The sound of Mrs. Hudson knuckling up the stairs was the first indication that our long lethargy of inaction was coming to an end. She tapped on the door to our suite and said in her gentle Scottish burr, “Telegram for you Mr. Sherlock; it seems urgent.”
I turned to my primate companion to assess his reaction. He was reading the London Times wearing a silk smoking jacket while puffing on his Meerschaum bubble pipe. His bare feet were up on an Ottoman, toes wiggling with anticipation of a new puzzle.
“So the game’s soon to be afoot, Watson,” he mumbled when he sensed my scrutiny.
“Don’t keep calling me that,” I said. “It is not my name!”
“Oh, get into the spirit of the thing, Lucifer.” He tipped back the deerstalker cap he insisted on wearing at all times and rolled his lips as chimpanzees do to show displeasure. “After all, when in Rome …”
“It is one thing to blend on each reality, Khetar, “I said calling him by his right name, “but you have gone full on native!”
“And why not,” he said, “I fit in here!”