It was a cold winter day, and snow was piled heavily on the London streets. I stayed in between Lestrade and Holmes as we walked back from the court house. We had just concluded a particularly irksome case, and were all tired and weary from our adventure.
Beside me, my friend wrapped his scarf more securely around his neck, muttering about the vile weather. On my other side, Lestrade was shooting Holmes seething glances.
I could tell that he was still rather angry about the humiliation the sleuth had caused him at the crime scene, in front of the other officers, by calling him a "rat-faced, blind mole."
The rest of our time spent there had been filled with the Yarders snickering and jesting about how, in all honesty, the inspector's face did resemble that of a rat's.
The tension between the two was unbearable; therefore, I decided to take immediate action. Anything to cool them down would help. But, unfortunately, only one idea came to mind, and it was rather childish…
I moved to Holmes's other side. They took no notice. I then leaned down to scoop up a pile of snow in my cupped hands. They didn't even glance.
My friend gave a startled cry as I pulled his collar back and dropped the snow into the gap.
He jumped, shivering violently, and glared daggers at me. Behind him, I could hear Lestrade trying to stifle his laughs.
"Watson that was a childish thing to do!" Holmes scolded me through chattering teeth.
I knew that, but it felt oddly satisfying to see the famous detective caught off guard.
Suddenly, the sleuth turned rigid, his eyes wide.
Curious, I looked over his shoulder and saw that Lestrade's arm was half raised, as if he had just thrown something. And then I saw clumps of snow falling from Holmes's cloth cap.
Thus the battle began.
Holmes's eyes blazed with a sudden excitement as he shoveled a clump of snow off of a nearby crate, and hurriedly packing it into a ball.
I dove behind a pile of crates, and watched from a gap as the sleuth hit Lestrade in the chest with the snowball.
On we went, throwing and evading clumps of snow, grinning in our victories and laughing at each others' failures.
The occasional passer-by in the near deserted street would watch us for only a moment with a grin on their face, before rushing back to their task. They seemed to be amused by the fact that a group of full-grown men were having a snowball fight.
This went on for quite some time, and the sun was beginning to set by the time my doctor's instincts suddenly kicked in.
I brought the fight to a stop, going on about how I didn't want them to catch a cold.
They reluctantly agreed to end, and we continued our formerly delayed walk to Baker Street.
The tension hovered no longer, only the sounds of laughing coming from the men.
I was glad that we had so quickly become friends again, but I felt terrible when I had to treat two men with bad cases of pneumonia for a week after the fight…