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"Here's Porky, his friend'll be right behind."
"Why don't Mr. Holmes leave that fat imbecile at 'ome?"
"Blimey, it's the genius and his pet balloon." "Nah, Jake, a balloon's smarter." Sniggering.
Dr. Watson stood back, notebook at the ready, watching his friend comb the murder site with his usual quiet pride at his abilities. He gave no outward impression that he'd heard the muttering and buzzing like so many blue-clad and helmeted midges.
Sherlock Holmes examined the scene, so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice the audible comments; Watson was grateful.
–
They took a hansom to the victim's antique shop.
"I anticipate blundering from Lestrade's footmen." Holmes glared out his window. "A modicum of professionalism, however, is apparently expecting too much."
So he'd noticed after all.
"Indeed." Watson exhaled in a snort of contempt like a boar. "Worse than my schoolmates."
"Ah, you were a robust youth."
Watson laughed; better than the flattering term was the affection in those grey eyes. "Got chivvied for it, when it wasn't for my Scots accent. 'Waddling Watson.' Horrid little beasts, boys. Shut them up after a few rugger tackles and boxing bouts. That's when I became Walloping Watson."
"Splendid. Mycroft surpassed his bullies in academics, giving the lie to corpulent idiocy. Boxing was also a sterling solution to jibes about my boniness."