Prompt 1
From mrspencil: No snow yet, and Watson is sad but tries to hide his disappointment
...
CRACK!
"Watson, would you be a good fellow as to tell me where your bag is?" I ask my fellow lodger, only to see Watson looking despairingly out of the window of our living room. I look down at my hand, which has a large cut on it and it is bleeding profusely. I give a deathly glare to the broken test tube on my work surface, before I turn back to my flatmate.
"Watson, my dear fellow, I am in need of your medical assistance." I argue, grudgingly- which gets his attention, as his shoulders stiffen, and he rises from his seat.
"Good heavens, Holmes, what have you done to your hand?" He asks, looking at the blood dripping all over Mrs Hudson's Persian rug.
"A test tube snapped in my hand." I scowl; it is surprisingly stinging, considering I have been on the verge of Death itself on numerous occasions. "How many times have I told you that you always see, Watson, but never observe?"
He ignores my question, which is unsurprising. "Well, I shall tend to that for you- Mrs Hudson!" He calls.
"Yes doctor?" Our landlady pokes her flushed face round the door, wisps of hair flying free from her cap, and I wince inwardly.
"I am sorry to bother you, Mrs Hudson, but could you possibly fetch some hot water and linen, please? Holmes here has had a catastrophe with a test tube."
"Oh goodness gracious! And I suppose I shall have to sweep the glass up too! Very well, Doctor Watson- I shall bring the water promptly."
"Thank you, dear lady." He answers, only for the door to slam loudly.
...
Once Mrs Hudson had brought the water and some clean linen –not to mention swept up the broken glass and disposed of it carefully- , she decides to go on a walk and get some fresh air.
"I shan't be long, Doctor. Do you or Mr Holmes require anything in my absence?"
"No thank you, Mrs Hudson- I'd hate to burden you when you are seeking some peace."
"You are a saint, Doctor." Mrs Hudson tells him, before throwing on her shawl and making her way outside.
Watson trudges back upstairs and his sudden change in pace suggests that something is bothering my friend.
But he disappears just as I am going to investigate the reason for his dull mood. I deduce it may have something to do with the weather, as he has been staring out of the window a lot recently, and he has been giving the sky hopeful looks. I know that look.
He is wishing for snow. It will not happen, however. In order for that to happen the air has to be cold enough to form frozen crystalline water, before it precipitates from clouds.
I sit down in my armchair and reach for my pipe, although I curse in fluent French when I realise I cannot find the matches anywhere in my vicinity. Continuing to mumble curses, switching between French, German and a small amount of Tibetan, I recollect I last lain them on the mantel- only they were not there. I do not recall moving them, and my memory is no trifling matter- I treat it carefully.
Realising that we have either ran out, or that Watson has them, I grudgingly stamp over to the door to bellow for my landlady- until I realise she is not there.
Grabbing one of the linins, I wrap it round my hand and make my way downstairs.
...
Whomever had come up with the concept of the Seven Sins, has clearly forgotten the most audacious one of all, besides murder and rape- intruding on a woman's kitchen- especially Mrs Hudson's.
Everything was askew, and I now feel my hairs prickling up on end as I realise the worst.
Deciding on a strategic retreat, I was far too busy observing for our landlady's return, that alas, I neglected to observe that my shoelaces had come undone, until it was too late.
...
"Holmes, for Heaven's sakes, what are you doing now? First you disappear from our living room, and now I hear the most tremendous racket! I swear, Holmes, you are a man of impossibility! Why it's no wonder"-
The rant is cut off – first, by the door creaking open, and then the sounds of hopeless mirth echoing off the walls of Mrs Hudson's kitchen.
"What is it, Watson? Why are laughing at me?" I demand.
"Why, old chap- you're covered in flour!" He splutters, unable to look at me without the risk of keeling over.
Sure enough, I am coated head to toe in flour.
"I am not amused, Watson." I quote, from England's finest monarch, and I rise, sending flour tumbling to the floor. "If you dare say it, Watson, my revenge will be swift and yet momentous, I can assure you."
"You look like a snowman, Holmes!"
The next day, I continued to deny any knowledge in why my friend was sporting a makeshift carrot nose stuck tightly to his own.
"I did warn him," I chuckle, even though I was helping Mrs Hudson tidy her kitchen and put it back to rights.
But at least now, my Boswell has stopped moping about the weather. He's plotting revenge against me- I can see it in his eyes as he looks at me from over the rim of his teacup.