Sherlock Holmes, His Limits: Languages
John paused and tried to catch his breath. "Sherlock," he panted, "Which way did he go?"
"Probably to the train station," he gasped in return. They had spent the past half-hour chasing a light-footed art thief across Paris and they were beginning to tire.
John glanced around the street. "There's a sign!" They raced over. "Sherlock, what does it say?"
Sherlock looked at the French words intently. "Um, that way." He pointed. "Wait, no, that way."
John looked at him with pity. "You don't know French, do you?"
Sherlock blushed. "Not exactly."
"Isn't your family French?"
"Yes," Sherlock said reluctantly. "My deficiency in that particular field always has been one of Mycroft's favorite Christmas dinner subjects."
John shook his head in sympathy. "Sorry. That's got to be harsh."
"No worse than any other topic he could think of," Sherlock replied with a smile.
"I'll have to take your word for it," John smiled back. Then he turned back to the sign and began peering at it closely. "Alright," he said a minute later. "Let's go find that thief."
"How? Neither one of us can read the sign!"
"Speak for yourself," John winked. "Took it at Uni. Train station's that way."
