The Case of the Three Table Legs
Chapter 1: Messed up chemistry
What a beautiful shade of blue. Cerulean, I think it was called.
I bent over to inspect the retort, simmering gently over Holmes' little Bunsen burner. The liquid within was iridescent, almost that shade when the sun catches the Cornish sea on a hot day. Thankfully, the smell was not unpleasant either.
Quite an attractive product, considering the foul temper it had been brewed in. Holmes had sat over this infernal apparatus for four days, rarely sleeping, and growling like a bear with a sore head, back, stomach, legs, arms and big toe whenever he was spoken to. I had initially attempted to engage him in a modicum of civilised conversation, as sharing a flat with a living chemistry set was tedious in the extreme, but had given that up when he abused my parentage, my intellect and my physical appearance in a fluent and explosive tirade.
My medical instincts had prompted me to be a little more persistent regarding prompting Holmes to eat. He had not actually thrown anything at me, but his fingers had twitched convulsively, and I knew he was considering it.
I had not the faintest idea what this concoction was that it required such an extraordinary degree of effort, but I had hopes my tribulations were nearing an end. Holmes had gone out, and left this pretty blue jar, the only discernible result of his labours, temporarily unattended. He must have passed the critical point. Perhaps I would get my more bearable incarnation of my room-mate back.
I do not know why I did it. It was no more than a mannerism or nervous tick. I reached over, and gently tapped the side of the retort, to elicit a pure, soft ringing sound. As I withdrew my arm, my sleeve caught upon a hook on the tripod upon which the retort stood. In slow motion, I watched the apparatus begin to topple. My instinct in any mishap involving Holmes' experimentation is to leap promptly out of the way, and I obeyed it here. I then helplessly watched the retort with its shimmering blue liquid shatter against the desk, whilst the liquid itself cascaded artistically onto the desk and floor.
Argh! What a mistake! Something tells me this may overset Watson's composure a little. More in Chapter 2.
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