H. Hail
I like London rain. It makes me happy. Not being out in it – not being dragged through moors and marshes in it by one Sherlock Holmes – but when it's pouring out and I can sit by the fire with a nice cup of tea and a good book, I'm pretty content.
That's exactly what I'm doing when Sherlock walks in the door on a particularly stormy June afternoon. A clap of thunder rolls as he crosses the threshold, making his entrance all the more dramatic. Completing the image is the fact he's clutching at one of his eyes with his left hand. The other hand is wrapped around something white, about the size of a cricket ball.
I groan. "What have you done to yourself?"
Sherlock frowns. "Hail," he replies. He holds up his right hand, showing me the huge piece of hail he's picked up.
"That hit you in the face?" I get up and meet him halfway across the sitting room, prying his hand away from his face to inspect his eye. It'll likely be bruised, but appears otherwise undamaged. I catch his wince, though, as my fingers gently explore the delicate skin around his eye.
"Yes. But now I shall experiment upon it." He grins, pulling away from me, and goes to work.
I can only sigh. "Brilliant…"