Particle Size Analysis

[capt_facepalm]

Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson
Summary:  Egad! Another friendship fic!
Warnings: Quite fluffy; no slash
Word Count:  500B
Author's Notes:   Apologies.  Holmes is a little out of character. Author needs sleep.

.oOOo.

Monday May 16, 1881
Baker Street

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective, returned early to Baker Street that afternoon. He hoped his flatmate, Watson, would be amenable to posing some puzzle to keep the ennui at bay.

However, this was not to be. Holmes was foiled by a small square of paper: 

Holmes,
I’ve gone out.
Please tell Mrs. Hudson to expect me for dinner.
Yours,
Watson

What could he deduce from this brief missive? Nothing; that’s what! The microscope revealed nothing more than the magnifying lens had: paper stock and ink from Watson’s own writing desk.

That took care of the evidence at hand. Now, what was missing? Holmes compiled a list in his head.

• One flatmate (ex-army, medical branch)
• One long coat (suspicious for such a fine day, yet explainable since Watson minded the cold)
• One top hat (the old one; presentable enough for a casual meeting; not business)
• One pair of boots (Not shoes? Curious choice.)
• One cane (hospital issue, not the ‘Shillelagh’; still experiencing pain, not expecting trouble)

Holmes was about to ransack Watson’s wardrobe to confirm the rest of the doctor’s current attire when he heard a key in the front entrance. From the window he observed Watson giving Freddie, one of his Irregulars, a coin. By the look on the little tyke’s face, it was more than he expected. So! Watson was the source of the Irregulars’ recent inflationary price demands. They would have words on that subject.

“Oh, hello Holmes. You’re back early,” said the doctor as he entered the sitting room, looking more tired than usual. He fumbled briefly with his boots before reclining on the settee with an audible sigh. “Is everything all right at Scotland Yard?”

“They can go to blazes for calling me out under false pretences,” grumbled the detective.

“What have you been up to? No, wait! Let me deduce!” he cried, snatching up the discarded footwear.

“You have taken the train, but not travelled far. Your state of exhaustion confirms a walk of some distance. By the faint aroma of liniment, you have visited a doctor. The grass clippings imply a park. But the sand mixed with clay… Sand mixed with clay?!?”

Hours later…

“Would you like a hint?”

“No need! I will get to the bottom of this without assistance,” exclaimed the detective in indignation as he lit the Bunsen burner.

Watson smiled to himself. He had taken the train. Not to see a doctor, but his old trainer and coach; a man who knew more about injury rehabilitation than any so-called specialist. He was examined and had his prognosis confirmed. Although it was not good news, he trusted the man’s opinion and was given strong liniment, an exercise regime, and some hope.

He could also add something else to his list of ‘Holmes’ Limits’. In the spring, to facilitate better drainage, sand was applied to the playing fields. The great detective may be knowledgeable in many areas, but he knew nothing of rugby, nor of the field preparations at Blackheath!

.oOOo.

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