#sanspatronymic

Christmas came and went, and the New Year, and Holmes’ birthday. I made a trip to Town in advance of all three so that I might prowl Fortnum’s for gifts for him, but in the end, it was not Fortnum’s that was my saviour, but Watkins and Doncaster on the Strand, where I acquired a handsome chest of entomological drawers, a replacement for – or more realistically, a supplement to – the smaller, mismatched frames and drawers he had scattered about the cottage. My gift was well-received: Holmes wordlessly stroked the glossy cherrywood on Christmas morning, then spent until New Year fully absorbed in transferring his collection, one bee at a time. More than once he called me over to listen to a monologue on one specimen or another, and I listened with fond attention. I was especially pleased with my foresight in supplying a drawer deep enough for his plump ruderal queen, nearly as large as a small mouse.

London itself had given me an odd sort of pang when I had gone up, its piquant admixture of smokes and stinks catching in my chest when I first stepped from the train. The streets were busy with the Christmas bustle, a marked contrast to our sleepy village lanes or Eastbourne’s half-deserted wintertime streets. The energy of London seemed both deeply familiar and strangely alien, and yet it did not spark any longing or homesickness in me. Indeed, by the time I boarded the train for Sussex again, I found myself yearning for Holmes and our fire. Whatever my frustrations with our slow, small life in Sussex, the jangle of London had not offered its remedy. I wanted only our fire and the hum of Holmes’ hive, with the man himself turning pages beside both. During that dark, quiet ride, and full up on the charity of Christmas, I resolved to do better by him, to at last make up to him my long indecision of the fall, as I had once promised to do. 

The trip from the platform to our cottage was wet and blustery, and Holmes met me in the front hall, stepping quickly to shut the door on the weather as I doffed my outerwear. I was giddy with both the satisfaction of Christmas secrets well-kept and the pleasure of being with him again, and in my enthusiasm I could not resist warming my chilled hands on his neck.

“John,” he protested as a shudder took him. He peeled my hands from his person. “You’re cold and wet and entirely too happy about it,” he complained, and undid the belt of his dressing gown. He drew me inside, putting my arms around his waist and wrapping the fronts of the gown around me. “Cold,” he protested again, as I untucked his shirt and vest from his trousers, seeking the warm skin that lay beneath. I found it, spreading my hands flat on the small of his back. His flesh was almost painfully warm against my cold fingers. He hissed in my ear, his muscles twitching under my touch. “I shall have to buy you new gloves." 

"Giving up your Christmas secrets already?” I chided him. 

“Hardly a secret, to want to see you well-gloved and hatted,” he said with his nose in my hair, and my heart swelled with the memory of an observation he had once made during another Christmas, about hats and their care and the loving attentions they betrayed. I retrieved a hand to pull him down for a kiss.

“London agreed with you,” he observed when he pulled back again, his cheeks pink. 

“You agree with me,” I corrected him, and kissed him again. “Now tell me what you’ve been doing while I was gone.”

“And give up my Christmas secrets so easily?" 

"Yes. Be eager and impetuous and whisper every one of your secrets to me.”

Thank you for asking!

24. Favorite old Hollywood Christmas movies?

Christmas in Connecticut is probably my favorite because Barbara Stanwyck is one of the loves of my life. I know its essentially a proto Hallmark movie plot-wise but I don't care lol. Idk if it truly counts as one but I also really love The Thin Man.

1.The movie that got you into old Hollywood?

195! You are awe-inspiringly prolific!

Well, none of them are over 12000 words, and more than a quarter of them are drabbles, and it's been over five years now.

Happy Birthday! How about “delicious”?

Thank you! My only hit for ‘delicious’ was in a secret project, so you get a custom-written snippet:

* * *

28. What will your next fan video be about?

Heh, my next vid will almost certainly be for an anonymous exchange, nice try.

But excluding those…

Possibly a vid about terminators to Kris Delmhorst’s “Ain’t No Grave.” I was halfway through making that vid several years ago when my computer blew up, I had to change machines and software, and all my clips became unusable. I haven’t yet came back to it, but I do adore the song, and the new film might mean the vid will get more attention now than it might have done.

(That’s assuming, of course, that the new film doesn’t result in me doing a new Sarah Connor vid, which seems rather more likely, doesn’t it?)

33. What’s your favorite comment you ever received on a video?

X: A character you enjoy making suffer.

ACD Holmes. That boy is gonna emote, and if that means he has to suffer along the way, well then so be it.

ACD Watson. That boy is gonna emote, and if that means he has to suffer along the way, well then so be it.

Horatio Hornblower. Because the film version suffers beautifully, and most of the book versions a little bit deserve it. And they almost all enjoy it anyhow.

William Bush. Because Hornblower is gonna hold his hand, and if that means Bush has to suffer along the way, so be it.

Y: A character you want to protect.

Kat Loving, because Native women should never be made to suffer and her canon has more than enough, thank you. Also, she is nursing a death wish which musn’t be given any additional fuel, not even one tiny little bit.

Holmes did not come find me to make peace or tender an apology, nor did he come to bed that night. He was still distracted at breakfast. Worse, as his glowering and shooting looks of the night before continued, it seemed to me that it was my presence in particular that was agitating him. I swore under my breath, deliberately finished my egg and coffee, then returned to our room to pack my valise.

~ ~

Perhaps he knew my yearning for a private moment, for he accompanied me no further than the club door. "I shall be returning to Sussex on the nine-seventeen train," he informed me, his eyes on the stone steps. "I should like it very much if you would accompany me."

"Holmes, will you simply tell me what has disturbed you so," I entreated, a hand on his forearm.

He shook his head. "I would prefer to tell you in Sussex. Unless… you're not planning on returning."

"Of course I'm returning," I said, sad and frustrated. "You didn't even need to ask, only to say that you wanted me again. I came to London only so that you'd have space to do as you wished with the case. I never intended to stay."

"Of course I want you in Sussex." He spoke in an undertone, ever mindful of passerby, and yet his voice was harsh with hurt. "I spent a year trying to get you there, John." 

It was far too public a place for even this much, and I wanted so much more from him. "Damn it. This isn't… Will you come inside, please, where we might have some privacy. Or your room, then," I pleaded when he shook his head, "wherever you're staying."

"We'll talk tomorrow," he promised. "At home. Provided…?"