A/N: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. First time writing one of these, so I beg your pardon for the lack of a Watsonian voice.
"Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
"Do you smell something rotten in our sitting room?"
"Yes, but it's merely the smog from--"
"No, I am quite certain that isn't it. It smells like...sulfur, but it's not coming from your chemistry set..."
"Leave my experiments alone! I say, the smell is coming from the outside--"
"Holmes! What on earth did you put in your drawer?!"
"What the devil are you talking about?"
"The smell! Quick, give me the key!"
"Watson, if this is your feeble attempt to take out your own cheque book for another..."
"You see? I wasn't lying."
"...these are really deep waters..."
"Now give me the--what?"
"What do you say to a dinner at Simpson's followed by opera, my dear fellow?"
"What?"
"Yes, I do think that would be best. Get dressed and I will meet you back here shortly."
"...Holmes..."
"Quick man, or we won't have time for dinner!"
"Holmes, did you perchance leave a certain..."
"Yes?"
"But Easter was last wee--I'll meet you down here in a moment, Holmes."
"Excellent, Watson!"
--
We had barely made it out the door of 221b Baker Street before weheard a cry of outrage from Mrs. Hudson. It didn't take a consulting detective to figure out just what our longsuffering landlady had found. Neither of us spoke of that particular item that Holmes fished out of the drawer just before we left. It would be best that we not speak of it until Mrs. Hudson had forgotten about it entirely.
"What do you say to a round of drinks after the opera as well, Watson?" I couldn't imagine anything more agreeable.