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Holmes and Watson had just sat down for their first meal in Baker Street after their journey back from The States. After the trials of the case and the uncomfortable flight back home, Watson had set about his meal with a voracity that Holmes admired very much. Holmes sat back, nibbled at his food and watched his dear friend eat.
'I say Watson, may you pass the bread?'
'Certainly, dollface.'
Holmes stopped, cutlery clattering. The noise startled little Molly the cat, who yelped from her evening doze and leaped a few centimetres in the air. Watson glanced up, currently working through a bit of potato.
'What?'
'Did you call me "dollface"?'
''Spose I did. What's wrong?'
This was getting a bit much, thought Holmes. He did always feel a small level of protectiveness about the Queen's English. And he had thought that Watson, by no means a prescriptivist, was quite the same. Never was there a more typical British gentleman. Or so he thought. But now, it seemed like he was shedding his usual dialect for something more fitting for Edward G Robinson. And the trouble was, he couldn't quite put his finger on why this bothered him so.
It was that damn American phrasebook that had started it all.
Whilst sharing a celebratory bottle of Petri Wine (which goes deliciously with fish and red meats) back at the hotel after the case, Watson had tipsily congratulated Holmes by saying 'You did swell, baby, quite swell, if I may say so!' Holmes was perhaps a bit squiffy, so he paid it no attention. By the time they finally fell asleep together, Holmes had forgotten about it.
But then, as they were boarding the plane the next day to return to England, Watson had helped him up the steps with a quiet "After you, sugarpie."
Holmes had been utterly confused by that one. What even was a sugar pie? Surely something intolerably sweet. Maybe that was the point, thought Holmes. Did Watson think he was intolerably sweet? This idea disgruntled him, but he kept it to himself.
It was the last straw when Watson had called him "toots". He half expected his dear companion to start wearing his hat to the side and flipping a coin.
'Well, there's nothing wrong with it, per se. But, really-'
'It's glamorous, if you ask me! Romantic, continental. Much more interesting than our old English stuff.'
'Our old English stuff is quite serviceable, thank you. I couldn't imagine King George calling the Queen "Sugarface".'
Watson snorted. 'I rather think he should! Would make the society papers more interesting!'
Holmes bit back a smile.
'Either way, I believe it's too interesting for me. Just keep with your dears and darlings, and I shall be content.'
Watson shook his head gravely 'I'm afraid not, old man.'
'Why ever not?'
'Because I think my ones suit you!'
'Watson!' Holmes put down his knife and fork, 'You wound me. You speak as though I were a simpering… '
'Charming…'
'Saccharine…'
'Handsome…'
'...Love-struck puppy! "Dollface" indeed,' Holmes grumbled, blushing a bit.
Watson smiled knowingly.
'Don't kid yourself, Holmes. You're as soppy as the rest of 'em. You just keep it locked up, hidden away. I saw the way you looked when we all came to rescue you at that blasted antiques shop. You quite like being a romantic damsel, don't you!'
Holmes was now the same colour as the wine in his glass. The man could be damnably perceptive when he wanted to.
'Those Americans may not know how to make a decent cup of tea, but they certainly know how to describe one's sweetheart. And you do have a dollface, as far as I'm concerned. Perfectly reasonable word to use.'
Watson, apparently finished with his meal, got up from the table, and held out his hand.
'Don't worry, I won't write it in any of our stories. Wouldn't want to ruin your image, eh?'
Watson winked. Holmes allowed himself to smile. The old charmer. He took the hand offered to him, got up and wrapped his arms around Watson's middle.
'Well… if it makes you happy.' he said, attempting exasperation but failing.
'It does,' Watson said smugly. He gave Holmes a sweet kiss. 'Let's go to bed, honey.'
Well.
Maybe he quite liked that one.