Work Text:
The Case of the Glass Cage
Watson knows as soon as he walks in the door that something interesting is happening; he’s just not sure entirely what.
Mrs. Hudson stands with her hands on her hips, staring hard at Sherlock Holmes, who is crouched down in front of a glass enclosure. There are bits of branch inside the enclosure, and a bit of mesh covering the top with a very fine crosshatch.
Edging further into the room, trying not to disturb the tableau, Watson squints his eyes to get a better look at what the thing in the cage might be. He smiles as he sees something leaping from branch to branch. “Crickets! My dear man, are we keeping—”
Watson does not take credit for the most undignified sound that leaves his throat as something else rushes out from under a cluster of leaves, grabbing the cricket and subduing it with remarkable strength. The eight-legged monster immediately retreats back into seclusion, its meal held tight.
“Excellent,” Holmes says quietly, a quick smile flitting across his face. “It does seem that they are willing to eat our native insects, at least.”
“Does that mean you’ve decided to properly take on the beast?” Mrs. Hudson asks, and if her hands are white-knuckled where they clasp each other, Watson can’t blame her.
“I can certainly do my best for it,” Holmes says, reaching out to carefully lift the enclosure and set it on among the rest of the glassware that makes up his chemistry set. “And endeavor to find an entomologist who would be interested in owning it.”
“Not Mr. Laundrin,” Mrs. Hudson says, her brows lowering, a stormcloud about to burst.
“No, no, I heard you quite clearly when you said what he proposed to do with the beast.”
“Better off as a type specimen indeed,” Mrs. Hudson says with a sniff before turning to Watson as though they haven’t all just watched a spider the size of Watson’s hand devour a cricket. “Welcome home, Doctor. Apologies that your tea is not quite ready; I’ll have it up shortly. Mr. Holmes and I have been rather preoccupied today.”
“Not my usual type of case, Watson, but it has proved quite interesting!” Holmes declares, throwing himself into his usual chair. “While I see that your day has instead been stressful. Oh dear, oh dear, I hope the poor lad whose blood currently spots your shoes will make a full recovery.”
“God willing and no suppuration sets in,” Watson agrees, managing to dredge up a smile for his friend as he settles himself in his own chair.
“You are tired indeed, that you don’t immediately ask me to explain how I deduced your day,” Holmes murmurs, sitting forward, his hands roaming restlessly.
“I clearly didn’t clean myself as well as usual.” Watson studies his legs, and rubs idly at his hip. “I imagine I am also limping more than usual; a prolonged surgery tends to stiffen my hip in this weather. And as you said, I have not been as loquacious as usual, startle reflexes not withstanding.”
Holmes’ grin is bright and brief as lightning, and just as energizing. Watson finds himself sitting straighter, meeting his friend’s energy with his own. “That’s my dear Watson! I shall make a detective of you yet.”
“I feel I have an advantage detecting myself,” Watson demures, though Holmes’ praise, as always, makes his heart warm.
“Nonsense, my good man. Do you know how many people would utterly fail to know themselves? Even those who are quite good at recognizing signs in others will frequently have blind spots when it comes to their own selves.”
Watson nods thoughtfully. “It does seem you have had the more exciting day today, though. I have deduced that it is because of Mrs. Hudson, and that it involves someone who has left their lodgings in a hurry.”
“You are quite right about in involving Mrs. Hudson, and I suppose one could say that the poor man involved left his lodgings in a hurry. He died, quite unexpectedly—an accident while on holiday with a friend.”
Watson nods. “Mrs. Hudson suspects foul play?”
“Oh, no, the lad’s death seems a routine if terrible tragedy. No, what Mrs. Hudson objects to is that the lad’s pets have been rather hard to place.”
Watson’s eyes move to the glass enclosure again and the hidden beast within. “That is a pet?”
Holmes nods. “The lad wished to be the next Charles Darwin, whatever that means.”
Watson considers explaining, and decides it is a tangent best saved for another day.
“He would save money and ship out on various vessels, and he collected quite the managerie. The birds Mrs. Hudson and the lad’s landlord have found homes for, and the snakes, but this creature was proving more difficult. The entomologist that they were put in touch with immediately suggested putting the spider in a killing jar and pinning it as a type specimen, since he couldn’t identify what type of creature it was.”
“And Mrs. Hudson knows the lad wouldn’t stand for that,” Watson says softly.
Holmes nods. “This creature has crossed the ocean at least once; possibly more, since it’s unclear from the lad’s rather messy notes exactly when it was acquired. Mrs. Hudson knows how precious it was to the lad, and doesn’t want it killed unless we can’t care for it.”
“But with it being from foreign climes…”
“Indeed. I don’t know if I will be able to, but I intend to try,” Holmes says with a shrug. “At least until I have found someone who would like to give the beast a home, and perhaps submit information on it to an ecological or entomological publication.”
Watson smiles, an expression that grows as he recognizes that sounds of Mrs. Hudson’s feet on the stairs, bringing the promised tea.
Holmes does not consider himself a kind man, Watson knows. He considers his intellect that which is most precious about himself. But seeing this—seeing the way Holmes and Mrs. Hudson have come together to make sure a dead man’s rather terrifying pet is not mistreated—Watson is reminded once more that Holmes’ great heart is the true treasure of the man.
Even if that heart means that Watson will have to get used to having a spider as a living companion for the foreseeable future.