I sat patiently, waiting for the operator to connect me with my party, and absently doodled on the margin of the paper in front of me, my pencil making rather a mess of the clean white sheet.

I heard the line connect, and then the telephone began to ring…and ring…and ring…and ring…and then finally there was a slight banging and scrambling noise as the connection was made and the receiver picked up.

"Yes, hallo!" a familiarly annoyed voice sounded.

"Holmes?"

"Speaking. Who else would it be?" he demanded irritably.

I raised an eyebrow out of habit before remembering he could not see the familiar gesture. "You needn't be snappish about it. How was I to know it was you, when you bellow like that loudly enough to be heard by me in London without the aid of a 'phone?"

"You really think I would have a visitor, much less one that I would allow to touch my things, Doctor?" he asked, obviously peeved for some reason.

All right, two could play at the affronted game. "Well, you did say you were getting rather friendly with that Stackhurst fellow of late," I sniffed injuriously, purposely infusing my voice with palpable jealousy and a bit of hurt.

There was a dead awkward silence for a moment on the line, and I smirked, stifling the laugh that rose in the back of my throat.

"My dear Watson…"

"Is he there now? That is why you're irritated to have to take a call, Holmes!"

"Watson, I –"

"Very well, I shall hang up then – it wasn't important anyhow," I went on mercilessly, covering my mouth to hide the fact that I was grinning outright and instead attempting to sound upset.

Either I was a better actor than I thought, or the connection was too faulty for him to tell otherwise, or he was legitimately distraught and did not catch on to my prevaricating. I suspected the latter when he finally did speak…or shouted, as the case was.

"Watson, will you for the love of heaven stop that blathering for a moment?!"

I winced and held the receiver away from my ear, but too late…I was half-deafened now. But it had been worth it, I believed, to hear the man backpedal as he was doing at the moment, quite panicked apparently.

"He isn't here, and I am most definitely not as you put it, friendly with him anyway!" he retorted emphatically, and the glare upon his face seeped through the line quite clearly. "We merely discuss education or the like on the rare times we run into each other!"

"Mmhm." I grinned and twirled my pencil round my fingers in triumph. Not often did I accomplish a good job of nettling the world's sharpest observer.

"You have to believe me!"

"Do I?"

"Watsonnnn…" he moaned desperately, in the closest thing to a whine that his voice could twist itself into.

I could not hold back any longer and began to laugh, quite heartily. I heard muffled swearing on the other end of the connection before he growled out, "I hate it when you do that!"

"Yes, I know. But I get so little entertainment these days that I am forced to make my own whenever possible," I replied mischievously, absently drawing on the side of the still-blank paper. The doodle turned into a lopsided street sign, and I had distractedly labeled it Baker Street before realising with a jolt what I was doing.

"Hmph," he snarled, and I could quite obviously hear the scowl in his voice.

"Why so irritable, Holmes?"

"I'm not irritable."

I rolled my eyes out of pure habit. "Yes, yes, I know, you never are. Now why are you irritable?"

I heard an annoyed snort and then a pause, before he went on, quite grudgingly. "I was in the middle of something when you called, that's all."

"Oh? In the middle of what?"

"Nothing," he snapped brusquely.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Holmes. I shall just hang up if you want to be like that," I said in some annoyance.

"No, wait!"

Ha, I had struck a nerve. I smiled and continued. "What then? Why are you being so cagey – even for you?"

"If you must know, one of my bees stung me just now!" he bellowed angrily, and I again had to hold the receiver away from my ear to prevent becoming fully deaf temporarily. Which action was a fortunate thing for him, because that no doubt cut down the probability that he would hear my compulsive laughter.

"One of them stung you?" I managed to choke out at last.

"Yes!" he cried, obviously quite insulted. "Of all the nerve!"

"Well you can take comfort in the fact that he paid dearly for his precipitous action," I said, struggling to keep the high amusement out of my voice.

"This is not humorous, Doctor," he growled.

"No, no, of course not, Holmes," I gulped and tried to bring my face back under control so that he could not tell from my voice that I was still laughing at his ironic predicament. "Did you put something on the sting?"

"I was trying to when you called," he mumbled.

"Oh…well, put me down then and come back when you're done," I suggested sensibly.

"No, it can wait," he sighed into the telephone. "I'm sorry I was irritable."

"Well, you've every right to be if one of your pets got loose in your house and was wreaking vengeance upon its master," I replied with a perfectly straight face, belatedly realising that…had he just apologised to me?

"They are not my pets; they are my hobby!" he retorted in annoyance. "You make it sound as if I name each of them and take them out for walks!"

"You don't?" I asked in feigned surprise.

"Go to blazes, Watson" I believe was what he consequently said, though he denied it a moment later when I called him on the fact in a deal of amusement.

"Look, if you really have no reason for calling, I have a large and painful swelling on my neck that requires tending to, Doctor," he finally snapped with an evident frown.

"Isn't wanting to talk to you enough of a reason?" I asked quietly.

I received another deathly silence, during which he no doubt was attempting to think up a suitable reply to that particular sentiment. I let him splutter for a minute or two before continuing, restraining the smirk that twitched at my moustache.

"That isn't why I called, I was just curious if you would consider it enough of a reason."

"You're incorrigible, Watson," he muttered, but without that former annoyance.

I grinned and continued. "No, I was wondering if you had any objections to my writing up the Charles Augustus Milverton business for the Strand next month."

"Has the statute of limitations for breaking and entering run out?"

"Yes, and besides no one can prove it isn't fiction."

"Then I really could not care less what florid adventure you do…of course choose nom de guerres for my client and the murderess," he admonished dryly. "The statute for murder is a few more years yet I fancy."

"You really think I would drag the names of two noble families into a work of romantic fiction, murder and blackmail or not?" I asked indignantly.

"Well you have no and never have had any qualms about dragging my name into it," he retorted.

"You are not a noble family that can be ruined by slander, nor are you a lady…unless I have missed something very vital in those twenty-two years of our association," I added in mock thoughtfulness.

"I should hope that even your alter-ego, my blundering magazine foil, is not that blind," he answered with a smirk that fairly dripped from the receiver.

"I'm not sure I enjoy the knowledge that I'll go down in history merely as a fan to increase your light to glow even brighter than it really was."

"Watson. You were never merely a fan to my flame – more like kerosene and a match to my damp wood," he replied thoughtfully.

I smiled at the oblique compliment and relaxed for the first time in the conversation. "And I'm still doing my best to see that the fire doesn't go out, not completely, my dear fellow," I replied softly.

"Hence the elaborate drivel in the local family magazine."

"Hence the best-selling romantic literature of our day," I corrected firmly.

"Literature, my eye. You are every whit as bad as H.G. Wells and Bram Stoker and all those others, and the world simply hasn't caught on yet that popular opinion is fickle and your popularity won't last much longer."

"And speaking of romantic literature," I said slyly, ignoring the all-too-familiar and therefore ineffectual tirade, "I cannot wait to go into the bit in the Milverton case about your lovely little fiancée…Aggie, I think you said her name was? I haven't my notebook with me so I cannot be certain…"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Holmes, it's a relevant plot point; I have to use it or the thing won't make sense," I said in high amusement, beginning to scribble a vague story outline on my paper.

"I don't care – make something up!"

"Certainly not! You already told me I could do the case, and you're not going to go back on that."

"But my reputation! They're going to think I'm a complete cad!"

"Who is?"

"Your thousands of readers!"

"Then you do recognise that I have them, eh?"

"Theoretically, yes – but that's a moot point. Look, Watson…"

"Holmes, for heaven's sake," I said in some exasperation. "If they've already read three full-length novels about you and over twenty-five short stories, do you really think you'll lose people's respect over one indiscretion in a case?"

I heard a small whimper. "But…"

"Oh, buck up, old man. I'll paint you in a favorable light, even make it so that you have a hated rival that undoubtedly seized your absence to take the girl from you. All right?"

"No details, Watson, for the love of heaven…"

"It's a family magazine, Holmes," I replied dryly. "I couldn't put many of your details, as you put it, in there without it being censored."

"Oh, good," I heard him sigh with abject relief, and there was a creaking as he obviously allowed himself to sit back in his chair. "What are you going to call it?"

"Mm…The Adventure of the King of the Blackmailers?" I suggested, scribbling it down to see how the title looked.

"Ugh."

"What's wrong with that?" I asked, a little nettled.

"It is so…flamboyant," he said in disgust.

"Well you have only yourself to thank, since you were the one who dubbed Milverton that!" I retorted.

"Yes, well…anyway…" I could fairly hear him blushing and I grinned.

"How about The Worst Man in London?" I suggested. "You also called him that, if you recall."

"Oh, come, Watson. Is there no sensible approach to your picking a title?"

"Well what would you call it, then?" I asked, quite miffed by this point in the conversation.

"I should think the obvious answer would be The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, would it not?"

I made a noise of disgust. "Really, Holmes."

"I think it is perfectly fine."

"And the rest of the literate world will think it is perfectly boring."

"Well what then?"

"Hmm…I suppose I could call it The Adventure of the Dallying Detective…" I said in a streak of wicked mischief.

"You do, and I shall write up the case of that amorous French cantina dancer's missing costume – you remember, back in July '96? – and send it to the Strand myself, Watson."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "You wouldn't!"

"My dear fellow, you were just discussing the King of the Blackmailers, and I studied his methods for years as you well know. Are willing to try me on that?"

I gulped uneasily, running a finger under my collar. "All right, I'll call it your horrible title. But you told me you burnt that file and that photograph!"

"I also told you I was dying of one of Culverton Smith's diseases back in 1890 and you trustingly believed every word," he replied, the evil amusement in his voice dripping out of my telephone onto my story outline.

"There are times when I absolutely despise you, Sherlock Holmes," I said through clenched teeth. "Sometimes I believe my patience with you cannot be rivaled in all of history…"

"It cannot. Which is one of your more endearing characteristics," he replied softly, hanging up the telephone before I could regain my speechless voice to answer that particular compliment.

I sighed, leaning my head in my hand and staring at my story outline, debating for a moment whether or not to ring him back. I decided against it, for I knew that he was well aware I had not been serious with my next to last statement and also because I was well aware that if he had just hung up the telephone he probably would not answer it again if I tried.

I felt a small smirk tug at my lips as I began the next-to-last draft of my manuscript, scrawling a large emphatic The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton across the top of the page.

Honestly. And the man called my literary sensibilities rubbish.