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"Watson, I have a challenge for you!"
Watson stops writing but doesn't put down his pen just yet. Whether he continues to write his tale or not will depend entirely on Holmes's next words. "For me? I take it there's nothing interesting in the paper, then."
"Drivel, every word." Holmes scowls at the offending publication where he's dropped it on the floor by his feet. "It would serve us far better as kindling. In fact -"
"Holmes."
"Quite. Another time. Meanwhile the weather is too dreary for us to contemplate a stroll through our fair city, therefore I reiterate; I have a challenge for you." Holmes looks up at him. There is a familiar gleam in his eyes.
Watson lays down his pen. One day, he will finish this story, but today is not that day. "Go on, then. What sort of challenge?"
Holmes smiles. "Deduction."
Watson tuts. "Oh come now, Holmes, that's hardly fair! You would win every time."
"My dear Watson, you misunderstand me!" Holmes rises from his chair and all but leaps across the room to perch on the edge of Watson's desk. "We would not be competing. I simply wish to test you."
"Test me?" Watson leans back and contemplates Holmes's eager face. "On what? My knowledge of your monographs?"
"On your knowledge of me." Holmes beams down at him like a particularly satisfied cat. "That is, if you're amenable?"
Watson narrows his eyes. He has to admit to himself that the prospect sounds intriguing, if only to wipe that endearingly smug expression from Holmes's face. "And what would this test entail?"
Holmes takes his hand and turns it over, lacing their fingers together. "In your very first tale of our escapades together," he explains, "you commented on the state of my hand. 'All mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids', you said."
"You remember all that?" Watson laughs, yet somehow he isn't surprised.
Holmes fixes him in place with a startlingly intense look. "I remember every word you've ever written about me."
Watson’s breath catches in his throat. "Holmes, I…"
"Which is why," his friend continues in a much lighter tone, "some years on, having given you plenty of opportunities to see my methods in action, I wish to see how much you have absorbed. It is all very well making observations - even the dullest of Yarders can pull those out of the air when the wind is blowing to the east - but what do those observations go on to mean?" He takes Watson’s other hand as well. "The time has come, doctor; remove all prior knowledge of me from your mind, and deduce who these hands of mine belong to."
Watson gazes up at him thoughtfully for a long while. He knows Holmes is in a playful mood, seeking entertainment on a grey and stormy afternoon rather than a chance to humiliate him - deep down, he also knows with absolute certainty that Holmes would not do that to him - but he cannot help to ask. "And if I make a fool of myself? You will not laugh at me?"
"Oh, my dear Watson." Somehow Holmes climbs off the desk without breaking his grip on his hands, and then he is kneeling before him. "I would never. If you'd rather not -"
Watson shakes his head fondly. "No, no, I was being silly. This will do." He lifts their interwoven hands and lingers for a moment on how long Holmes's fingers are compared to his own, how they almost cover the back of his hand entirely. "All prior knowledge, you said?"
"Every bit of me that's hidden in that fine mind of yours." Holmes smiles up at him from the floor.
Watson tuts again. "Compliments will not cause me to make a more flattering deduction of you, Holmes."
"Nor would I expect them to," he replies. "Fire away, doctor."
"Hmm." Watson spreads his fingers and releases Holmes from his grasp so he can look over his hands one at a time. He takes the left first, and his brow furrows as he concentrates.
It is an elegant hand, it must be said. Pale skin with an underlay of blue veins like those that run through marble. It is also far thinner than Watson would like it to be, the bones prominently displayed, but that is a discussion for another time.
"At first glance," he begins slowly, "I would assume this to be the hand of a chemist or labourer."
"Ah, but Watson," Holmes chides him. "We do not assume. Assumptions lead to misdirection and incorrect conclusions."
Watson looks at him sharply. "I'm not finished, Holmes. You threw down this gauntlet; allow me the chance to pick it up, hm?"
Holmes waves him on with his other hand, then puts a finger briefly to his lips.
Watson clears his throat. "The nails are clipped short for practicality, indicating frequent hands-on tasks. Yet no sensible chemist I am aware of would have quite so many burns on their skin, and no labourer would have such slender fingers." He turns the hand over, looking over Holmes's palm. "The fingertips are calloused. That is is only the fingertips, and not each whole finger, makes me inclined to believe this hand belongs to a violinist."
Holmes hums appreciatively. When Watson glances up at him again, he has his eyes closed and a smile playing about his lips, as he does when listening to a piece of enjoyable music. Watson suppresses a smile of his own as he turns the hand over to look at the back of it again.
"That being said," he murmurs thoughtfully, "there are scars across these knuckles that indicate repeated injuries, cleaned and healed over time. Perhaps from boxing, or perhaps the owner of this hand is prone to getting into scrapes."
Holmes's smile widens.
"And when we compare the two…" He picks up Holmes's right hand and turns it over. "We see that while the knuckles of both hands are scarred, those on the left hand have been damaged more frequently. So we are looking at a man who plays the violin with the bow in his right hand, yet fights predominantly with his left."
He looks up again. One of Holmes’s eyebrows twitches, but otherwise he makes no move to interrupt.
"The right hand," Watson says. His voice has dropped in volume as he's been talking. Despite the fact it's barely two in the afternoon, the gloom of the day and his proximity to Holmes has made this so-called challenge feel rather secretive. "There is the customary groove against the index finger, indicating the owner writes with this hand. Much like the left, the skin is marked by chemical burns, some older than others - a frequent pastime then, working with chemicals, but without the appropriate protective equipment. Not a chemist employed to any official degree."
Holmes's lips twist as if he's trying to hold something back. Watson rolls his eyes, unseen. He lifts Holmes’s right hand closer to his face.
"Tobacco," he says, sniffing, "no particular brand, but rather a mixture of several. The residual scent is strong, and therefore our mystery man must use it frequently."
Holmes tilts his head to one side in acknowledgement.
Watson takes both his hands again, holding them gently. It is time for him to finish his deductions. "In conclusion, this pair of hands belongs to a man of exceptional talent, with a wide and fascinating repertoire of skills. He treats his hands akin to a pair of gloves, with no desire to protect them unless prompted, and only then after the fact." He pauses, leaning in more closely. Holmes's eyebrow twitches again, as if he can detect his proximity. "Yet he does try to take care of them more than he used to, and when he cannot, he has a very caring companion who will always do it for him."
There is utter silence for a moment after Watson finishes speaking. Holmes has become extraordinarily still, barely seeming to breathe. His lips have parted ever so slightly.
Watson frowns. "Holmes," he whispers, "are you alright? Can you speak?"
Holmes opens his eyes slowly, coming back to himself. He inhales, nostrils flaring. "Watson," he admonishes in a low tone, "that was very unfair of you. You will recall, I asked you to clear all knowledge of me from your mind."
Watson squeezes his hands. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I did try very hard to do that, but you have coloured my thoughts since the day we met. I could not rid my mind of you if my life depended on it."
His friend's mouth falls open once more, and once more Watson considers if he has rendered him speechless. Just as he's about to ask again, Holmes recovers himself. "You really shouldn't say such things," he says, though his voice is fond and his eyes are sparkling.
"Why?" Watson asks, smiling. "Am I bolstering your ego? You're right; we mustn't have any more of that."
Holmes pulls his hands free and presses them to his chest. "My doctor wounds me!"
"Not to worry, Holmes," says Watson airily. "I'm told I have a high level of skill with a needle and thread."
After a second or two of silence, the two of them burst into laughter. Holmes leans over and rests his head on Watson's knee, slipping one hand around the back of the doctor's calf so he can keep hold of him. Watson strokes Holmes's hair back where it's fallen over his eyes. "Well, Holmes?" he asks, still giggling. "Did I rise to your challenge?"
"You performed admirably, my dear," says Holmes. He turns his head to look up at him. "Some excellent conclusions. That I play my violin with my right hand, yet fight with my left? I will admit, I did not think you would have noticed that."
"I may not be as quick as you, but I believe we've spent enough time together for me to pick up on it. And besides," Watson strokes his hair again, "I have also noticed, when you are particularly excited or agitated but unable to express yourself aloud, you will sign to me with your left hand. You cover it up extremely well otherwise; nobody else would guess."
"I should hope not. I abhor guesswork." Holmes shifts again so he can lay his head back with Watson's thigh as his cushion. "Do you think me sinister, then, Watson? With my strange, left-handed ways?"
"There is nothing sinister about you, Holmes, that I can see. Particularly when you are lying with your head in my lap like a kitten."
"Oh, but your fingers in my hair feel absolutely wonderful," Holmes enthuses, closing his eyes again and sighing with satisfaction. He preens under Watson's touch. "Thank you, my dear."
Watson is perplexed. "Whatever for?"
"Indulging me. Accepting my challenge, taking up the gauntlet, whatever you should like to call it. This afternoon was promising to be terribly dull without your intervention."
Watson considers this as his friend lapses into silence again, his face peaceful.
Personally, he doesn't think it possible for an afternoon to be dull when Holmes is around.