I burst into the drawing room at 221B Baker Street as the first drops of afternoon rain struck the windowpane. "Holmes!" I gasped.
"Calm yourself, Watson," my friend replied languidly, failing to rise from the sofa before the fire. "I perceive you have something for me." He gestured to a small table at his side, on which I placed the fruits of my hunt.
"Apples?" he said, with noticeable indifference. "In August? What are they, Watson? Come, tell all."
"That's just the problem, Holmes," I said. "The grower at the market couldn't say. Just a sign saying, 'Our own fresh-picked apples.' Can you identify them?"
"Hmph. A grower who doesn't know what he grows does not inspire confidence." He looked into the fire, the trace of a weary smile on his lips. "Describe them for me, Watson," he said suddenly.
I stepped forward and held one of the fruits into the failing light, determined to give as complete an account of their physical appearance as my medical training allowed. "These are well-formed medium-sized apples with the merest hint of ribbing. They are a bright spring green with an inconsistent and streaky scarlet blush and light green spots."
"Does that suggest anything to you, Watson?"