TangoJohn Watson wasn't exactly sure how it had happened. One moment he was living a normal (as normal as you could get around Sherlock Holmes, that is) quite life in a very dingy, wet, safe London. Despite the overwhelming variety of crimes to be solved, you could always depend on things like a light afternoon drizzle to wash away the morning's stress. Here it was different. It was like Afghanistan, only greener, a little bit cooler, and with much better food.Tango5 years ago in Short Stories
The dish he was currently shoveling into his mouth, a huge helping of rice, beans and beef, had been laid before him with maternal love by the proprietress of the cantina they were lounging in. John, who hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before, could have kissed the little white-haired señora. That is, he could have, had he not been extremely interested in the exchange taking place over two shots of tequila on the other side of the round, soft-wood table.
"Look, all I'm saying is that next time we do this, I should get to dr