Chapter Text
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The Ashtray
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The ashtray—a round clear disc—was once a common household item. The crystal one on John's bookshelf in his sitting room was not so common. It had been a "gift"—well, not quite—from Buckingham Palace.
For the umpteenth time that evening it had drawn John's attention away from the article in the BMJ. This time, he surrendered to its call. He dropped the medical journal to his lap, gave a weary stretch, and leant back on the sofa. He looked around the flat. It was tidy and comfortable. The warm glow of the reading lamps nearly vanquished the lonely gloom. John's eyes returned to the ashtray. He had put it in a place of prominence months ago, and ever since, it had triggered one persistent memory:
That ridiculous moment in Buckingham Palace…
Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in his bed sheet, sitting ramrod straight on the cream-colored brocade sofa, unfazed by the odd circumstances. His sock-stuffed shoes topped the pile of neatly folded clothes on the coffee table bumping his knees.
John Watson—already nonplussed by the invitation to the Royal residence—entered the formal room in awe. He paused at the threshold, confused, catching Sherlock's eye. He gestured, What? with splayed hands. Sherlock turned his head toward John and responded with the subtlest shake of his head and shoulder-lifting shrug—Don't know.
Feigning insouciance, John approached the sofa and sat beside his motionless friend, glancing curiously at the draped detective. "You wearing any pants?" he whispered, nonchalantly. "No," Sherlock drawled. "Okay," John said. Their eyes met. A moment lapsed and they erupted in boyish giggles at the absurdity. Quickly quelling the laughing fit, John shared his astonishment at being in the Palace, before joking: "I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."
The purpose of their presence became apparent moments later. They had been called by brother Mycroft and the Equerry—Harry…something—to hear a Royal Client's case. Curiosity piqued at this, Sherlock was persuaded to shed his defiance along with the bedsheet for trousers and suit blazer, socks and shoes. Appareled once more in his familiar attire and even more familiar arrogance, the detective deigned to accept the case.
In the cab ride back from Buckingham Palace, Sherlock pulled a Royal ashtray from the breast pocket of his greatcoat. John gawped and instantly burst into conspiratorial laughter.
John missed this, the deep chuckles, the deepened affinity, their extraordinary camaraderie and their titillating cases. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes—the man who could distinguish between 243 different varieties of ash and who had stolen an ashtray to amuse John—had done the unfathomable. For reasons no one could explain to John's satisfaction, nine months earlier, the genius had dropped to his death rather than face a fall from grace.
John punched the sofa pillow as if that might shove the thoughts away. He rose, looked around his flat for a distraction, but nothing in the bland décor could keep his eyes from wandering back to the bookshelf and that ashtray. The purloined item—and the hilarity Sherlock and he had shared over it in the back of that cab—gave him solace when dark thoughts threatened. Throughout the months following his friend's demise, John Watson had assigned a greater significance to it than just an obsolete object for collecting burnt tobacco.
The ashtray had come to symbolize their singular connection, especially when anger or heartache hit him. On those occasions, the incised crystal would catch the light and command his attention just as Sherlock had always done. In a way, though it was difficult to explain, contemplating it helped mitigate John's foulest moods. He had come to see it as a trophy, an award for an amazing friendship, the one they had before… before it all took such a bad turn.
Oddly, he had discovered the bulky souvenir tucked in his sock drawer a week or two after moving into the affordable East London borough flat. Odd because he last remembered seeing it in 221B where it had sat for many months, atop a pile of loose papers on Sherlock's desk. It had been used as a paper weight.
John felt a mild shock, although a pleasant one, finding the ashtray among his things in his new place. It had puzzled him, as well. When had I taken it? Why don't I remember?
He had sketchy recollections during those days of unbearable emptiness. His resolve to leave 221B had been abrupt, made less than a week after that fateful day. He had packed haphazardly. His mind was stunned and shaken by loss, on autopilot. John had not owned much prior to moving into Baker Street, so what he had taken away, after deciding he could no longer live alone in that flat, was minimal. Perhaps I took it subconsciously?
John crossed to the bookcase, lifted the ashtray, and flipped it over. Etched into the bottom was the Royal Seal. Just touching the talisman transported him—such was its power whenever he permitted it. This time, it took him to yet another recollection of an unblogged case. A memory to make him smile.
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And so begins a case!