you nearly a stone.” He paused, looking me up and down with a swift glance that undoubtedly told him much more about how I had spent the recent days. Most unusually, he refrained from saying anything more about it. “We shall enjoy a belated Christmas together. I am glad to have you back, Watson.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” I replied, touched and humbled by his obvious efforts as well as his words. “It is good to be home.”