capt_facepalm

.oOOo.

Another tiring day led to another tiring evening. It was well past 9:00 P.M. when Dr John Watson returned to 221B Baker Street and shrugged off his sodden Inverness. Two options presented themselves: either compensate for another missed meal, or simply withdraw to the comfort of his bed. Not wanting to wake his long-suffering landlady, Mrs Hudson, the doctor chose to retire directly and break his fast in the morning. He climbed the seventeen daunting steps to the second floor flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective.

‘Watson! Finally, you reappear! The game’s afoo...’

‘No. No, it’s not. The game is most definitely going to bed,’ he said dropping his medical bag on his desk.

Sherlock Holmes surveyed his flatmate. Weariness beyond a physical nature showed in his face, and smears of other people’s misfortune stained his clothing. Another trying day for the doctor, then. Of course it was his own fault, but at least he had the sense to restrict his philanthropic activities to one day a week. Only a drop in the bucket against the tide of London’s overwhelming need.

‘Wash up, and change. I’ll give you the details on the way to Victoria station. No. Don’t look at me like that. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. I’ve packed your valise for three days’ travel. Hurry up!’

‘I will need to resupply my bandages and dressings. Some young toughs started a fight with the wrong people. Their adversaries proved to be long on knives and short on humour.’

‘You can tell me all about it after you change. I’ll re-stock your kit. Just hurry.’

Watson trudged up the stairs to wash up. He changed from his damp, stained clothes into a neat, dry suit. When he returned to the sitting room, Holmes was already downstairs at the front door, once again urging haste.

They arrived at the station just in time to board the train departing for Folkestone. The doctor eased himself onto the seat in their compartment and closed his eyes.

‘Watson. You are all but done in and you missed your supper. Here, have a sandwich.’

The doctor's face brightened at the sight of the cloth-wrapped package pulled from his friend's coat pocket. An empty stomach would yield only restless sleep.

‘Thank you! This is very good,’ he said, savouring this unexpected snack. ‘But you should not have bothered Mrs Hudson.’

‘Not to worry, my good fellow. She didn’t raise a fuss,’ he said, all too lightly.

‘You didn’t wake her?’ realisation dawned. ‘You made this yourself! After she banned you from the kitchen!’

‘You don’t like the sandwich?’

‘The sandwich is fine. Stop trying to change the subject. You trespassed in Her kitchen... ’

‘Technically, it was the pantry... ’

‘You made a sandwich and you wrapped it in one of her best tea towels... ’

‘Best tea towels? Who even bothers to classify tea towels?’

‘Our landlady does! Oh,never mind, you've been very thoughtful. Thank you... Besides, how upset could she be over one towel, even if it was one of her best?’ Watson reasoned.

Holmes gave a guilty glance at the doctor’s bag. Watson’s eyes widened. The detective cringed. Now was not an optimal time for the doctor’s nascent observational skills to become acute. The medical kit was seized and opened.

There they were: the restocked bandages and dressings. Cut into strips from Mrs Hudson’s favourite set of tea towels. And more.

‘Holmes! Are you purposely trying to get yourself evicted? If so, this is the very way to do it.’

‘Don’t be absurd. I left a note.’

‘You left a note. How is any note going to placate her? This was her finest linen tablecloth! Mrs Hudson will never forgive this. Must you always go out of your way to antagonise her?’

‘Actually, when I say I left her a note, I should clarify: I left her YOUR note.’

‘My note. What note? I did not write any note!’

‘Nevertheless, Doctor, for a physician, you have very legible handwriting. It was simplicity itself to replicate. Don’t look so glum. As you said, she would never forgive me, but she might forgive you. Eventually.’

.oOOo.