"Mrs Watson," said Holmes fuzzily, "Your washerwoman is cheating you." He slumped to Watson's chest.
"What?" said Watson, supporting Holmes' weight.
"I knew it!" said Mary, flying toward the davenport and gathering cushions and afghans along the way.
"I beg your pardon, my dear, but how is the washerwoman cheating you?" said Watson, utterly bemused. "Shall I speak with her?"
"She's supposed to use only a certain brand of Castile soap, dear," explained Mary, fluffing pillows. "The cheaper sort makes you itch, and it's so bad for your poor shoulder. Bring him over here, John, dear."
Watson wrestled Holmes' deceptively slender mass over to the davenport and laid him down. Mary covered Holmes with afghans even as Watson laid his fingers on Holmes' pulse. "Good heavens," he said.
"And you've been rubbing your shoulder again, so I wondered," explained Mary calmly. "But of course she denied everything. She must have filled that soap container with the ordinary soap. I was going to ask Mr Holmes, but he's been so busy."
Watson stared at her. "You were going to ask Holmes to find out if the washerwoman was cheating us," he said.
"Yes, my dear."
"And you expected he would do this," said Watson.
"Yes, of course, my dear."
"And when he collapsed on me he knew that the soap was different," clarified Watson.
"Yes, John dearest, of course he did."
"My dearest Mary, how - how -"
"His nose is so sensitive," said Mary. "I'm sure he could tell the difference."
Watson found himself yearning desperately for a whiskey and soda, perhaps light on the soda.
"Nothing but the best for my dear Watson," said Holmes quite distinctly, and fell deeper into a real, restful sleep.