Three Sentence Ficathon

“Well, good luck at your meeting today to establish professional standards for the consulting detective association,” Joan said at the front door, tugging her maroon sweater around her just as Sherlock donned his winter coat, cap, and scarf to leave the brownstone.

Annoyed, Sherlock huffed and scowled, his voice already assuming lecture mode as he admonished her, “Watson, I am scandalized, for you of all people should understand how genuine consulting detectives never subscribe to anything so banal and feckless as luck; rather, the most experienced sleuths of our calling value most dearly Louis Pasteur’s aphorism instead: Dans les champs de l'observation le hasard ne favorise que les esprits préparés, or, ‘In the fields of observation, chance favors only the prepared mind.’ ”

Joan rolled her eyes, stepped in front of him, raised herself on tiptoe to grasp his shoulders, and planted a resounding kiss on Sherlock’s cheek; after which she pulled back, regarded his shocked expression with a playful look and replied, “Good luck anyway—now get going or you’ll miss your train connection, and I’ll see you tonight at the medical examiner’s office,” all the while opening the door to hustle him outside into the biting February morning.