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'That is completely absurd, my dear Watson,' my friend purred, puffing contentedly on his pipe. 'It is so very obvious that the man was a journalist, working with the printers.'
I studied the body of the man we were discussing. Despite my best efforts to employ the techniques of my dear colleague, I could find no trace of any clue that led Holmes to his conclusion. 'How the devil do you know that?'‘ I said.
'Note the smudges of printer ink on his fingers and shirt-cuffs - He has been working with a printer. There are also a number of papercuts on his fingers - he has been handling numerous quantities of paper. Also, I found this in his coat pocket.' Holmes indicated the business card held elegantly between his forefinger and thumb. It read: Mr Ernest Herrington, printer and journalist. My friend quirked his lips at me, the closest I had seen him get to a smile. As he bustled about, checking every inch of the room for another hint, I had a moment to ponder my colleague.
Holmes was an unique man, queer in both his mannerisms and his deducing methods. However, this made me rather fond of him. His face was refined and pleasant to the eye, his coffee coloured hair slicked back, but, on occasions of slovenliness or high excitement, it was ruffled - which was, I must admit, rather endearing. Although his outward appearance drew him much attention from many, my friend seemed completely oblivious to love. Many may assume that he felt no affection towards anyone, but this was far from the case. I recall several moments, shortly after the premature demise of my dear wife, when Holmes comforted me in times of despair. He may not have complete understanding of emotion, unlike his extensive knowledge of most other subjects, but he demonstrated a deep caring for me, his closest friend.
A sharp prod from my friend brought me out of my reverie.
'My dear Watson, whilst you have been occupied in your observations of my character, I have found a most important clue. There seems to be blood on the fire poker, and the wound on our unfortunate victim's head seems to be the sort a strike from a poker would inflict. Yet it would take some strength to cause such damage. I suggest we visit the nearby ironmonger.'
I thought about the information he had presented, and noted that indeed the wound must have been caused by a man of much strength. Then I remembered what he had said at the beginning of his speech. 'How could you possibly tell the subject of my thoughts?'
Holmes smirked, but there was a touch of softness in his eyes. 'Quite simple. Your breathing and heartbeat quicken whilst you are thinking about me.'
I reddened, in a most ungentlemanly manner. At last, I regained my use of speech, enough to quip: 'I should've realised that nothing is beyond the eyes of the great Sherlock Holmes.'
My friend chuckled a little. 'My dear Watson, you flatter me. Just because you are so obvious in your manner, does not mean our murderer is. Though he is, rather. We have a man to arrest. Let us fetch Inspector Lestrade, and get our man.'
I followed my friend out of the parlour door, still slightly flushed. Once the ironmonger had been taken into police custody, we returned to our old place - 221B Baker Street.
Mrs Hudson welcomed us with a warm smile, and an hot meal of bacon and egg muffins. Holmes, naturally, only picked at his food and was soon distracted by the chemical reaction of lead nitrate and potassium iodide when the mixture is heated. After I had finished eating, I joined my friend in the corner of our rooms that served as his laboratory. A tube filled with yellow-gold crystals was held in a rack and he was studying it intently, scribbling furiously into a notebook.
'Looks rather like gold dust.' I observed, leaning over Holmes' shoulder. He turned to look me in the eye.
'My dear Watson, there are far more valuable things than gold dust. Though the most precious indeed happens to be partly golden in colour.'
I thought for a moment, and realised that Holmes may well have been referring to my somewhat golden hair. I coughed embarrassedly, but the attentions of my colleague were now firmly concentrated on his experiment.
Later that night, long after I had retired to my bedroom, there was a sharp rap on the door. It could only have been Holmes, so I called for him to come in. He entered swiftly, his long jacket swirling as he turned to close the door. I noticed that he was still in his daywear, and his hair was dishevelled. I also detected a note of nervousness in his usually calm face. I assumed that the cause of all these things was an intriguing new case, or maybe an experiment that had not quite gone to plan. I was therefore surprised when he chose not to curl up, catlike, on the armchair by the window, but instead crouched on the floor, looking earnestly up at me.
'Watson, my dear man, I have something of the utmost importance to confess to you. I should not like to do it, but it will put my mind at rest to tell it to you.'
This piqued my interest somewhat, so I told him to continue, and that I was his confidante and if he wished, nothing of this conversation would ever be revealed. This visibly relaxed Holmes, and he began to talk.
'You know, Watson, that I am solely devoted to my work and have no interest in matters that are unrelated. However, in recent months, I have found that my mind has been occupied with... feelings, for someone. Seeing as you have been married, I thought that you have much greater experience in these matters than I.'
'I have some experience, I must admit. Who is the lucky lady you have your eye on?' His cheeks were tinted with rose, and he bit his lip and lowered his gaze. A sudden realisation hit me. 'Oh. I see. Well, I am no-one to judge your tastes. Still, who is it? Not Lestrade, I hope?' I added jokingly.
Holmes smiled a little. 'No, no. Not Lestrade. You see, well,' he swallowed nervously. 'Well, it's you.' He turned away slightly, these past few minutes the first time I had seen Holmes nervous or embarrassed. I reached out and placed my hand reassuringly on his shoulder.
'You are not disgusted with me?' He said. I shook my head, smiling. At once, he seemed to shake off any sign of anxiety, and giggled slightly. 'I am most glad that this paid off. As you know, I observed your reactions to your thoughts about me, and I deduced that you were not indifferent to me, to put it mildly, and I know with a high degree of accuracy that I feel the same towards your good self. How did you like my performance? It was rather good, do you not think?'
I gasped a little. Holmes' uncharacteristic nerves had been a ploy! Annoyed as I was that he had deceived me in that way, I could not stay angry at him, especially as he returned my affections. I playfully cuffed his arm, and grinned. 'You scoundrel. You utter scoundrel.'
He rose, discarding his jacket, and stepped towards me, a dark, but not malicious, glint in his eye.
'Oh dear,' He purred. 'It seems that it is rather late, and it is so terribly far to my room. I'm sure that no-one will notice if I stay for the night, don't you think?'