A/N: we all take it for granted that Mrs. Mary Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes have forged a working relationship, revolving around Dr. Watson, but how was this relationship forged? And Lestrade, well, he just wrote himself here. I am sorry for possible Lestrade-abuse. And I messed with the timeline, so this is kinda AU, but a really singular affair, nonetheless.

Barely week before our first anniversary, Mary, planning the big event, asked me if we should have guests for the dinner.

'Why not,' I laid down my morning newspaper. 'I rather think it only proper for Holmes to be with us on the occasion.'

'Oh, certainly. I meant other people. Perhaps you wanted to invite someone?'

'Anstruther would be glad to attend,' I said at length. Even after years of living in London, I had few acquaintances outside of my club and Holmes's line of work, and frankly, most of them were not who I'd gladly greet in my home on that special evening. I remembered the case in Dover we'd only just come back from, and shuddered anew. 'Maybe some of your friends?'

Mary picked up her cup. I drank in the sight of her, so young and pretty; that mischievous curl of her lips and glint in her eyes which spoke of a surprise brewing.

'I would like to meet Mr. Lestrade.'

To say that I was surprised would be an understatement.

'Lestrade? But you don't even know each other!'

'He will provide a unique perspective,' she said by way of explanation, and I, mystified, fulfilled her request.

And so, it was four of us at the festive table, and I was feeling progressively ill at ease.

The dinner was a solemn affair, if not downright stifling. Both our guests were surprised to meet one another, and not pleasantly, at that. Holmes grew steadily moodier, and in proportion to the worsening of his humour, his appetite soon deteriorated into nibbling onto the same piece of kidney pie for minutes at a stretch. Lestrade staunchly progressed through courses, properly thanking the hostess in a strained voice. I avoided their gazes, and only Mrs. Mary Watson was genially enjoying herself.

The dessert came. Lestrade stood up and was already going to extricate himself from further socializing, when Mary announced that we should play a game she prepared.

"She has you under her thumb," Lestrade telegraphed me with a universally understood grimace. I could only shrug helplessly. A year into marriage, I was still hopelessly smitten with my wife.

Holmes appeared glad of some distraction.

'And what game is that, madam?'

'An interesting one, Mr. Holmes. Will you be able to deduce what an object's designed for, given a description of it?'

'Depends on the description.'

'Well, then, will you trust John's and Mr. Lestrade's accounts?' She persisted.

Holmes squinted at us, clearly debating the point with himself, and when the silence became too awkward, he finally acquiesced, to our private relief.

I noticed that the Inspector was regarding Mary with a touch of awe, or maybe even fear, and then I noticed how tightly I was gripping my cup. Women. How do they do it?

Mary stood up and went into my study, returning presently.

'The rules are as follows: one person at a time, Mr. Lestrade and John go into that room, look at – something, leave it exactly as it was, come back and describe the object. They are not allowed to draw it, only to compare it to something of similar shape. Of course, gentlemen, if you know what it is, you may name it,' she smiled, obviously not considering it possible.

Lestrade's brow glistened with sweat. Inwardly, I prayed for Holmes to drop the challenge.

Holmes, looking more alive than he had in the last two hours, readily accepted.

And on went Lestrade, volunteering himself with a true policeman's dedication. When he strutted back, he was more like his usual self, though I had an inkling that that was not an improvement.

'I've seen such things,' Lestrade drawled, ogling my wife with professional interest. 'In the Scotlandyard museum. They are rare these days, thank God. How would you happen to own one of them?'

Mary's face went from excitement to bewilderment, and then to amusement.

'It is not what you think it is, Inspector.'

'Not what I think, eh?'

'Are you implying it is a torture device?' She asked calmly.

'What else can it be? Pretty sharp, too.'

'Well, it's not, I promise. Pick something else.'

'Tin opener.' He grumbled. 'A troll might just use it to unscrew a full body-armour.'

Holmes was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes agleam.

'May I ask a question?'

'No,' Mary shook her head, a childish habit I found irresistibly endearing.

'Elise!'

Our maid entered and blushed under three piercing gazes of men and a smug one of a woman. It was a safe bet that she didn't know what was happening.

'Elise, could you go into the study, please?'

'Yes, ma'am.' The girl turned to leave.

'There is an item, wrapped in green silk. Unwrap it, look at it very attentively, re-wrap, put back, and come here.'

Elise curtsied, frowning slightly at the oddness of it, and went to do as she was told. We heard her pause, and then – nothing.

Lestrade cleared his throat with the air of a condemned man. 'I rather think, madam, that you shouldn't subject the poor young girl to such a view –'

Mary arched an eyebrow, and he subsided into glaring mutely. Holmes was absolutely still, a wise strategy I hastened to copy.

'Could she have fainted?' Lestrade suggested feebly.

'No,' Mary said with finality. Elise chose that moment to come back. She appeared none the worse for wear, if a little flustered.

'Well, dear? What was it?'

'I don't know, ma'am.'

Mary smiled encouragingly.

'Does it bear any resemblance to anything?'

'It's an iron statue… it's like a frond of some fern, when it's young and green…'

Lestrade harrumphed, and Holmes pursed his lips. Elise blurted out, upset with her own inability to find words: 'It's two hooks wielded together!'

'Impossible,' Holmes muttered. 'No, it can't be… Does it resemble a skeleton key?'

'What!' Lestrade jumped, turning his disapproving glower towards the oblivious sleuth.

Elise blinked, and Holmes, sighing in frustration when he couldn't find one in his pockets, gesticulated with his hands and a pair of teaspoons for key's tooth. She shook her head.

Lestrade attempted to rearrange the cutlery to look more like 'the contraption for raking flesh off the bones'. The result was, strangely, so inappropriate that I had to cover my mouth with a napkin and bite the inside of my cheek; Holmes's eyes bulged, and he sputtered. Mary was giggling soundlessly, her own eyes tightly shut, tears of mirth rolling down her face. Elise was trying to help Lestrade, but he waved her off, and she excused herself to the kitchen.

'Teaspoon,' Holmes mused aloud. 'What a weapon. I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.'

'We don't have a king cobra with two necks there, do we, darling?' I asked with some anxiety, more to find a less unprintable alternative to what Lestrade was gradually understanding he had just designed, if the rich scarlet colour of his face was anything to go by.

Mary composed herself with some difficulty.

'No, dear, it's completely harmless. Why don't you look for yourself.'

I confess to some trepidation as I eagerly entered y own study and saw the infamous bundle, lying innocently atop my evening paper.

Inside it was the ugliest device I've ever seen.

The thing, heavy and cool to the touch, was a cross between a wrench unbent by some incredible force and an oversized template for a peg box of a violin, carved into a yet more peculiar shape; it had more angles and curves. No matter which way I turned it could I fancy it being attached to a neck of any stringed instrument. It was a mad paleontologist's nightmare.

And yet, it had an undeniable, impossible, mutilated-streamline sense of purpose. My hackles rose, and I put it back on the worn cloth when I thought of what that purpose could be, and I blessed Elise's innocence.

I staggered back to the company.

'Watson? Speak up, man!'

'I've never seen anything quite like it,' I honestly replied.

Holmes fairly wailed with frustration.

'We know it's metal! Unless it's molten, it has to have some shape!'

'Do you give in, Mr. Holmes?' My wife sometimes is positively devious.

He caught my eye and nodded in defeat. Lestrade managed to erase gloating from his features, earning my undying gratitude.

'Go, then, you may look,' Mary conceded, and go he did. An indignant shout was our clue that he found the odd thing, and a particularly dismayed note – that he knew exactly what it was.

'Watson! How dare you open my mail?'

'I didn't,' I retorted, irked by this unfair accusation. Holmes emerged, brandishing the monstrosity and brimming with righteous indignation.

'Then how do you explain this?'

'I'm afraid it's my fault, Mr. Holmes,' Mary intervened. 'I had to receive the parcel when you both were absent from London last week.'

'Ah! Dover murder.'

'The courier was most insistent. I signed for the delivery, and then, naturally, I opened it, and… Will you forgive me, Mr. Holmes?'

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then, miraculously, agreed.

'It would have been a much more boring evening, had I declined your invitation. You are forgiven, Mrs. Watson. However, please bear in mind that not all of what is sent to me is as harmless, and most of it is far more urgent. Am I understood on this point?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But what is it?' Lestrade burst. Holmes smiled ruefully.

'A crutch, Inspector. A forcola, used for rowing Venetian style, only made from steel and aluminium, not the traditional walnut trunk.'

'Aluminium? Why, it must cost a fortune!'

'It does.'

'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Why do you need it, Mr. Holmes? You're not turning into a gondolier, are you? And where's the second one? And why aluminium? I heard it's brittle!'

'No, Lestrade. It's not for me, it's for a client of mine who reconstructs all kinds of Venetian boats and displays them in his private museum. Unfortunately, while he doesn't allow the visitors to row, they are understandably impressed by these curious devices. We decided to install one metal crutch instead of two wooden to discourage them from breaking the things and taking the pieces "for luck", and the aluminium coating is supposed to lessen its susceptibility to weathering. Ever heard of corundum?'

'Weird,' Lestrade summarized.

'Unorthodox, probably. Herr Von Herder, the German who made this for me, was thrilled to try his hand at something so difficult.'

'Why?' asked Mary, for his tone was pensive in the end.

'Just… he has never been to Venice, or so he claims.'

We returned to the table, and soon enough, it was time for us to say goodbye to our guests.

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes,' Mary said sweetly, giving him his hat, while Elise gave Lestrade his.

He bowed his head, and I, standing to his right, saw that his mouth quirked, despite all his inhuman will. He kissed her hand reverently.

'No, milady, thank you.'

And with that, they departed, Lestrade's shoulders quivering under his heavy coat, and Holmes's bark of laughter scattering the pigeons from the pavement.