It was a fog-drenched Saturday morning, the sort that caused the air to be crisp and one's senses to be fully alive and alert. It was not so cold as to be painful, and it was soon agreed between Holmes and I that it was a wonderful day for a stroll.
Upon reaching the third quarter of the eight hour I found myself tiring, and Holmes tactfully suggested a late breakfast. And so we made our way back to the Strand. As we approached Exeter Street, which was already bustling with people, Holmes lightly tapped my arm.
"Plainclothes," he muttered under his breath. "Gregson's, I should think."
He imperceptibly nodded towards a man no more than twenty meters in front of us, leaning on a streetlamp, and then quietly indicated a man hunched against a building front, and finally a third engaging in conversation with a cotsermonger. The first, I realized, was squinting up at the rooftops, his body tense with his hands shoved in his pockets. Our gait slowed as we approached the scene—Holmes maintained an appearance of nonchalance, but the light in his eyes betrayed his interest in what was happening.
There was shouting in the distance, and then suddenly the streetlamp officer was blowing a whistle, gesturing wildly at the rooftops-the other plainclothes were suddenly alive with energy, one going for the door of a shop, the other poised for instruction.
I peered at the top of the building, straining to see what was exciting them so. Though the building's height was not very high, the fog was making it damnably hard to see the goings on. I could just make two men engaged in conflict. They darted about, in and out of view, until suddenly they were on the edge of the rooftop; a shocked yell then pierced the hubbub and a man fell into the alley below him.
Before I could hurry over to the alleyway and check to see if the victim was alright, one of the plainclothes dashed over into the alley to do the same. A few moments later, he emerged supporting Inspector Gregson on one arm anxiously. I blinked in astonishment, and, I admit, amusement as I realized the man was covered in flour. It stood out in sharp contrast to his black suit, and coated his face. Gregson irritably shrugged the officer off and started shouting orders.
"What are you doing, just standing about? Get going! Don't let him escape!"
And he was off, running down the street with the officer (and more that Holmes had failed to acknowledge) hard on his heels.
"I—I say, Holmes," I stuttered as I regained my voice, turning to my companion in bewilderment.
Holmes began to laugh, leaning on the building to his right in his helplessness. When he was done, he took me by the arm, grinning.
"Watson, I do believe we must inform Lestrade of this as soon as it is convenient. Gregson will never hear the end of it—they'll be at each others' throats-"
And so he dissolved into laughter once more as we continued walking towards the Strand. Indeed, he was in such high spirits for the rest of the day that I confess I made a note of recognizing the combination of Gregson and any other kitchen ingredient as a real solution for my friend's unfortunate black moods.
Suffice it to say, dear reader, I soon found that indeed, the novelty of the incident hadn't yet lost its appeal to Holmes.
Eggplant, Gregson eventually found out, is quite messy when splattered at great distances...
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Yes, I'm sorry this took a while to update. I was away for a whole month singing with a touring choir and band across Europe, and almost immediately upon my return spent a week rehearsing with another choir.
I am also aware that this is far from my best written work. However, the idea of Gregson covered in flour amuses me greatly, so you were burdened with the cruel insanity that is my mind. Apologies!