Work Text:
May 1920
“I fail to see the purpose in going, Watson.” My companion Sherlock Holmes grumbled as he finished tying his tie, “You know these infernal social gatherings are an immense bore to me - nothing interesting ever comes of them, and I despise small talk.”
He enunciated the last phrase as if it was vermin.
I shrugged, “We are retired now, Holmes. At the very least it will give me something to write about. There are always a few interesting characters at these sorts of things, even if there are no cases.”
Holmes fixed his hands to his hips, looking offended at the very notion, “When did you become so boring? I remember the Dr Watson who would jump at the chance for danger - Jezail bullet or no.”
I could not help but smirk, “That was before I grew old, I’m afraid. I’m sixty eight now, Holmes. And you are no spring chicken.”
It was true. Grey now generously streaked the retired detective’s once jet black hair. And he knew it.
“Still as handsome as ever, though.” I added over my shoulder as I made for the door to the hall of our cottage in the Sussex Downs,
My remark flustered him. I could hear him spluttering as he followed after me.
Sherlock Holmes. Spluttering!
— — —
“Listen to this, Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Lady Develyn’s garden party invitation! It says that “the famous Sherlock Holmes” will be there. Fancy that, eh, Jeeves? I don’t even know who the fellow is, but with a name like that I expect he must be some sort of magician.”
“Actually, sir, I believe he-“
“Ah! Here’s the car.”
And with that, Bertie Wooster was ambling off in the direction of where his cousins’ chauffeur had brought their new automobile around to the front of their manor house in Sussex.
The drive was pleasant, passing by dappled green avenues of trees threaded with a few quaint little cottages here and there.
By the time they arrived at Lady Dora Develyn’s cream-columned country home, most of the guests had already arrived and were found by Jeeves and Wooster, after they were shown through, to be chatting at various round, white picnic tables set up on the lawn.
Two guests were fashionably late. They were both older gentlemen, but one was tall and thin as a whippet while the other was broader and lighter and sandier, though both were shot through with grey.
“Oh!” Lady Develyn leapt to her feet with a surprising spryness despite her age, “You must be Dr Watson and the famous Sherlock Holmes!”
The famous Sherlock Holmes burst into laughter.
— — —
After assuaging Lady Develyn’s fears about propriety, Holmes and I were ushered to a table on the veranda. We were seated opposite a cheerful young gentleman named Bertie Wooster, with a mop of light-coloured curls atop his head, and his dark-haired and impeccably dressed valet, named Jeeves - I never did catch his first name.
“So, Mr Holmes.” Wooster began as we worked our way through the plate of cucumber sandwiches set out on a metal tray, “Do you do many parties?”
“Not if I can help it, no.” Holmes gave languid answers,
“Ah, more of a travelling act, I see.”
“I have travelled the length and breadth of the country - and beyond - offering my services. For instance, I deduce that-”
“Deduce?” The Wooster fellow looked delighted, “Is this part of the trick?”
“The trick?”
“Yes! You know - then you saw some beautiful lady in half.”
“Excuse me?”
I chuckled, everything becoming clear, “I think, Holmes, that Mr Wooster thinks you are a magician.”
“A magician?” Holmes looked affronted at the very notion.
“Well, are you not?” To his credit - or perhaps the inverse - Wooster did look earnest in his confusion,
“I am a consulting detective.” Holmes straightened in his seat, “But I am retired now.”
“Oh, I see.” Wooster looked deep in thought for a moment before brightening up again: “So could you solve a mystery for me?”
“That depends,” Holmes deadpanned, “What are the facts?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Couldn’t you come up with one?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Dr Watson?” Swooped in Jeeves’ smooth interjection.