Work Text:
"You haven't seen about Baker Street, then?"
"Baker Street?"
"They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done." --The Final Problem
“Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced round me.” –The Adventure of the Empty House
In the story I eventually titled The Adventure of the Empty House, I wrote that Mycroft Holmes had preserved the old rooms at 221B Baker Street for three years, just as they had been when Holmes had left them. This was not entirely true. Moriarty’s men had set fire to the rooms in their quest to drive Holmes out into the open in 1891. Holmes had briefly assured me on our train ride out of London that not much harm had been done, but true to Holmes’ nature, when he said “no great harm”, he meant Mrs Hudson and all the household were safe. In my later grief at Holmes’ death, I had not thought to inquire further. It was not until 1894, when Holmes miraculously reappeared and I returned to reside in 221, that I learned differently.
I initially thought that the unusual tidiness and cleanliness of the sitting-room made things look brighter and less worn than I recalled, but Mrs Hudson soon corrected me. She told me all about the damage that had been done. Our sitting room had been half-destroyed, and the black tarry smoke from the fire had ruined what little had not been burnt or drenched in water in Holmes’ room. My own small room one flight up had been relatively spared, but even it had been stained and fouled with soot.
You would never know this to look at the rooms as they were when Holmes and I resumed residence there. Mycroft had paid for their restoration, but more: only the incredibly keen observational powers and memory of a Holmes, and the determined devotion of a brother, could have recreated the rooms and their furnishings with such exactness. The chairs and the rugs, the chemical bench and the bookcases, even the drapes by the windows and the wallpaper on the walls, all were as close a match as could be imagined to what had been before, only newer and somewhat better quality to what had been. Some things, such as Holmes’ scrap-books, important papers, and his violin, I suspected Holmes must have moved to a safer place long before the fire, for there was no way even Mycroft could have recreated these. Indeed, I suspected that Mycroft himself had been their guardian, for there was no one else my Holmes would have trusted with them. But all the rest was Mycroft’s doing, right down to the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, duplicates of what had been there before, made to Sherlock Holmes’ old measurements and waiting for him to return and put them on.
Well, almost all. Holmes’ collection of disguises had not been replaced, but between what Holmes had squirreled away in his various bolt-holes (and Mycroft must have somehow seen to paying the rent on those, too, during those years), and Holmes’ own gift for procuring just the right item to perfect a character, he was soon appearing in our sitting-room in any number of guises. He had need of them, too. Almost from the very moment of his return, Holmes had more cases than he could want. Although he strictly enjoined me against publishing any more stories, or even word of his return, somehow everyone knew to come to 221B Baker Street with their problems, puzzles, and mysteries.
(Personally I suspected the constables that had come with Lestrade to arrest Moran. I knew Lestrade himself could keep a secret at need, but what bobby could resist spreading such news on his rounds? And what London knows, the world knows, sooner rather than later.)
In many ways, the press of cases was welcome to both of us. I had done my best to keep busy in the face of my loss, and Holmes’ case-work was even more of a distraction than my former medical practice. Still, there were times where grief, and the memory of grief, weighed heavily upon me. Nor was I as entirely at ease with Holmes as I once had been, before his apparent death at Reichenbach. Though I had forgiven him the moment he had asked for it – indeed, the moment I realized he was truly alive and before me – yet I could not forget how terrible his loss felt, how hard those three years had been. My mind might understand his reasons, even find them noble, but my emotions were not always so well-ruled.
Those feelings might have festered, even turned dark, had we not kept so busy with cases. And if I had not seen for myself, repeatedly and in many ways, that those three years had taken their toll on Holmes, too. It was not merely that my friend had lost weight to the point that the wardrobe Mycroft had carefully recreated for him hung off of his frame as if made for another man entirely. I also saw evidence of the strain Holmes had been under in the way he tensed at odd moments, as if expecting an attack. I witnessed him start from sleep innumerable times, from dozes on the settee in our sitting-room, and quick naps in the privacy of first-class compartments, and slumbers in shared lodgings in rural inns. Each time, Holmes was – not afraid; never that; but wary, and blank, frozen as if he was not quite sure where and when he was, and dared not move until he was certain of his surroundings. Nor did I think I imagined the profound relief that he swiftly concealed, every time he woke so and saw me nearby.
Holmes watched me often. Although he remained habitually reserved, I still remembered how to read those features better than almost anyone else. Perhaps I had even gained some skills from tending to patients and my long vigils with Mary. Or perhaps Holmes was less guarded with me in his waking moments than he had been formerly. In any event, I noticed him watching, which I never had before. I saw, and understood, the fleeting glimpses of emotion on that otherwise inscrutable countenance: the sympathetic understanding when something reminded me of my losses; the wistfulness when memories made me short-tempered; the pained regret when my own night terrors jolted me into wakefulness.
We never spoke of these things directly, of course. But whatever resentments I might have harboured smothered and died under their kinder weight.
And sometime during those months between Holmes’ miraculous resurrection in the spring, and the first stirrings of winter, in between all the cases and all the changes, I realized that Holmes did not care for his replacement dressing-gown. It was the one thing Mycroft had not replicated faithfully. Instead, Holmes’ elder brother had replaced the worn, shabby garment with something much more suitable. It was simply cut, as suited Holmes’ taste, but a rich plum colour, with contrasting collar and cuffs, and generous pockets for holding the various bric-a-brac Holmes always seemed to collect about his person. The fabric was very fine, the tailoring impeccable. It was in every way a superior garment to the old one, and Holmes wore it well.
When he wore it, that is. Which was not half as often as he used to do with the old one. It was far more respectable of Holmes not to meet clients wrapped in his dressing-gown, or to spend all day with it slung negligently over the rest of his clothes. I should have seen this as a positive change, welcomed it perhaps. Holmes never said a word about it, never complained in any way.
I am a doctor. I am sworn to relieve suffering in all its forms, when and where I can.
I came downstairs on Christmas morning to find Holmes sitting in his usual chair, his pipe between his lips, and a brightly-wrapped parcel on the end-table beside him. “Happy Christmas, dear fellow. There is coffee and tea, and Mrs Hudson promises that breakfast will be ready in half an hour.” He nodded towards the wrapped gift I held in my hands. “I suspect that is for me?”
“Brilliantly deduced, Holmes, and happy Christmas to you too.” I handed him the package I had carried downstairs with me and then took my own seat across the fire from him. “First awake, first to open,” I replied to his inquiring look.
Holmes gave me a small smile, equally amused and pleased. “Of course.” He turned the parcel over, looking at it closely, undoubtedly searching for clues as to its origins. I had done my best to throw him off, with no real expectations of success. “It was kind of Mrs Hudson to wrap this for you,” Holmes observed, “but nothing truly conceals a shirt box, you know.”
I sighed. “No, I suppose not.”
“And yet not a shirt inside, I think…” Holmes put the wrappings to one side and lifted off the lid as he spoke. The rest of his sentence trailed into silence as he stared at the contents.
It had not been easy, finding a tailor to undertake my commission, and even more work to convince the fellow that yes, I really did want the plain, mouse-grey fabric throughout, and not a more fashionable contrasting fabric in the lining or on the collar. But I have my resources, too, and not only had I found someone with the skill and temperament for the job, but judging from the look on Holmes’ face, I had managed to keep my friend from knowing a thing about it. He lifted the dressing-gown from the box, his eyes wide.
It was not his old dressing-gown, but as perfect a replica as I could manage to produce from current materials and my memories of the thing. New, of course, with none of the stains or mended rips Holmes had accumulated over the years in his prior garment; and the quality of the material was probably finer overall, but the weight, the colour, the cut, the length, were all as they had been.
“Your brother’s is very fine, much finer than this one, but I notice that you do not wear it when working with your chemicals, or on your common-place books, and other messy tasks,” I explained when Holmes remained silent. “I thought you might like a second one, for more casual use.”
Holmes looked at me then, and I knew at once that he saw straight through my pretence – and his own. He stood up abruptly, stripped off his magnificent plum dressing-gown, and put on my much humbler gift. A happy little sigh escaped his lips, and then he frowned and put a hand into one pocket, belatedly noticing its extra weight. “A second gift, Watson? I assure you, this is more than welcome on its own.”
“I thought of something else you might want replaced,” I told him as he withdrew his hand.
The cigarette-case was as plain on the outside as the dressing-gown. I had given Holmes a similar one once, the very first Christmas we had spent together.
He remembered that, of course. I could see it in the softened fondness of his expression even before he opened the case and read the inscription inside.
For SH, Christmas 1894. –JHW
That much had been simple. I had spent far more time thinking on the rest of it. Indeed, I had nearly failed to choose anything else at all.
I had debated on simply relying on words of one of the classics: is est amicus qui in re dubia re juvat, ubi re est opus, perhaps. Plautus, not Cicero, whose amare autem nihil est aliud nisi eum ipsum diligere, quem ames, nulla indigentia, nulla utilitate quaesita I had appropriated and incorporated into my first true gift to Mary. Esse quam videri was another quote I considered, and mens conscia recti. There was some safety in relying on the words of others: nil ego contulerim iucundo sanus amico; alter ipse amicus; even parvum non parvae amicitae pignus had a whimsical appeal. But this was not whimsy. I knew it, even if no one else beyond us two ever would; and I saw, as Holmes read the words I had finally chosen, that he knew it too.
When he looked up at me, Holmes’ grey eyes were shining. “Watson,” he said. Just that one word; just my name. That was all, but it was more than enough.
“Happy Christmas, Holmes.”
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Quotes:
- is est amicus qui in re dubia re juvat, ubi re est opus : a friend is one who aids with deeds at a critical time when deeds are called for
- amare autem nihil est aliud nisi eum ipsum diligere, quem ames, nulla indigentia, nulla utilitate quaesita : to love is nothing else than to hold in high esteem the object of your affection, apart from all compulsion and all question of advantage
- esse quam videri: to be, rather than to seem
- mens conscia recti: a mind aware of what is right
- nil ego contulerim iucundo sanus amico: while I am sane, I shall compare nothing to the joy of a friend
- alter ipse amicus: a friend is another self
- parvum non parvae amicitae pignus: a little pledge of no little friendship