I was immersed in a fine adventure novel one rainy morning when I was interrupted by a burst of compulsive laughter from where Sherlock Holmes sat cross-legged on the floor.
Which I promptly ignored – Holmes had the very annoying habit of muttering and making noises to himself while dissecting the newspapers. He had been known to hold entire conversations with himself, completely arguing both sides of an issue before resolving it, much to my intense amusement.
However, I had no desire to become spectator in his multi-faceted personality's eccentricities at this moment, and I therefore ignored a second spurt of snickering as well.
"Hee. Watson, listen to this. The credit for the capture of the McDougall gang was due entirely to the efficient police methods of one of the Yard's finest, Inspector Giles Lestrade, who said in a confidential statement to the press that…"
I set down my book with a sigh and patiently waited for him to finish.
"Isn't it gorgeous?"
"Lestrade was right about the criminal's identity, Holmes."
"Poppycock. Lucky guess. It was obvious from the first that McDougall was our man, based upon careful observation of…"
I rolled my eyes and went back to my novel.
"I of course saw through the whole affair from the first."
"Do stop bragging, Holmes."
"I'm not bragging!"
"Norbury, Holmes. You're bragging."