Summary: Holmes & Watson swimming in a flooded Piazza San Marco (Venice).
Author's Note: At getyourwordsout
“Watson, our Venetian holiday has certainly taken a singular turn,” remarked Holmes as he emerged, hair flattened to his head. He stood, revealing a pallid, thin chest. The thinness and the pallor were, of course, part of what had brought us here.
A murky wave slapped my face like the rattle of an unruly infant. The water was that drab olive-brown colour that water always is when is exists in large quantities where it should not be. And in this case, it should definitely not have risen to the level of concealing my bare chest in the Piazza San Marco.
The water—and the air—were curiously warm. In England, such an overcast day would have had us layering wools, not stripping to our drawers and practicing our backstroke in ‘the drawing room of Europe.’
The grand basilica rose behind us, grey stone arch stacked within grey stone arch like nesting dolls. Above, bells tolled its grandeur while below, amongst us fishes, the intruding army of lapping water continued its occupation.
I cast aside my concerns about the effect that the turbid stream was having on my coiffure and simply enjoyed the surreal—and singular, as Holmes described it—experience. I suspected Holmes was far more keen that his head not be used as a perch for pigeons or sea birds
Feb. 19th, 2017