The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those who have control over the copyright. The other characters and plot herein are mine, as far as I know.
I basically ignore most canon, so sorry if you're a hardcore Sherlock Holmes fan. Canon seems to be pretty contradictory as to who Sherlock actually married. Although, I turned Watson into a woman, so I don't know why I'm so worried about cannon.
If this looks at all promising, please review and let me know. It'll give me warm fuzzies and warm fuzzies are always conducive to good writing.
Oh, yeah, this also the first thing I've written in like four years, so be gentle.
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As sometimes happens on the gray mornings that populate my days in England, I was roused from a warm and pleasant slumber by a servant rapping on my door.
"Sir," he said, "Sir, there is an urgent letter for you. A boy is waiting for your answer."
Ah, Robert, the first footman. There are more agreeable ways of greeting the day than being awakened by a sour-faced but ruthlessly efficient servant. I sometimes wondered if he wasn't troubled by a chronic bowel complaint, but I could never bring myself to breech his formidable countenance and enquire after the nature of his latest conversation with the servants' privy.
I drug myself from the snug comfort of my bed and grabbed my robe from the chair where it was draped. Belting it, I cracked the door and let my face show.
"He is yet asleep, Robert," I said, "but give me the letter and I will wake him." I snaked my arm out the door.
"Yes, madam," he said, placing the letter in my hand and then speaking again. "Shall I send a tea tray up, madam?" At the mention of breakfast, my stomach gave an insistent and plaintive demand for fried sausages and tomatoes on toast. Oh, the glories of English cuisine!
"No, Robert, no," regretfully said, "I imagine we will be down for breakfast shortly." I shut the door and immediately rid myself of my scratchy wrapper -- horrid object, it was a gift and I wore it only to please the giver. If there were one habit I could have retained from my unwed state, it would have been my neglect of propriety. I did not become a doctor in this unlikely age to avoid being seen in my drawers. I had seen worse and no doubt would continue to do so.
Walking back to the bed, I sat on the edge of the great thing and placed my hand on the chest of the man who slept there. A great man, clever beyond all knowing. My dear automaton, my colleague, my equal in stubbornness: my lover. I flexed my hand on the surface on which it rested. Firm but giving, smooth under the crisp, dark curls that covered it, it was as familiar to me as the sight of my own hand. Ah, I thought to myself, but the man it belongs to remains a mystery.
Yes, a mystery, most definitely a mystery. I had first met the lummox I sleep by nightly after I had returned, weak from typhoid and disillusioned by India, the only place desperate enough for doctors to accept a female skilled in medicine. His astounding arrogance had at first repelled me, but his genuinely good heart and dedication to the truth had trapped me. Yes, a mystery of a man, pledged by his very nature to solve that which he was made of.
I stroked his chest when done remembering and softly spoke. "Sherlock. Sherlock." I drummed my fingers on his sternum when he did not stir. "Sherlock, there is an urgent letter for you." I drummed again and his hand camp up and stilled mine. Wrapping his long fingers around my palm, he brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of my fingers.
"My dear Watson," he said, eyes still closed. "There is always a letter and it is always an urgent one. No doubt there is a boy below, waiting for my reply. The handwriting on the envelope will be feminine and the envelope itself will be edged in black." He cracked and eye and smiled. "I know I am right; I am never wrong. You do not need to tense so much in wonder, my dear."
"But, Sherlock, how do you know?" Always, I thought wryly, he knows.
"I smelled a new perfume. You wear rosewater; the new scent is lavender, which I know you abhor. Your hand smells of the black ink used by stationers for mourning paper. Therefore, the letter had to be written by a woman in mourning. The sorts of women who disturb newly married couples in the morning with letters are the same sorts who have boys wait for replies." His eyelid dropped down and his thumb ran lightly on my palm. He was obviously pleased that he could still shock me with his deductions, after so many years. I raised one corner of my mouth in a half-grin and wiggled an eyebrow.
"It is thoroughly disagreeable to see how perfectly your mind works even when still clogged with sleep." I tugged for him to release my hand, but he hesitated before doing so. He reached up and ran his hand from the crown of my head to where my braid ended at my hip and let his hand rest there.
"It was not my brain which did it; it was my nose." His fingers moved softly, warm through my linen nightdress. He opened his eyes fully and smiled once more, though for different reasons.
How odd that two avowed bachelors could find such happiness in each other, both in temperaments and more biblical matters.
"Read me the letter, doctor. It is thoroughly agreeable to me to hear your voice in the morning, when all night it has echoed through my happy dreams." I softened and started to open the letter. "Ah," he stopped me. "Careful of the seal. I will want to examine it later."
Unfolding the missive, smelling of lavender and edged in black, as my husband had so accurately deduced, I read:
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Loudon Hall, Little Cheatham, Somerset
November 17, 1888
Dear Sir,
You do not know me nor have we ever met. My late husband, however, Lord David Loudon, often spoke of the time he spent with you during your mutual studies at university. Shortly before his death, he had plans of contacting you to share those memories. You may recall him -- a man of no more than middling height, but of infinite compassion. His unexpected and unwelcome passing has left hole of inestimable size in the lives of all who knew him.
It was while clearing my husband's desk that I came across your address and decided to write you, recalling the great success you had in discovering the truth behind the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. There are certain circumstances surrounding my husband's death which lead me to suspect that it is not the simple thing it was made out to be. If you are a gentleman (and I know you are), you will come at once to Loudon Hall and examine the matter. Until then, I remain your humble servant,
Lady Samantha Loudon
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I handed the letter to Sherlock and studied him while he studied it. "It appears, Sherlock, that she has insulted your honor as a gentleman. What will you do?" He sighed and lowered the letter.
"David Loudon. Yes, I remember him. I am saddened to hear of his death. He was not extraordinary, but a good man." He scratched the underside of his chin, where his beard lay as a curiously auburn shadow. "It is as his wife says -- he was ever aware of the needs and conditions of those around him." I watched him, knowing already that we would be leaving shortly for Somerset.
Sherlock took the hand that still laid at my hip and brought it up to the back of my head, pulling me down for a hard and affectionate morning kiss.
"Well, my dear Dr. Watson-Holmes, how does a holiday in Somerset sound? Little Cheatham is a lovely resort town, a perfect excuse to suddenly leave London." He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and cupped my cheek.
I smiled against his lips. From the tone of his voice, I would not be getting my full English breakfast that day.
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What do you think? Review and I will heap blessings on you and your children and your children's children and hopefully by that point, all those blessings will render your children's children's children so lucky that they'll win the lottery and have no need of some weird old lady's blessings.