A/N: It's been forever since I posted any stories here! I've been working on an original fiction novella, and been (super duper) busy with life in general.

Anyway, here's a slightly strange little story I just wrote…

It was the hottest day of the summer, and Holmes and I were in the sitting room at 221b, neither of us successful at accomplishing much of anything.

I sat at my desk, barefoot and in my shirtsleeves and trousers. It was far too hot to even consider putting on a weskit or jacket or even socks. A journal lay upon the desk, looking as limp and hot as I felt. I had been seated in this way for a long time, awaiting inspiration. But the stiflingly sticky hot air seemed to be preventing my brain from functioning.

Glancing over my shoulder at Holmes, I could see that he was in no better position than I. He was clad in a similar way to me, and his long, thin form was sprawled across the settee. His unkempt hair was plastered to his forehead by a layer of sweat, and his keen, grey eyes were glassy and blank as he stared at the ceiling, humming some unfamiliar melody. With one hand, he held his violin bow across his chest, and the other was draped over the edge of the couch and onto the floor, just an inch away from the violin itself.

With an effort, I stood and crossed to the nearest window. It was already open, of course, but I thought that perhaps standing near to it would feel a little cooler than sitting at a desk several feet away.

Alas, it was not. The air outside was just as still as the air within, and the only result of my efforts was to feel even more hot and exhausted than ever. Sighing, I leaned my back against the wall by the window and closed my eyes.

I know not how long I stood this way, but when I opened my eyes again, Holmes was staring at me.

"Are you quite all right, Watson?" he asked. "You look rather…"

I waved off his concern. "I can handle the heat," I told him. "This is nothing compared to Afghanistan."

"Yes, of course, but that was an awfully long time ago, my dear fellow," said my friend. "And neither of us are quite as young as we once were."

"That is true," I admitted. Truth be told, I was not feeling the greatest, but there was no way Holmes was feeling any better than me, so I was not about to complain. "Are you holding up all right?" I asked him.

My friend shrugged and shifted his position so he sat upright on the settee. "I have been worse," he said, his lips twitching into a small smile that vanished the moment I noticed it. "But I have also been much better. This heat is making it nearly impossible for me to think clearly enough to play my violin. I see that your creative endeavours have not been overly successful either." He nodded towards the still blank page of my journal on the desk.

I gave a dry chuckle. "No, I must admit, the heat has gotten to my brain as well."

There was a long silence.

"Do you know any good jokes, Watson?"

I blinked, a little taken aback. "I probably did at one time, but I can't think of any at the moment."

"Ah, well," Holmes replied. "That's all right, neither can I."

I stretched, and returned to my seat. There was another long silence.

"Perhaps we should go for a walk?" Holmes inquired.

I turned around in my chair, and saw that my friend was already on his feet. I was surprised; usually in weather like this I was the one who had to convince Holmes to do something, not the other way around. But he was right—we ought to be doing something besides lie around and sweat.

"That sounds like a good idea," I replied, nodding.

But when I stood, my head swam. I collapsed back into my chair. In an instant, Holmes was at my side. I could feel my heart pounding in my head. Ouch, that was not its usual location!

In an instant Holmes was at my side. "Watson! Are you all right? You've turned bright red!"

"I think I need some water," I gasped, staring down at my feet as I tried to find my balance again.

I saw Holmes give a curt nod out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look at him and he turned to leave the room, but not so quickly that I didn't see the concern written all over his face.

Good heavens, I was not really so badly off, was I?

He returned a minute later with a pitcher of water and two glasses.

"I still can't think of any jokes," I said apologetically when he returned with the water.

Holmes waved me off. "That's quite all right, old fellow. Don't worry about that." He filled a glass with water and handed it to me.

I drained the glass quickly. I hadn't realized until that moment just how thirsty I was. Holmes had emptied his glass as well. My friend filled them both up again. In very short order, we had drained the entire pitcher.

"Better?" Holmes asked me.

I nodded, and sighed. "But it is still too hot for creativity."

Holmes grimaced. "True." Then his eyes lit up. "Say, I have an idea."

I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but he only grinned in reply.

"Well, what is it?" I asked.

"Perhaps we should simply attempt to write, in your case, and compose, in mine, about all of this. The oppressive heat, the stagnant air, the effort it takes to think…" He waved a hand as if to say "et cetera".

I shrugged. "I suppose it is worth a try."

And so I sat back down at my desk, and wrote this little narrative.

A/N: Virtual cookies for any reviewers who send me a good joke. Or a bad pun.