Accident

KS: Hi there. I got this little oneshot idea yesterday night after a little accident of my own—quite funny, actually, but I couldn't think of a way to translate it into a fanfic. This is as close as I got. I do hope you enjoy it.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the marvellous affiliated characters or ideas. The honour of being their creator is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's.

I have said many times in these memoirs of my friend that he was not the tidiest of flatmates. Between cases a black mood would grip him, and he would often become as listless as a rag. The papers and items we accumulated on a case, therefore, would not be put away. They would instead accumulate in the room in all sorts of places. These relics could not be burned, nor could they be touched or sorted by anyone but their owner. Sometimes this would continue until, even for person with a slight natural tendency toward bohemianism as myself, the flat was quite difficult to live in.

After weeks of coercion from Mrs. Hudson and a little from myself, Holmes was finally tidying up about the place. He was now going about the room, gathering the stacks and stacks of papers done up with red-tape, and he placed each one into his large box with a gentleness that was startling from the man.

He laughed as he saw one particular little stack of papers, and held it up for me to see.

"Watson, do you remember this?" he asked, as if I would remember the case by the face of the paper alone.

"Which case is it?" I asked.

"It is the Paddington chain murder case," my friend replied, thumbing through the bound sheets with shining eyes.

"Ah! Now I remember that one!" said I, a wave of recollection washing over me.

"Indeed, it was a singular case." Holmes said. He sat the papers carefully on top of a little cigar-case from another murder in that great box of his. He stood back, his hands on his hips as he looked over them with a nostalgic eye. "One day, my dear Watson, I shall write a book over my experiences, detailing the fine points of detection and observation in a volume so comprehensive, nothing like it has ever been. It will be a great contribution to the science of detection—and perhaps it will help the official force, if they ever get it in their minds to listen."

"It would be an honour to read it," said I with wonder.

"An honour, perhaps, but possibly a trifle boring to one as romantic as you, Watson," Holmes said, continuing his work.

He walked over to the mantelpiece and took up various letters and assorted items from it, and in the process of doing so, he knocked off one of my journals.

The little red book fell…right into the fire.

Holmes's languid grey eyes suddenly snapped wide open, and his head turned quickly to me.

My own eyes were wide as I stared at the invaluable notes and messages that now were lost forever to the flames.

"I'm…sorry, Watson," said my friend after a moment, staring into the fire and then back at me nervously. "I really did not mean to do that."

I felt annoyance and anger try to boil up within me, but instead, I swallowed them down.

"…It's all right, Holmes." I said, composing myself. "It was an accident, after all."

I saw relief sweep over my companion's countenance.

"Thank you, Watson," he said. "How about I treat you to-night? To make up for it. Whatever you would like to hear." He stepped over to his violin, picking it up.

"Really? Well," I thought a moment, sitting down in my armchair. "You know what I like."

Holmes nodded with a slight smile, testing the strings.

"Of course, my dear Watson."

He began on a beautiful course of melodies, his thin arm sweeping the bow gracefully across the instrument.

"You know, Watson, if you did not write such idealistic stories, you wouldn't need that notebook—"

"Do not start on that to-night, Holmes," I said warningly.

I believe that he instantly understood what I meant, and he continued playing without another word.

KS: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!