Work Text:
“Do you remember our first Christmas?”
Startled, my hand paused, my bow falling silent on the violin strings. I glanced over at Watson. His eyes were closed, but I could tell by his breathing that he was no longer sleeping. I hadn’t imagined the question, then, as bizarre as it was. “Of course I do, my dear fellow.”
A faint smile curved Watson’s lips. “You completely surprised me that Christmas morning. I’d hardly seen you in weeks. I had convinced myself you’d entirely forgotten the holiday.”
“And yet you bought me presents anyway, and wrapped them, and placed them by my plate at the table.” I hadn’t expected the brightly-colored package, merry with gilt ribbon worked into an elaborate bow.
“Well, yes. I hadn’t forgotten it was Christmas, and I thought you might like to find your present in the morning. You were almost always up and about long before I was in those days.”
And often these days too, I could have said, but did not. Even when hale and hearty, Watson was not an early riser by nature, and kept regular waking and sleeping hours by both preference and training whenever he could. I was not an early riser myself, but when a case was on, or I had reason to be active, I could and often did work late into the night and rise before the sun. And I regularly woke before Watson did on Christmas mornings. “I was, and was most delighted to find my gifts, as I’m sure you recall.”
“Hm, yes.” Watson’s eyes opened, and I saw the fond twinkle in their depths despite the low light. “And I was just as delighted with that dressing-gown. One of the best presents I’d ever received. Doubly so, when I realized you’d had a hand in the making of it, and not just earning it through your detective work.”
I lowered my bow and violin, too astonished to even think about playing. I hadn’t thought he’d known. “How did you deduce that?”
Watson’s chuckle warmed the room. “The bottom hem never quite laid flat. A bit of the lining wasn’t even with the rest and pulled it up in one place. It wasn’t a mistake any tailor would make, but a detective masquerading as a tailor’s apprentice? Very true to character, and I know how much of a perfectionist you are when it comes to characterizations.”
“It could have been another apprentice,” I said, ignoring for the moment what a specious argument that was. “Or an intrinsic flaw in the lining that resulted in the problem, which the tailor only allowed because it was going into a garment presented in trade for a detective’s fee.” Or a signature, as I had learned. The tailor under whom I’d apprenticed during the case always placed one unneeded stitch, set crosswise to another stitch, at a certain place inside a garment. Where depended on the type of garment it was. He encouraged all of his apprentices to develop a similar hallmark so he could always tell exactly which apprentices had worked on a piece. Enthralled with what a boon this was to an investigator, I had made the opportunity to ask other tailor apprentices about it in the evenings at the taverns that catered to the young men in the trade. I learned that not all tailors encouraged the practice, but that many of the better ones did. Not that any truly good tailor would have allowed a hallmark that flawed the garment, as my inexpert sewing had done.
Another chuckle brought my momentary inattention to an end. “Not likely. Your clients tend to be entirely too grateful to give you shoddy goods in exchange. And I can’t see you allowing another apprentice to work on a present you intended to give to someone else.”
“An excellent piece of reasoning,” I admitted. “You’re a better detective than you’ve been letting on, my dear Watson.”
“Hardly.” Watson’s eyes closed again, but the smile remained. “I only wish I could have made you something too, something as wonderful. It seems so much more personal when you realize a gift has been made for you.”
You did, this Christmas. The thought was instant. You survived. You lived, and you’re getting better every day. But Watson was already drowsing again. “All your gifts have been incredibly precious to me,” I said instead, and saw his sleepy nod in response.
I raised my instrument and started playing again, soft and low, serenading my Watson back into true sleep.