Prompt: Irish whiskey is better, from Stutley Constable

Holmes and I rarely frequented public houses or other places of that nature, preferring our well-stocked sideboard to the offerings and atmosphere of such places. My friend often declared grandly how he disliked places where he must rub shoulders with all manner of his fellow Londoners, and only made the effort to do so when he considered it worthwhile. Usually, this was only for concerts or the opera. "I find a live performance adds much to the music, Watson," he would say. "For each performer adds a unique touch to what is written. Interpretation, Watson, is key in matters of music." I could only agree, for I knew little of music other than which pieces I enjoyed. For me, the enjoyment of a concert was less analytical, but then Holmes possesses an admirably analytical mind that cannot be turned off at will.

I, however, had spent enough time in low pubs during my university days and my service abroad that I felt I had seen enough of such places for a lifetime. Now, if I was to go out, I much preferred to go to a restaurant for a good meal. But on one cold day just before Christmas in 1884 that Lestrade proposed we celebrate the case we had just solved together by stopping at his favorite pub. Perhaps it was the season, or perhaps we had now spent so much time with the little Inspector that I at least was beginning to consider him as a friend, that caused me to agree. Holmes, however, looked askance at me before agreeing. "It will only be for a short time," I said. "You would do well to keep Scotland Yard on your side."

"Pray refrain from business advice, Watson," was all Holmes said to this, though he did follow me to the pub quietly enough. The atmosphere inside was cheerful, full of people celebrating the Christmas holidays early.

"I shall buy the first round," Lestrade said. "What would you like, gentlemen?"

"I shall have a whiskey and soda," Holmes said. "Watson?"

"I doubt a place like this carries brandy," I said. ""I shall have the same."

"Very well," Lestrade said. "Oh, what type of whiskey shall I ask for?"

"A Scotch will do for me," I said.

"I do not suppose it matters," Holmes said, at which point Lestrade and I both stared at him in some amazement.

"Of course it matters," Lestrade said. "The right whiskey, Mr. Holmes, can make or break a drink." He laughed. "I must say, I am surprised."

Holmes bristled slightly at the inspector's loudly-stated opinion. "I am hardly an expert in alcohol, Lestrade. One is much the same as any other, as far as its effects on the body."

I supposed I should have guessed that Holmes would view alcoholic consumption through the lens of chemistry; he had already informed me that the turn of his mind was such that he must see the world through his own unique interests. Lestrade, however, still appeared aghast at this. Though he, of course, was used to Holmes only as a criminal expert and knew little of him outside of their professional connection. "I only meant, Mr. Holmes, that you have one of the most well-stocked sideboards I have ever seen," he said. "No man ever goes thirsty when visiting 221b Baker Street."

"Oh, that is all Watson," Holmes said. "Though I have found it useful for calming distraught clients on occasion."

While it was true that I was largely responsible for our stock of liquor, I protested this characterization. "You are making me out to be a drunk, Holmes!" I said, though with no malice. "You enjoy a drink in the evening much the same as I do." He made as much use of our sideboard as I did.

"Though I assure you, if it were left to me to stock it, that sideboard should be empty, or else full of the most subpar offerings," Holmes said. "Alcohol is not one of my vices."

This, at least, was true, for his main vices were tobacco and cocaine, as well as the untidiness that drove Mrs. Hudson to distraction. "Come," I said. "Let us agree on what we shall order."

"Is Scotch the best choice for a whiskey and soda?" Holmes asked.

"I think so," I said, for this was the answer any true Scotsman would give, even one such as myself, who had lived in England for most of his life. "You must make sure you choose a good one. There are many distilleries, and some that do not meet the highest standards of quality."

Lestrade shook his head. "There I must disagree with you, Dr. Watson. Scotch whiskey is certainly good, but Irish whiskey is better."

"Now, see here, Lestrade," I said. "The Irish make a very good whiskey but it is the Scottish who have raised it to an art."

Lestrade merely smiled. "You forget, Doctor, that it was the Irish who invented it."

"So it fell to the Scottish to perfect it," I answered with some heat.

"Gentlemen," Holmes said. "I hardly see the importance of this argument. There is much history shared between Ireland and Scotland, after all."

"Yes, but you, Mr. Holmes, are English and as such do not understand these matters. There is no history of whiskey in England," Lestrade said. I laughed to see the highly affronted look on my friend's face at Lestrade's abrupt dismissal, yet I could not fault the inspector. Whiskey held a very important cultural place for those of Irish or Scottish descent, one that simply could not be matched by those of English heritage.

"It is much like wine is for the French," I said, for I could think of no other comparison that might be apt.

"Come, Watson, wine as nearly as a religion to the French," he said.

Lestrade laughed as well. "Well, that is true, Mr. Holmes. You know I am French as well as Irish, on my mother's side."

"As am I, Lestrade," Holmes said. I confess I could not have been more surprised if he had suddenly unveiled a secret wife hidden in our attic, and I stared at him in shock. Holmes appeared rather amused at my reaction. "Is that so surprising, Watson?"

"Well, no, I suppose not," I said. I could not very well admit that I could not fathom where he had come from, and had lately taken to thinking he had sprung fully formed into the world, with no history. I could not think what sort of people had given rise to him.

Lestrade, however, was more blunt. "I could hardly imagine where you had come from, Mr. Holmes."

"It is a simple story," Holmes said. "My father's family were country squires, hardly any different from many English families. My grandmother on my mother's side, however, was French, and fled to England during the Reign of Terror. I am sure many have such histories. Your own is probably not so different, Lestrade."

I confess I was utterly fascinated, for Holmes had never so much as mentioned his family, for he seemed so utterly alone in the world. Mostly by inclination, it is true, but perhaps his family was long dead and he was thus forced to make his way in the world alone. But before I invented a history for my fellow lodger, Lestrade laughed heartily. "You are right; you and I are hardly any different after all, Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes heaved a great sigh, sending me a long-suffering look that said clearly he disagreed with this statement. "Were you not going to get us drinks, Lestrade?" he asked.

"What? Oh, yes, of course," Lestrade said. "No hard feelings, Doctor? I am sure we can agree to disagree on the matter of Scotch or Irish whiskey."

"Yes, indeed," I said.

"Besides, I am sure we can both agree that American whiskey is the worst of the lot," Lestrade said.

"Well, he is certainly right about that," I said to Holmes.

A/N: Apologies to anyone who likes American whiskey. I'm on Watson's side in this debate :)