Watson eyed Holmes suspiciously - there was an untoward twinkle in his eye.
"What are you up to, Holmes?" he enquired, laying his novel down on the side table.
"'Up to' my dear chap?" Holmes replied, quotation marks clearly audible around the phrase. "I am not 'up to' anything. Why do you ask?"
"You are altogether too pleased with yourself," said Watson. "I can only deduce that you are hatching some damnable scheme." He glowered at Holmes who was standing in front of the fire, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet with the tails of his coat raised so as to warm his nether regions. "I shall ask Mrs Hudson," he threatened, as an afterthought.
"No need for that, dear boy," said Holmes breezily. He crossed the room and leaned in, arms on the sides of the wing chair in which Watson was ensconced, trapping him in situ.
Watson wondered what on earth had gotten into his friend. Should he repel boarders and thrust him away? He found his pulse was rapid and his mouth dry. "I, ah, Holmes?" he managed, rather plaintively.
Holmes bent down and captured his lips. Oh. "What brought that on?" Watson said, breathless.
"Have you forgotten what day it is?" Holmes replied, smiling down at him.
"Ah," essayed Watson, "Wednesday?"
"And our anniversary," whispered Holmes. He took Watson's hand and drew him to his feet, tugging him towards the bedroom. "So please, come and see what I am 'up to' where we will not be disturbed. And afterwards, there is cake."
"Oh God," moaned Watson, "cake!"