"Oh, confound it!"
This mild sentiment was followed by a string of choice curses that I will not attempt to reproduce in this memoir.
"What's the matter, Holmes?"
"I've dropped that bullet I was experimenting on!" he growled, flinging himself down on the carpet to search for the elusive piece of lead.
I watched amusedly as he crawled about on the floor, attempting to find the object amidst the immense clutter that littered the carpet. Judging from the ferocity of his growls, he was having very little luck.
Holmes threw a stack of files in my general direction, scrambling under the deal table to search for the bullet. He emerged, sneezing and muttering something about having Mrs. Hudson dust under there, then shoved a pile of books to the side and began picking up papers and shaking them, trying to find the projectile.
"Well you could help me look instead of just sitting there!" he grumbled, sending me a glare.
"If you can't find it, and you're the world's greatest investigator, I doubt that I should be able to succeed where you failed, Holmes," I replied mischievously.
I heard a peculiar squeaking noise from close to my feet. Glancing down, I felt my eyes grow wide, then sat back with a moan.
"Holmes."
"What is it now?"
"That mouse is back."