Hector
by ElenaC

"Holmes," I called to my companion, who was currently rummaging about in his room, "might I have the key?"

The key in question, of course, was the key to his drawer, where he kept all valuables in our shared household, among them what he fancifully called his 'museum' of case mementos, and my cheque-book.

"Get it yourself, would you, Watson? It'd be rather awkward for me to interrupt this now." Through the half-open door, I spied a rough and powerful-looking cobbler seated before Holmes' dressing-mirror. Apart from the voice, the only thing that still reminded me of my friend was his sharp profile, which he was in the process of disguising by applying some flesh-coloured mass to his nose. "It's taped to the bottom of the second drawer, left-hand side," the cobbler added without looking at me.

I followed his instructions, found the key where he had said it would be, and was just about to close the drawer when my eye fell upon a most curious item.

It was a cardboard box, open, and filled with cotton wool, upon which rested a black stone, about the size of a child's fist. The stone appeared to look at me out of white ceramic eyes upon which black pupils had been painted.

Without thinking, I lifted the box out of the drawer for a closer look. In the light of our gas-jets, the stone looked as if its edges had been worn smooth by being handled often and thoroughly; the glue which affixed the eyes to the stone had that cracked look that comes with age and frequent repairs. Clearly, this was a much-loved item. But what was it? Not a case memento, for then it would be in the other drawer.

"Have you found it, Watson?" Holmes asked from behind me.

I turned, the box still in my hand. "I have. And I found... this." I felt torn between curiosity and embarrassment, for I had obviously stumbled upon something private.

Holmes' heavily disguised face, surprisingly, broke into a wide smile. "Oh. You found Hector."

I held my breath. His expression, what I could see of it beneath his makeup, was as open as I had ever seen it. This was the first glimpse he had ever granted me of the heart he was guarding so closely, but that I had nevertheless suspected he had. I still did not know him all that well for all we had been sharing rooms for almost two months now, and I had only recently learned about his chosen profession, but I had never believed he truly was as cold as he preferred the world to think he was.

This man, who was presently reaching out for the box and taking it from my hand with an almost childlike smile, was so clearly not Holmes the reasoning machine, or Holmes the sleuth-hound, or even Holmes the musician and day-dreamer, that I was thoroughly charmed and even more intrigued by this new insight into his singular character.

He took the stone out of the box and cradled it in his hand as if it were alive; I could see the ease with which his fingers found the natural grooves upon the black surface. "You are justified in wondering, Watson, if I have not taken leave of my senses, that I should keep an ordinary black granite stone in so elaborate a fashion."

"Not at all, dear fellow. I can see that this is no ordinary stone."

He smiled again, a little sadly. "Quite so. This stone has been with me since I was four. He is the only pet my parents allowed me to have."

I found myself swallowing against a lump in my throat. As someone who had grown up with the exuberance and playfulness of dogs, I could not conceive of something like this.

"When I was younger," Holmes went on in a dreamy tone of voice, "I was convinced that even inanimate objects have feelings. I found Hector during a rare family outing. He was lying in a creek, all cold and covered with green algae, slimy to the touch. I knew he was profoundly unhappy there, so I freed him from the flora, dried him, put him in my pocket and carried him home with me, taking care to keep him warm with my body heat. For years, he was always somewhere about my person. I even gave him eyes so he could see."

He held the stone out to me as if offering some rare and precious artefact for my inspection. I took it from him carefully; the symbolism of the moment was not lost upon me.

For a moment, he continued to look at the stone, his pet, in my hand. Then he seemed to gather himself, handed me the cardboard box as well, and squared his shoulders briskly. "Well, I should be going, Watson. Cobbling is a trade that favours the early birds. Put him back in his drawer, will you?"

I nodded wordlessly, still regarding the smooth black stone, Hector, that was lying snug in the palm of my hand, rapidly soaking up my body heat, until I heard the door close behind him.

Strange man, Holmes. But I was smiling with hope. Was it so unreasonable to think that someone capable of loving a stone could also learn to love a Watson?