Work Text:
The conversation had begun with Watson discussing the horses in the morning sporting section; this became a good-natured argument about the imagined existence of luck, good or bad. Watson asserted that the latter was his usual companion, as none of the horses he’d mentally selected yesterday had won their matches.
“If you measure your luck solely in gambling, I must agree with you.” Holmes did not look up from his scrapbook. “I’m not nostalgic for our first months, when half of our rent often fed and clothed the racing-tout’s children.”
Watson laughed. “I was astounded at how much money stayed in my chequebook when it spent most of its time locked in your desk! And that certainly cured Mrs. Hudson of her monthly glare at both of us.”
“Besides, dear fellow, you’ve no need of any more luck. The patroness of good fortune has blessed us three times, and need never visit again.”
Watson gaped at his empirical friend.
Holmes faced him, deadly serious.
“One: She turned the bullet of an Afghani marksman, notorious for their deadliness with firearms.
“Two: She brought you alive out of a battle and retreat deadly to nearly half of the English combatants.
“Three: She sent Stamford to the Criterion on precisely the right day at precisely the right time.”
Watson stared. Then his head bobbed.