(no subject)

It is a quiet Sunday afternoon on Baker Street (quiet inside, anyway; it is rarely particularly quiet outside on the street, with hansom cabs rattling past, a team of urchins playing noisy games, and peddlers shouting their wares). Gladstone is making happy whuffling noises as he single-mindedly gnaws on a bone at Watson's feet. Watson himself is skimming through the front page of the Times, comfortably ensconced in his favourite armchair.