This is my first Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. I love these two adventurers. I envy Mary Morstan for getting Watson.

It was another of London's famed fog-grey days, and at 221B Baker Street both tenants were scribbling away: Holmes laboring over a monograph, and Watson working on one of his narratives. The good doctor was editing quite mercilessly. He muttered, "Holmes'll call that romanticized," as he etched out a line. Watson paused and looked up. "Holmes?"

"Watson," Sherlock responded, his eyes never leaving his page.

"Do you recall what color dress Miss Violet Hunter was to wear at the window? I confess it slips my mind whether it was cobalt or some more eccentric shade of blue."

"No; you know my memory is much less for silly trifles like that as yours."

"Not when it comes to cases."

"There is truth to that," Holmes admitted. "Wasn't it electric blue?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you," Watson scribbled over something.

"Is it really so important?"

"Of course. Every detail in a case matters, Holmes; such is the way with a tale."

Holmes chuckled at his friend. "You are the most thorough of Boswells."

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