Day two! This is my first time attempting to write from Watson's perspective, and any critiques on his voice would be welcome. Today's prompt is from Rockztar - Bubbles.
I ascended the stairs to 221B with heavy steps, cane in hand. Cold, damp weather never failed to send throbbing pains through my leg, and this year's winter was no exception. A seat by the fire and a cup of Mrs. Hudson's finest sounded better than all the medicine in the world. I looked to the top of the staircase with high hopes.
When I reached the landing, I frowned. A thick smell of soap hung on the air, overpowering even the dust and spice of old Christmas decorations.
"Holmes?" I called, pushing the door open with a certain measure of caution; one could never be sure, with Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate, what they were to encounter within.
No irritated voice answered, and I made my way inside with some trepidation.
My cane fell from limp fingers.
The entire flat was a blur of white; heaped about and spilling across the floor. At first glance I fancied it to be snow, but closer inspection revealed that the pervasive substance was, in fact, an extremely large quantity of bubbles. Even the armchairs were filled with piles of them, shimmering in the very enticing firelight.
"Holmes!" I limped into the kitchen.
He appeared to be entirely absent, leaving his mess behind for someone else to attend to, as was his habit. I pushed a heap of lavender-scented bubbles off mantle with my hand, before they ruined the photographs. Evidence of water was already apparent, and my frustration increased.
I cleaned the armchairs and a small portion of the sitting room, finding no better method than herding the bubbles into great heaps on the ground. Faint popping noises filled the flat, and I winced. Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased with the results.
The door opened and closed sharply. Holmes stepped in with clipped footsteps, his air almost jovial.
"Why, good afternoon, my dear man!" He pumped my hand enthusiastically. "I had hoped you would stop by. What do you think of my little experiment?"
"I think, Holmes, that it got rather out of hand." I regarded him with a flat look, but found it hard to maintain a stern demeanor in the face of his exuberance. Such merriment was rare, except during a particularly engrossing caper.
"I suppose this was for a case, then?"
Holmes's expression grew smug. His smile resembled that of a very large, very self-satisfied cat. "Indeed." He swept across the room, stepping neatly around my pile of bubbles, and installed himself in his favorite armchair.
A pipe was produced presently, and he reclined with a languid sort of satisfaction.
It was clear that he expected me to join him, and ask such questions that would allow for proud responses. I was familiar with this mood.
The fabric of my chair was damp, but the fire sent pleasant waves of heat seeping into my leg; I found myself much more inclined to indulge the detective.
"Let's hear it, then, old chap."
Holmes puffed twice on his pipe, then blew a smoke ring with a look that was positively gleeful. "I have apprehended the culprit, and an innocent man will now walk free. Accomplished, in great part, thanks to this." He made a sweeping motion with his arm, clamping the pipe between his teeth once more.
I shook my head. "I am afraid I don't follow."
"Soap scum residue on the killer's spectacles, which he foolishly dropped at the scene in his haste," he elaborated, eyes glinting. "A very distinct pattern. Two men were suspected of the crime, and neither would claim the glasses to be their own. As such, I was forced to pursue further methods of verification."
I extended my legs, letting my arms cross. Holmes continued, twitching with excitement.
"Both men lived alone, and were not of means; meaning, of course, that they were both inclined to do their own washing up. A perusal of the two households revealed that they favored entirely different types of dish soap, certain to leave entirely different patterns." My companion flicked his fingers toward the two piles lingering on the kitchen table. "See them there. As I predicted, they were easily discernible."
"Those are the two varieties you tested?" I asked.
Holmes nodded curtly. "Certainly. I required them close at hand to my equipment."
I gesticulated sharply to the room. "What in blazes was the rest of this for, then?"
"Mmm." Holmes tipped his head back against the chair, lethargic. "Research."
"Really, Holmes..." I shook my head, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased."
"She will be aware only if you make her so," Holmes said, his eyes closed. The pipe hung loosely from his fingers. "I would suggest that you do not."
"But-"
"In any case, cleaning will be absolutely no trouble. All we must do is open a window and allow nature to take its course. It isn't as if I filled the flat with marbles, Doctor. Bubbles are not especially durable."
I frowned. "Very well."
He opened one eye, regarding me apathetically. "You may commence."
"You do amuse me so, Holmes." I pulled him to his feet. "You may commence. I will observe you, from right here."
He scowled. "I think not."
"Mrs. Hudson is only downstairs. She's but a shout away." I raised an eyebrow, a mirror of his trademark expression. "Would you like to test her patience again?"
I saw the idea working its way through his mind, and his scowl deepened. Wordlessly, he stalked to the window, throwing it open violently.
"Cheer up, old fellow," I called, settling back down into the armchair. "After all, it will be absolutely no trouble."
He launched a pillow at my head, glaring.
I grinned.