This is absolute insanity – but I do have historical documentation for the traditions of Easter eggs; if anyone is interested, just PM me. No, really, I did do some research; and Easter eggs, the Easter bunny, and Easter cards were all alive and well in the Victorian period. :)
Happy Easter, everyone!
KCS
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"Mrs. Hudson!"
I winced, glancing in the mirror to finish tying my cravat, as I heard the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes bellowing down the stairs for our long-suffering landlady.
"MRS. HUDSON!"
Sighing deeply, I pulled on my jacket and descended the steps to our sitting room just as one more vociferous shout was flung to the air, loud enough that it could have been heard in the Marylebone Road.
"MRS. HUDSON!"
"Holmes, for heaven's sake! It is Sunday – you'll wake the neighbors!" I remonstrated as I entered the sitting room.
Sherlock Holmes was seated at the breakfast table, gulping down what looked to be his seventh cup of coffee, judging from how hyperactive he seemed already, drumming his fingers on the table and tossing pieces of the Times about the room as if grey newsprint were the new fashion in carpeting.
"Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?"
"Good morning to you too."
"Our landlady, Watson. Have you seen her?"
"Yes, I was aware that she is our landlady. And no, I have not. Pass the coffee?"
"The pot's empty. MRS. HUDSON!"
I winced at the vehemence of his caffeine-accentuated vociferations.
"You drank the whole thing?" I asked incredulously.
"The Times presented some singular features this so very fine morning, Watson. Have you seen it?"
"I am looking at what appears to be a heavily dissected version of that excellent periodical," I replied dryly, looking about the room and pouring milk into my coffee cup. Had he really drunk the whole pot?
"Ha! Well, let me enlighten you, Watson. In the agony column, you remember that one advertisement I pointed out to you, the one about the old man who helped the lady in the purple hat across the street last Tuesday noon, etc., etc.? Well, this time the advertisement was slightly different, for it was worded…"
I sighed and performed my regular duty of tuning out the hour-long dissertation on the agony column of the Times that inevitably accompanied the emptying of a coffee-pot before I could reach the sitting room in the mornings.
I boredly finished my milk and then took the warmers off my soft-boiled eggs just as Holmes was starting on the second column of his beloved and accursed periodical's agony column.
"And that little bleat signed again from that chap named Horatio – I do believe that is a secret liaison for a gang of – what the devil?"
I stared down at my plate in some surprise and amusement mirroring Holmes's own.
"Um, Watson?"
"Yes?"
"What the deuce is the matter with your eggs?"
I glanced up to see his absolutely stupefied face staring at my plate incredulously and laughed.
"It appears that Mrs. Hudson has decided to make us something special, Holmes – take a look at your own."
"I am rather afraid to."
"Oh, go on," I said with a grin.
Holmes dubiously lifted the warmer from his own egg and peeked under the cloth, giving a squeak of disgust before looking back at me.
"Well?"
"What in the world is wrong with them?"
"Holmes, do you know what today is?" I asked, carefully peeling the shell off the top of one and applying salt and pepper.
"Sunday."
"Sunday, what?"
"March 23."
"No, no, no, Holmes. The holiday!" I said, sampling the egg. Its taste appeared to have not been affected by the treatment to which it had been subjected.
"Holiday?" he asked blankly.
Honestly, I do believe the man would forget Christmas if Mrs. Hudson and I did not insist upon calling him Scrooge for a fortnight beforehand. He appeared to have no idea whatsoever about any holidays, period. I sighed.
"Holmes, today is Easter."
"Easter?"
"Easter."
"Um, very well. What logical connection does that have with those garish specimens of breakfast protein on our plates?"
"Evidently Mrs. Hudson thought she would be festive and made Easter eggs yesterday, Holmes," I replied, finishing one and starting on the other.
I received another blank look.
"Easter eggs?"
"Easter eggs. Since the middle ages, people have been colouring and embossing eggs around Eastertime as a symbol of rebirth," I explained slowly, as to a small child, "and do you not remember four years ago, Holmes, in 1883, that Faberge chap made a special gold and platinum egg for the Russian Czar Alexander's wife?"
Holmes stared at me, peeking once again at the gaily-coloured egg still hiding under its warmer on his plate.
"Are you telling me the truth or is that just another one of your embellished forays into romantic fiction?" he demanded.
I snorted and finished the second egg.
"Just eat them, Holmes. And do be kind to the poor woman; she was trying to brighten up our day. Heaven knows you're always a black cloud on any holiday in the calendar."
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are. You refuse to even acknowledge Christmas unless I rag you incessantly about it."
Holmes growled something that sounded suspiciously like 'bah humbug' but he took the cover off the egg – which was decorated very prettily in blue and gold – broke the shell, and tasted it.
"It tastes like a normal egg," he said in dubious surprise.
"Were you expecting it to taste like blue paint and gold leaf?" I asked dryly, pouring myself more milk.
Holmes scowled, dumping half the pepper shaker into the egg and tasting it again.
"Much better."
I shook my head, just as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. More coffee, if you please?" Holmes asked brightly.
I shot him a withering glare and turned back to our landlady.
"Thank you for the bit of Easter cheer, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a smile, indicating the empty shells on my plate.
The woman beamed.
"My little niece was over last night while you two were out chasing after that bank robber, Doctor, and the lass wanted to make Easter eggs – I had a few left over so I thought perhaps it would brighten up your day a bit," the woman said with a fond smile.
"Mr. Holmes was very surprised to learn of the tradition," I said slyly, glancing at my companion.
He had apparently finished the egg and was now absorbed in the criminal news of what remained of the shredded Times while finishing his breakfast.
"Have you told him yet about the Easter rabbit, Doctor?"
Holmes choked on his sausage.
"Easter rabbit?" he demanded, glaring at both of us.
"Easter rabbit, Holmes."
"What the deuce does a rabbit have to do with eggs?"
"You are the logician, Holmes," I replied mischievously, pushing back my chair from the table, "deduce that little mysterious connection for yourself."
"And while you are at it, Mr. Holmes," said our good landlady on her way out the door, "Perhaps you and the Doctor should send out Easter cards. The stationer's on Oxford Street has a lovely selection –"
I ducked as a deadly missile in the form of what remained of the Times flew dangerously over my head at the now-abruptly closed door.
"Holmes, for pity's sake!"
"Easter eggs, Easter rabbits, Easter cards – drivel!" my companion growled, shoving back his chair irritably.
"Must you be so sulky even on a holiday, Holmes?"
"Especially on a holiday!"
"Honestly, you are insufferable."
"Twaddle. Easter rabbits, indeed," he snarled, kicking a pile of news clippings out of the way as he reached for his pipe. He sat in his chair and smoked for several minutes in a testy silence.
"Holmes."
"Mmph."
"Would you like to go watch the Easter parade outside of St. Peter's with me later this morning?"
I slammed the sitting room door in time to repel whatever the object was Holmes threw violently in my direction and collapsed against the wall, laughing nearly hysterically.
Ah, well. Perhaps someday I would convince Sherlock Holmes that holidays were a time for cheer and not depression.
And perhaps someday it would be scientifically proven that the fabled Easter rabbit were indeed a real immortal creature.
Highly improbable, the both of them.