F. Frothy
"I don't understand."
Lestrade and I stare at each other, trying to decide if we've both just heard what we think we heard. Did Sherlock actually just say, I don't understand? I watch Greg's face go from shock to disbelief and then disappear behind his coffee cup. I decide to bite the bullet and ask aloud the question on our minds.
"Sherlock," I begin slowly. "What is it that you don't understand…?"
Sherlock looks at me as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. Or as if I simply haven't been listening. Really, they're the same look.
"The… froth," he says. He's looking into his coffee cup.
"Yes…?"
"Why do they make it like that? Why does anyone want it like that?"
We're sitting in Speedy's and Sherlock's questioning their frothy coffee. Of course. This is my life now. Why should I be surprised. I sigh and sip at my tea.
"I think it's just from the steamed milk," Greg offers. "I think it just… froths." He snorts.
We've said the word froth or some variation so many times now that it's really not sounding like a word at all anymore.
Sherlock Holmes is not stupid, but sometimes he is naïve. Sometimes, I sense that beneath all that intelligence, or hiding behind it, there is just a boy.