221Bs for our pinch-hitters and participants: It Has Been Observed

[methylviolet10b]

Title: It Has Been Observed
Recipients: Our four pinch-hitters, plus one for EVERYONE involved in this fest
Authors:  garonne, methylviolet10b, hardboiledbaby, dreamtimegirl, mainecoon76
Rating: PG
Characters, pairings: various
Warnings: none
Summary: A taste of Holmes and Watson, in five 221b drabbles. Five perspectives on the relationship between Holmes and Watson over the course of their lives together.

This fest wouldn’t have been possible without a lot of time, effort, and wonderful volunteer work from everyone involved. Several of you stepped up to help ensure everyone received a gift, and still others of you volunteered and organized people (all on your own initiative) to give those pinch-hitters an extra treat in turn. Lastly, there is one 221B treat for everyone, because all of you deserve roses.

For spacemutineer: An After-Dinner Smoke

The Persian slipper originally belonged to my dear departed Mr Hudson's first cousin, who bought it in an antiquary's in Walthamstow, I believe. I often thought to myself how fortunate it was that the poor lady was not alive to see the ignominious use to which Mr Sherlock Holmes now subjected it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Holmes take the slipper down from the mantelpiece while I cleared away the dinner dishes. He was in full flow on one of the esoteric topics he favoured, and Dr Watson was hanging onto his every word. The doctor had filled four notebooks in the three months since moving in, all on the subject of Mr Holmes, if the papers he left lying on his desk were anything to judge by.

The appreciation was far from one-sided, I thought as I watched the two young gentlemen settle down in front of the fire. Mr Holmes was leaning forward in his chair, talking about continental railway timetables and holding out the slipper while the doctor filled his pipe from it. The doctor interjected some pertinent comment or other, his head still bent over his task, and I caught a rare, unguarded look of pure admiration on Mr Holmes' face.

As friendships go, this one seemed to have a promising beginning.

For thesmallhobbit: At the Nuptial Feast

Dear Mrs Forrester kindly insisted on hosting a wedding-breakfast after the ceremony. She truly has been more like a mother than an employer, and I can never be grateful enough for what she has done for me.

Breakfast was a small affair, just myself, my husband (how marvelous that I can call John that now), our attendants, and the Forresters themselves. It was also quite merry. Even Mr Holmes – who had been rather quiet until that hour – told a funny story about one of his cases, one that had my John spluttering, although the humour was truly more at Mr Holmes’ expense than anyone else’s. I doubt the man can ever look at a goat in the same way.

It wasn’t until the end, however, that I truly realized how much of my gain was Mr Holmes’ loss. Mrs Forrester drew John aside for a few words, and I chanced to catch an unguarded expression – one mixed of the deepest fondness and a wistful, lonely foreboding, of long days alone. I resolved there and then that I would encourage John to visit his friend as often as possible and go on cases with him. Love should not come at the expense of friendship. I did not want either of them to ever regret the day John took me as his bride.

For methylviolet10b: Over a Nightcap

"All in all, a most satisfying conclusion to the whole business," Mr Holmes said. "Colonel Moran will trouble the world no more. Well done, Lestrade."

I shook my head as Dr Watson handed me my drink. "It was all your doing, Mr Holmes, even if you would not take any credit for it." He dismissed my words with a wave.

"I have had my own reward," he said quietly. I followed his gaze to the sideboard, where the good doctor was pouring more spirits.

It was a sight I had once thought I would never see again—these two men, ensconced in the cozy confines of their sitting room.

They were not the same as they had been. Time and loss had taken an inevitable toll on them both, in ways I could not begin to fathom. I daresay they would forever carry the painful scars of having been torn asunder.

And yet they were here, together. God willing, no man would put them apart again.

"To you, my good inspector," Mr Holmes said, raising his glass.

"Indeed, congratulations," Dr Watson echoed warmly.

The triumph was theirs, not mine, and I was so very glad of it, though I could hardly voice such a sentiment aloud. So I merely raised my snifter to my two friends, and smiled into my brandy.

For EVERYONE: Strange and Sentimental

As I leant back against the rough brick wall to wait for my Violet, I saw that one of the blooms had fallen from my bouquet, and lay wilting in the gutter. It was no doubt too muddy to be retrieved, but the lone red rose looked strikingly lonely on the edge of the colourless street.

I was contemplating going to pick it up and placing it on a ledge where it would not be trampled underfoot when I heard two gentlemen heading my way and thought it best to let them pass through before undertaking such a strange and sentimental gesture.

When they drew nearer I could see that they travelled arm in arm, with a companionable silence between them. One of the men limped, and leant a little on the other, who glanced down at him occasionally with twinkling, affectionate eyes.

As they began to walk away from me, a cab rattled by and was quickly hailed by the taller man. To my surprise, while his companion limped into the cab the man bent down and retrieved the abandoned rose from the ground, and a smile flickered across his face.

His friend called to him from within the cab, and he straightened, tucking the rose under his jacket.

“Yes dear, I’m coming. No need to rush me, old boy.”

For tweedisgood: A Long-Awaited Morning

Over the course of the previous fifteen years I have regularly visited my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, in his secluded villa near the coast path. Through the sun-filled days which proved to be the calm before the storm, as well as the dark times that followed, whenever he dwelt in his home he allowed me an armchair beside his fireplace or a seat at his breakfast table after a fine morning swim in the sea.

Yet for all my efforts I always knew Holmes to be a lonely man. While he might offer pleasant company for a stroll on the cliffs or an evening of sophisticated conversation, the essence of his extraordinary mind remained secluded within him, and there was not a soul whom he would allow to touch it.

Or so I had come to believe.

Yet, when I joined Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson for breakfast that fine summer morning in 1918, I realized at once the wordless understanding that filled the air between them. The looks they exchanged, the fleeting touches, the slight, knowing smiles told me more about Holmes than a decade of acquaintance had done.

“Dr. Watson is going to stay, Stackhurst,” Holmes announced, and his eyes were shining with a deep contentment I had never, in all the years I had known him, seen before.