Wooho! Yes, thats right, an update! I was trolling through all my old documents, found this story, and my crap plot outline (plots just really are not my forté), and thought: well why the heck not? So, carrying on in the time honoured tradition of utter randomness masquerading as a proper story, here's chapter 8! or... 9 if you count the prologue. Either way, I hope you enjoy it. There's more to come. Lli

Chapter Eight: Lestrade's Hitherto Unknown Architectural Genius.

It was warm, the sun was shining, youth were frolicking, dogs gambolling. No matter what twist the cynical outlook of Holmes would have put on it, in Watson's books, the day was pretty much perfect. He walked along, with as much spring in his step as was possible for a large metal compudroid, through the electronics district, carelessly window shopping. He had plans for a few upgrades. And, maybe, even an appointment at the Motherboard and Co. Spa? On a day like this: who knows! Alas, his happy musings were brought to screeching halt when he caught sight of Holmes' face flashing across a display of new vid-screens.

"This just in: Mysterious attempts made on the lives of the president's British guests. English extremists suspected. Details on demand." Watson goggled, plugging into his internal wireless.

The article went on to give a detailed account of the red hover-lorry, which, Watson learned, had come back for another go. The news anchor even briefly alluded to Holmes' renegade tea trolley and the brick through Lestrade's window. It added that the New French National Police investigators believed it to be the work of extremist English political party Our Island in a wild attempt to prove their burgeoning strength. Pierre LaMensange, the outspoken and enigmatic leader of Notre France, the radical rogue party in the upcoming election, had this to say: I believe this is a shocking example of the state into which our country has fallen! If such base and amateur attempts on the lives of even honoured guests of our president cannot even be prevented, who is safe?!?!!

He went on for several more minutes of patriotic and rhetorical tirade but Watson logged out and stood gaping at the pesky vid-screen display that had so completely ruined his peaceful day off. Red hover-lorries and bricks were all well and good discussed over breakfast, but they were another thing entirely when appearing as breaking national news.

Unsure what to do (should he call and interrupt their seminar? Even though the news report said no more than they already knew?), Watson sat down on the first convenient bench to consider this. It occurred to him: now how on earth did News France get a hold of this story? Watson could not see either Holmes or Lestrade putting in a complaint to the police (or anyone for that matter).

He shook his head and continued on his way to the spa, deciding the news could wait until dinner. He stopped and smiled a little; if he was lucky they wouldn't have watched the news since morning and he could shock them a bit. That wasn't, after all, something he got to do very regularly.

And now, returning to our dynamic duo and their architectural forays:

They stood, admiring the creation before them. A masterpiece! A marvel!

"You... umm ... you weren't supposed to take apart the cubicle walls." Pheobe stood beside them looking vaguely concerned.

"Yeah, well, it's a tower isn't it? It's supposed to be tall." Lestrade crossed her arms as the wheeled chair balancing on a precarious tepee of cubicle walls teetered dangerously.

"And honestly my dear, what sort of height were we to gain from a vid-screen and a few minor secretarial items?" Holmes waved dismissively at the collection of large, solid looking (and now very dented) old e-file storage containers, a bent stand up lamp, and half a dozen digital styluses and disc-clips strewn at their feet.

"Erm... " said Pheobe. "Well... well, at least you guys, like, worked together... I guess. I mean, it must have been a job and a half getting those walls out of their magnetic holder slot thingies..."

"Without question." Holmes deadpanned. And Lestrade didn't think it necessary to add that she had simply pulled them up in a bout of frustration.

It was lucky for them, Holmes had pointed out at the time, that the room was L-shaped. Therefore, they were, for the most part, out of sight for the duration of the session, and her destruction could be put down to creative thinking, instead of violent tendencies. She had replied huffily that she hadn't seen him rush to put them back in.

Pheobe took one last look and scribbled on her digi-pad. "You guys can go, I guess. Next activity's not until after lunch. Have an awesome day!" Her grin was back up as she waved and moved on the next couple.

"Well, if nothing else, Lestrade, this has at least brought us together in our apparent inability to do as instructed."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my dear Holmes. No one ever said anything about the walls. Besides, we've always been of one mind when it comes to orders from above: I tell you what to do, you completely disregard me, and then, following your terrible example, I completely disregard Greyson. But, more importantly: whaddya say to French for lunch, huh?"

"A truly original idea..." Holmes rolled his eyes as the elevator sank towards the lobby. "And I don't completely disregard your instructions. Sometimes, if they're very good, I even listen when you give them."

"Gee darn Holmes. You sure do know how to flatter a girl..."