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The notebook sits behind frosted glass, rich brown and elegant.
Mikotoba sees the notebook first. The cover is made of supple leather, thick and sturdy, the kind only found in England. There is a thin strip of leather that winds around it, tying it closed in a simple knot. Beside it, another one of its kind lies open, a bright red ribbon snaking down creamy, unlined paper. He can feel the weight of it in his hands already, solid, as his ink glides across its smooth pages in gentle strokes.
Then Mikotoba sees the price tag. It is almost half a month’s worth of rent. The winter winds feel a little colder when it scrapes against his cheek and the strip of neck exposed by his collar.
His stipend is more than enough - he eats three hot meals a day, lives within walking distance to the university with the most wonderful roommate anyone could ask for, and at night, he sleeps in a mattress bed made cosy by a warming pan. But even with the extra money brought in by the consulting business, there were frivolities and there were frivolities.
“Mikotoba?” comes Holmes’ voice in the distance. “Is something the matter, old boy?”
Mikotoba blinks at the words. He lets his gaze linger a beat more before he shakes his head, and smiles. “It’s nothing. I am coming!”
They hurry off together, side by side, Tobias Gregson and a new adventure waiting in the distance.
The second time Mikotoba passes by the display, it is on a trip back from the grocers. The snow is slushy and damp beneath his feet, and his arms are laden with bags of fresh produce and tins of… less fresh produce. The notebook winks at him from its display. It is a distinguished thing but it still flirts at him from where it sits. You too could be handsome and dignified like I am, its profile seems to say. Would you not want to stand next to your partner taking notes in something that does not feel bereft of his intellect?
Mikotoba lets himself be flirted with. He imagines, guiltily this time knowing the cost, what it would be like to own something so lovely and expensive. He is only startled out of his thoughts when someone bumps into him with a muttered apology. He makes his way home, embarrassed at his own thoughts.
“Late, are we?” Holmes asks when he returns. The younger man is sprawled on the settee, smoking happily away, his long limbs dangling over the furniture. Despite the briskness of the words, Mikotoba knows it is not Holmes’ intention. “You were staring at something. You did not pause long enough for a conversation, I don’t think, otherwise the snow on your shoulders would be more pronounced, and you usually have that little grimace or smile afterwards when you are stopped on the streets by someone you know, depending on your relationship with them.”
Mikotoba laughs as he drops the groceries off on the kitchen counters. “Next you will tell me you know I picked up a bar of your beloved caramel chocolates by the state of my tie!”
“Not at all,” Holmes says smugly. He is already reaching out his hand for the chocolate. “I could tell that by the mud on your shoes.”
The third time he passes by the notebook, Mikotoba does not linger as long.
Something in him sighs still, a child perhaps that caught a glimpse of their beloved konpeitou and tugs on their mother’s hand despite knowing it is futile. But the image of the notebook does not fade when he is home, writing in his own notebook. The edges are battered, some of his notes ink stained - chemical stained too, he thinks wryly, fingering at a colourful blotch - and the binding is in danger of failing completely. It is almost out of pages, and he cramps his writing down in effort to make the remaining space last as long as he can.
His next notebook will be like his current one. Simple, handy, and affordable. It is more than enough. Mikotoba continues to write down the details of their latest case, and he does not notice Homes staring at him from the corner of their living room.
It is a long day at the University. Despite it being only early afternoon, Mikotoba had woken at three in the night for the morning shift. His shoulders ache, and he almost snapped at a colleague earlier, even his infinite patience rubbed raw. So when he opens the door to 221B, he thinks of telling Holmes he will need some space for the rest of the day, maybe a nap, and certainly no more cases, no matter how bizarre or intriguing.
There is the notebook on the dining room table.
Mikotoba knows it for what it is, instinctively, even as his worn down mind struggles to catch up. He picks it up, the heft exactly as he imagined, and he fingers the leather cover, just as soft as he dreamed. It is beautiful and perfect, and something lodges in his throat. There is no note. When he looks over at Holmes, he is by his chemistry set, finally having listened to Mikotoba’s nagging, protective gloves on his hands and goggles over his eyes.
It has been over two months since Christmas, and there are no other British holidays soon. Mikotoba is sure of that. And Holmes… Holmes, who is singular and individualistic, asked for a roommate because he too could not afford to live alone with his own funds.
“Holmes?” Mikotoba asks. His partner’s name comes out soft, cautious. “I love it. Thank you.”
Holmes does not turn or look at him. The tinted glass of his goggles hides his expression. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear fellow?”
He tries to not find his partner’s shyness endearing and fails spectacularly. Mikotoba walks over to him and places a hand on Holmes’ shoulder. He says, again, “Thank you.”
There is a twitch to Holmes’ lips before they are pressed together, stiff and unyielding. Still, the tip of his ears go pink. “Stuff and nonsense, Mikotoba. Now I simply must finish this experiment or else it will be supper time, and you will lament again that I am not joining you and not eating enough.”
Mikotoba glances at the clock on their mantlepiece. It is a tight fit but he thinks he can manage. They should have all the ingredients - eggs and heavy cream, salt and sugar, and a precious bottle of vanilla extract Holmes connected up himself. “Would you mind terribly if I borrow one of your bunsen burners later? I would like to make some crème brûlée for dessert, you see.”
Holmes’ head jerks towards him at that, and his fingers fumble, just a little, on the test tube he is clutching. “But that is…”
Holmes’ favourite. “Hmm?” Mikotoba tucks the notebook under an arm, and starts to roll up his sleeves. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear fellow?”
There. A true, blue smile cracks out behind a stony facade. Seeing that is the real gift.
Giddy and far too happy for reasons he cannot explain, Mikotoba heads for the kitchens.