"Holmes, why did we have a telephone installed?" Watson began, brows furrowed at his friend and roommate.
"I am the wrong person to ask," replied the detective. He was at his chemistry table fiddling with bromine and vinegar. "I never wanted the cursed thing to begin with."
"My foot you didn't. You were intrigued with it, took the first one we had apart and threatened to do the same to the second until I told you we won't replace it if you couldn't put it back together. You were all but giddy at the thought that you could converse with a client clear across the city."
"And now I am having second thoughts," he sighed somewhat moodily. "I find it invasive."
"You finding it invasive isn't a reason for you to unplug it and throw it in the laundry hamper!"
"Scotland Yard should not be able to contact me every moment of every day. A man cannot live on stupidity alone."
Watson held up the phone salvaged from the dirty clothes moments before Mrs. Hudson had tossed it into the tub of soapy water that no doubt would have meant its demise. "Don't do it again." His tone implied that he meant business.
Holmes scowled, cursing technology and all those who defended its miserable little give-and-take conveniences, returning to his bromine.