First off, I know. I have a story that I'm working on that I should be more committed to. But since I'm seeing the end of my High School career and subsequently the end of my time in my Literature of Mystery in Horror class (in which Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I became intimately acquainted), I felt the need to pen this out. I should probably be shot for the excessive amounts of warm and fuzzy feelings detailed below...

Hum. Shall have to see Lestrade about that later.

Well, what's done is done. Feel free to have at it while I weep pathetically in this corner.

Cheers!
--You Float My Boat

Very infrequent was the occasion for Sherlock Holmes to compliment. My "romanticism" was often the subject of debate when our discussions entered the realm of writing and more often than not I left the sitting room with a feeling of damaged pride, the sting of Holmes's words fresh in my mind. Little did I know, to-night I would be leaving the sitting-room with quite the opposite feeling.

It had been a particularly cold and abysmal day that had given way to a night that was equally, if not more, so. I had meant to venture forth from our rooms earlier in the day to peruse the local bookshop for something fresh to read, but as thickly as the snow proceeded to blanket the streets of London and as terribly as my old injury ached, I had decided against it. Holmes was not so nearly off-put by the weather as I. Sometime after three o'clock he took up his coat and hat and hurried toward the door. My attempts to keep him indoors were brusquely brushed aside by his insistence that he take care of some private matter.

So, having failed to keep my companion indoors, I searched for something to occupy my time. I really was in the mood to read and began to look through those stories which I had read in days past. After nearly a quarter of an hour of searching, I came across The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe. I couldn't help but allow myself a small smile as I picked up the story. My mind wandered back to when Holmes and I had first met; he had proceeded to ridicule Dupin, calling him "a very inferior fellow," and I was rather hurt by his belittling the character I thought very highly of. Only later had I begun to realize how truthful my companions statements turned out to be.

At that moment, I became curious.

Terribly so.

I had a vision of steel grey eyes, twinkling with mischief and brimming with excitement. Observe. Deduce. I knew Holmes's methods well enough. How, then, would the great Monsieur Dupin appear in my eyes now? With some eagerness, I settled down in my chair by the fireplace to answer that question.

I wasn't certain how much time had passed since I had begun to attempt to draw deductions from Poe's writing, but I did know that it must have been some few hours, for what little light there had been outdoors before had vanished. Looking up to the clock told me it was close to half-past ten in the evening. Seeing this, I began to grow worried. It was not entirely unusual for Holmes to roam about London for long periods of time only to return at ungodly hours in the night, but in this weather it was certainly a stretch; even for my companion's renowned constitution.

At eleven bells, I quickly snapped my novel shut and rose from my seat, crossing the room to the window. The snow was coming down as heavily as ever. To be exposed to that bitter cold for any length of time was not advisable, and if Holmes had been out 'round town this whole time... As deadly as it could be, the snow did look strangely beautiful, illuminated by the few street lamps as it was. Still, it was no time to be lost in the picturesque holiday scene. Just as I was about to make for the door, it was flung open and in strode my friend, whirling and closing it quickly behind him.

"Really, Watson, you are far too into the spirit of the season," he remarked with his usual wit. "Judging from the way you watched this horrid precipitation, one might mistake you for a young boy, sleepless with excitement on Christmas Night. I suppose next you'll be going 'round with your, 'God bless us, everyone,' as well?"

"Holmes, where on earth have you been?" I asked, ignoring the jest for now.

He waved a hand dismissively, quickly dropping into his seat and edging towards the fire. Frowning, I followed after him, grabbing an afghan from the couch and draping it over his shoulders. His arms were folded tightly across his middle and I perceived he was shivering. Biting back a sigh over his blatant disregard for his own health—and quite frankly, my nerves—I reached for his hand. He pulled it back quickly with a hint of annoyance, but not before I'd found what I was looking for.

"You're absolutely frigid!" I exclaimed, reaching for a second rug.

"It is of no consequence."

"Holmes, you're insufferable."

"Why, thank you, Watson."

I rolled my eyes heaven-ward at his ability to poke fun at me despite his obvious discomfort. Making sure he was properly covered, I rang Mrs. Hudson for a pot of tea, apologizing for the hour. After pouring us both a cup, I settled into my own seat, watching his long, thin fingers wrap around the cup in his hands. Holding The Murders in the Rue Morgue in my lap, I studied him carefully.

"Well, I do hope whatever you had to do was well worth it," I told him.

"It was," he replied shortly.

"And just what were you doing?" I prodded.

"You know my—"

"Yes, yes, I know your methods," I finished for him hurriedly, ignoring his childish glare at having been cut-off. "Could you not, just for once, tell me what you were doing?"

He regarded me carefully, pulling the afghan closer about his person. "You have been employing my methods quite extensively already to-day, then?"

His eyes lit up at the sight of the book in my lap. Following his gaze, I made some half-hearted attempt to cover it, though I knew not why. I felt somehow... embarrassed by its presence. As though I'd been caught reading a children's book. Something entirely beneath me. Or beneath Holmes, at least.

"You were curious to see if your celebrated Dupin could stand the test of time," Holmes announced, punctuating his sentence with a sneeze.

"God bless you. And... yes," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

"There's no shame in it, old fellow," he assured me, sniffling lightly. "What have you come to decide?"

"Well, I... Well, it's not so much Dupin that is flawed," I answered hesitantly, downing almost my entire cup of tea to avoid speaking further.

"Go on," he instructed, stretching his hands toward the fire.

I turned my gaze toward the flames, dancing merrily in the hearth. "It is not so much Dupin that is flawed, but Poe."

"I see. Please, explain."

"Dupin is a fictitious character, created by Poe. Therefore, Dupin's intellect can extend only so far as that of Poe. You, Holmes, are a flesh and blood human being. Even if I put you on paper, you exist outside the realm of fantasy and your intellect is dependent on you and not I," I said at length.

"And what else?" he asked, sipping on his tea.

"Poe's writing is flawed in other ways as well. We are given Dupin's name but not much description of him otherwise. And his companion is completely without name or face to the reader. In that sense, it's rather difficult to form any sort of attachment to the character. Without attachment, we feel no real concern over what may happen to him," I explained further. "Dupin becomes nothing more than a deductive machine, and one of less capacity than you."

"Interesting conclusions. However, there is one area where your opinion differs from my own," Holmes said.

"How so?" I asked, suddenly curious.

"Your writing is romanticized. Although Poe is of lesser intelligence than myself, he succeeds in laying out a case as it should be: a piece of data. The cold hard facts are the only things presented," he clarified, shifting once in his seat to wrap the afghan closer. "The only things needed."

I frowned. "It hardly makes for an enjoyable read."

"Maybe not to one such as yourself," my companion responded.

"Now, see here," I answered a tad irately. "I realize I may not be the most fantastic writer, but I do put quite a bit of thought into what I write."

"There-in lies the problem. Writing should require little thought because you should just be transcribing the facts," Holmes said. "Not bogging it down with feeling."

"You really take no consideration into the time I put into my writing, do you?" I asked, a little heatedly. "You know, when I began all this I really thought you might take to it, but all you've ever done is sought to criticize it."

"Ah, but I never asked you to begin recording these cases, now, did I?" he pointed out, plucking at one of the branches of the sad, little Christmas tree I had picked out. "I realize how much you enjoy the season, but if this tree withers before the holiday, must we get another one?"

I chose to keep my mouth shut. Now it was my turn to act childish; staring into the flames with my brow knitted in a frown. I was sincerely tempted to see myself to bed for the night, but remained seated for whatever reason, ignoring Holmes as he spoke my name at least three times. Movement from my companion from his armchair to the rug was barely registered, distracted as I was. He sat closer to the fire, long legs tucked up to his chin, his wiry arms wrapped around them.

I couldn't help but shift my gaze to him as he closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. After a few moments, the astute grey eyes opened slowly, glancing between myself and the fire several times before coming to rest on the flames.

"But in all honesty," he announced loudly, "I would much rather read your overly romanticized interpretations of our adventures that Poe's unimaginative tripe. Based on the fact that Monsieur Dupin has fallen off the pedestal you'd erected for him, I can only conclude that your deducing abilities outstretch that of the unfortunate Poe. Really, don't be too hard on yourself, my dear Watson."

I snorted once, pouring myself a cup of tea, a smile tugging at my lips. I knew that, in his own way, that was something of an apology. Of course he would never admit to it, but that was just who he was. Even if I was a little sore from his words earlier, this did help to improve my mood. I refilled his cup.

"Will you still not tell me where you've been?" I prodded.

"Oh, do cease your probing," he countered with a sigh. "You shall have to wait another two weeks."

"Two weeks?" I echoed sounding puzzled.

He said nothing. I sat back in my chair, mulling it over. What could possibly happen two weeks from now that would make this mystery any clearer? After a moment of thought, it came to me. My goodness how dense I was! I quickly dragged my gaze over to our steadily dying Christmas tree and as I looked, I was able to perceive a small wrapped parcel that had not been there a few hours prior. I shook my head. To think that he'd gone out in such weather for something so trivial!

"Holmes, old fellow, I..."

But I stopped there. Back propped against his armchair, limbs tucked in and afghan wrapped securely about him, Sherlock Holmes had drifted into a light doze. I knew he wouldn't stay that way very long; he was bound to regain his senses in a moment or two. Careful not to wake him, I took a seat on the floor next to him. Weighing The Murders in the Rue Morgue carefully in my hands, I tossed it into the fire, letting the flames devour it greedily. I would not be needing the company of Monsieur Dupin again.

You know I always feel as though I'm on top of the world when I'm writing something... and as though the world's fallen on top of me when I submit it. I have an inkling that I may have gone just a bit overboard and may have let my lovey-dovey feelings bleed into my writing. But I just love the relationship between Holmes and Watson so much that I sometimes have a hard time of keeping myself in check! I'll make a note to work on it.

Also, I have no idea why it's Christmas. I think the heat here is driving me somewhat loopy... Critique is welcomed with open arms (I'm always seeking to improve). Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope you haven't suffered too much because of it! :)