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The bar of the public house second-closest to Scotland Yard was bursting at the seams with uniformed and plainclothes officers. Glasses clinked. Men talked, laughed and cheered over the tinkling of an upright piano at the far end of the room, and hands clapped Lestrade’s shoulder as he wove his way through the throng wearing a grin to rival that of the Cheshire Cat.
“Mr Holmes! Glad you could come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Inspector.” Holmes laughed at the sudden thunder in Lestrade’s expression. “Chief inspector, I should say. About time too and very well deserved. Dr Watson was here a moment ago. He has something for you.”
Holmes looked around, desperate for rescue. The sooner Watson handed over the silver tie-clip he’d had engraved with Chief Inspector Lestrade and the date of their friend’s promotion, the sooner they could return to the peace and quiet of 221B Baker Street.
He spotted Watson’s head in the crowd by the bar, and smiled. “There he is, Lestrade. Looks like he’s buying a round for the chaps who helped out on that dreadful case of the missing fingers.”
Lestrade shuddered. “We all needed a drink after that one.”
Holmes waved at Watson, who grinned back and asked with a gesture if Holmes wanted a drink. Holmes replied with a slight shrug and a tilt of his head towards Lestrade. Watson’s face lit up for a second, then he turned to the barmaid again.
Holmes soon saw Watson carefully carry three glasses of beer in two hands, jovially warning the crowd, ”Coming through! Oops, mind out! Behind you!” as he drove a path through their midst.
Lestrade and Holmes each took a glass. Watson raised a toast to the newly-promoted policeman then patted his pocket. He handed over a small packet.
”Got you a little memento, Lestrade.”
“Why you shouldn’t have!” the newly promoted Chief Inspector exclaimed as he set his glass aside to rip into the paper with an excitement that belied his protests. “Now that’s a fine bit of silver,” he said, admiring the clip as he turned it over in his hands. “A very generous gift, thank you both!”
“Don’t mention it,” Watson said, “only I talked Holmes into getting it engraved, see there?”
“So it is!” Lestrade shook hands with Holmes and Watson in turn. “Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll think of you every time I wear it! Who would have thought after all our adventures and all the cases solved together that we would be here today.”
“Not I,” Holmes muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing at all. I believe Inspector Gregson is looking for you, there’s a good man.”
Holmes nudged Lestrade in the direction of his new subordinate and placed a hand on Watson’s shoulder.
“We should be getting home, my dear fellow.”
“Nonsense. The party’s just warming up. Oh, would you listen to that piano? Wouldn’t a bit of singing be nice?”
Holmes didn’t manage a reply before Watson took his arm and steered him to the group crowded around the piano. The pianist struck up a new melody that Holmes only faintly recognised. “Is this…”
He trailed off in surprise as Watson left his side to come around beside the bench, grinning and straightening his jacket. Surprise turned to shock as Watson’s genial mumble disappeared to be replaced by a clear full-throated baritone:
My love is like a red red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Love's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune
Holmes placed his glass on the nearest table and stepped forward, entranced.
Watson’s face angled slightly upward as he sang, projecting his voice through the whole room. Many pairs of eyebrows were rising in surprise at the impromptu performance, and a couple of officers (who probably learned the song as young lads north of the border) ceased competing for the melody and joined in with harmonies.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry
Holmes stared at his dear friend with open wonder. How did he not know until this moment what a fine voice lurked in that frequently mumble-mouthed head of his! Watson’s eyes had closed, and Holmes deduced that the doctor had a sudden attack of nerves at being the centre of so much attention and wanted to imagine himself elsewhere. But he was smiling at whatever memory the song brought with it. With a little wistfulness, Holmes’s heart warmed at the thought of Watson as a little boy, standing by the piano in his mother’s parlour, entertaining his family with a song.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with' the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
Holmes indulged his imagination for a moment, thinking of Watson’s happy childhood with a doting mother and a stern but loving father steering his journey into manhood.
Blinking away a prickle behind his eyelids, Holmes forced himself back into the present. He realised with slight embarrassment that Watson had opened his eyes again, sought his, and that they had been gazing at each other for at least half of the third verse.
Holmes could not look away.
And fare thee well, my only Love
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Watson relaxed visibly as he reached the last line. He bowed at the whooping, whistling applause and shuffled away from the piano. Someone thrust another drink into his hand as he made his way through his audience, muttering, ”Thank you,” and ”Oh, it’s nothing,” and ”P’raps I should charge next time, ha!” at those who impeded his progress.
Holmes, meanwhile, had slipped to the back of the small crowd. Watson caught up to him. Holmes clapped him on the back then let his hand slide up to squeeze his shoulder.
“My dear old boy, you never told me you had such a talent!”
Watson shrugged. “Well, old bean, you never asked!”
Holmes laughed. “You had such a look of delight upon your face, were you conjuring up some long ago memory?”
“As a matter of fact I was.”
“Oh?”
But Watson had turned away to bid goodnight to the officers nearby and they both waved at Lestrade before Holmes slipped an arm through his companion’s.
“So you’re as anxious to leave as I am after all?” Holmes murmured.
“Certainly not, for I might have stood by the piano all night. I do love a jaunty melody. I’d simply rather you were content at home than pretending to have a good time”
“Well there’s no need for you to accompany me. I can bid my goodnights and see you at home later.”
“I said I would rather stay than leave, but I would prefer to be at home with you above all.”
Stunned into silence Holmes let himself be steered homeward.
“As for long ago memories, now that you mention it I suppose that song has a few for me, for I don’t remember a time when I could not sing it.”
“And perhaps a memory of some “bonnie lass”?
Watson chuckled. “After all these years you still think a pretty woman could turn my head. Don’t you know me at all?”
They lapsed into silence; a genial silence on Waton’s part but Holmes’s mind raced. He’d thought he knew all there was to know about John H Watson, but he hadn’t known about his voice. And he hadn’t noticed that his dearest friend’s attention rarely strayed to women until just now, when Watson himself had pointed it out.
His heart rate picked up as he considered the possibilities laid before him by the simple comment, ”Don’t you know me at all?”
When they arrived home he noticed that Watson’s demeanour was no longer one of benevolent distraction but brimming with anxiety.
“Something wrong, old chap?”
Watson scoffed and turned away. “I suppose I’ve said something wrong or embarrassed you in front of all those dull policemen. Well, I’m sorry, Holmes. I didn’t mean to—”
“Sing it again.”
Watson slowly turned to face Holmes. Holmes forced his shoulders to relax and his face to smile.
”You have a lovely voice.”
Watson’s answering smile lifted Holmes’s fear almost clean away.
”You don’t happen to have a piano, hmm? I doubt I could stay in tune without an accompanist. My brother said I sounded like a strangled cat unless ma was playing the piano.”
”Sorry my dear boy, no piano.” Holmes fetched his violin. “We’ll have to make do.”
“Now that’s a cracking notion! Do you know the song?”
“Not exactly but if you hum a little I’m sure I can figure it out.”
They stood in the centre of their sitting room mere feet apart while Holmes staggered through a close approximation of what Watson hummed.
“By Jove, I’ve got it!” Holmes exclaimed, quickly bowing his way through another stanza from start to finish.
“Shall I sing it now?”
“Please!”
Holmes did not close his eyes but watched Watson sing, and just as before their gazes locked. He assured himself it was unremarkable, where else was Watson to look between the two of them?
As fair art thou, my bonnie lad,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry
Holmes faltered.
“Go on,” Watson assured him, eyes lidded, “I’ll lose my nerve if you don’t go on.”
He continued playing, a hot flush creeping up his neck.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with' the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
As he sang, Watson’s voice became softer and by the end of the verse he stood barely half an arm’s length away. Hampered by the violin in his left hand and the bow dangling from his right, Holmes could only lean in and return Watson’s tentative kiss gently.
Holmes allowed Watson to take the violin and bow from his hands and set them on top of a pile of papers on his desk.
“What now, my bonnie lad?” Watson asked quietly.
Holmes cupped Watson’s face and guided him into another kiss.
***
The early morning light streamed into Holmes’s eyes as he blinked himself awake. A soft snore tickled his right ear and he turned in Watson’s arms and nestled against his broad, hairy chest, eager to find sleep again.
“Holmes? Are you awake?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
Watson rubbed the back of his neck and massaged his scalp so that Holmes sighed and snuggled closer. Mumble-mouthed, he’d thought his companion, but he’d never been treated to that soft sotto voice whispering wickedly in his ear; a bedroom voice if he’d ever heard one. How would he keep from blushing at the sound of it henceforth?
The scent of linen and fading aftershave mingled with the ripe aroma of sweat from their strenuous evening activities and he found himself pushing his nose right up against Watson’s throat to fill his nostrils with it. He clearly hadn’t been circumspect in doing so for Watson murmured, “We might need hot showers.”
“Speak for yourself, I need another rogering,” Holmes replied before he could catch himself. Watson’s laughter was, thankfully, contagious.
***
Mrs. Hudson bustled in with breakfast on a tray at eight o’clock sharp, as she always had. Her tenants were rarely awake at that hour but the smell of bacon and eggs usually did the trick. She was therefore quite surprised to see Holmes and Watson sitting at the table awaiting her.
“Oh! Good morning, gentlemen. I didn’t expect to see you up at this hour.”
Holmes regarded their landlady with a slight smile as she set their dishes out.
“Good morning, Mrs Hudson. I seem to have worked up quite an appetite overnight. Would it be too much trouble to request some extra toast?”
Watson kept his eyes fixed on his plate. His lips were pressed tightly together but his cheeks twitched once or twice.
”It’s no trouble at all. I must say, the pair of you have quite the musical talent. Doctor, was that your lovely singing voice I heard before bedtime?”
Watson glanced up for the barest second, hummed and nodded.
”Well, I love that song, doctor. Mr Hudson, God rest his soul, used to sing it. But do you not know there’s a fourth verse?”
”Yes, I know it well.” Watson barely kept from snapping at Mrs Hudson. “How about that toast?”
Mrs Hudson affected an air of mock indignation. ”I see someone needs an extra hour in bed. I’ll be up wth it just directly.”
Mrs Hudson left. Holmes let out a loud guffaw. Watson glowered.
“I don’t know what you think is so amusing, Holmes. If she was eavesdropping on my singing, there’s no knowing what else she heard.”
“No need to worry, my dear.” Holmes attacked his bacon and eggs with uncharacteristic zeal. “She was hardly eavesdropping. We probably entertained the neighbours too. Perhaps if we offer to serenade her with all four verses she’ll forgive anything she might inadvertently overhear.”
Watson laughed softly at last. Holmes grinned.
”She was right about something, though,” Holmes said with an impish grin. “Another hour in bed later would do us both the world of good.”