[Mikotoba is as reliable as always, and his presence ushers in some mild relief even before he swoops in to take little Iris off his hands. Sholmes’ shoulders deflate, watching as the infant’s cries already begin to lessen — as though the man possesses some magical touch that he could not conjure up himself in the hours between then and now. He scoffs, tiredly but not without his own brand of resigned wryness, running a hand down his wrinkled waistcoat.]
I hardly think that was ever under contention, dear fellow. I think I’ll have Iris’ cries etched into my memory until the day I die, at this rate.
[Between everything that’s happened and still happening—a child under their care, the fallout of the Professor case and all it entailed—a moment of respite is rare. Sholmes takes advantage of it when he can, and he crosses the room to the far window. Along the way, he picks up his pipe from his desk, dreadfully neglected ever since the arrival of 221B’s third resident; tobacco smoke once lingered in this flat like a smog, wispy and strong-scented, but now that particular vice has been tamped down to accommodate their new circumstances.]
And how goes—
[A grunt as he slides open the window, and during his query he manages to both pack his pipe and light it with a few stray matches kept in his pocket.]
—your continuous fight against the usual slew of paperwork?
[Sholmes is determined to have his smoke, even if he has to lean out the window like a wilting houseplant on the sill. Which he does, watching the people below mill by.]
no subject
I hardly think that was ever under contention, dear fellow. I think I’ll have Iris’ cries etched into my memory until the day I die, at this rate.
[Between everything that’s happened and still happening—a child under their care, the fallout of the Professor case and all it entailed—a moment of respite is rare. Sholmes takes advantage of it when he can, and he crosses the room to the far window. Along the way, he picks up his pipe from his desk, dreadfully neglected ever since the arrival of 221B’s third resident; tobacco smoke once lingered in this flat like a smog, wispy and strong-scented, but now that particular vice has been tamped down to accommodate their new circumstances.]
And how goes—
[A grunt as he slides open the window, and during his query he manages to both pack his pipe and light it with a few stray matches kept in his pocket.]
—your continuous fight against the usual slew of paperwork?
[Sholmes is determined to have his smoke, even if he has to lean out the window like a wilting houseplant on the sill. Which he does, watching the people below mill by.]