"Watson, if you're that tired go to bed. I can finish this just fine alone."
I started, looking up from the paper-littered table as Holmes interrupted our conversation with this.
"I haven't even yawned!"
"No, actually, you've been doing an admirable job of keeping your exhaustion from me," he replied, pointing the stem of his pipe at me and leaning back, eyes twinkling at my bemusement.
"Then how did you – "
"Your accent."
I blinked. "My what?"
"Your accent gives you away every time."
"Holmes. I have the same London accent as you."
He shook his head.
"Not so, Watson. Despite living amongst the English populace for years, a man raised in another country never fully forgets his speech. You are no exception."
"What the deuce are you rambling about?" I asked wearily, slumping down in my chair.
"There, you did it again."
"Did what?"
"Rolled your R's. When you're exhausted, that Scottish burr comes through loud and clear, old chap."
"It does?" I asked in dismay, feeling an embarrassed flush creep into my ears.
He nodded, austere eyes softening. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear fellow. I find it rather amusing."
That was of little comfort to me. "How bad is it?"
Holmes's mouth twisted into a fond grin.
"Right now, you're somewhere between Inspector MacDonald and Robert Burns."