Spring
It's the scent of red mud that tells Watson where Holmes has been. It's his first truly accurate deduction, and Holmes paces across the sitting room in excitement.
"I have always said it is simply a matter of observing. Finally, you have learned!" Already, Holmes is reaching for his violin. "If I could teach you the simpler sciences-- tobacco ash identification and so on-- imagine what we could do!"
Watson stands, arms locked behind his back in military posture, almost embarrassed at Holmes' enthusiasm, but not enough to say anything. Holmes, for the first time in weeks, is truly engaged. He mentions star charts and soil samples, hemoglobin and sandstone, and Watson stops attempting to follow his words and instead watches his hands: those long, tapering fingers illustrating his every expression.
Holmes is, in a word, beautiful. Watson will never say it, of course, but it's there, blatantly obvious, and it's practically scientific when Holmes produces one of Watson's favorite airs in celebration, waving towards a decanter on a small table.
"Pour some brandy, would you? And after, I believe we must get you a pair of good leather gloves. There's no telling what you'll mess up in my laboratory."
