a/n: written for a livejournal challenge, and dedicated to five friends who will fully sympathise with Watson's discomfort...

Summertime, and the living is not always easy.

A 221B

The Lookout

Summer in London;

The sunlight reflecting

Off pale Portland stonework

And down to the street.

One figure stands motionless,

Partly in shadow,

Observing the scene

In the late July heat.

His collar chafes badly,

His suit is restricting,

His shirt sticks in patches

To skin damp with sweat.

He longs for the hint of a breeze

To refresh him,

But won't leave his post

For a second;

Not yet.

~0~

Shade slowly retreats

As the noontime approaches;

Still he remains in position,

And waits.

The heat is oppressive

As folk bustle round him.

A whistle.

A signal?

He turns;

Hesitates...

For only one second,

Confirms the location;

He knows where he's needed,

He sets a straight course.

He shakes off the sluggish

Effects of the weather;

Calm stillness replaced

By unstoppable force.

~0~

A flurry of movement;

A crowd's startled parting;

His focus entirely

On what lies ahead.

The poise and restraint

Of a gentleman vanish;

Exchanged for emotion

And instinct instead.

He reaches his target

With split second timing;

His partner in peril,

And cornered.

A knife.

A desperate struggle;

The dust and haze rising

From hot, bruising cobbles.

A blow.

A saved life.

~0~

One summertime drama,

One villain in derbies,

One shaken detective,

One victory clear.

One battered and bloodied

Physician and soldier,

One welcome,

And well-deserved,

Draught of cool beer.

~0~