***

I looked around us, suddenly remembering we were in a crowded restaurant and not home in comfortable solitary Sussex, where in the worst a sheep or two would overhear us. Luckily those at the other tables seemed more interested in each other than the elder gentleman in blank shoes, fancy suit and his dark, graying hair pomaded elegantly, all in all looking quite distinguished, trying to learn his more than three times younger female companion who at the moment were dressed in a quite revealing blouse and an almost non-existing shirt, all in all looking like she'd just stepped out of a, to say it outright, more tatty part of London (which I actually had), how to flirt.

It was not a rare sight in the 1918th London, to find a little cozy restaurant filled with smoke, people, arguing voices, romantic, flirting couples of all sorts and the penetrating smell of English food on a Saturday night. Nor was it a particularly rare sight, finding a certain frustrated amateur detective sitting in one corner of such a restaurant, putting out one cigarette after another and making disturbed sounds.

The unusual part lay in the fact that it wasn't the complexity of a case being the reason for his disturbance, since our recent case had been solved and finished no more than one our ago, with help from an object which we had been forced to "borrow" from Lestrades' office. That very object had been the missing link that had leaded us directly to the murderers nest. Neither was it boredom that burdened the great detective's mind, as that couldn't thoroughly explain the thoughtful and even anxious glances he sent me, his apprentice and sort of partner, across the table from time to time.

It really was quite disturbing.

"Oh just tell me Holmes!" I exclaimed in the end, making a nearby couple jump in their seats. He lit another cigarette while carefully holding his eyes fixed on the cigarette instead of me. "Something is bothering you, and that 'something' concerns me in one way or another." I continued in a lower voice.
"Oh, I was only… lingering over the, I must admit, slightly unexpected level of creativity in some of the…" he paused to sent an absent-minded glance at a waiter who was sneaking a silver fork into his inner pocket. "…methods you pulled off in the newly solved case of ours. "
"You mean when I hid on Lestrade in order to give you time to break into his office and steal the painting with Mr. Harpers fingerprint on it?" The cigarette in his hand froze like the rest of him, but when he spoke it was with a casual tone which could've fooled many to think him calm and relaxed. Not me though. "When I ordered you to distract Lestrade in any possible way that came to your mind, I had imagined something a little less… extreme."

It made quibbles go down my spine, by the very thought of Holmes having witnessed that rather awkward scene between Lestrade and I. He, having luckily had a drink or to with lunch, had been too overwhelmed by my sudden increased attention and the sweetness of my young features, to notice my beating heart, clumsy motions, experimental and unsure attempts and unsuccessful effort to hid my disgust for his brandy breath (surrounding me in the intimate moment of me straightening his tie, while sending him what had been meant as seducing glances), clammy, damp hands (which stroke me gently over my cheek, so quickly there wasn't time for my natural response to smack it away and slap him in the face. Luckily perhaps) and sticky bristles (…let's not go further into that).

All in all, a sight that, no doubt had been screaming out my lack of experience.

I tried to hide my insecurity behind a mask of breezy confidence. "Extreme? Me? Now I thought persuading and distracting were the most useful powers a consulting detective possesses." I suddenly remembered something I've read in the Strand many years earlier, and a teasing smile approached on my face, a way of getting back at him from his invasion of my privacy by sneaking on me and Lestrade. "Didn't dear old Watson mention something just like that in the adventure of Augustus Milverton? Something about a young maid whose information's you were very interested in possessing, one way or anoth…"

"It really isn't worthy of you to refer to Watson's babbles Russell." He interrupted before I could go any further, an embarrass wrinkle between his eyebrows having appeared. I held my hands out in surrender, actually rather pleased with myself for distracting him from the Lestrade-subject. In a while we just sat. The couple nearest us was the only one not talking loudly, I noticed, but only, did I discover by turning my gaze, because their mouths were now occupied elsewhere. Finally Holmes sighed. "Actually, in that particular case Watson, unfortunately I might say, did not build the story out of romanticism and fiction completely. You are right, in my head-over-heels obsession of winning over Milverton, I did charm a maid, innocent and not able to resist my attention, the spark in my eye and my unshaved presence, my methods clearly crossing the accepted limits of a respective detective, even a consulting one. I promised to marry her, even sealed the 'deal' with a kiss." He sipped his drink, eyes some other place, certainly not here.

I had trouble visualizing the great detective in plumber-disguise with ruffled hair and dirty face, kissing a maid behind a three. Like some bad romance novel. Just the idea of my mentor and guardian kissing anyone was hard to visualize, and not something I had given much thought ever before; him being one of the most celebrated bachelors, and what I had early discovered in my own relationship to the man; him always being strictly gentlemanly towards me and behaving like nothing more or less than him the teacher and I the promising student.

"Poor girl," I said after a while, making his eyes once again focus on the present. "She probably didn't get a chance; you're right, you can be terribly charming when you want to be. In return the girl would probably have divorced you anyway, finding out how terribly cross you are when a train is late, and how bad your breath becomes after a third-pipe-problem." I teased him, trying to lift the mood a bit. He smiled, but there was something inscrutable even wondering in his eyes. I couldn't truly believe no one had told him he was charming before. Or no one had complained about his tobacco breath.

He finished the drink and looked at me, a almost cheerful spark in the grey eyes having appeared. "Now don't think I have forgotten what we were talking about earlier Russell."