Work Text:
There was a time when Holmes and I exercised extreme precautions with our correspondence in general, and packages in particular. Any parcel was treated as a potential threat and examined thoroughly, even if the sender was known.
Now happily retired in our Sussex cottage, we no longer are quite so careful with our post. We have not relaxed all protocols, but letters get basic glances, not thorough inspection under a magnifying glass. Packages receive more careful scrutiny, but far less than our days at Baker Street, when a parcel from an unknown sender or with no identifying information was cause for treating it as the potentially life-threatening possibility it occasionally turned out to be.
Then, poisons, bombs, secret mechanisms, and other nefarious devices were not unheard-of. Now, an unexpected package was more likely to be a dozen eggs or some home-cured ham from a grateful local patient, or a new type of beekeeping equipment from one of Holmes’ fellow enthusiasts. Or now, in the Christmas season, various baked goods from the kitchens of our neighbors, plus some delicacies sent to us from London by Lestrade (several pounds each of our favorite tobacco), Mycroft (a half-dozen bottles of excellent wine), Thurston, Anstruther, and other friends with whom we had kept contact over the years, and to whom we sent our own remembrances in return.
(The elaborate arrangement of artificial flowers might have raised some concerns if each blossom hadn’t been so very clearly labelled in Professor Byron’s distinctive handwriting for use in helping determine what shapes and colors were most attractive to honeybees.)
“It’s not a Christmas like we used to have,” Holmes remarked somewhat abruptly after our relatively simple dinner, as we sat together by our fireside smoking our pipes.
I heard the unspoken anxiety underlying his words, the vague fears and regrets that still had the power to haunt him at times. “
“No,” I agreed after a moment’s pause for thought. “But every one of those Christmases led us to this one. I for one am grateful for it.” I put down my pipe and reached for my glass of French brandy. “Happy Christmas, Holmes.”
Holmes raised his glass to me in return, the firelight sparkling in his eyes. “Happy Christmas, my dear Watson.”