With This Pen ~ 31 December 1899
by Jem's Bird

“I understand that there’s no year zero,” Lestrade repeats doggedly. “I’m just saying that I don’t see we can’t call this the century mark. Everyone is calling it that, anyway.”

Holmes eyes the inspector not a little unsteadily. “Because, my dear Lestrade, it would be inaccurate, erroneous, imprecise, and completely wrong. Just because everyone believes a thing does not make it so,” he finishes with a slight hiccough.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m still right.”

I shake my head in amusement as I turn back to young Wiggins and his wife. “So when is the baby due?” I ask politely. It is enough of a shock to find out that Holmes’ former protégé has returned from his year in America with a wife, but the girl is lovely, and the evidence of their new family is plain in her swollen belly and radiant face.

She smiles and pats her abdomen in the most charming gesture of an expectant mother. “The doctor says mid-April, but I say the first week of the month, no later. If it’s a girl, we’ll be naming her Annabel Marie, after my mother, but if it’s a boy, we’ll call him John Sherlock.”

“Wiggins, tell me you’re not going to let your wife saddle your child with such a horrible middle name,” Holmes groans, rolling his eyes.

“Actually, Mr. Holmes, it was my idea,” Wiggins says a trifle defensively. “I intended it as a tribute to the only parents I’ve ever known,” he finishes, blushing slightly as he looks down at his feet.

“I think it’s a lovely idea,” I tell Wiggins, ignoring Holmes’ sharp look. “I’m sure we’re both honoured to have your child named after us.”

“The only parents you’ve known?” Anstruther asks, raising an eyebrow.

Wiggins regards him somewhat coolly. “Mr. Holmes doesn’t like anyone to know, but he has provided for my welfare since I was an infant.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Holmes puts in. “You were already walking and talking when I found you; you were well out of infancy, though no one ever could tell me how old you were or whose child you were. Even then, you had the sharpest eye and the quickest hand of any child on the docks.”

“Wasn’t he trying to pick your pocket?” Lestrade chuckles.

“There was no ‘trying’ about it; he actually succeeded. Why do you think I decided to take the lad under my wing?”

“I hate to think what my life would have been like without your support, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins says earnestly.

“No doubt you would have made an excellent criminal,” Holmes replies, smiling cheerfully.

“Instead, as of tomorrow, the lad will be our youngest inspector ever,” Lestrade says with no small pride.

“So, then,” Holmes murmurs into his wineglass, “even more of a danger to society.”

“Mr. Holmes,” says the young bride, with a razor-sharp smile, “I take it you don’t approve of Michael’s choice of career.”

Holmes manages a slight bow. “Far from it, Mrs. Wiggins. In fact, I think your husband shall change the Yard for the better.”

“It’s a good thing that you’re inclined to fighting crime, rather than disease,” Anstruther tells Holmes. “A man like you on the loose in my profession would wreak havoc.”

“We rather happen to like Mr. Holmes’ brand of havoc down at the Yard,” Lestrade replies easily. “There’s many a guilty man behind bars that wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for our friend here.”

“And many innocent men who would have been hanged unjustly,” Wiggins says with feeling. “What’s more, I’m not the only man who is working an honest job today rather than living the life of crime. The Irregulars are becoming a force to be reckoned with in this city, and it’s all due to Mr. Holmes’ solid wages, Dr. Watson’s informal schooling, and Mrs. Hudson’s hot meals.”

“I still remember the fight you put up when I tried to explain the basics of spelling and grammar to you,” I chuckle. “And the time Mrs. Hudson had trying to keep you fed! There were days we thought you had a hole in your stomach.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes puts in, “I thought our guest of honour wasn’t to enter the kitchen tonight. Where is she?”

I look around the room.  Mycroft Holmes and Alice Lestrade are sitting in the bow-window, animatedly discussing the roots of Afro-Caribbean music, while Violet Anstruther is on the settee, chatting with Inspector Bradstreet and Father Vernesi, who arrived from Portugal only this morning.

“I hadn’t noticed that she’d left the room,” I say, truthfully enough. I sip at my wine to hide the smile that has begun to creep to my lips, but Holmes notices the change in my manner immediately.

“Watson, what the devil are you about?” he murmurs.

“You’ll see soon enough, my boy,” I laugh. I may not be able to hide anything from him, but I have succeeded in hiding this particular surprise long enough; to my delight, Holmes is genuinely astonished when, as if in answer to his summons, Mrs. Hudson sweeps into the room with the cake, placing it on the dining-room table. Holmes looks about him in some confusion when the conversation stops and the assembled guests gather round to look at the elegant triple-tiered creation with the two figures atop it, complete with the traditional floral arch and white sugar bells.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he whispers. “Certainly that is not your birthday cake.”

“I’ve had my fair share of birthday cakes,” the good lady chuckles, as she adjusts the tablecloth. “And I hope to have a few more, God willing, but I don’t mind if this years’ birthday cake also serves as your wedding cake.”

Holmes gasps involuntarily, and I have to suppress another smile; I have been plying him with wine from early in the afternoon, hoping that he would not notice that the guest list for the combined festivities our landlady’s birthday and New Years’ Eve party exactly conforms to the list of people who know the true nature of our relationship. He turns to me, his eyes shining with joy.

“And so the double fête becomes a triple celebration,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And you managed to organise it all without arousing my suspicion, which is a feat in itself. Well done, Watson!”

“I didn’t do it alone,” I protest, blushing slightly at the praise. “Everyone here helped me pull it off.”

“It didn’t seem right that after arranging the perfect wedding, you should miss out on the wedding reception,” Lestrade tells him. “I, for one, was glad to help.”

“Of course,” Mycroft adds, “the most intelligent thing Watson did was to ask me to consult with him on how best to keep the proceedings hidden from you. But even so, he did not need much help from me.”

“Oh, certainly you corrected more than a few errors,” I answer modestly, turning to Holmes. “I would have spoiled the surprise months ago if it weren’t for your brother’s advice.”

“I daresay you’ve learnt my methods well enough to know how best to avoid detection,” Sherlock Holmes replies, beaming widely. “I can only hope you will never have cause to use your singular knowledge against me.”

I feel my blush deepening as my ears begin to burn. “I think we should just cut the cake,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious at the rather overt tone the celebration has taken. What was I thinking? And yet, none of our guests seem offended or shocked; quite the reverse. My hand shaking only slightly, I take the proffered knife from Mrs. Hudson as Holmes steps beside me.

We have both seen it done a thousand times, of course, but it is one thing to watch the happy couple slice their wedding cake, and another thing altogether to cut a slice of cake with another person also trying to slice it with you. Mary and I encountered the same moment of awkwardness years ago, and now Holmes and I cannot help but grin at the clumsy slice we cut, flopping it onto the plate that Mrs. Hudson holds out for us. I do not hesitate, but take a small morsel between my fingertips and feed it to Holmes, who then does the same for me. As we lean forward to share the traditional kiss, our gathered friends break into applause, and I smile up into my husband’s eyes, glowing with the knowledge that I am one of the few people who can surprise him.

Mrs. Hudson bustles around us as she passes out slices of cake, but Holmes and I still stand together, our eyes locked upon each other. The conversation starts up again, but we are deaf to the laughs and cheerful comments of our friends as we continue to stare into each others’ eyes.

“I love you,” Holmes says, just quietly enough that only I can hear.

My jaw drops, and I nearly drop the plate that Mrs. Hudson hands me.

“Steady there, my boys, later,” Mycroft whispers behind us, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I say, Father Vernesi,” he continues in his normal voice, “do you have a blessing for this excellent cake?”

“Not only for this cake, which is a blessing in itself,” Vernesi cries, “but also for this joyous occasion.” The priest beams warmly, stepping up to the table as the guests grow silent once more. “My dear friends, it has been almost nine months since our hosts solemnized their vows of love to one another with my blessing. As we know, that is the time it takes for a child to be born to its parents,” he adds, with a slight bow toward the expectant mother and her husband. “I have been observing this evening the many symbols of renewal and rebirth, from the physical to the metaphorical, as we consider crossing over not only to a new year, but a new century. Whether that century shall come tonight or a year from now does not matter; any line we draw is purely arbitrary. The point is not where we choose to mark that line to cross; the point is that we do cross it, that we do strive to grow, to change, and to give birth to our future together. It is possible to change our world for the better; the lives of these men and the love they share teaches us that. Heavenly Father above, help them in their path, as you help all of us to keep growing into the kind and loving beings you mean us to be. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone repeats, with a hearty cheer.

Father Vernesi turns to Lestrade. “I believe you had the traditional toast?” he asks, bowing slightly.

The little professional coughs slightly, rocking slightly on his heels. “Well, I don’t know how traditional this is, but I did have something to say, or rather, a tale to tell. I can’t spin a story as well as the good doctor, but I’ll try.

“As some of you know, I came into the force by the side door, as it were, and there were some at the Yard who resented an inspector who hadn’t done his time on the street. But I’d gotten hold of a case to prove myself, a real corker, a three-year old jewel theft that had left everyone else stumped. No one thought could I solve the thing, but I knew I could, because I had myself a secret weapon. An old professor of mine once said that wisdom was not in knowing the answers, it was in knowing where to look for the answers, and I knew where to look for mine.

“There was this chap that would come round the station for every once in a while, a young student. Some of the boys called him ‘the Mantis of Montague Street,’ because he seemed to haunt the museum at all hours, when he wasn’t at the Yard or St. Bart’s. Now, granted he was an odd sort of fellow, with odd ideas and odder ways, but he was as intelligent a chap as any I’ve ever met, before or since, and, once you got past the bluster that any true genius develops to protect himself from the world, a kind enough fellow, too, who honestly wished to make his piece of the world a better place. I knew that he would help me solve this theft; the case had been unsolved for so long because it was so strange, with the most bizarre and outré set of circumstances.

“I laid the details of the case before Sherlock Holmes, and he had the thing solved for me the next afternoon. Ladies and gentlemen, I paid him five pounds for his trouble, and I still consider it the best money I ever spent. In a years’ time, I was bringing him cases regularly, but by then, I had moved to Paddington with Alice, and Holmes, of course, moved to these rooms soon after. That night in March of ’81 when the good doctor joined us in the investigation of the Jefferson Hope case, I saw that Holmes had found the help he needed. The lonesome genius had found not only a sounding board, but an able and intelligent partner to help him in his life’s work.

“I have seen Doctor Watson perform save the lives of no less than five people, as well as perform the sad office of coroner dozens of times. I have watched as he has acted not just as sounding board, but private secretary, travel agent, bodyguard, public relations officer, and, above all, loyal and trustworthy friend. When the doctor began accompanying Mr. Holmes upon his cases, I knew that I had found a friend, as well. Perhaps I’ve rambled on a bit, but I want everyone here to know that if it weren’t for these two good friends, I should not be the man I am today.” He raises his glass. “John, William, I salute you. To good friends.”

“To good friends,” the guests echo, and we both blush heartily, stammering our thanks, feeling as if in a dream.

“I just want to know,” Bradstreet laughs, “which one of you shall be throwing the bouquet.”

“Why; are you going to be catching it?” Mycroft asks dryly. Holmes and I exchange significant looks; there has been something brewing between the Scotland Yarder and Holmes’ brother for a few months now, and we were not surprised to see them arrive together, talking loudly of some function they shall be attending together later tonight.

Before I can reflect upon this latest flirtation, however, I am drawn into a discussion with Vernesi and Mrs. Wiggins upon some of the sights of London they must visit. Soon Violet and James Anstruther join us, and we begin talking of the latest offerings of the theatre season. I do not realize until much later in the conversation that Holmes and I are still holding hands, and no one has said a thing; after all, we are one of four married couples in this room, all of whom are touching in some way, from the Lestrades’ linked elbows to Violet’s arm resting upon her husband’s shoulder as she tells us about the excellent performance she saw last night. Just a few decades ago, such public displays of intimacy would be unthinkable in society, even between a “properly” married couple, but thankfully such constraints have loosened in the past few years. I sip at my wine as I listen to Violet’s description of the concert, caressing Holmes’ hand in my own, and idly wonder if we shall live to see a time that we may publicly acknowledge our own affection for each other in public.

After all, as the good father said, the important thing is to cross that line, to grow, and to change, and to give birth to the future. Whatever that future may be, I know that I shall not have to face it alone.