I resolutely continued my scribbling and attempted the well-practised habit of ignoring a cocaine-less consulting detective.
My tortured mind screamed that if this continued for another half-hour, then he could jolly well take the drug, if he would leave me in peace afterwards.
I did not look up upon hearing a glass smash behind me, nor my picture of Henry Ward Beecher being sent swinging gaily to and fro. My jaw clenched when several twings sounded at regular intervals as the silver service became the target of his latest pastime, one precipitated by a gift from a client. I started when a thud shook the window, and gave no reaction when my nearby paperback toppled over with force of impact.
When, however, one missile struck my head, my patience expired violently.
"Do you mind, Holmes!" I glared as he dissolved into unrestrained snickering, hiding his weapon (an Eastern blowpipe he had equipped with cork-tipped darts) behind his back.
"Well, what else am I supposed to do with it?" he complained, reloading the infernal device.
I briefly considered one highly uncouth answer to that question but merely vowed to paint our client an imbecile when I wrote his case.
Which would not be difficult, as anyone who would gift a bored Sherlock Holmes with a blowpipe for Christmas was surely entirely brainless.
Unfortunately someone who shall remain nameless in my household was given a rubber-band gun for Christmas. Hence the inspiration. (sigh)