Author's Note: I have never fixed a furnace before. Maybe done some auto work. Done more than my share of fetching tools and running errands...I did replace a filter once...
As they reached the bottom stair of the basement, a soft murmuring reached their ears. Wafting across the stone floor and past stacked boxes, old filing cabinets, broken desks and chairs and a myriad of other items abandoned and forgotten long ago, the sound had an almost musical quality until they got close enough to begin to separate out actual words. Then it simply became a steady, if not entirely unimpressive, stream of profanity that as far as Watson or anyone else could tell had yet to repeat itself.
Interspersed throughout this exercise in creative expression were other words. "Hold this," the second voice was calmer, clearer, and belonging to one Athelney Jones. "There. No, there, Lestrade."
The man in question had his hands full of furnace and was too busy swearing at Jones to notice their arrival. Bradstreet simply smiled and leaned against the wall to wait, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He watched as Jones hunted through the toolbox that sat on the ground between him and Lestrade.
Jones muttered something to himself and straightened up. "Here Lestrade, move your hand here..." Leaning over the furnace and unaware of his impromptu audience, his voice became inaudible to anyone except his partner in furnace repair, at least until he snapped, "Damn it, Lestrade, every year we do this, and every year you act like you've never seen the inside of a furnace before. For the love of god, shut up."
Bradstreet raised an eyebrow as Lestrade actually fell silent. A moment later the only sounds in the basement were a clinking and clattering as they worked and Jones occasionally muttering instructions.
Lestrade suddenly swore and Jones dropped the wrench he was using. It hit the floor with a loud clang and skittered across the floor. Bradstreet picked it up and moved to return it, but Jones was too busy shouting at Lestrade to notice.
"What the devil-could have taken your damn arm off, man! Why in the hell didn't you move?" Lestrade glared back, dark eyes flashing. When he answered, however, his voice was flat, empty of any of the actual emotion so evident in his gaze.
"I don't know what a 'v-baffle deflector plate' is." He hesitated, then added, "You know I'm out of my depth here."
Jones looked up toward the ceiling as if for guidance. "You're right. And lucky. You could have been seriously hurt." Glancing at Lestrade suspiciously, he asked, "Were you hurt?"
Lestrade wordlessly raised his hand; blood welled up from what looked like a nasty gash on the back of it. Jones sighed and took the other man's hand in his to examine it. Lestrade let him, hissing when he pressed a handkerchief to the injury, but otherwise obliging the other Inspector.
Watson cleared his throat. "I could take a look, if you like." He offered as both men turned to stare at him. Jones stepped back, and Lestrade offered Watson his hand.
Bradstreet looked at the furnace, then at Jones, as if estimating his chances of survival. "Anything I can do to help?" He asked, offering the tool he had recovered earlier.
Jones shook his head, then reconsidered. "Maybe," he turned back to eye the furnace speculatively.
"Watch your fingers." Lestrade offered.
