Fic for saki101: Simplicity Itself, PG
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acdholmesfestTitle: Simplicity Itself
Recipient:saki101
Author: [redacted]
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: none
Summary: Holmes found a house in Sussex, but he needs to make sure Watson approves before buying it.
One Friday afternoon in July of 1896, I was resting at home, having completed my rounds during the earlier part of the day. Since Holmes’s return two years prior I maintained a rather small practice just a few blocks away from Baker Street. It enabled me to spend more time with my better half and be available for assisting him at once whenever it was necessary.
The day was balmy, sunlight streaming into the sitting-room through the windows. Birds were chirping outside, their clear voices distinct even in the usual din of the busy street. I was daydreaming, my newspaper tossed aside. Staying indoors on such a lovely day would be a shame, so I was considering a stroll in the Park. But suddenly my musings were interrupted. There was a clang of the front door, and the familiar light, swift steps ascended the stairs.
Holmes entered in a flurry of energy, like a powerful gust of wind. His eyes lit up with satisfaction when he spotted me lounging on the sofa.
“Pack your valise for a couple of days in the country and we’ll be off. Our train leaves in twenty minutes,” he ordered and headed to his room.
“You have a new case?” I asked, watching through the opened door as he threw his belongings haphazardly into his portmanteau.
“All questions later.” He changed from his black frock-coat into a grey tweed jacket and replaced his top-hat with a travelling cloth cap.
I hurried upstairs to get prepared, and five minutes later we were in a cab, rattling to the station. At Holmes’s request, our kind Mrs. Hudson had managed to arrange for us a cold supper on very short notice, so I had a weighty wicker basket in my lap.
We boarded the Eastbourne train and settled ourselves down in a vacant first-class carriage. Holmes reclined in the cushioned seat, stretched his long legs in front of him, and lit his pipe. He seemed to be in a complacent, relaxed mood which was rather inconsistent with the austere manner he usually had while at work. On the other hand, on some occasions he preferred to detach himself from the matter until more data was at his disposal.
“What about the case, Holmes?” I reminded him.
“Ah, the case,” he said, puffing out blue rings of smoke. “We are to investigate a century-old farmhouse, my dear Watson. You’ll see for yourself when we arrive.”
For the rest of the time he chatted about opera, recent inventions, and electricity, his eyes twinkling, perfectly aware of my attempts to read him and failing to do so. It clearly pleased him that after all these years he hadn’t lost his ability to mystify me.
Upon reaching Eastbourne, we hired a dog-cart at the station and had a most enjoyable ride amongst the peaceful hills and meadows of East Sussex. A gentle breeze carried bittersweet notes of wild herbs and flowers and of the soil thoroughly warmed by the sun. The rare rural dwellings were scattered far apart from each other, yet this serene land was teeming with life. There was no clatter of countless feet on the pavement or shrill noises of machinery. Instead there was the singing of crickets and the buzzing of bees.
Gradually the hills began to steepen; soon one could hear the crashing billows of the sea and the cries of seagulls in the distance. The road climbed higher until we found ourselves driving along the precipitous chalky coast of the South Downs. The dazzling white of the cliffs contrasted with the saturated blue of the sky, and far below waves in perpetual motion were frothing against the shore. It was a breathtaking sight.
At the crossroads we turned towards a grove in a small valley between the hills. Only upon approaching the grove did the valley unfold completely in front of our eyes and a lovely Georgian house become visible. Built of red brick, with a brown-tiled roof and white airy sash-windows, it was modest but genteel and welcoming. Although the garden which surrounded it had run to seed and the tall yew hedge was unkempt, there was something artistic about that state of neglect.
We got out by the decrepit rusty gate and made our way across the garden through the lush grass. Inside, the house was full of natural light, its rooms tidy if sparsely furnished. The hall led into a spacious parlour and a library to the left with a dining-room and a kitchen to the right. I left the basket of food there and followed Holmes up the stairs.
Having walked along the corridor past a half-empty drawing-room, a bedroom with a lonely bed-frame in it, then yet another empty room, we came to a second, larger bedroom which, thankfully, had everything in place.
“What have you deduced so far?” Holmes asked, smiling, as we put down our luggage.
“This house obviously hasn’t been lived in for years,” I said. “And not even rented out to vacationing people, otherwise it would have been kept more presentable. Nevertheless, its owner cares for it enough to prevent its descent into disrepair: the ceiling in the hall and the stairs have been skillfully renovated not long ago. Perhaps the house holds some special meaning for the owner. Also, the owner must be quite well off—to look after such property while not using it must be costly.”
“Well done, well done indeed, my boy.”
“Are you not going to correct any inaccuracies in my conclusions?”
“Not yet. Observe and analyse. That’s what we are here for. There will be plenty of time to think.”
“It’s not an urgent matter?”
Holmes shook his head.
“Then we are to spend a weekend in the country just for the pleasure of it? My dear Holmes, that’s rather unlike you,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“I like to surprise you, John.” He gave me a coy look from under his lashes.
Right. Since we were perfectly alone, there was no need for the obligatory precaution of calling each other by our surnames. But the place was unfamiliar, and the habit had grown indelible over the years.
Sherlock went to the window and pulled up the blind with a theatrical flourish. I gasped quietly. The vista of the Channel was stunning—the great expanse of the sea framed by the sharp ridges of the cliffs and the boundless sky which is forever hidden in the city behind walls and roofs.
Judging by Sherlock’s complacent expression, my amazement was exactly what he had counted on.
“I’ll bring some water from the well and put the kettle on,” he said.
I lingered in the bedroom, admiring the view. Vague hopes began to stir within my heart. We had been saving money for almost a decade, wishing for a country house where we could go for weekends. Recently Sherlock had cleared up a tangled abduction case which concerned a noble and very rich family, and the remuneration he had received was exceptional in its generosity.
On the other hand, Sherlock was prone to occasional whims. It was not unusual for us to use his secret refuges in London for relaxation in private. If that was the case, reading too much into this outing would not be wise lest I should be disappointed later, through no fault of his own.
Still, he did seem to be especially keen on my opinion about the house. His motive surely lay on the surface. Either way, it was simplicity itself, so I decided to observe and analyse as per his directions.
We had some trouble lighting up the old kitchen range, not to mention that it felt a bit odd to prepare tea by ourselves. Nevertheless, both Sherlock and I were no strangers to managing on our own, and so we did. Having partaken of ham and cheese with bread, at my suggestion we continued to explore the house.
“It could be turned into quite a cosy nest if the owners were inclined to improve it a bit,” I said after we had examined the cellar, the servants’ room at the far end of the corridor on the ground floor, and the attic.
“What would you do?” Sherlock asked in a matter-of-fact tone, as if not particularly interested.
“Have modern conveniences installed, to begin with,” I replied in kind. “Bringing water from the well and heating it is a back-breaking job when one fancies having a bath. The way some upper-class people exploit their servants is ghastly. A good sewage system would also be necessary, of course. The small lumber-room at the very end of the hall could be transformed into a water closet while the empty room next to the large bedroom could become a fine bathroom. There is enough space for a full-length bath, and it wouldn’t be cramped as our bathroom at Baker Street, for example.”
“Go on,” Sherlock said, gazing vacantly at the floor.
“An electric generator could be installed in the cellar,” I obliged. “Safe and clean in comparison with the gas lighting this place doesn’t even possess. Then, a new stove would be handy. I’m sure the cook would be pleased.”
“I never get your limits, John. You definitely have a knack for housekeeping,” Sherlock said, his head cocked on one side. “Well, for now let’s make do with what’s available to arrange our evening ablutions.”
We discovered a tin hip bath in the aforementioned lumber-room but agreed that filling it wasn’t worth the effort. It was much easier to share a kettle of hot water and employ the jug and the wash-basin in the bedroom.
After it got dark, we retired early, as it was prudent to spare the single candle we had. Neither of us was in the need of sleep yet, and our choice of a pastime, if predictable, was deeply satisfying for us both. In the process we made another discovery: the ancient bed creaked atrociously. Those loud, high-pitched whining sounds must have reverberated throughout the entire house. We were very glad no one else was there to hear it.
In the morning we ate the leftovers from our supper, and Sherlock proposed that we go to the beach. The weather was as wonderful as it had been on the previous day, and we strolled leisurely along the thyme-scented downs, basking in the summer sun. The sea air itself seemed more substantial and richer than the thin aether of the city. Just breathing freely was a true pleasure. Sometimes we would observe a few bees whiz past us in the grass, and Sherlock would regale me with amusing facts about them. Apiculture had piqued his curiosity some months before, so he had been reading voraciously on the subject ever since.
Having reached the coast-line, we climbed the highest hill which provided an excellent vantage point to review the surroundings.
“That is Fulworth, the closest village, two miles from here,” Sherlock gestured to the east where in a hollow by the bay a small settlement sat in a semicircle of cheerful houses. “We can dine in the pub there after bathing. And the estate over there is called The Gables,” he pointed at the grand Tudor mansion about half a mile from us. “It is owned by one Harold Stackhurst, a local squire, and was turned into a coaching establishment five years ago.”
“What sort of a coaching establishment?” I asked, peering at the magnificent turrets with sharp spires.
“They prepare young fellows for various technical professions—engineers, mechanics, and so on.”
“Must be an expensive place to study.”
“It seems to be so, but there are also scholarships for local children of humble backgrounds.”
“So the squire does something good for his community. Then he’s probably a congenial neighbour.”
We both chuckled and started to descend from the hilltop. A steep rocky path winding between the cliffs was the only way down to the beach. One had to be most careful to watch every step lest one slip on the loose pebbles which were strewn all along it. Any lack of attention could easily result in a sprained ankle or injured knees at best.
But eventually we had our reward for all the difficulties. The beach was covered with fine shingles stretching towards the horizon, waves lapping at the shore and shimmering in the sun. Several fishing-boats were tiny specks far away on the sea. At the base of the cliffs there was a curious maze of shallow caves and grottos, and the shoreline curved near some of them, forming natural swimming-pools.
I took Sherlock’s hand into mine as we gazed at the sea. It was wonderful. We could be ourselves here in the open, without fear. He pressed my hand, sharing the sentiment. We chose one of the swimming-pools, undressed to the drawers, and plunged into the cool, refreshing water.
The whole morning was spent on the beach until swimming and frolicking had quite worn us out. It was time to fortify ourselves at the pub Sherlock had mentioned. We had towels and spare dry drawers with us, so I expected that we would head straight to the village, but Sherlock led me back to the house.
“The squire is indeed a congenial neighbour,” he said. “I borrowed a couple of bicycles from The Gables. They are in the garden shed.”
I was grateful for Sherlock’s foresight, for I was ravenous by the time we got to Fulworth. Fulworth was indeed a picturesque village, with solid Tudor homesteads at its core, weather-beaten and lichen-blotched but well taken care of. A small church stood at the edge of the older part of the settlement. Further from the bay and higher upon the hills there were modern buildings including a post office, a pharmacy, a grocery, and our destination—a pub called The Red Lion.
The stout, good-natured landlord served us a freshly-cooked, nutritious country dinner which was most welcome.
“Resuming our discussion of the neighbours, Harold Stackhurst is the owner of the house where we are staying,” Holmes said as we were consuming our hearty meal. “He inherited it from his father together with the estate and another residence, Southerton, about a mile from Fulworth. Stackhurst the elder had been a retired courtier, and his wife, Dame Elizabeth, used to be Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting. After the father’s passing it became clear that the estate was too expensive to keep up. Stackhurst transformed it into a school, having relocated with his mother to Southerton, which is humbler albeit still quite grand. The smallest house, however, posed a more difficult problem to solve. They had no extra means to maintain it, yet the mother didn’t wish to rent or sell it because of the pleasant memories associated with it. The situation became so dire that Stackhurst auctioned practically all of the furnishings from the house to provide the repairs it required.”
“Ha. There is an emotional attachment to the house, but they are not exactly well off,” I murmured. “And now they are constrained to sell it.”
“What do you think? The price is fair.”
“Then it’s definitely worth buying. These parts are quiet and beautiful. The place is ideal for resting without any disturbance.”
“You wouldn’t like to see other alternatives?” Holmes chuckled.
“I’m sure you selected the best one. After all, it was you who found our Baker Street flat,” I replied fondly.
Other patrons of the pub shot curious looks in our direction from time to time, but I remembered what Holmes had said once about the scattered country houses: much could happen under their roofs with none around being the wiser. While he had been referring to various terrible crimes, in our case the crime was merely being different.
We took our time enjoying our meal and then bought a cottage pie for the next day’s breakfast. Mrs. Hudson’s basket I had brought with us, as it could be conveniently hung on the bicycle handlebar.
A two-mile ride back to our secluded house was especially beneficial in helping to settle our dinner. Spurred on by a spirit of competition, we raced like boys up and down the grassy hills, bantering and teasing each other. It left us quite winded, so upon our return we dropped onto the bench in the wild garden to recover our breath. It was heartwarming to think that soon we would finally have our countryside sanctum, as we had so long desired. The prospect of extensive renovation works wasn’t discouraging in the least. That could be done gradually, and we would be able to mold everything to our tastes. The house provided for far more possibilities than our Baker Street flat ever could.
“Considering the Wilde ordeal last year, should we ever again need to get out of town in a hurry, at least we’ll have our own place,” I remarked.
“Yes, being so suddenly uprooted was annoying,” Sherlock replied with a sardonic sniff. Then his wry smile disappeared, his eyes becoming serious. “John…” he said and faltered.
I gazed at him expectantly, confused and a little worried. He was biting his nails, and that habit manifested itself only at the moments of extreme agitation.
“This house could be more than that,” Sherlock said at last. “Have you ever thought of what we are going to do in retirement?”
“Occasionally, but I haven’t made any particular plans yet,” I admitted. “It’s still years away, isn’t it? Besides, you love the city, Sherlock!”
“When I was younger, its hustle and bustle stimulated me. Lately I find it too overwhelming at times. Our country outings, though, are always soothing for my senses. Fits of the black mood… tend to be less severe in the countryside.”
There was a strain in his shoulders, and he didn’t try to hide his anxiety behind an impassive mask. The whole meaning of his words struck me as I realised it. He had imagined us growing old together and was offering me his vision, unsure of my reaction.
I embraced him. He breathed out and leaned into me.
“Tending to the garden will be nice,” I said.
“Keeping bees too,” he mumbled into my neck. “Someday I should like to put my theoretical knowledge into practice.”
When we pulled back, his face was glowing.
“The library can serve as our shared study,” he continued in delight. “We shan’t need any live-in servants, I suppose. With all the conveniences, a daytime housekeeper should do. Therefore, the servants’ room can be made into a chemical lab.”
“Good Heavens, no more chemicals in our sitting-room! My dream will come true,” I exclaimed. “By the way, the attic could be used for storing your materials quite literally.”
“Agreed. And since the nearest Turkish bath is miles away, we could have a small wooden hut built for the purpose.”
Growing more and more absorbed in our plans for the future, we talked till nightfall. By then our excitement was so great that it put to a severe test the integrity of the rickety bed in our room upstairs. We entertained serious concerns that it might fall apart. At one point we abandoned it, for the creaking was intolerable, but eventually we had to sleep. By some miracle it was still intact in the morning.
I woke up to a pleasant soreness in my body. My eyes closed, I stretched luxuriously; the bed gave a sharp squeak of protest.
“Careful,” Sherlock’s laughing voice admonished.
“This bed should be chopped into firewood,” I groaned and finally opened my eyes.
“If everything else is to your liking, the papers can be signed tomorrow.” Sherlock passed me a half-smoked cigarette.
“Yes, sign them by all means,” I replied, taking a draw.
“Oh no-no, Dr. Watson. Your modesty will do no good on this occasion. You are to be an equal co-owner.”
“But Sherlock, you solved the Duke’s case and—”
“As always, your assistance was invaluable! Don’t argue.” He put up a masterful hand. “We’ve been saving together. There’s much to be done here: plumbing, electricity, a steam bath, what else did we mention? This place shall belong to us both or I won’t have it.”
“It’s both or none then?” I asked with a grin.
“Precisely.”
There is a theory that Oscar Wilde’s trials made London unsafe for queer people and many of them preferred to leave the town for that period under various pretexts
https://groovymutant.wordpress.com/2017/09/14/sherlock-holmes-and-victorian-homosexuality-part-1/
PRIOR is attributed to 1901 or 1903 by Holmesian scholars, but knowing Watson’s discretion for the sake of the clients and hence his propensity to give wrong dates, it’s easy to imagine that the case could take place in 1896, just a few years before Holmes’s official retirement.
Thanks to [redacted] for the name of the pub!
Recipient:
saki101Author: [redacted]
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: none
Summary: Holmes found a house in Sussex, but he needs to make sure Watson approves before buying it.
One Friday afternoon in July of 1896, I was resting at home, having completed my rounds during the earlier part of the day. Since Holmes’s return two years prior I maintained a rather small practice just a few blocks away from Baker Street. It enabled me to spend more time with my better half and be available for assisting him at once whenever it was necessary.
The day was balmy, sunlight streaming into the sitting-room through the windows. Birds were chirping outside, their clear voices distinct even in the usual din of the busy street. I was daydreaming, my newspaper tossed aside. Staying indoors on such a lovely day would be a shame, so I was considering a stroll in the Park. But suddenly my musings were interrupted. There was a clang of the front door, and the familiar light, swift steps ascended the stairs.
Holmes entered in a flurry of energy, like a powerful gust of wind. His eyes lit up with satisfaction when he spotted me lounging on the sofa.
“Pack your valise for a couple of days in the country and we’ll be off. Our train leaves in twenty minutes,” he ordered and headed to his room.
“You have a new case?” I asked, watching through the opened door as he threw his belongings haphazardly into his portmanteau.
“All questions later.” He changed from his black frock-coat into a grey tweed jacket and replaced his top-hat with a travelling cloth cap.
I hurried upstairs to get prepared, and five minutes later we were in a cab, rattling to the station. At Holmes’s request, our kind Mrs. Hudson had managed to arrange for us a cold supper on very short notice, so I had a weighty wicker basket in my lap.
We boarded the Eastbourne train and settled ourselves down in a vacant first-class carriage. Holmes reclined in the cushioned seat, stretched his long legs in front of him, and lit his pipe. He seemed to be in a complacent, relaxed mood which was rather inconsistent with the austere manner he usually had while at work. On the other hand, on some occasions he preferred to detach himself from the matter until more data was at his disposal.
“What about the case, Holmes?” I reminded him.
“Ah, the case,” he said, puffing out blue rings of smoke. “We are to investigate a century-old farmhouse, my dear Watson. You’ll see for yourself when we arrive.”
For the rest of the time he chatted about opera, recent inventions, and electricity, his eyes twinkling, perfectly aware of my attempts to read him and failing to do so. It clearly pleased him that after all these years he hadn’t lost his ability to mystify me.
Upon reaching Eastbourne, we hired a dog-cart at the station and had a most enjoyable ride amongst the peaceful hills and meadows of East Sussex. A gentle breeze carried bittersweet notes of wild herbs and flowers and of the soil thoroughly warmed by the sun. The rare rural dwellings were scattered far apart from each other, yet this serene land was teeming with life. There was no clatter of countless feet on the pavement or shrill noises of machinery. Instead there was the singing of crickets and the buzzing of bees.
Gradually the hills began to steepen; soon one could hear the crashing billows of the sea and the cries of seagulls in the distance. The road climbed higher until we found ourselves driving along the precipitous chalky coast of the South Downs. The dazzling white of the cliffs contrasted with the saturated blue of the sky, and far below waves in perpetual motion were frothing against the shore. It was a breathtaking sight.
At the crossroads we turned towards a grove in a small valley between the hills. Only upon approaching the grove did the valley unfold completely in front of our eyes and a lovely Georgian house become visible. Built of red brick, with a brown-tiled roof and white airy sash-windows, it was modest but genteel and welcoming. Although the garden which surrounded it had run to seed and the tall yew hedge was unkempt, there was something artistic about that state of neglect.
We got out by the decrepit rusty gate and made our way across the garden through the lush grass. Inside, the house was full of natural light, its rooms tidy if sparsely furnished. The hall led into a spacious parlour and a library to the left with a dining-room and a kitchen to the right. I left the basket of food there and followed Holmes up the stairs.
Having walked along the corridor past a half-empty drawing-room, a bedroom with a lonely bed-frame in it, then yet another empty room, we came to a second, larger bedroom which, thankfully, had everything in place.
“What have you deduced so far?” Holmes asked, smiling, as we put down our luggage.
“This house obviously hasn’t been lived in for years,” I said. “And not even rented out to vacationing people, otherwise it would have been kept more presentable. Nevertheless, its owner cares for it enough to prevent its descent into disrepair: the ceiling in the hall and the stairs have been skillfully renovated not long ago. Perhaps the house holds some special meaning for the owner. Also, the owner must be quite well off—to look after such property while not using it must be costly.”
“Well done, well done indeed, my boy.”
“Are you not going to correct any inaccuracies in my conclusions?”
“Not yet. Observe and analyse. That’s what we are here for. There will be plenty of time to think.”
“It’s not an urgent matter?”
Holmes shook his head.
“Then we are to spend a weekend in the country just for the pleasure of it? My dear Holmes, that’s rather unlike you,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“I like to surprise you, John.” He gave me a coy look from under his lashes.
Right. Since we were perfectly alone, there was no need for the obligatory precaution of calling each other by our surnames. But the place was unfamiliar, and the habit had grown indelible over the years.
Sherlock went to the window and pulled up the blind with a theatrical flourish. I gasped quietly. The vista of the Channel was stunning—the great expanse of the sea framed by the sharp ridges of the cliffs and the boundless sky which is forever hidden in the city behind walls and roofs.
Judging by Sherlock’s complacent expression, my amazement was exactly what he had counted on.
“I’ll bring some water from the well and put the kettle on,” he said.
I lingered in the bedroom, admiring the view. Vague hopes began to stir within my heart. We had been saving money for almost a decade, wishing for a country house where we could go for weekends. Recently Sherlock had cleared up a tangled abduction case which concerned a noble and very rich family, and the remuneration he had received was exceptional in its generosity.
On the other hand, Sherlock was prone to occasional whims. It was not unusual for us to use his secret refuges in London for relaxation in private. If that was the case, reading too much into this outing would not be wise lest I should be disappointed later, through no fault of his own.
Still, he did seem to be especially keen on my opinion about the house. His motive surely lay on the surface. Either way, it was simplicity itself, so I decided to observe and analyse as per his directions.
We had some trouble lighting up the old kitchen range, not to mention that it felt a bit odd to prepare tea by ourselves. Nevertheless, both Sherlock and I were no strangers to managing on our own, and so we did. Having partaken of ham and cheese with bread, at my suggestion we continued to explore the house.
“It could be turned into quite a cosy nest if the owners were inclined to improve it a bit,” I said after we had examined the cellar, the servants’ room at the far end of the corridor on the ground floor, and the attic.
“What would you do?” Sherlock asked in a matter-of-fact tone, as if not particularly interested.
“Have modern conveniences installed, to begin with,” I replied in kind. “Bringing water from the well and heating it is a back-breaking job when one fancies having a bath. The way some upper-class people exploit their servants is ghastly. A good sewage system would also be necessary, of course. The small lumber-room at the very end of the hall could be transformed into a water closet while the empty room next to the large bedroom could become a fine bathroom. There is enough space for a full-length bath, and it wouldn’t be cramped as our bathroom at Baker Street, for example.”
“Go on,” Sherlock said, gazing vacantly at the floor.
“An electric generator could be installed in the cellar,” I obliged. “Safe and clean in comparison with the gas lighting this place doesn’t even possess. Then, a new stove would be handy. I’m sure the cook would be pleased.”
“I never get your limits, John. You definitely have a knack for housekeeping,” Sherlock said, his head cocked on one side. “Well, for now let’s make do with what’s available to arrange our evening ablutions.”
We discovered a tin hip bath in the aforementioned lumber-room but agreed that filling it wasn’t worth the effort. It was much easier to share a kettle of hot water and employ the jug and the wash-basin in the bedroom.
After it got dark, we retired early, as it was prudent to spare the single candle we had. Neither of us was in the need of sleep yet, and our choice of a pastime, if predictable, was deeply satisfying for us both. In the process we made another discovery: the ancient bed creaked atrociously. Those loud, high-pitched whining sounds must have reverberated throughout the entire house. We were very glad no one else was there to hear it.
In the morning we ate the leftovers from our supper, and Sherlock proposed that we go to the beach. The weather was as wonderful as it had been on the previous day, and we strolled leisurely along the thyme-scented downs, basking in the summer sun. The sea air itself seemed more substantial and richer than the thin aether of the city. Just breathing freely was a true pleasure. Sometimes we would observe a few bees whiz past us in the grass, and Sherlock would regale me with amusing facts about them. Apiculture had piqued his curiosity some months before, so he had been reading voraciously on the subject ever since.
Having reached the coast-line, we climbed the highest hill which provided an excellent vantage point to review the surroundings.
“That is Fulworth, the closest village, two miles from here,” Sherlock gestured to the east where in a hollow by the bay a small settlement sat in a semicircle of cheerful houses. “We can dine in the pub there after bathing. And the estate over there is called The Gables,” he pointed at the grand Tudor mansion about half a mile from us. “It is owned by one Harold Stackhurst, a local squire, and was turned into a coaching establishment five years ago.”
“What sort of a coaching establishment?” I asked, peering at the magnificent turrets with sharp spires.
“They prepare young fellows for various technical professions—engineers, mechanics, and so on.”
“Must be an expensive place to study.”
“It seems to be so, but there are also scholarships for local children of humble backgrounds.”
“So the squire does something good for his community. Then he’s probably a congenial neighbour.”
We both chuckled and started to descend from the hilltop. A steep rocky path winding between the cliffs was the only way down to the beach. One had to be most careful to watch every step lest one slip on the loose pebbles which were strewn all along it. Any lack of attention could easily result in a sprained ankle or injured knees at best.
But eventually we had our reward for all the difficulties. The beach was covered with fine shingles stretching towards the horizon, waves lapping at the shore and shimmering in the sun. Several fishing-boats were tiny specks far away on the sea. At the base of the cliffs there was a curious maze of shallow caves and grottos, and the shoreline curved near some of them, forming natural swimming-pools.
I took Sherlock’s hand into mine as we gazed at the sea. It was wonderful. We could be ourselves here in the open, without fear. He pressed my hand, sharing the sentiment. We chose one of the swimming-pools, undressed to the drawers, and plunged into the cool, refreshing water.
The whole morning was spent on the beach until swimming and frolicking had quite worn us out. It was time to fortify ourselves at the pub Sherlock had mentioned. We had towels and spare dry drawers with us, so I expected that we would head straight to the village, but Sherlock led me back to the house.
“The squire is indeed a congenial neighbour,” he said. “I borrowed a couple of bicycles from The Gables. They are in the garden shed.”
I was grateful for Sherlock’s foresight, for I was ravenous by the time we got to Fulworth. Fulworth was indeed a picturesque village, with solid Tudor homesteads at its core, weather-beaten and lichen-blotched but well taken care of. A small church stood at the edge of the older part of the settlement. Further from the bay and higher upon the hills there were modern buildings including a post office, a pharmacy, a grocery, and our destination—a pub called The Red Lion.
The stout, good-natured landlord served us a freshly-cooked, nutritious country dinner which was most welcome.
“Resuming our discussion of the neighbours, Harold Stackhurst is the owner of the house where we are staying,” Holmes said as we were consuming our hearty meal. “He inherited it from his father together with the estate and another residence, Southerton, about a mile from Fulworth. Stackhurst the elder had been a retired courtier, and his wife, Dame Elizabeth, used to be Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting. After the father’s passing it became clear that the estate was too expensive to keep up. Stackhurst transformed it into a school, having relocated with his mother to Southerton, which is humbler albeit still quite grand. The smallest house, however, posed a more difficult problem to solve. They had no extra means to maintain it, yet the mother didn’t wish to rent or sell it because of the pleasant memories associated with it. The situation became so dire that Stackhurst auctioned practically all of the furnishings from the house to provide the repairs it required.”
“Ha. There is an emotional attachment to the house, but they are not exactly well off,” I murmured. “And now they are constrained to sell it.”
“What do you think? The price is fair.”
“Then it’s definitely worth buying. These parts are quiet and beautiful. The place is ideal for resting without any disturbance.”
“You wouldn’t like to see other alternatives?” Holmes chuckled.
“I’m sure you selected the best one. After all, it was you who found our Baker Street flat,” I replied fondly.
Other patrons of the pub shot curious looks in our direction from time to time, but I remembered what Holmes had said once about the scattered country houses: much could happen under their roofs with none around being the wiser. While he had been referring to various terrible crimes, in our case the crime was merely being different.
We took our time enjoying our meal and then bought a cottage pie for the next day’s breakfast. Mrs. Hudson’s basket I had brought with us, as it could be conveniently hung on the bicycle handlebar.
A two-mile ride back to our secluded house was especially beneficial in helping to settle our dinner. Spurred on by a spirit of competition, we raced like boys up and down the grassy hills, bantering and teasing each other. It left us quite winded, so upon our return we dropped onto the bench in the wild garden to recover our breath. It was heartwarming to think that soon we would finally have our countryside sanctum, as we had so long desired. The prospect of extensive renovation works wasn’t discouraging in the least. That could be done gradually, and we would be able to mold everything to our tastes. The house provided for far more possibilities than our Baker Street flat ever could.
“Considering the Wilde ordeal last year, should we ever again need to get out of town in a hurry, at least we’ll have our own place,” I remarked.
“Yes, being so suddenly uprooted was annoying,” Sherlock replied with a sardonic sniff. Then his wry smile disappeared, his eyes becoming serious. “John…” he said and faltered.
I gazed at him expectantly, confused and a little worried. He was biting his nails, and that habit manifested itself only at the moments of extreme agitation.
“This house could be more than that,” Sherlock said at last. “Have you ever thought of what we are going to do in retirement?”
“Occasionally, but I haven’t made any particular plans yet,” I admitted. “It’s still years away, isn’t it? Besides, you love the city, Sherlock!”
“When I was younger, its hustle and bustle stimulated me. Lately I find it too overwhelming at times. Our country outings, though, are always soothing for my senses. Fits of the black mood… tend to be less severe in the countryside.”
There was a strain in his shoulders, and he didn’t try to hide his anxiety behind an impassive mask. The whole meaning of his words struck me as I realised it. He had imagined us growing old together and was offering me his vision, unsure of my reaction.
I embraced him. He breathed out and leaned into me.
“Tending to the garden will be nice,” I said.
“Keeping bees too,” he mumbled into my neck. “Someday I should like to put my theoretical knowledge into practice.”
When we pulled back, his face was glowing.
“The library can serve as our shared study,” he continued in delight. “We shan’t need any live-in servants, I suppose. With all the conveniences, a daytime housekeeper should do. Therefore, the servants’ room can be made into a chemical lab.”
“Good Heavens, no more chemicals in our sitting-room! My dream will come true,” I exclaimed. “By the way, the attic could be used for storing your materials quite literally.”
“Agreed. And since the nearest Turkish bath is miles away, we could have a small wooden hut built for the purpose.”
Growing more and more absorbed in our plans for the future, we talked till nightfall. By then our excitement was so great that it put to a severe test the integrity of the rickety bed in our room upstairs. We entertained serious concerns that it might fall apart. At one point we abandoned it, for the creaking was intolerable, but eventually we had to sleep. By some miracle it was still intact in the morning.
I woke up to a pleasant soreness in my body. My eyes closed, I stretched luxuriously; the bed gave a sharp squeak of protest.
“Careful,” Sherlock’s laughing voice admonished.
“This bed should be chopped into firewood,” I groaned and finally opened my eyes.
“If everything else is to your liking, the papers can be signed tomorrow.” Sherlock passed me a half-smoked cigarette.
“Yes, sign them by all means,” I replied, taking a draw.
“Oh no-no, Dr. Watson. Your modesty will do no good on this occasion. You are to be an equal co-owner.”
“But Sherlock, you solved the Duke’s case and—”
“As always, your assistance was invaluable! Don’t argue.” He put up a masterful hand. “We’ve been saving together. There’s much to be done here: plumbing, electricity, a steam bath, what else did we mention? This place shall belong to us both or I won’t have it.”
“It’s both or none then?” I asked with a grin.
“Precisely.”
There is a theory that Oscar Wilde’s trials made London unsafe for queer people and many of them preferred to leave the town for that period under various pretexts
https://groovymutant.wordpress.com/2017/09/14/sherlock-holmes-and-victorian-homosexuality-part-1/
PRIOR is attributed to 1901 or 1903 by Holmesian scholars, but knowing Watson’s discretion for the sake of the clients and hence his propensity to give wrong dates, it’s easy to imagine that the case could take place in 1896, just a few years before Holmes’s official retirement.
Thanks to [redacted] for the name of the pub!
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Date: 2020-03-19 10:16 pm (UTC)I love seeing Holmes and Watson in their lives outside of case solving, having a break from their often grueling and dangerous escapades. Your descriptions of both the house and its environs are delightful. I could hear the squeal of the rusty gate, catch the scent of the sea air and picture them catching their breath after their bicycle ride.
I will enjoy imagining them there on their weekend escapes and in their retirement. :-D
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Date: 2020-03-20 03:01 pm (UTC)I also love the delicate emotional through-line of the story, as the two lovers enjoy their seclusion -- wailing bed and all -- and quietly reach a new level of commitment and security in one another and their shared future. They feel married now :)
Their racing their bicycles up and down those hills like schoolboys was so cute, too. That's one joy they'll be glad they shared early, since I imagine in retirement those hills will start to become more of an inconvenience!
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