Warning! Silliness all around! What do you do when you're stuck up a tree surrounded by mastiffs? Well, you chat about whatever comes to mind and wait for help.

Disclaimer: Regrettably, I own nothing.

There are a good many things I consider appropriate for a warm night in May. A good pipe or novel never goes astray, nor does amiable company. I would not say no to an evening at a concert, or even a late night stroll linked arm in arm with my close friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes. Even his cases (with all their villainy and mystery) could be a good outlet of energy on such a fine evening.

I must admit, my notion of an excellent time spent did not, and never has included being chased a half-mile by a group of snarling mastiffs. My armchair by the fire was by no means interchangeable with the hard oak limb I was sitting upon abreast to Holmes, who was glaring down at the furious dogs and making the same soft hissing noises one might imagine a cat emitting. Though there have been many such sticky situations since, I'm fairly certain the Barley Street Gang was the first and only criminal enterprise to successfully drive us up a literal tree and keep us there.

"Well, Holmes. I don't suppose you have any ideas?" I waved my feet toward the beasts, grateful that we had been in such close vicinity to the park. Try as they might, there would be no reaching us upon our fifteen-foot perch.

Holmes heaved a disgruntled sigh and shuffled closer to the trunk of the tree. "None that would keep us both in one piece." He confessed

"And while we're keeping our toes above these brutes, those ruffians will make their escape!"

"Not at all, my good Watson! While we keep our toes safe, Lestrade will be picking up our acquaintances as they undoubtedly return to their safe hold to retrieve their valuables."

I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful as always that my friend had been diligent in covering all possible scenarios. "Then you suspected dogs…?" I was accustomed to Holmes' habit of neglecting to inform me of certain details during cases, though it was frustrating, even after the years we had lived together. I should have liked to know that six crazed mastiffs would be pursuing us through the streets beforehand on this night in particular.

He leaned over the limb we were perched on, teetering precariously to look into the savage, gaping jaws swarming beneath us. "No, I must admit the dogs were an unwelcome surprise. Now that I recall, it was painfully obvious. Hindsight is, as you know, frustratingly clear."

"No lasting harm done, old boy. I needed the exercise."

"Yes, Mrs. Watson does take a liberal hand in feeding you."

"Holmes!"

"I speak only truth!"

I would have argued, had I not been watching with some nervousness as one of those blasted hounds gnashed its not-insignificant fangs close to my feet, which I then took the liberty of lifting onto a limb just below the one upon which we sat. The aforementioned flight from the beasts had been almost embarrassingly uncoordinated, and I would never take any great pains to remember the fleeting terror that had seized me as we dashed through the streets with such violent-tempered mastiffs at our heels. Though I have seen more impressive creatures in my time with Holmes (I might draw to mind the hound which had terrorized Baskerville Hall), that didn't mean I was immune to the fright large animals could often cause.

"Well, Watson," Holmes had maneuvered his own legs beneath him, and I was at a loss to how he could balance so precariously on his knees. "How do you suppose we shall endeavor to explain the pitiable state of our shoes to Inspector Lestrade?" He waved an irritated hand at three of the dogs, which had taken to tearing into our fine leather footwear. In our haste to escape, the fresh mud had grabbed at our soles and we had slipped out of our shoes unthinking, hurrying on without them. Only as we sat panting on our lofty perch had we realized the loss. I felt a pang of regret as the beasts waged war over my left boot.

"I think the truth." I said dismally, feeling the cool air nip at my toes. "The evidence is a bit obvious, wouldn't you say?"

He nodded grimly, and I pursed my lips, wishing not for the first time that I could shoot the blasted animals. If not for the fact that I had, for the first time in many cases left my revolver at home, I surely would have. "Well." Holmes began anew, cutting into my internal berating. "If I had to choose anyone to share such a majestic oak tree with, Watson, it would be you. Though I should like to have more than socks next time." I was alarmed by his good humor—a situation such as this would typically draw out only the blackest mood in Holmes.

"I sincerely hope there won't be a next time." I replied shortly, casting a hopeful glance into the distant streets, though the barking of the mastiffs seemed not to be drawing much attention. "Those were new shoes, you know. I only purchased them Tuesday." I added, feeling another unhappy twinge as I watched their slow demise.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "A pity. I believe I recognized the admirable quality of Barker of Hart Street?" He guessed, and it only bolstered my vexation at their loss. "Ah. Fine boots, indeed. I had the foresight of wearing one of my old pairs, personally; though I can't imagine they mind terribly." He gestured at the dogs, and I felt a trifle chagrined by his nonchalant manner.

"Well, Holmes," I began testily. "I'm afraid it did not cross my mind that I might spend my evening being pursued by half a dozen hounds and sitting in an infernally uncomfortable tree." I shifted again, feeling as though my entire bottom were made of ice. A fine way to spend my night indeed. To think I could have stayed home with a doting wife, reading a good novel.

Holmes made a despairing sound and clucked his tongue. "You must always anticipate the possible demise of your footwear, Watson. Any number of things could have soiled them—I am only grateful your foot was blessedly removed beforehand." His lips twitched upward in a fleeting smile, and again I felt irritation toward his good humor. Certainly I saw nothing amusing about the situation. "Though, as I said, I did not anticipate dogs. I do so loathe canines, Watson." He sneered down at the pack, again calling to mind the image of a very large cat as he glowered.

"You seemed amiable enough with that ugly mongrel from Pinchen Lane." I said in surprise, recalling that amusing little creature with some affection. Whatever it had lacked in looks, it had certainly made up for in friendliness.

Holmes shook his head. "Toby is useful, yes, but he still suffers the plague of all dogs." He sighed heavily through his nose. "The foolish beasts are either far too friendly for my liking or far too aggressive. No, Watson. Give me a cat and I shall be all set." He sniffed, and appeared unwilling to even deign the mastiffs with his gaze any longer. "Cats have the proper attitude for any animal. They keep to themselves unless needed, provide for their own sustenance, and they are infinitely more cleanly."

"Cats make me sneeze." Surely not the most articulate response, but other than that I confess I knew little about felines at all on a level beyond appearances. I certainly had never been able to bear them near me for the stuffy nose I got in return.

"Oh, Watson, that is hardly a proper argument against felines. Surely if bread made you sneeze you would not abhor anyone eating it." Holmes said shortly. Before I could respond to his ludicrous statement he pressed on. "Precisely. Cats are incredibly useful as well. They keep a house free of unwanted tenants, and provide the pleasure of company without the tedium of constant companionship." He sighed, and I had to laugh under my breath at his apparent fancy to all things feline. Yet another aspect of Sherlock Holmes I had never been privy to.

I shifted again on the branch as the dogs beneath us ceased their continual howling and began to simply pace with occasional threatening snarls. "But Holmes, some people enjoy a good dog. They're loyal to the end; a cat wouldn't defend you from a burglar!" I pointed out.

"And a dog would thus die doing nothing besides creating an obstacle and further inciting the rage of a man who might not have killed you until your companion decided to bite him. I would prefer the cat's method—I certainly can handle myself without any canine assistance, Watson." I shook my head incredulously. "You are simply prejudiced because they make you sneeze."

Imagine, being stuck in a tree with Sherlock Holmes and all he could do was accuse me of prejudice against cats! "Holmes, how long do you think we'll be up here?" I changed the topic abruptly, having had enough talk of cats for one evening.

He looked mildly vexed at the adjusted conversation, but shrugged nevertheless. "I told Lestrade to expect us to join them in the capture, therefore I would think by now they are aware we have befallen some misfortune." He glowered at the snarling dogs below us. "Given the criminal tendency to parade this type of affair, I should say the police are currently scrutinizing London for our shredded remains."

I grimaced and wriggled my toes to reestablish bloodflow. "Well I hope they come soon. My feet are going numb." Holmes glanced over with another lightning-quick smirk. "Not to mention I haven't spent this much time in a tree since I was a lad. I used to go hunting for owls, you know—though I doubt I ever found one." I chuckled, recalling the games of my childhood.

He smiled, a broad sort that was rare on his face. "The last time I endeavored to climb a tree was when I was eight years of age, I believe. Mycroft insisted I would be able to see Peru if I climbed to the very top of the most magnificent oak tree on our front lawn." I gaped at him, for it was an exceptional occasion that Holmes ever confided a story of his childhood. He caught me bewildered look and nodded amusedly. "Oh yes, Watson. I was not always so wise."

"And you climbed to the top, did you?" I pressed.

He let out a laugh. "No, old friend, I got halfway up and fell quite splendidly onto my arm and broke it. Mycroft was beside himself with laughter."

"Laughter? At his own brother being hurt?" I was aghast at the older Holmes, though the younger shook his head hastily.

"No, no, Watson. He assumed I was quite all right. He was rather apologetic when I was fitted for a plaster cast. In fact— Ah! The cavalry arrives at long last!" He pointed into the distance, where several uniformed individuals were making their way across the grass. The mastiffs, savage beasts that they were, reared to their feet and charged at them, though I was relieved to see they were quickly dealt with. "Well, Watson, I believe it will be a distinctly uncomfortable journey home." Holmes pointed at his own stocking feet and we divulged into laughter, though the appearance of Inspector Lestrade quelled our humor somewhat.

"I expected to find you in pieces." He confessed immediately, surveying us with a none-too-amused expression. "You're lucky to have been nearby a park."

Holmes nodded dismissively and began his descent, landing in the mud beside the gathering crowd of policemen. "Yes, though we did have to barter our shoes for our lives. A not unworthy trade."

"Your shoes—why you're barefoot!"

"Observant as ever, Inspector."

I landed in due time beside them and grimaced at the mud rushing through my socks. "Perhaps this conversation would be best had withindoors?" I suggested, unable to refrain from making a face at the disconcerting feeling of being barefoot in May.

"Of course, Watson. I trust the plan went as to be expected?" Holmes inquired as we began to trek back to the waiting hansoms eagerly.

Lestrade, through a commendable effort, successfully kept a straight face as the men around us began to grin and chortle at our unsavory appearance. "Of course. Every one of 'em's on their way to a cell now. I'd have brought along some extra boots had I known you'd lose yours."

Holmes waved a hand at the notion, a feeling I could not help but resent. "Hardly, Inspector, hardly. It's but a triviality; the good doctor and I have endured worse than wet feet." We piled into a waiting carriage, our feet making the most undignified squelches I had ever heard. "Isn't that right, Watson?"

I glanced at him, and then at Lestrade's amused expression. I sighed dismally. "Quite so, Holmes."

Now, I simply had to concoct a feasible reason to explain to Mary why I was returning home lacking the boots she had so proudly presented to me only three days before.