"There are alternatives, different sources of ...distraction, stimulation that I can provide. Safer than your seven per cent solution..."
Watson lets the words hang as he settles back into the leather chair and pulls the newspaper to him.
"Ha!"
Holmes darts to the mantle, taking down his pipe. His dextrous fingers tamp the tobacco firmly before he throws himself in the opposite chair and reaches for the matches. Long legs are stretched, then drawn up and he assumes the cross legged position he often adopts when a puzzle presents itself.
He stills, the earlier explosion of energy now turns inward as he sets his mind loose.
Watson watches.
Sees sensitive fingertips stroke the smooth bowl of the pipe, clever lips purse round the hard stem clamped firmly between teeth. Chest rises and falls as smoke is inhaled, exhaled. A familiar rhythm.
Sees the acrid smoke curl, creating illusions, tempting the observer to look closer.
He does.
Sees the firelight make a harlequin pattern dancing on the quilted satin collar, softening angular cheekbones and creating false warmth in harsh hazel eyes. A shadow crossing those eyes, a slight curl of the lip, brow briefly furrowing. Micro-expressions revealing the active mind considering, deliberating, rejecting alternatives.
Sees fingers twitching, start to tap out a familiar tempo on the armrest. Sees them falter, pause.
Hawk like, Holmes swivels his head, fixing Watson to his chair with a penetrating gaze. One eyebrow arches.
The tension becomes as thick as the heat and the smoke in the room and Watson knows he won't just be an observer.