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The tall lean amateur detective and his portly doctor friend had arrived and were speaking to Inspector Lestrade.
Constable Green snickered behind his hand. “Blimey, it’s Porky and the genius.”
Constable Cornyn muffled his own laugh. “Some butcher shop’s missing a prize pig carcase, they are.”
#
Another investigation. The doctor spoke to the detective, whose response gave the fatter man a crestfallen appearance.
“So much for the theory that pigs are smart,” Cornyn mumbled; Green choked.
#
One night both men came to the station in their eveningwear; Watson harrumphed about missing their reservations at Simpson’s.
“I didn’t know Simpson’s made pig-troughs,” hummed Cornyn.
“You could stand to miss a few dinners, Piggy,” muttered Green.
#
The docks. Just as the two constables came upon a knifed corpse, the gang set upon them before they could blow their whistles.
They were not alone – the amateurs were already on the scene. Holmes’ stick flew around his head like a swordsman, and then his fists. Beside him, a tweed-clad rock-solid man landed punches like Paddy Ryan, and downed the gang-leader in a charge and rugger tackle.
Only then did Dr. Watson face both shaking, battered constables. His voice was as jovial as it ever was, even as he hoisted the gang-leader off the ground one-handed. “Wrong nomenclature, lads. I’m not a pig. I’m a boar.”