Holmes prodded the beetle thoughtfully as it traversed the creases of his palm. "I believe I will set him aside for later examination. That dish will do perfectly, thank you. I dare say the bacon is still hot?"
"Yes; I'm starting to feel cool, though."
"It is a crisp morning. Would you like to borrow my dressing gown?"
"That's kind of you, Holmes, but I think I'll fetch my sweater. I wouldn't want to chance getting bacon grease on your clothes." I didn't tell him the real reason for my refusal: the incredibly dense smell of tobacco that always clung to his dressing gowns.
By the time I returned, Holmes was contentedly munching his toast. "Feeling warmer now, Watson?"
"I should say so! What the devil is the beetle doing in my orange juice?"
His head snapped up and he whisked the glass from my hand.
"Don't--!"
"It's necessary old fellow, I don't want your drink to become a watery grave." He ladled the beetle up with his index finger and watched it crawl groggily about.
"I can't believe you stuck your bare finger--"
"Next time I shall take care to don my best gloves. I am sorry about it, Watson, really, but how was I to know he'd take a fancy to backstroke?"
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A/N: Whoa, I actually made a Victorian pun! ^.^ I like the way this one turned out. Maybe I am finding a better stride for writing little bitty stories. yay!