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“My dear man, are you quite sure this will work?”
Watson looked up from the mechanism. “Absolutely. I know the inside of a hydraulic engine blindfolded by now, and I’ve seen this deployed to far more sinister purpose in France. This should keep you good and safe from predators in your old age.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed silently, his shoulders shaking and a hand covering his face. “Oh, my Watson.”
The other man closed the trap door and levered himself to his feet with his walking-stick. “I’m deadly serious, Holmes. I will not have you hounded by lasses barely out of childhood who smell an inheritance from a mile away.” He harrumphed and looked down at the porch deck.
A long-fingered hand, discoloured by old chemical stains and newer bee stings, caressed his cheek. “I find your protectiveness deeply erotic.”
Grinning, Watson took hold of the hand and kissed the back. “Once I’ve bathed, I will be happy to act on that protectiveness.”
“Now it won’t hurt them?” Holmes repeated as they entered the cottage.
“Possibly a bruise or two, or sore feet. Nothing more.”
That afternoon while they were preoccupied in the master bedroom, a precocious and self-important teen girl walked past the NO TRESPASSING sign to call on the famous Sherlock Holmes. Stepping on the porch-plate of the catapult.
*BRONNNNGGGGGGGGHHH*