SHERLOCK
"The Pub – a Sherlock Shorty"
The darkened pub was crowded, elbow-to-elbow, arse-to-arse. The clamor of the evening patrons faded into the background as the two regulars, seated at the bar, eased into their beers. Their behavior mirrored each other: glassy-eyed, apathetic, too weary for additional conversation, and being trusted mates, there was no pressure to do so.
John Watson and Greg Lestrade raised, drank, then lowered the pints in hand in syncopation, neither passing a look to the other.
Three cases in 36 hours, John bemoaned. Sherlock had been beside himself with joy. And energy. The trio was solved in record time (even for Holmes), but the whirlwind process had been brutal. While his incited flatmate temporarily forewent human bounds, John was left to snatch food and water where and when he could, accomplish toilet needs at lightning speed, plus take and execute Holmes' instructions from his faster-than-normal, rapid-fire discourse. John practically had to jog to keep up with him. As for sleep, the detective had declared it as irrelevant.
Greg took a draw from his mug, still musing over the morning's case. It was one for the record books, his particularly. One deadhusband, six irate wives. The women varied in shape, size, and hair, but had one common factor between them—fury. And none bothered to hide it during their very loud and scornful persistence in accusing the others of the dastardly deed. Add in two vexed girlfriends, and Greg's ears were still ringing.
"Greg?" John said, his decompressing attention mesmerized by the plaster imperfection on the wall.
"Ummm?" Greg uttered, eyeing the depleted whiskey bottle on the wooden shelf behind the barkeep's head, wondering how the builder got the ship past the glass neck.
"May I ask you something personal?"
They raised their pints in exhausted tandem . . .
"Ask."
. . . lowering them likewise.
"You're about 50, right?"
"Thereabouts, yeah." How tiny do the tools have to be to build a ship in a bottle, anyway?
"You're a highly intelligent, competent copper, how come you haven't risen above Detective Inspector?"
Up, down the pints went.
"I did."
"Explain."
"You're not the only one who chinned a supervisor." Greg drained his mug, holding it up for the bartender. "Second rounds on me."