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Cacophonic violin music greeted Mary and me when we returned from our market outing, combining surprisingly well with the clatter of Frau Heller in the kitchen preparing our supper. (My wife had joined Holmes and I in our rented Viennese townhouse the week before and had already taken charge of our household with the domestic authority that ruled the Watsons' Kensington home.) I winced a little at the noise, but joy filled me at this proof that Holmes continued to improve from his descent into cocaine addiction.
"John. Mary. You have been to the market today, for both of you have taken more sun than if you had visited a museum or other indoor entertainment," Sherlock Holmes said, putting his bow down. He sniffed, and smiled. "Chocolate. Marzipan. Meringue? No, nougat!"
We all laughed. "Holmes, the world lost a master chef when you chose to turn your faculties toward detecting crime instead of ingredients," said I.
Mary produced a paper bag full of the confectioneries we'd discovered that day. "Such a clever lad should get a sweetie. But just one, don't spoil your appetitel"
Holmes pulled out one of the foil-wrapped balls and studied the face imprinted on the front.
"A fellow from Salzburg created these last year, to honour their most famous citizen."
I smiled. "They're called Mozart Bon-bons."