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A mere glance at Holmes was enough to tell Watson that this had been a terrible idea. They’d been invited to a formal banquet by a particularly hard to refuse government official, ostensibly to investigate the guests for a potential spy. Once there, however, it became clear that there was no case, merely a desire to have a famous guest.
It had also been an occasion for the official to make a speech about Holmes’ service to the nation. Ordinarily, Watson would be delighted to see Holmes getting the credit he deserved. Presently, though, it was clear that Holmes was thoroughly overstimulated, miserable, and wanted to go home.
“Do you know, Watson, I might enjoy a visit to this estate were it a museum,” Holmes said, examining an antique suit of armor. It was so shiny that his tense face reflected in the silver plate metal, distorted in a way that only added to the impression of his distress. “The relics of bygone ages are certainly interesting.”
“Yes, indeed.” Watson gazed at the armor for a moment longer, then regarded a collection of bows and arrows on the wall nearby. He had a vague urge to shift, grab one of the tempting arrows off the wall, and run off with the wooden shaft clamped firmly between his jaws, like the arrow was a particularly satisfying stick. Perhaps he was stressed, too. “The music is nice, except when it gets a bit high pitched for my tastes.”
“Mm.” Holmes flicked a faint smile at him. They both had extremely sensitive ears. “Yes, I believe one of the violin players is simply attempting to hit as many high notes as he possibly can. It is pleasant otherwise, yet I should much prefer to be at home playing myself.”
Watson certainly agreed with that. He liked listening to Holmes play, even when it was fairly erratic music. Holmes knew which notes Watson tended to be sensitive to, and did not linger on them.
“I do not think I can endure actually sitting down to eat, Watson.” Holmes moved on to look at once of the many overstuffed flower arrangements. This one was quite full of violets, the clusters of rich purple dominating every other flower type in the arrangement. “The noise is already intolerable, and I shall surely be horribly rude to anyone who tries to speak to me. If you do not wish me to cause a scandal, then you ought to find some way to extract me from this.”
Watson snorted. “Well, I suppose I could always shift and bite one of the politicians.”
“That would be less than helpful for avoiding scandal, Watson.”
“You don’t normally care about avoiding scandal, Holmes.”
“True. True.” Holmes let out a long sigh and leaned heavily on his cane, looking quite miserable. He had been horribly tired all day, suffering from what had started as a mild headache and now had certainly become one of his frequent migraines. “I do not wish to risk harm coming to you, however, and they might attempt to shoot a large grey wolf biting a member of Parliament.”
“I suppose they would.” Watson considered it a moment longer. “Well, what if I just shift, knock a few things over, and then run out? You could ‘chase’ me.”
“Excellent, Watson.” Holmes flashed a smile at him. “Pray proceed.”
Watson handed his cane to Holmes and ducked behind the suit of armor, waiting until the music swelled again, and then shifted. A few whines of discomfort escaped him as he changed, his old wounds protesting the new shape just as they always did, but the pain quickly passed. He shook off, then padded out and wagged his tail at Holmes.
Holmes patted him affectionately atop the head. “Pray proceed, my dear fellow.”
Watson set off, howling, and on his way made sure to knock over a suit of armor that smelled suspiciously new and did not belong with the others. He leapt up on one of the banquet tables, sending flowers and dishes scattering to the ground, then hopped back down while the guests screamed.
“Hah!” Holmes shouted, and Watson heard him clearly over the ruckus. He was always attuned to Holmes, after all, always listening for him. “Someone has sent a wolf in to spy on this banquet! Everyone, stay where you are, and I shall investigate.”
He somehow managed to make that sound entirely believable—he was a remarkable actor—and no one else followed as Watson dashed through the great house. A door halted his escape, and he stopped and waited patiently.
Holmes soon caught up to him, breathing quite hard but looking very pleased. “Bravo, Watson,” he said a little breathlessly, tucking the spare cane under his arm in order to pet Watson again. “Come. Let us find our carriage and return to Baker Street. Tomorrow, I shall simply send a note saying that I chased the spy off.”
Watson looked up at him. They couldn’t communicate equally in words when he was in this form, but shifting activated a certain link between their minds. They had been friends and partners for a great many years, and what had started as simply vague impressions became a complex sense of one another’s thoughts and feelings.
Holmes chuckled and stroked him again as they walked through the garden. “Dear me, no. You need not shift back so soon, for I perceive it would be quite difficult for you.”
Watson whined softly. He didn’t want to shift back, not when both limbs on his left side were so sensitive, but there were other things to consider.
“Don’t worry about the horses,” Holmes said, leaning more heavily on his cane now as they approached the carriage that he’d rented earlier. Both of them would be quite sore after all this, it seemed, and would need to rest tomorrow. “I shall persuade them that they need not fear you.”
The horses were certainly not impressed with the sight of a large wolf, and snorted with alarm. Holmes patted Watson very deliberately, stroking his fur, then approached the horses. He held out his hand, letting them smell both him and Watson.
“Whoa, my beauties,” he murmured, flicking a smile as the pairs nuzzled his hands and arms. “There, such magnificent horses. You need not be afraid of Watson, for he has no wish to devour you.”
Watson was quite hungry, for they hadn’t had dinner, but Holmes was correct that he had no wish to devour carriage horses. He let the thought drift through the link between himself and Holmes, and was rewarded by an immediate snort of amusement.
“If you feel up to shifting back into a form with hands, then I shall ensure that Mrs. Hudson prepares you something you like,” Holmes said as Watson hopped up into the carriage seat, then climbed in after him. “If not, I shall cut up a nice steak for you.”
A steak did sound very nice, and Watson responded with a surge of eagerness. He could practically taste it already, particularly as the single thing he’d been looking forward to at the banquet was eating.
“A steak it is, then.” Holmes settled their canes against the seat beside him, wedged in firmly enough that neither would topple over once the horses got underway. He’d set two blankets in the seat earlier, as it was something of a chilly night, and now spread one across his lap. “Would you like to put your head in my lap, Watson?”
Watson very much wanted exactly that. With some difficulty, he adjusted his position on the cushioned seat to avoid putting too much pressure on his old wounds, and then carefully rested his head on Holmes’ thigh. He waited a moment to make sure that wasn’t causing any pain for his friend, who was often quite oversensitive to touch.
When Holmes just petted him again, Watson settled in more securely. Holmes gave a soft hum, stroking his fur, then settled the second blanket across him. Gently, he arranged it to cover Watson, then flicked another smile at him. “Excellent. I can feel that you are much warmer now. Do you need anything else, or are you comfortable?”
Watson wagged his tail, and it thumped between the blanket and the seat. Holmes chuckled, took up the lines and urged the horses into motion.
After they reached the main road and turned towards home, the lights of the city glimmered ahead. Not simply the windows of the many homes, factories, and businesses, but the street lamps as well. Still more lights moved slowly, lanterns on ships winding down the Thames.
“I am sorry that you didn’t get to enjoy the banquet, Watson,” Holmes said after driving for a bit. “I know you are somewhat more tolerant of such things than I am, and that while you may have had your own objections to certain aspects, you were looking forward to dinner. I do not wish to deprive you.”
The only thing that Watson ever wished was to be with Holmes, no matter where they ended up. He licked Holmes’ hand in affectionate reassurance.
“Thank you,” Holmes said, in a much more vulnerable tone than he commonly used, as if on the verge of tears. Then he took a deep breath, shifted the reins into one hand, and settled the other on Watson’s head again. “I think as a reward for your excellent assistance, you deserve two steaks!”
Watson certainly wasn’t going to object to that, but that certainly wasn’t why he had helped. Holmes was his very best friend, who he cared about more than anything. To relax at Baker Street, with Holmes safe and happy, was far more enjoyable than any banquet.