Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 10 of 10)

Warnings: none, unless you object to Christmas carols in the month of August ;)

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I was awoken by the sound of a heavy object thudding to the floor, followed by a muffled curse. The room was in complete darkness, and reaching out, I found the bed beside me to be empty.

"Watson?" I said softly.

"Damn it." From his voice, I judged him to be standing a few feet away. "I'm so sorry to have woken you, Holmes. I got up to look for a nightshirt, but I appear to have knocked something over."

"Why the devil didn't you light a candle?"

"I was afraid I would wake you."

We both realised the absurdity of this statement at the same moment, and began to laugh.

"Wait a moment," I said, feeling for the matches on the bedside table.

Once the candle was burning, its soft yellow circle of light revealed Watson standing by his open travelling trunk, as naked as he had been when we finally fell asleep.

All of a sudden, I found I was involuntarily holding my breath. It was the first time I had been able to study him properly thus, for the previous night we had been rather too impatient to take more than a moment to pause and observe. He was not holding himself upright as was his habit, but was rather hunched and round-shouldered. I knew he was thinking of the rugby-player's physique he must once have possessed.

"You're magnificent," I said softly.

"I shall very soon have caught my death of pneumonia," he said, but I saw that he was standing much straighter than before.

He turned to search once more for a nightshirt among the tangle of clothes spilling from his trunk.

"Good heavens, Watson, never mind the nightshirt! Come here."

He brought one all the same, and laid it by the bed, but subsequent actions on my part caused him to very quickly forget all about donning it.

.. .. ..

The next morning, I awoke to find myself quite alone. In the bitter cold, I washed and dressed as quickly as possibly, after breaking the thin layer of ice which had already formed on the water in the washbasin since Watson's ablutions. I judged that to have occurred at least half an hour previously, which was confirmed when I descended to the sitting room, for Watson had already had time to light the fire, and make tea and toast.

"Good morning, my dear fellow!" he cried, appearing in the doorway laden with jam and butter. "Do you know, the most dreadful thing has just occurred to me."

I froze. "What is it?"

"Well, unless I miscalculate it's Christmas Eve today. And under the circumstances, I am very unlikely to have the opportunity to buy you a present before tomorrow morning."

"That's – rather fortunate," I said, my momentary panic ebbing away.

He sat down at the table, chuckling. "I'm relieved to learn you find yourself in the same predicament."

I sat down opposite him, and watched as he spread jam on his toast, which was impressively golden brown, and only slightly burnt in some places. It was an incredible feeling to know that I could reach out and touch those strong brown hands, and they would entwine around mine instead of freezing or jumping away.

Watson grinned at me as he passed me a butter-knife. "You know, when you came into the room I was quite overcome by the desire to kiss you. It didn't seem quite the thing at breakfast, though."

I could not help but return the smile. "Do not restrain yourself tomorrow morning, Watson, I beg you."

I was suddenly struck by the revelation that from this moment forward I could kiss Watson whenever I so wished, circumstances permitting - and assuming that Watson would continue to endure all of my more noxious qualities as a companion. By some miracle, he had already done so for almost a year. I stirred my tea, falling into a reverie.

I had never been able to sustain happiness very long; my mind could never allow itself to forget that every rose had its thorns, and nothing endured forever. Now, despite my euphoria every time Watson caught my eye and smiled, some part of my mind protested that we were living an unsustainable dream in the Cotswolds. Our trial, and mine in particular, would come on our return to London.

And yet, I was certain that commencing this wondrous, terrifying thing had been no error. How could it have been, when my heart told me otherwise every time Watson glanced my way. Moreover, I doubted either of us could have withstood the torture a great deal longer without snapping, in one irrevocable way or another. Indeed a part of me revelled in the thought of being ensconced in Baker Street together on the long winter's evenings to come. I simply wished I knew whether I would be able to liberate myself from the feeling of being constantly on the knife-edge of discovery.

Watson's voice broke into my reverie. "Holmes, you look quite grim." He was clearly trying to suppress an anxious note from his voice, and failing.

I suddenly came to myself. "I was being quite stupid, my dear fellow, that is all." I met his gaze, seeing his blue eyes screwed up with worry, and cursed myself for a fool. "I was confusing my dear Watson with some idiotic, imprudent men I have known in the past."

Watson had evidently been thinking along similar lines as I, for he divined the thoughts behind my words, and sighed. "In some ways I wish we could remain here for ever, isolated from the world."

I stretched out a hand to grasp his. "It is not necessary, I promise you. I told you I trusted you, and I dare to think you do me. That is all we require."

He squeezed my hand, before grasping the toasting iron and standing up. "Another slice of toast, Holmes?"

On his way to the fireplace, he surprised me by planting a kiss on the top of my head.

We ate in comfortable silence for a while. I sorely felt the lack of the morning's newspapers. A yellowing copy of the local gazette held my attention for a few moments, but after skimming through a detailed account of the previous year's harvest festival contests, I threw it aside in disgust. Watson was flicking through an illustrated guide to Britain's fresh-water fish, which he had found in the room's bookshelves, sadly dominated by publications of a sporting nature. I stood up and went to fetch some papers from my trunk, which stood in the corner of the room.

"The pot's still warm," said Watson. "Another cup?"

"Please," I said, beginning to feel I had brought too many papers, for among them all, I could not find the one I wanted. "You're rather a dab hand at making tea, you know, Watson. I had no idea."

"Comes from my army days. My batman was rather rubbish in that regard."

"You should have listed that as one of your virtues, when we first met. Though come to think of it, I believe we only exchanged our shortcomings." I turned back to my chest of books, adding absently, "You know, it's a damned good thing I didn't fall for you the moment I saw you. If I'd done so, I should certainly never have allowed myself to move in with you."

I heard Watson say in a small voice, "Of course, that's quite understandable given the shape I was in."

I spun round. "Watson! I did not mean - "

He laughed. "Think nothing of it." To my acute hearing, however, his laugh sounded quite off key.

I had very quickly noticed Watson's insecurity when it came to his physical condition, though I had never before felt myself in a position to be permitted to comment. Even now, I was not sure how to address the question. I came slowly back across the room towards the table, papers in hand, resolved to take every possible opportunity to demonstrate to him in word and deed precisely what I thought of his many and varied physical attributes.

.. .. ..

We spent the morning rambling over the wooded hills around the village. The roads were impassable because of the snowdrifts, the ground was unmarked by human traces, and scarcely even an animal had passed, leaving me bereft of interesting tracks to follow. That day, however, I found that Watson and his kisses were quite enough to entertain me.

We returned to find the lodge filled with the smell of roast goose and the sound of clattering dishes and pans.

"I shan't be by tomorrow," Mrs Stroud called from the kitchen. "So I thought I'd do you a nice dinner today, and you can eat the leftovers tomorrow. I hope that's all right with you, gentlemen?"

"Of course, Mrs Stroud," said Watson, as she bustled us into the sitting room, where the table was already set. "We wouldn't dream of keeping you from your family on Christmas day."

She beamed at us as she piled roast potatoes and parsnips onto our plates. "And how is the young master keeping?"

I could not help but be startled, for in my mind, Faulkner was firmly associated with murder, and crimes against nature, and although I knew my reaction to be ridiculous, it was a momentary shock to think of Mrs Stroud being acquainted with him.

Watson said calmly, "A little over-exhausted, I believe, but I'm sure the Christmas spirit will do him good."

"Oh dear me! Well, I do hope he comes to visit us in Gloucestershire soon." She drowned my plate in a daunting amount of gravy. "And how is his friend Mr Wright?"

At this, I almost jumped out of my skin, but Mrs Stroud was bearing down on Watson's plate with the gravy pot as though nothing at all untoward had been said.

Watson cast me a concerned glance, before smiling at Mrs Stroud. "He was keeping very well, the last time I saw him."

I envied him his nonchalance. Reminding myself of my resolution not to jeopardise our happiness by my wariness, I forced myself to relax. I told myself to look on it as an occasion to practise for the many such situations we would surely encounter in the future.

"Enjoy your meal, gentleman," said Mrs Stroud, lying a carving knife by the goose before disappearing into the kitchen.

We both stared at the knife, and then each other. I could see that Watson was trying not to smile.

"Well?" he said.

My gaze flickered from him to the knife and back again, as I held back my own smile. It really was most peculiar. Before the previous night, we would have paid little heed to the matter of which of us undertook to carve, the traditional male rôle. Now it seemed steeped in significance.

I bit my lip. "How do you feel about taking turns?"

Watson reached for the knife, grinning. "An excellent idea, Holmes."

.. .. ..

The onset of a fresh fall of snow obliged us to postpone our after-dinner stroll. I was about to curl up in an armchair with a history of alchemy in the Balkans when a sudden idea prompted me to choose the sofa instead. To my delight, Watson took the hint and came to join me. At first we sat rather primly, side-by-side. Then suddenly Watson moved, and I found his head in my lap, and his book propped up on my knee. I was quite content to take the liberty of entwining a hand through his thick fair hair. My other hand held my book open on the arm of the sofa, but I did not progress very far that afternoon, for I was deep in thought.

It was the first time I had ever sat thus with someone, simply enjoying the comfortable contact, without any undercurrents of seduction, domination or exploitation. I came to the conclusion that it was worth any amount of anxiety and paranoia.

When the weather finally cleared we decided to take our walk, despite the late hour. Darkness had already fallen, but by the light of the full moon we could see clearly. Snow crunched underfoot as we retraced our path of the previous day. When we reached it, the heart of the village lay peaceful and silent in the moonlight, save for the music and singing drifting across the village green to us from the church.

"Lessons and carols!" Watson exclaimed, and hurried me around the green to the small stone church we had passed on our first walk through the village. I was somewhat less enthusiastic about hearing the massacre of beautiful choral music by an amateur organist and a rabble of country schoolboys, but I followed his lead, and we slipped quietly into the back of the church.

The interior was warm and dark, with widely spaced candles leaving the villagers and their Sunday best half in shadow. In the nearest spot of candle-light, two older children fidgeted, over-excited, while their younger siblings dozed on the wooden pews.

We remained at the back of the church, out of the way, as the carols continued. Watson turned out to have a wonderful bass. I had had no idea that he possessed any ability in that direction at all, but in fact he proved to own a voice full of passion and depth. I soon forgot my earlier disparaging sentiments towards the music as I lost myself in his voice, and the familiar words. In the dark I could see only his well-loved outline, broad and strong, his body angled somewhat, perhaps unconsciously, towards mine. I reflected on how incredibly fortunate I was, and how incredibly idiotic I had been to wait so long.

The final reading and the final carol came to an end, and I felt Watson's hand slip into mine in the shadows.

"God rest you merry, Holmes," he said softly.

In the shadows I squeezed his hand. "And you, my love."

The crowd which streamed from the church with us thinned rapidly as we walked back towards the lodge, and by the time we reached the driveway, we were quite alone.

The snow-covered path to the door shone silver in the moonlight, and only our footprints marked it, side-by-side as always. I drew Watson to me for one last embrace in the snow before we gave ourselves up to warmth and bed and each other.

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Fin

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Voilà, c'est fini ! I do hope this chapter was a satisfying conclusion. Although I do have some ideas for a sequel...

By the way, if anyone's interested, I never have any particular actors in mind when writing Holmes and Watson, but rather the two men we see in the Paget illustrations. Though I do have a certain weakness for Vitaly Solomin, who must surely be the cutest Watson ever :)