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“So where did you go after France?” A spoon clinked against the edge of my coffee cup though I kept my attention on my uncle. I always enjoyed hearing about Edward’s travels, and the museum did not often send him to the continent.
“Spain,” he replied. “Their history museum found several rare items at a dig, and—oh!” He cut himself off nearly mid word to dig through the bag at his feet. “I nearly forgot. Here.” Three boxes, each about the size of a single shoe, lined the side table, but a moment’s silence ensured the door below remained closed before he opened the closest one.
To reveal dirt. I made no effort to hide my confusion. Why did he give me three boxes of dirt?
“Do you remember the sand you boys brought back from Australia?” he prompted. “You confused Martha for nearly a week when Australian dirt kept showing up even after she’d cleaned.”
I did remember that, and my grin widened as I gathered what he had in mind. Holmes had always been able to identify any soil in London by color and consistency, and he regularly used that knowledge to deduce my entire day the moment I walked through the door. More than one spontaneous surprise had fallen flat when he deduced my errand.
“Where did you stop?”
“A marsh in Spain,” he pointed at the first box. “The open space within sight of the Eiffel Tower, and the docks at Liverpool. I thought you might enjoy messing with his expectations.”
“I certainly will,” I laughed, one finger testing the consistency of each soil. The marshland would need a bit of water added before I let Holmes find the print. I might even get Martha and Hamish to add to my supply, though one of those would be much harder than the other. If only I still had the rest of that Australian sand that Harry and I had saved. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem. I want to know what he does, though.” Another laugh easily agreed, and he closed the boxes back up, then avoided the rugs on his way upstairs when I struggled to rise. Any prank would have to wait a couple of days, until this series of summer storms no longer limited my mobility, but I might finally be able to finish paying Holmes back for destroying my room last month. He would never expect revenge this long after his own “prank.”
The next few weeks would be fun.
“What in the blazes—”
Quiet bewilderment barely carried up the stairs from the sitting room’s landing, and I froze in my bedroom doorway. Returning to my room would announce my guilt, but I could not go downstairs, either. Not right after he had finally noted the trail that I had left last night.
“Not the docks,” he murmured. The faint shrick of soft fabric pulled his magnifying glass from its case. “Too wet for any part of the city, but the wrong consistency for Regent’s Boating Lake. Where did he—”
He silenced the question before I could decide what I wanted to reply—or if I did. When several seconds finally sent him back to the sitting room, I made my slow way down the stairs. Samples had clearly disappeared from the small smudges of marshland I had patterned up the stairs, and entering the sitting room found Holmes at his chemistry set.
Doing what, I had no idea, nor would I ask. Bewilderment muttered and grumbled consistencies and soil types as three different samples followed three different reactions, but I let him see me roll my eyes at the dirt and head for my shelf. I never cared about his soil research. He would not expect that to change today.
He also would not expect my amusement at his experimentation, however, and I carefully hid my expression behind first my newspaper, then a book. Holmes so rarely showed his confusion that the grumbles interrupting the various articles became just as entertaining as the hours of experimentation. When bedtime found him no closer to a solution, I started planning the next “trip.” Maybe I would take a morning’s holiday to France once he lost interest in this.
Or Liverpool, I decided a few days later. Liverpool would work better, because while he would expect dockyard soil after spending all day watching one of the seedier pubs, he would not expect Liverpool’s silty earth. His run down the street for an evening paper gave me ample time to dust a trail up the stairs and leave half a print on the second to last step. He had climbed the stairs ahead of me earlier, and staging the print close to the wall ensured he would never have seen the outline going down. I had plenty of time to hide my tools and return to my seat before the door below slammed shut. Mrs. Hudson’s scolding distracted him for only a minute before long strides skipped every other stair.
To better highlight my shuffling footprints. A moment’s hesitation near the bottom proved he had noted the pace his excitement earlier had missed, but he froze completely near the top step. Three seconds of silence finally earned a question.
“Alright, Holmes?”
He reanimated with a start, undoubtedly still frowning at the floor, but one hand waved away my question on his way to his chemistry set, then back to the landing. Cotton balls and tweezers joined his handkerchief in gathering multiple samples before he stationed himself at the table in front of the window. Irritated grumbling compared heavy soils to silty and debated the water content around the London docks.
I merely grinned into my manuscript. The Liverpool river delta contained an entirely different soil than did the London delta, and despite London’s more man-made docks, each followed the typical soils of its region.
The mystery would keep him busy for a while.
“Watson!”
The sudden call echoed up the stairs to make me jump. My cane slipped with the movement, and I stumbled over the rug as he hurried toward the sitting room.
“Watson, where did you—Watson!”
He lunged, barely grabbing my arm in time to prevent me from hitting the ground, though I still scrambled for purchase against a rug that kept moving beneath my feet. He stepped forward to halt the rug, then a few seconds’ support finally braced my cane well enough for him to let go. He completely ignored my thanks.
“Where did you go yesterday?”
“Everywhere,” I replied with a huff. The miles heavily contributed to today’s inability to walk. “I had patients in Whitehall, Covent Garden, and Kensington. Refilling my bag took me near the courtyard, where Frank found me after Eddie called an Alpha east of King’s Cross. I spent over an hour at the courtyard treating her injuries and still had three more shops to visit before I could come home.”
Where I had carefully staged a bit of Scottish garden soil in the entry. The multiple trips up and down the stairs had done nothing for my mobility, but one clear print and a scattering of dirt remained against the wall as if unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson’s broom. Leaning heavily against the arm of the settee prevented him from reading the thought—and the mischief—on my face.
“Why?” I added when he made no reply.
He ignored the question, as I had half-expected, and my leg spasmed too much to force the topic even if I did not already know the source of his confusion. A few seconds waited only for me to reach my chair before he disappeared through the door. Low grumbling carried from the entry as he gathered his samples, then he started setting up yet another experiment. If he did not discover my prank soon, he would have an impressive set of notes describing dirt outside of London.
I should probably wait a few days before staging the last part, though. Another spasm in my leg firmly denied any hope of managing the stairs again today, and I could hardly plant a clean print in the sitting room.
Maybe I could convince an Irregular to lend me a spare pair of shoes?
“Ha!” Glass clinked below me, then Holmes’ hurried gait skipped every other step on his way to my room. “Why do you have dirt from—Watson?”
Amused irritation laced the beginnings of a question, but excited query changed to concern when he reached my room. I waved him away to make use of my handkerchief, pulling my blanket back up when I had finished. All thoughts of the “solved” mystery faded as he moved closer to my bed.
“How long have you been ill?”
About as long as he had been away from the flat this morning. The door slamming behind his pre-dawn exit had given me an excellent opportunity to lay another print, and I had closed myself in my bedroom afterwards to provide an alibi. He clearly would have caught onto the prank this time if not for the illness supposedly keeping me upstairs.
Not that I would tell him that. Impatient fidgeting waited out a shallow coughing fit before I “managed” words.
“Not long,” I answered hoarsely. Coughing into a pillow served to further muffle my reply. “Mild—head cold. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Or in a couple of hours, when the irritant I had purposely inhaled wore off, but I would maintain the evident symptoms until he went to bed tonight. Last month’s failed experiment provided a thorough distraction today, and we both knew he could do nothing to help a head cold, no matter how mild. He insisted on checking me for a fever but grudgingly took himself back downstairs, where a repetitive path across the sitting room started trying to figure out how my shoes had smeared mud all over the front steps if I had not left my room today.
I made no effort to hide a grin despite my sore throat. He would think of the Irregulars soon enough, but the non-sequitur would keep him busy—and my prank active—for a few more hours at least. One of the older boys had used a pair of my shoes to leave clumps of the dirt taken from France on and around the front step, purposely scattered as if I had spent several minutes clearing the mud from the soles after last night’s rain. The result had provided Holmes with another large sample of foreign soil to go along with the single scuff they had left in the entry, and until he considered the Irregulars’ help, he would wonder if Edward had somehow copied my gait.
And how he had missed the surprise visit. I had not kept a prank going this long in a while. Even my shallow cough could not halt the amusement at his possible reaction, and another minute ensured he intended to stay in the sitting room before I pulled a novel from under my pillow and settled against the headboard.
The stack of novels beside my bed promised a wonderfully quiet day.
“Did Edward or the Irregulars give you the dirt?”
The question shattered the remnants of a dream, and I woke with a start—then a groan. I should have known better than to go to sleep without refilling my water pitcher. The pounding headache reminded me of that solution’s other side effect.
“Watson?”
Holmes. Why he had parked himself in my room I would find out soon enough, but I ignored him for the moment. Perhaps he would let me go back to sleep?
Cold fingers brushed my forehead, but he leaned back when I swatted at him. I quickly returned to the middle ground between sleeping and waking, where my head did not pound and I could follow a mixed plot of yesterday’s novels. Several minutes undoubtedly passed before I roused again.
“You are about to sleep through breakfast.”
No matter. Mrs. Hudson had promised to set some leavings aside for me, and I was comfortable. Mostly. My head disliked yesterday’s distraction, but malingering or not, I had apparently needed an extremely lazy day in bed. I thoroughly enjoyed the rare experience of nothing else hurting.
Holmes did not agree, however. I finally opened my eyes to find irritated concern scowling at me from the wooden chair he had stationed next to my bed.
“How much of yesterday was fabricated?”
Most of it, but I hid a smirk in a yawning stretch that rolled me onto my side. One hand pushed my sheet and quilt down a few inches as bleary eyes tried to focus.
“Th’nk you for letting me sl’p. Why’re you in my room?”
His scowl deepened at the slurred words. “Your dirt came from France, Spain, Liverpool, and Scotland.”
The discovery ended my prank but did not answer my question. One hand nudged a nearby glass until I glanced over, however, which sent a sudden stab of pain behind my eyes. That spark of worry abruptly strengthened when I flinched. “Are you still ill?”
I shook my head despite the throbbing protest caused by the motion. “’M fine. Jus’ a headache,” I added at his look, ignoring the sounds my dry throat refused to form. Another stretch gradually pushed me upright, where a smile served as thanks for the water. With any luck, the liquid would ease the drums beating against my forehead.
“Seriously,” I promised when he merely stared. “I actually slept last night, so I know I did not keep you awake coughing. Why are you in my room?”
“You do not usually sleep through breakfast.” Keen eyes studied me, probably comparing yesterday’s symptoms with today’s and deciding how much of yesterday I had feigned. Another painful throb made me close my eyes while I drank.
And put two fingers on my wrist. I scowled around my glass but did not try to break his hold. I had known that yesterday’s malingering might cause a bit of hovering, but the ready glass of water had clearly deduced the source of my headache. He did not need to act as if I had spent the last several days unable to get out of bed.
He released his hold after only a few seconds, but he still studied me when I reopened my eyes. I set the empty glass on the nightstand to stretch again, then slowly work my shoulder. A distracted thought hoped the joint remained this painless all day.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
He wanted to ignore the hint, wanted to stay upstairs and continue monitoring me, but turning sideways to sit on the edge of the bed crowded his chair, and he found nothing but the headache trying to make me flinch. Another long moment finally left the room, taking the chair with him.
And let me slouch against the pillow. Holmes’ failed experiment last month had proven this solution’s fumes an airway irritant that also caused dehydration, headaches, and strong drowsiness, and the second brief exposure I had manufactured yesterday afternoon only increased those symptoms. I could easily doze the day away.
Doing so in bed would only make Holmes resume hovering, however. I grudgingly pushed myself upright to change clothes, and my slow pace still joined Holmes at the table a few minutes later. He studied me for several seconds but finally returned to the topic concern had postponed when he had noticed my headache.
“Did Edward or the Irregulars give you the dirt?”
“Edward, some of it.” I made no effort to hide the grin silenced by another bite. “What have you deduced?”
“You used momentary absences to lay trails in areas I would not have noted before,” he announced, “with soil native to locations as far from London as you could manage.” He glanced at me more often than he normally would when relaying his deductions, but the terse, grudging reply revealed more of his irritation than the lowest growl. He hated that I had kept him busy for this long. “The Irregulars helped you with yesterday’s, and Mrs. Hudson distracted me last week and helped you last night. What I cannot deduce is why.”
He did not want to deduce why, more accurately. He had plenty of information, and I kept my attention on my breakfast. “You have not been bored for days.”
“For over a week,” he corrected, feigning a scowl at the amusement I made no attempt to hide. “Or longer, as I was not bored before you started, either. You laid another trail whenever you saw an opportunity, and you spent yesterday in bed to continue the ruse.”
Why did you sacrifice several days and your health to turn a prank into a case? that asked with different words. I made no reply. Even without the nasty bout of pneumonia that had hit shortly after his “prank,” I had needed much too long to clean up after him. The last several days had served a dual purpose of amusing me and frustrating him to the same degree that he had frustrated me.
I had wanted him to deduce that, however. I should not need words to make my point, nor did we need the awkward conversation when the observational skills he so frequently boasted about should provide all the clues he needed.
Except he merely watched me. Whether my trail had not presented as clearly as I intended or he simply wanted me to put the problem to words, he would not let the subject drop. I finally allowed some of the irritation that had started this indirect lesson into my tone.
“I needed over four days to return my room to rights.”
Which was about how long he had spent researching those soils, though spread over a week and a half instead of all at once. Silence answered me, however, his frown frantically trying to recall what I referenced. A truer exasperation finally appeared when he connected my comment to the “prank” he had left before I fell sick last month.
“I did not destroy that much.”
A pointed look took the place of the raised eyebrow he would have directed at me. “You hung two pillows from the ceiling and exploded a third, scattered the feathers across the room along with the contents of my desk, and reshaped my bedcovers to glare at the door like some strange animal. I found several items from the sitting room hidden around and beneath the furniture, and you broke two different inkwells and a picture frame. I needed several days to clean, find, and replace everything. You destroyed more than that much. I’m sure I could find another frustrating research project for you, if you want?”
He quickly indicated a negative. We both knew what shape that offer would take, and he would not make the same mistake twice. His faint harrumph clearly wanted to continue arguing, but I directed my attention at the remains of my breakfast. He said nothing else as I slowly cleared my plate and took a book to the settee.
Though he still studied me when I woke some two hours later. My stretch also retrieved the novel from the floor, but I could not hide a smile on noticing the mite on the table next to me. Apology and concession both, I would not have to watch for whatever Holmes decided qualified as “payback” for making him spend a week identifying dirt.
He started a different prank war instead. A trip to the washroom after supper created a bit of a puddle, courtesy of the bucket he had balanced above the door, but I merely changed clothes and resumed my evening. His disappointment at my non-reaction served as half my payback.
The other half waited for the next afternoon. This flat contained several hideaways and dumbwaiter hatches, and I needed only a moment of distraction to return the drenching. The following prank war lasted over two weeks.
I won that one, too, by virtue of setting the last prank before Mrs. Hudson made us stop. He grumbled for days.