Festivities and Fruitcakes

December 1

December 1: “Norbury.” (from Madam'zelleGiry)

Holmes’s POV

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I had been restlessly pacing the length of the sitting room for exactly one hour, twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds, and was starting to grow more than a little anxious. I had fallen asleep on the settee around noon, and awoken around a quarter to three to find that Watson had gone out, leaving a note on my desk:

Holmes,

Gone out to do a little Christmas shopping. It’s two o'clock now, and I won’t be more than two hours.

Watson.

It was now nine minutes past four. Watson’s note had had specifically stated that the two hours was an upper limit to the length of time he expected to be gone, and not an approximation that might vary in either direction!

I took a deep breath, and reminded myself that Watson had no doubt merely stopped to talk to someone. He was quite the gregarious fellow, especially around Christmas.

I grimaced as I realized that my pipe had gone out, and apparently had been that way for some time. Cursing, I dug in my dressing gown pocket in search of a book of matches.

I knew full well that the fellow didn’t like me worrying like this, but I really hadn’t wanted him going out while I was on this case.

I carefully attempted to extract a match from the box. Blast! My hands were shaking.

I highly doubted Garnett would stoop low enough to attempt to use my Boswell as leverage against me, but as I checked my watch for the umpteenth time and still heard no slamming of the front door and no familiar tread upon the stairs, I began to second guess my assessment of my adversary.

There! A small flame danced on the end of the match, and I carefully relit my pipe.

No, I was simply being ridiculous. Garnett was too cowardly, and besides, Watson could hold his own in a fight.

I threw the remaining portion of the match into the fireplace.

If my old friend was indeed all right, and returned home safely, I was going to kill him.

I glanced once more at the hall clock, and then strode to the window with the best view of the street. The sun had set, and the lamps were lit. The street was busy, with people scurrying too and fro, eager to find shelter and warmth from the brisk December air. No where on the street did I spy the familiar form of my friend.

Hm, that was peculiar. A boy was quietly lurking in the shadows near a parked cab across the street, and appeared to be watching my own front door. The street urchin looked familiar; more than likely he was one of my Baker Street Irregulars. But what was he doing watching my door?

All thoughts of the boy fled my mind when I saw a man in a brown coat with a slight limp climbing out of a hansom cab. There was my Watson! But as he paid the cabbie, I noticed another boy, this one quietly off the back of the cab and nonchalantly strolling away, carefully avoiding Watson. How very, very peculiar.

I had not moved from my position at the window when Watson entered the sitting room.

“Hello, Holmes,” he said from behind me.

I whirled around. “You are eleven minutes late.”

He sighed as he began to remove his winter clothing and warm himself before the fire. “I apologize for worrying you, old fellow. But it is hardly my fault that the streets were so horrible. It took three times longer to go anywhere than it would have in warmer temperatures.”