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Watson has always tolerated higher temperatures than I. This is completely understandable; the man's Army service in the Subcontinent accustomed him to days such as this ghastly 90-degree one that now assaults London.
Watson is famously short-tempered; but he has the cooler head in a hotter clime. Meanwhile I grit my teeth to hold back the words I want to snap at my incomparable friend – will he hurry to join me on the platform instead of dawdling like a reluctant schoolboy, how many times must I repeat the information about the bl…benighted case before it stays in his head, must he do that infernal whistling of a ghastly Arthur Sullivan tune when he knows the man's music makes me ill?
The unshaded train platform is a griddle. I long for the enclosed car, the breeze of movement, the strangled body in the Kent wine cellar, the cool dark wine cellar… When I realised that I was looking forward to that more than to the puzzle, I let out a little laugh.
"Goddammit, Holmes, must you make that annoying laugh!"
That explosion startles me into turning to Watson. His stricken look is a balm on my fevered brow. He too feels it.
I rest a hand on his shoulder before he can apologise. "The heat makes savages of us all, my boy."