On the gray morning of Christmas Eve, Phineas Zene sat on the horrible green couch in his dingy apartment, watching the constant Seattle winter rain cascade down his windows and trying not to be lonely. Empty Chinese takeout boxes littered the coffee table (one leg broken and supported by a fat block of plywood); laundry covered the floor in small mounds that Zene kept having to kick aside as he walked between couch and fridge for beers, whose bottles now joined the takeout boxes.

Thanks to the money he’d gotten from Arcady, he could afford to spend the next two weeks around Christmas doing absolutely nothing. Eventually he’d have to go back and tell Arcady that he’d join in the duet–his first real job, that he wasn’t embarrassed about, since first cello chair in the Seattle Philharmonic–but he’d grown used to the empty days of nothing in particular. He’d miss them.

As he settled back in the couch, careful to avoid the place where a painful spring had popped up nearly through the seat, he reasoned with himself against feeling, far more keenly today than he usually did, the emptiness of his isolation. He was a man, after all. Manly men don’t get lonely, unless it’s after women, which was an entirely different matter from hanging out with other men. Manly men miss the football, not the companionship.

The sink dripped. His TV was broken, so he didn’t have the distraction of any football games.

He wondered what Arcady was doing. Just idly so, not out of any real interest. Zene recalled that he’d remembered to pay his last three phone bills this month, so perhaps he should call the guy. Just to check up on him. The last case had involved Arcady’s father, and that relationship had gone even further on the rocks–if it was even possible, to hear Arcady tell it.

He realized he didn’t have Arcady’s phone number, and spent half an hour digging around for the phonebook. Fortunately Sebastian Arcady was a unique name, so once he’d found the white pages under the dining table, Zene didn’t have to spend time bothering a bunch of unrelated people until he reached the right number. Zene wondered, again idly and not out of any real interest, whether he would have bothered anyways.

Probably because he was looking for Arcady to have a TV, to watch the Seahawks versus Greenbay game. Yeah. Zene didn’t know anyone else, apart from Mrs. Fischer downstairs, and she hated sports of any kind. Zene also hated company of any kind, especially bars and their uncouth crowds, and especially around the holidays.

He called Arcady, but the phone went unanswered. He let it ring seven times, which he considered the limit for manly men, even if they legitimately wanted a TV to watch the Seahawks on, and hung up.

Maybe he’d call again later. Yeah. Soon though. So as not to miss the game.

The phone rang on his belly, and he snatched it up. “‘Lo,” he said gruffly, his usual greeting.

“Zene?” asked Arcady in a bright voice. “Happy holidays. You called me a couple minutes before. I just got in.”

Zene considered his words carefully. Manly men didn’t rush in. “My TV’s broke,” he said, “and I was wondering if you had one I could watch the Hawks on. They’re playing Greenbay.”

“The game? I have a TV, but no cable or decent reception to the network channels, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”

“And… didn’t the Hawks play Greenbay last Monday? They’re not playing anyone today that I can recall.”

“Oh.” Zene searched for something else to say.

“Do you want to come over?” Arcady’s voice sounded somehow brittle.

“Dunno. Raining like flats and sharps in a goddamned William Orbit modern suite.”

“Perhaps we could practice a little before the New Year’s Eve engagement. I notice that you like more practice time before we go out on such things.”

Zene counted to B, but only once. It was a small improvement on the first case, when Arcady had dragged him out to the Hanbilts’ rich boffos wine tasting, handing him the sheet music just an hour before.

“Sure,” said Zene, keeping his voice calm.

“Wonderful! Shall I come pick you up? The buses are such dastardly things to ride in this weather—”

“No!” said Zene quickly. “Uh, place’s… bit of a mess,” he said, eyes flicking to the week of dirty dishes overflowing the sink.

“Oh! I understand perfectly. Shall I see you in about an hour or so?”

“Nuh. Got things to do. People to see.”

“Ah. Well, I’ll see you tonight at least?”

Zene affirmed this, then hung up, and stared at the ceiling. He’d have to do the laundry, having run out of even only slightly musty clothes.

---

Arcady’s Queen Anne condo was modern, clean, and sterile. Except for all the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia everywhere. Everywhere, in fact, was an understatement. From posters of movies on the wall, to a bookshelf overflowing with multiple copies of the stories, novels, and writings about the stories and novels—Zene had never realized the sheer obsessiveness of the Sherlockian societies before—and every flat surface was crowded with tacky Holmes clocks, plates, sculptures, even action figures from Japan.

Zene squeezed through the door with his cello case. His soaking wet coat he hung on the coat tree, and his wet shoes and case he left in the tiled entryway to dry.

The apartment smelled noticeably free of old pizza boxes and molding orange chicken.

Arcady smiled and directed him to the European L-shaped sofa. The man was dressed in jeans and a black tank top (why he insisted on baring his arms like that Zene didn’t want to speculate about, especially with what that reporter, Hestia Adler-something, kept insinuating, but perhaps she was just bitter).

“Would you like some tea?” Arcady asked from the kitchen. “Or perhaps some ale?”

Zene realized too late that Arcady would of course never keep any proper beer around. “Ale,” he said. Arcady brought some out in a Pilsner glass, etched with a Holmes profile in shadow, along with his tea, in a tall porcelain cup decorated with you-guess-what. The two men sat back, drank their drinks, and sighed appreciatively and simultaneously, which worried Zene a little.

“It’s a bit late,” said Arcady. “Almost midnight. Not the best time to start practicing.”

“Surprises me,” said Zene. “Thought you’d like practicing at all odd hours.”

“Oh, I do. The neighbors don’t, however.”

“Mmm,” said Zene, wondering to himself, “what now?”

“I was thinking,” said Arcady, rubbing his hands nervously, “maybe we could… watch something. A Christmas program.”

“I hate Christmas movies,” said Zene.

“Oh, I hate them too,” said Arcady cheerfully, “but I was thinking we could watch some adaptations of ‘The Blue Carbuncle’.”

Zene could guess where this was going. “This a Holmes thing?”

Arcady nodded. “A Christmas story, in fact. Er… will you want to watch?”

Well, it wasn’t the Hawks. But it was something.

“Sure,” said Zene.

“Oh good!” Arcady immediately dashed to his rotating DVD racks.

Zene sat back with his ale (which was none too bad, he had to admit). He felt, if the word could
be applied to being in a condo chock full of Holmes memorabilia, cozy.

It was turning out to be a decent Christmas after fuck all.