Fic: Observance: G
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holmes_minorTitle: Observance
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
For: the monthly prompt; Holmes's birthday
Summary: Watson observes.
It began with an offhanded comment and a clumsy simile.
“…like when your mother prepared your favourite dish on your birthday, that sort of thing.”
I glanced at Holmes, who gave a minute nod of acknowledgement, but there was something else in his expression, something I didn’t recognise.
I turned to face him.
“What did your mother prepare on your birthday, Holmes?” I asked, then added hesitantly, in recognition of class distinctions, “Or, perhaps, Cook?”
I hardly expected a frank reply, but one came.
“Birthdays were not observed.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Not even by Cook.”
Realising I had accidentally trespassed upon a matter of some delicacy, I did the proper thing: harrumphed and ruffled my newspaper and spoke no more for the better part of an hour.
The perfect vision of a plan coalesced during the night.
I went to my club after breakfast and did most of my initial business by messenger from there. The following day I took advantage of Holmes’s absence from Baker Street to discuss with Mrs. Hudson the second part of my plan. She acquiesced, albeit not without reservations.
On the day in question, I woke early. Indeed, it could be said that I hardly slept for anticipation.
As arranged, Mrs. Hudson supervised my activity in the kitchen from a distance with a cup of strong coffee in her hand, coffee that I am not certain wasn’t fortified with something spirited.
I followed her instructions to the letter, and upon viewing the result, that good lady pronounced, without artifice, “Oh, well done, Doctor!”
Mrs. Hudson took command of the kitchen, and I assisted her and the housemaid Bessie in the rest of the breakfast preparations.
Finally, the bell rang.
I have never moved with more care than I did then.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Holmes standing in his usual disheveled state, but I didn’t dare look at him directly until my charge was resting safely on the breakfast table.
“Watson,” he breathed.
I looked up, beaming. Then I went to my coat and produced a clipping and handed it to him.
He looked from it to me. “A concert? This afternoon?”
I nodded, then gestured to the offering on the table.
He neared the table and sniffed. “An epiphany tart. Strawberry, if my nose doesn’t lie.” His eyes ran up and down me like scales. “Your own confection?”
I nodded again. “Since you haven’t a favourite dish for your birthday…”
“Oh, but I do,” he said softly, “now.”
“Many returns of the day, my dear man.”
Holmes looked at me with wet eyes and clasped one of my hands in both of his and said,
“Thank you, Watson.”
“You’re welcome, Holmes.”
Mrs. Hudson and Bessie burst in with the rest of the breakfast things, bestowing upon Holmes their own good wishes for his day.
It was a rather simple dessert and would prove to be a rather mediocre concert, but that didn’t seem to matter at all.
This year, in the interest of economy, the epiphany tart was one flavor: strawberry.
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
For: the monthly prompt; Holmes's birthday
Summary: Watson observes.
It began with an offhanded comment and a clumsy simile.
“…like when your mother prepared your favourite dish on your birthday, that sort of thing.”
I glanced at Holmes, who gave a minute nod of acknowledgement, but there was something else in his expression, something I didn’t recognise.
I turned to face him.
“What did your mother prepare on your birthday, Holmes?” I asked, then added hesitantly, in recognition of class distinctions, “Or, perhaps, Cook?”
I hardly expected a frank reply, but one came.
“Birthdays were not observed.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Not even by Cook.”
Realising I had accidentally trespassed upon a matter of some delicacy, I did the proper thing: harrumphed and ruffled my newspaper and spoke no more for the better part of an hour.
The perfect vision of a plan coalesced during the night.
I went to my club after breakfast and did most of my initial business by messenger from there. The following day I took advantage of Holmes’s absence from Baker Street to discuss with Mrs. Hudson the second part of my plan. She acquiesced, albeit not without reservations.
On the day in question, I woke early. Indeed, it could be said that I hardly slept for anticipation.
As arranged, Mrs. Hudson supervised my activity in the kitchen from a distance with a cup of strong coffee in her hand, coffee that I am not certain wasn’t fortified with something spirited.
I followed her instructions to the letter, and upon viewing the result, that good lady pronounced, without artifice, “Oh, well done, Doctor!”
Mrs. Hudson took command of the kitchen, and I assisted her and the housemaid Bessie in the rest of the breakfast preparations.
Finally, the bell rang.
I have never moved with more care than I did then.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Holmes standing in his usual disheveled state, but I didn’t dare look at him directly until my charge was resting safely on the breakfast table.
“Watson,” he breathed.
I looked up, beaming. Then I went to my coat and produced a clipping and handed it to him.
He looked from it to me. “A concert? This afternoon?”
I nodded, then gestured to the offering on the table.
He neared the table and sniffed. “An epiphany tart. Strawberry, if my nose doesn’t lie.” His eyes ran up and down me like scales. “Your own confection?”
I nodded again. “Since you haven’t a favourite dish for your birthday…”
“Oh, but I do,” he said softly, “now.”
“Many returns of the day, my dear man.”
Holmes looked at me with wet eyes and clasped one of my hands in both of his and said,
“Thank you, Watson.”
“You’re welcome, Holmes.”
Mrs. Hudson and Bessie burst in with the rest of the breakfast things, bestowing upon Holmes their own good wishes for his day.
It was a rather simple dessert and would prove to be a rather mediocre concert, but that didn’t seem to matter at all.
This year, in the interest of economy, the epiphany tart was one flavor: strawberry.
