Chapter Text
Every year, on the anniversary of that fateful meeting in the lab at Bart’s, a package arrives at the home of Dr. Mike Stamford.
The first is a bottle of 50-year-old single malt scotch, which (after a quick Google search) Mike discovers comes with a five-figure price tag. The following year, he receives a bottle of rare burgundy, similarly valued.
That there is never a card attached nor any reason given for the presents is irrelevant. The sender is well aware that while Mike Stamford may be many things, simple is not one of them. The genial doctor, for his part, knows full well who is behind his expensive packages. He understands the sentiment behind them; words are unnecessary.
There are two deliveries he does not expect to receive, but enquiries with the vendors reveal that the orders had been placed and paid for more than a month before the event that drove his dear friend, John Watson, to the edge of despair. Mike receives these packages with a heavy heart and puts them away for safekeeping.
In the aftermath of the good news, another delivery (a box of the very finest Cuban cigars) arrives with something quite unexpected: A wedding invitation.
He does not attend. He has a valid reason (of course he does — he is not a rude man), but the nagging feeling that all is not as it should be plays a part as well.
Another two years pass and then, quite unexpectedly, a young woman appears at his door with a final parcel. This time there is a note. The handwriting is messy and almost childlike and instantly recognizable (even if he hadn’t already known the identity of his benefactor). There are only two words:
Thank you.
______________________
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmm?”
“What’s this?”
“What’s what?’
“The box on the table.”
“No idea. Arrived last night. Open it.”
“It’s…holy hell!”
“What?”
“No, don’t just grab it like that — jesus! Do you have any idea what that’s worth?”
“As it happens, I know exactly what it’s worth. Champagne of this vintage routinely goes at auction for upwards of £10,000.”
“Shit.”
“Is there a card?”
“Uhm, yeah. Here.”
“Do you want me to —?”
“Just tell me who it’s from.”
“Ah. Well, I already know who it’s from. But as to why it is here…’Sherlock, I saved this one. Hoped you might need it someday. Love to John, and congratulations.’”
“Huh. Sorry — who’s it from?”
“Mike Stamford.”
“Mike, but…”
“Come on. Take this and meet me in bed. I’ll get the glasses. There’s something I’d like to tell you.”