Title: The First Day of Winter
Author: Garonne

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I had been keeping an eye open for a suitable location since we first began our investigation of the decrepit country mansion, which until the previous day had housed a gang of jewel thieves. I had in mind a small room somewhere quite out of the way, with a door which could be locked from the inside. A couch, bed or comfortable chair would have been a welcome though not indispensable addition.

While Holmes and Inspector Whittard combed the house for clues, therefore, I was making a mental catalogue of rooms whose keys still remained in the lock. My diligence was rewarded when Whittard announced that he would have to return to the village to fetch a crowbar and a constable. Scarcely had the front door shut behind him when I grasped Holmes' hand and drew him into the nearest suitable room.

"What's the matter, Watson?" he said in an abstracted voice, his mind clearly still full of footprints and scrape marks.

"The inspector won't be back for at least half an hour," I said blandly, turning the key in the lock. "After all, he has to bicycle all the way to the village and back."

Holmes looked me up and down and his eyes took on that languorous, hooded look that always presaged excellent times ahead. "A great deal can happen in half an hour."

"I should warn you that I am rather unlikely to need a quarter of that time," I said, sitting down on the dust-sheet that covered a conveniently placed armchair and pulling him with me. "You know how I feel about watching you produce the most incredible inferences by pure deduction, outshining everyone in the room."

He settled himself so that he was kneeling on the armchair on either side of me, his weight resting comfortably in my lap. "Always delighted to oblige, my dear fellow."

"Not to mention the delectable view of your backside as you crawled around the fireplace looking for I-know-not-what."

His lips twitched in amusement. "Traces of soldering resin, Watson, as should surely have been obvious." But his fingers were already playing idly with my cravat, his eyes inviting me on.

He was kneeling over me, the long gaunt lines of his face alive with anticipation, colour flooding into his sallow cheeks. I seized his shoulders to pull his mouth down to mine, and was rewarded by a low moan in his throat as our lips met. It had been six months since I first heard that sound, but I was still undone by it every time.

I felt delicate, teasing fingers brush the hardness at my crotch, before moving away to play with the hair on the back of my neck. Rather less delicately, due to the long wait I had already been forced to endure, I tugged at his clothing, biting down hard on his mouth and enjoying the moans I produced. He was quite a vocal man in such circumstances, in fact. I decided to take advantage of the rare opportunity presented by this empty house to see precisely what level of vociferousness I could tease from him.

By now I had his collar and cravat sufficiently loosened as to be able to burrow in and lap with my tongue at the sensitive hollow of skin in his jugular notch. Holmes responded by thrusting forward to rub us fiercely together, strong fingers gripping my hips, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

Frustrated by the layers of gaberdine and cotton between us, I slid a hand under his coat and waistcoat to tug the shirt beneath free of his trousers. I was about to venture under the shirt and past the waistband when his whole body suddenly stiffened in the most alarming manner and he leapt to his feet, away from me.

"Holmes? What on earth - "

"Nothing! That is to say, something just occurred to me." He glanced wildly at the locked door. "What's more, I fear the inspector may return at any moment."

"Holmes, it's at least a mile to the village." I rose to my feet. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing, Watson. It's of no importance." He began feverishly to settle his clothes back into place. "I believe we should endeavour to remain fully clothed, however, given the danger of a sudden discovery."

My gaze fell from his earnest, ingenuous features to his dishevelled waistline and I caught a glimpse of something that gave me an inkling of how to understand his behaviour. As I stepped towards him he tried to back away, emitting an irritated tutting noise, but I was too quick for him. I reached for his shirt and jerked it up to reveal the garment underneath. He was covered from head to toe in white flannel.

A burst of laughter escaped me before I could suppress it. "You're wearing a combination!"

His face assumed a sour, mulish expression. "Naturally, my dear. It's the first day of winter."

"It's not that cold, Holmes," I said, almost managing to hold back my grin.

"We do not all have layers of insulation around us, you know."

I bristled at this, for I maintain that to call me stout would be the gravest exaggeration, whatever Holmes occasionally claims. I shot back one of my own. "I take it this means that I am to be subjected to the sight of this frankly unexciting garment every winter for the rest of our lives?"

"It is a miracle we have already survived six months together," he said darkly.

He looked so vexed that I could not help but smile. "I'm sorry I laughed. I'm sure it's an exceedingly practical invention and you will doubtless convert me to its wearing before many days are out." My hand strayed toward the region I had previously been exploring. "I see there are even some well-placed buttons for my convenience."

He slapped my hand away. "Really, Watson, if you find the weather so pleasant and mild, I don't think it would be wise for you to undertake any further exertion. You might overheat."

He tucked in his shirt in a pointed manner and stalked over to the mantle-piece, pretending to examine its contents until the inspector arrived.

When we returned to London late that night, however, once the jewel thieves had been tracked down and were behind bars, I was pleased to discover that Holmes seemed to have forgotten his earlier pique. Indeed I grew used to his combinations quite quickly, and they were certainly very practical during the cold winter months, when otherwise we should have had to choose between comfort and passion. So I am forced to concede that Holmes had the last laugh, as always.

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