"Good heavens, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, entering the room and catching sight of the pile of of discarded books scattered haphazardly as if thrown against the wall - which, in fact, they had. "What offence have these books committed, to be treated such?
"Merely to be dangerously dull, my dear friend," Watson replied. "Your cases are far more interesting. For instance," he continued, smiling slightly at Holmes' peculiar costume, "whatever you have been doing. You've been at the docks, I can see, but what for?"
"I'll make a detective of you yet, doctor!" Holmes laughed. "Tell me, what did you notice for you to know it was the docks? The mud on my boots, unique to the waterfront? The slight stain on my sleeve, from brushing against one of the boats?"
"Nothing so unusual, I'm afraid," Watson said, looking slightly sheepish. "The smell of fish hanging about you rather gave it away."
Holmes sniffed hesitantly at his clothes. "Yes, I can tell. I suppose I had become rather used to it." He disappeared into his bedroom, and came out moments later, clothes changed and wearing a dressing gown. "Now, you had asked me what I was doing at the docks. Well, -"
The hours whiled past and the sky grew dim, as Holmes recounted his day's adventures to the eager ears of his biographer.
