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Lestrade narrowed his eyes, studying Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, in his turn, pored over the file open before him, filled with precisely written accounts of the Islington diamond-thief's latest outrages.
Holmes often ribbed Lestrade about his shortcomings as a detective, but had nonetheless tried to instill in him the science of observation and deduction. Lestrade suspected the great detective would be less than pleased to learn those nascent skills were being directed at his own person.
There was, however, no doubt about the evidence, and Lestrade could see no other explanation to account for it.
There was a knock at the door, and Dr. Watson entered. Holmes' face showed no emotion, but Lestrade, now alert to such nuances, fancied his eyes flashed briefly on beholding his friend.
Seeing Watson in the flesh, and the evidence on Sherlock Holmes not three feet away, Lestrade felt it all slot into place in his head with an almost audible click.
He turned to Dr. Watson and clasped his hand. “My heartfelt congratulations, doctor. I couldn't be more delighted for the both of you.” Lestrade turned to Sherlock Holmes, but knew better than to touch him so familiarly. “And to you, Mr. Holmes: congratulations, indeed.”
Holmes' face took on a pinched expression and he cast a baffled glance at Dr. Watson. “What the dickens?”
Watson cleared his throat, his colour a little high. “It's entirely your own fault, old boy, for teaching Lestrade to be observant. He could hardly fail to miss the evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” snapped Holmes.
“Why, of kissing, Mr. Holmes,” explained Lestrade. “It's clear to me that you've engaged in a great deal of kissing lately.” Lestrade gestured at Holmes's upper lip. “The condition of your skin indicates prolonged contact with facial hair, and the shape of the inflamed area indisputably identifies Dr. Watson's moustache as the culprit.”
“I should damned well hope so,” agreed Watson, nodding smugly.
Holmes involuntarily raised his hand towards his mouth and Watson smiled. “We are found out, Holmes, but luckily by our good friend, Lestrade.” He turned to Lestrade. “Admittedly, in the first flush of romance, we have been somewhat intemperate. Practice makes perfect, however.”
“Indeed it does, doctor,” agreed Lestrade, “especially when it comes to kissing.” They both turned to beam down at Sherlock Holmes, who was fingering his upper lip, eyes crossed as he peered down his aquiline nose.
Holmes snorted, noticing their gaze. He stood abruptly and closed the file, tossing it onto Lestrade's desk. “Let us begone,” he said. “Clearly I am in need of medical attention for this condition.” Holmes donned his hat and took Watson by the arm, steering him towards the door.
“But the case, Mr. Holmes...” pleaded Lestrade, wishing now that he had not teased Holmes and distracted him.
“Is solved,” Holmes called back over his shoulder, paused with one hand on the doorknob and the other on Watson's elbow: once again, Lestrade had cause to admire his sense of theatre. “Look for a jackdaw with a well-furbished nest, Lestrade. No other criminal could have gained access to the jewels in all those locations.” He touched his cane to his top hat. “Now, if you'll excuse us, Dr. Watson and I require further practice.” Holmes exchanged a heated look with the doctor.
“Indeed we do,” said Watson. He ran a finger gently across Holmes's upper lip. “And possibly some salve.” Watson winked at Lestrade, and Holmes, now with two spots of colour high on his cheeks, wrenched open the door and hustled Watson from the room.
Lestrade sat down in the chair Holmes had vacated. “A jackdaw,” he muttered to himself. “Well, I'll be damned.” But it was not the antics of an acquisitive bird that occupied his thoughts as he gazed at the door through which Holmes and Watson had departed. “I'll be damned,” said Lestrade again, smiling to himself.
- the end -