Work Text:
The door closed behind us, and Holmes followed me across the sitting room, scooping up the stack of mail as he passed.
“…The Yard really ought to know better,” he continued, finishing the rant that had occupied our walk home. “If even one of them had taken a mo—"
His sentence broke just after tearing open an envelope, and I turned around to find him frozen, staring at the telegram it contained. A heartbeat later, the tips of his ears turned a brilliant shade of red.
“What is it, Holmes?”
No response, but just before I would have tried again, he noticeably tore his attention from the paper. He glanced toward the door, then tossed the missive into the flames. “Moment to think,” he resumed, ignoring my question, “they could have saved us both quite a bit of time.”
A smirk tried to escape, and I quickly began rummaging through my desk. I had not expected that reaction.
“Well, whatever the method,” I replied when I could be sure my voice would not betray me, “at least the man is behind bars.”
He harrumphed but changed the topic, taking his chair as the wadded telegram sent orange sparks floating up the chimney.
“What has you so irritated?”
He growled faintly in reply, the noise directed mostly at the paper in his hand. The envelope crumpled in his other fist.
“Holmes?”
“Did you publish something?”
I lowered my book at the question. He knew better than to consider that. He had not given me permission to publish. I rather doubted he ever would.
“No. Why?”
He refused to answer. The missive landed in the middle of the flames as his ears reddened yet again, and I raised an eyebrow. So surprise had not caused his reaction the first time. Interesting.
“We do not lack for fire starters, Holmes,” I added when he remained silent.
He still ignored me, and his bedroom door closed behind him when I tried again. I had not expected him to leave the room, but at least my reaction had proven better than his. He might learn something from this after all.
Or perhaps not. Either way, the game amused me. I used his absence to swipe the pen from his desk.
“It could be the brownies, Mr. Holmes.”
“Nonsense.” Derision laced Holmes’ reply, though the continued noise indicated he still searched. “Food cannot steal writing utensils.”
She could not quite smother a laugh. “Brownies are household spirits,” she corrected, “like the fairies the Irregulars like so much. Mischievous but good, they are just as likely to clean your bedroom as steal your pen.”
Holmes despised all mention of folklore. He probably waved aside her explanation, though I could not peek through the door to confirm. “Did you let one of the servants up here?”
“They both know to leave your desk alone,” was her lightly chiding reply. “It might have fallen next to the wall.”
His searching grew louder, then abruptly stopped as she breathed another laugh. “You will find it eventually. You might try cleaning this place while you look. I wish we had a few brownies to clean up after you.”
He grumbled under his breath, and I resumed climbing as if I had not been listening. Mrs. Hudson and I shared a grin as we passed on the stairs. She knew what I was doing.
Holmes, thankfully, did not, and a sigh concealed my laugh when I opened the sitting room door. “Holmes, why are you trying to deadlift the desk?”
The furniture landed with a thump on the floor. “My pen rolled off,” he answered simply.
“Did you find it?”
He started rifling through drawers already a disheveled disaster. “No.”
“Use mine.” The mess said he had been searching for at least thirty minutes, plenty long enough for my plan. My bag landed by my desk before I retrieved his pen from where I had left it next to mine, and he caught it easily.
A frown indicated confusion, but he thanked me and settled to work on his most recent monograph. His back to the fireplace, he never noticed me move his tobacco.
My point had nearly made itself. Should he find the pouch in the hollow behind that ghastly painting, he might deduce the rest without need of words.
“Have you seen my tobacco?”
I turned a page of my novel, never looking up. I had expected that question nearly an hour ago.
“No.” Not since I had hidden it yesterday.
He did not answer for a moment, poking through the various items cluttering our mantle. Something about the way he stood announced that he had seen through me, and his next question confirmed the observation.
“Where did you hide it?”
A momentary grin still almost gave me away. “What makes you think I hid it?”
“No one else has been in here.” He finally abandoned his search to face me. “Where is it?”
I turned another page. He could figure that out himself.
“Watson?”
“What?”
He let out a harrumph, then a familiar hand plucked my book from my grasp. “Where and why did you hide my tobacco?”
“I did not touch your tobacco.” I had touched the slipper, and I tried to scowl at him when he held the novel out of reach. “Give me back my book.”
“No.” Claiming my bookmark as well, the novel snapped shut then bounced off the settee. “Why have you been hiding my things?”
“Are you sure you have not been misplacing them?”
“I would not have ‘misplaced’ my pen into your desk,” he shot back.
He should not have been able to tell them apart, but I could not ask what he had noticed. He spoke again before I could find a response.
“Watson.”
‘Answer me, and answer completely,’ that said. My scowl became a bit more genuine. I had wanted him to deduce it, not make me tell him. My reply carried a hint of the anger that had birthed this plan.
“One would think the ‘foremost detective of our time’ would think to check the wall.”
Realization lit his gaze, then long strides carried him back to the mantle. He easily located the compartment we both occasionally used.
“Why did you hide it?”
“It amused me. Are you going to give me back my book?”
He did not believe me, but packing his pipe distracted him for a moment. A thought struck just before he applied the taper. “Did you hide it to avoid the smoke?”
I shook my head. I was not ill. I had hidden it to make a point better shown than voiced, but if he would not follow the deduction, I would not push the issue.
Concentration appeared as he gathered my thoughts, however, then his ears reddened slightly. Finally.
“What did you hear?”
“Enough,” I said shortly, managing to reclaim my book without moving more than a couple of steps. More than he wished, though I saw no reason to voice that. I sank into my chair and quickly found my place.
The unlit pipe landed on a nearby table, his entire focus on me. “Watson.”
His repeated question bled into the name, but I merely shrugged, my eyes on the page.
“I am not angry anymore,” I assured him, “nor do we have to discuss it. I simply heard enough, and since I could not correct the inaccurate insult in front of the client, I found a way to make you deduce it.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “You sent those telegrams?”
I smiled but made no answer, enjoying the way his ears reddened once more. I doubted he would make the same mistake again.
Even stubborn detectives learned something new occasionally.