Words: Milk, far-flung, windy, ruin, slimy, apathetic, synonymous, account, night, abstracted.
Generator: randomlists random-words (remove spaces)

The dark black skies seemed synonymous with my flatmate's mood. The windy day had given way to a torrent of rain and thunderclaps as twilight approached. It was the sort of storm expected to last through the night, and it had put Holmes' plans to ruin since the criminals would be unable to act in this deluge.

For my account, I was perfectly happy to stay indoors and dry. I did not mind accompanying the detective on his adventures since I found them intriguing and exciting. Besides, they had given me cause to do something I had always wanted to do, but never had any reason to do before – write. I loved writing. Even as a child I loved making up stories and writing them down for my mother, who had always encouraged my creativity.

As much as I enjoyed it, however, I realized as I got older that I didn't have tales so wonderful that I could carve any sort of living from it. I was however, finding a keen interest in medicine, so I did not feel terribly put out that my writing had all but ceased. Besides a personal journal that I endeavored to keep, I put my focus into my schooling and abandoned what I believed was a childhood pastime.

Then I met Holmes. And suddenly, my experiences were grand enough to not only just write about in my journals, but also, I believed, worthy of a public audience. From the first the stories were well-received. I was satisfying a desire and also serving to make Holmes' a household name. It served to give him more cases than he knew what to do with at first. We began receiving correspondence from every far-flung corner of London and even beyond.

After almost a week of large amounts of mail and telegraphs he had started to grumble about me causing the public to want to use him for spilled milk and lost toys. I half-expected him to beg me not to publish any more. Then a case presented himself that he did like and his frustration with my publications seemed to disappear.

So when he was abstracted with his pipe or the morocco case, I would occupy myself with my writing. I even saved for a far better typewriter for the work. Tonight, I intended to occupy myself with working on the case I was calling The Adventure of the Dancing Men, after the curious alphabet that Holmes had deciphered. Though the title sounded rather lively and gay it had ended tragically.

As I rose from our table to move to my desk, I realized Holmes had been glaring out the window instead of eating. "You should eat Holmes, you'll need your energy if you intend to pick up this trail tomorrow," I advised.

Holmes gave the bowl in front of him a rather apathetic glance. "It's slimy," He grumbled.

"It is fish chowder Holmes. And it has perfect consistency and taste," I said. He was pouting as I had expected. When he was disappointed he usually gave into complaining more than usual.

"Stop being a finicky Holmes and eat your supper." I walked towards my desk to show I'd take no argument from him.

"I am not finicky," He argued, "I was making an observation."

"Would you like me to write out this conversation and allow the public to decide if you're being finicky or not?" I quipped, turning back to give him a sly smile.

He ducked his head and began eating the soup. Thinking that was the end of it, I turned to begin working. Holmes began slurping his soup as loud as was humanly possible. I turned around and fixed him with another look.

"Can you please eat quietly?" I asked with as much patience as I could muster.

He quieted down and I turned back to face my typewriter once more.

Very softly, but loud enough for me to hear, he grumbled, "Now who is the finicky one doctor?"

As always, he had to have the last word.