A Light Supper
by Melospiza
It was astounding, the incredible complexity of life that man took for granted. Men ignored the small things, and yet it was the smallest things that could define the greatest moment, the most infinitesimal detail that could divide order from chaos, success from disaster, accomplishment from failure. The most minute difference in the most minute detail could easily define one man from another. Or, in this case, one gun from another.
Such were the thoughts of Sherlock Holmes as he hunched over a table in his apartments on Baker Street, peering through a specially designed scope at fragments of bullet. Bits of metal were piled next to his left hand, a slightly smaller pile on the table to his right. His fingertips delicately twisted a knob on each side of the device, turning the clamps which held the two pieces of bullet, gradually exposing each surface to his careful attention; the images of the individual fragments were magnified and shown side by side through the device's ocular piece, allowing him to compare the two. A fly buzzed near his ear, and he waved at it impatiently. It buzzed louder, and he swatted at it – or at least, attempted to, before his wrist was grabbed in a strong hand and his swing stilled so swiftly he nearly tipped off of his stool.
Oh. So it hadn't been a fly after all.
"Sherlock Holmes." Watson was giving him quite a stern look. "You've been at this for two and a half days. I can't make you sleep, but I must insist that you eat something."
"I'm in the middle of an investigation, Watson, I simply cannot be bothered."
Watson exhaled a noisy sigh.
"I believe I'm on the verge..." Holmes trailed off as he resumed fiddling with the scope.
"Of solving it, yes. And then what? You'll pass out from exhaustion."
Holmes made a noncommittal noise in response. Watson sighed again, and then his presence vanished from Holmes's side, the scent of his soap and his tobacco fading as his footsteps crossed the room. The door opened, closed. The bullet fragments were not a match. Holmes loosened one of the clamps and dropped the fragment into the right-hand pile, then scooped up a fragment from the left-hand pile and fit it into the scope.
The door opened and closed again. Holmes could smell food, could hear the clink of crockery upon a tray, but he ignored it to keep the majority of his mind focused upon the task at hand. He was so accustomed to Watson's presence that it proved no distraction when the doctor sat beside him again. Only when Watson waved something savory and steaming under his nose did Holmes glance up again, blinking.
It was a bit of quail.
"Open your mouth," Watson snapped. Holmes did.
He resumed examining the fragments, switching one piece for another every so often, hunched over the scope as Watson hand fed him succulent pieces of meat. Holmes chewing and swallowing mechanically, his empty stomach cramping with a pleasure that he steadfastly ignored. But the quail was delicious. Mrs. Hudson had quite outdone herself. He was sucking grease from Watson's fingers before his mind fully registered what he was doing and caused him to stop.
There was bread and fruit and roasted potatoes, and Holmes kept eating whatever Watson fed him as he continued to work. There was a particular electric feeling running up and down his spine, an excited tremor making his hands itch as, with each studied fragment, he drew closer and closer to a conclusion. Of course, the intensity of feeling rising in him certainly had nothing to do with his body's eager response to the first food he'd had in days, nor did it have anything to do with Watson's warm presence beside him, or the strong arm that rested against his as Watson reached beneath Holmes's bowed head, or the callused fingertips that brushed against his lips each time he was offered a new, delicious bite.
Holmes's tongue flicked against Watson's fingers, savoring the salty taste that clung to them. Watson cleared his throat and drew his hand away. When the next morsel was slow in coming, Holmes, who continued to squint into the scope, exhaled an impatient grunt. Watson sighed, then favored him with a fresh piece of vegetable.
Suddenly, Holmes leaped to his feet with a triumphant shout. He snatched the fresh fragment from the apparatus and waved it in the air, declaring, "This is it! The weapon that fired this bullet is the same as the one that killed Henry Kelley. And I know exactly to whom that pistol belongs."
"Fine," said Watson, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbing at his fingers. "Now if you would be so good as to put on a pair of trousers, we can go apprehend this scoundrel."