On the floor, behind the leather club chair, near enough to the fire that its brown wrapper warmed on winter's evenings, sat the cardboard box. Seven months since its arrival and still it languished unopened, a monument to the stubborn nature of both Holmes and Watson. It crossed the brownstone's threshold one gloomy morning, camouflaged amongst the daily mail. It was addressed to both of them. The writing was distinctive, no doubt about the sender, even without a return address.
"Its for you," Joan handed the package to Sherlock.
He raised an eyebrow at it and smirked, "I beg to differ. It is addressed to both of us, but your name is first. Joan Watson - see right there. It is for you." He courteously handed the package back to her.
"Yes, but he is your brother so the package is for you."
"Quite so, but you were his lover." They both shuddered involuntarily.
"That was cruel Sherlock. Just for that, you get to open it. It might be important."
"Ha! I know my brother..." he shook the package and it rattled. "This is more than likely a souvenir from some Greek isle, a seashell mermaid or a weather-predicting dolphin at best. I'm surprised he had the discipline and stamina to actually mail it." He handed her the package, "I am not opening it."
"Fine. Neither am I. Its not like we'll need to acknowledge it's receipt to him; we'll never see him again."
"Your lips to god's ear."
Joan set the package on the chair and walked away. "I thought you didn't believe in God."
"I don't... just an expression." Sherlock followed her.
"Do we have anymore of that Egyptian bread you made the other day?."
"There might be a thin slice or two...."
And so the cardboard box sat in the chair, until becoming inconvenient, it was placed on the crate that doubled for a side table, .... eventually it saw its way to the bookshelf, and ended up being relegated to the floor and mostly forgotten.
Every so often, one or the other would pick it up shake it, and hand it to the other, stating something along the lines of "You haven't opened your package yet." The statement was then met with, "Not mine, yours."