Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor his faithful companion, John Watson. I do, however, greatly enjoy toying with them.
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Domestic Diva
The irony of my friend's uncharacteristic actions could not be avoided and his stunningly, and somewhat worrying, domestic appearance made a small amount of laughter escape from my throat. I hastily covered my mouth in order to stop the noise from disrupting the already annoyed detective who was strenuously bent over a steaming, silver pot of aromatic stew. However, my efforts proved fruitless and my companion turned to me with his skeletal, chemical-stained fingers upon his floral apron-adored hips, involuntarily reminding me of a fuming housewife greatly disappointed in her husband's late-night arrival home.
"Watson, while I do admit that my current appearance is somewhat…"
"Amusing?" I said with a slight chuckle, although I could think of numerous other, less amicable, words to complete Holmes' sentence.
"Yes, Watson, thank you for assuming to know what I planned to express as I was quite incapable of doing so myself," he sarcastically replied, angrily releasing a pinch of salt into a seemingly delicious concoction sitting on the antique stove. "As I was previously saying before you decided to rather rudely interrupt me: While I admit that my appearance is somewhat humorous due to its inappropriate femininity and domesticity – please, doctor, avoid making such snorting noises. They are quite unbecoming – and is, therefore, ironic, we must not forget the seriousness of our current situation."
I surveyed the small, crowded, and organized bolt-hole and had to agree that our temporary circumstances were not exactly preferable to our former residence at Baker Street. Thankfully, I noted that the room was devoid of beakers, Bunsen burners, or chemicals.
"Ah, my materials are stored on the second shelf of the storage closet in the far right corner. But, do not fear, my good man. I have absolutely no intention of playing with my chemicals this particular evening." Holmes' straight, white teeth smiled at me; I was always surprised to observe their perfection considering all of the detrimental tobacco, tea, and coffee with which they can into constant contact.
"I am glad to hear it, Holmes. I would not want to be thrown onto the streets for a second time tonight. I hope that our Mrs. Hudson will be able to rid the building of that terrible stench! Do you think she will take us back, Holmes?"
The detective set a steaming bowl of red, vegetable-filled stew before me and untied the comical apron of questionable origin before taking a slightly-damaged cigarette from his left pocket. "Do not worry yourself over Mrs. Hudson. She is the most long-suffering of women. I shall find a way to appease our domestic diva and to regain our former lodgings. How do you find my cooking, Watson?"
"It is excellent, Holmes! I would not have taken you for a chef." The man pushed aside his untouched and increasingly cold stew and heaved his long, thin legs onto the worn table with a satisfied smile on his lips. Sherlock Holmes' assortment of unusual and great talents never ceased to amaze me.