The Texas Hot Fudge Brownies Hospitality Event - Part 1

Watson offered the tray stacked with tea biscuits to Selah. "Take as many as you like, Selah."

Selah considered the neatly arranged biscuits, perfectly staged on a doily atop a tray fit for a king.

"I'm sorry, Watson..." She hesitated, choosing diplomacy. "But I do find English biscuits rather... dry. And not very sweet."

Watson's expression did not move.

Selah reached behind her.

"So I thought I'd shift things around a bit."

Onto the table came a warm pan of Texas brownies glossy with hot fudge, followed by a small chilled crate marked:

DRY ICE - HANDLE WITH REVERENCE

Inside sat Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream.

Watson placed one hand to his chest.

"Madam... you have brought hot fudge brownies with Blue Bell vanilla ice cream into a London Study and called it Southern hospitality?"

Selah smiled.

"Correct."

Gregory had already abandoned all previous loyalties to biscuits.

"I have always said London required intervention."

Watson gave him a look. "You have never said that."

"I am saying it now, with conviction."

The Study changed immediately.

The tea tray remained, of course - decorum may have left through the back door, but it still kept a key. Beside it now sat the warm brownies, steam curling upward through ribbons of hot fudge, while the Blue Bell waited in its dry-ice crate as though it had been escorted across the Atlantic by angels and excellent logistics.

Watson picked up a spoon.

"This is not merely dessert," he said. "This is diplomacy."

Gregory, already holding a bowl nearly as large as his body, nodded.

"International relations have improved dramatically."

Watson took one bite.

Silence.

Then, very quietly:

"I withdraw several remarks I may have privately held about American excess."

Gregory pointed his spoon. "Put that in the minutes."

Watson did.

Official Non-Official Meeting Addendum No. 2:

English biscuits remain respected for their structural reliability.

Texas brownies are hereby recognized for emotional restoration, theological fortification, and general morale.

Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream, when shipped to London by dry ice, shall be classified as Southern hospitality of the highest order.

Selah raised a spoonful of gooey brownie and melting vanilla.

"To the Queen!"

Watson rose at once.

Gregory attempted to rise too, but his bowl was nearly as large as he was, so he settled for standing with great ceremonial effort inside the chair.

Watson raised his spoon with full solemnity.

"To the Queen," he said.

Gregory raised his.

"To the Queen!"

Then he paused.

"Which queen?"

Watson did not miss a beat.

"The one who brought the brownies."

Gregory nodded firmly.

"Correct queen."

And so, in a London Study warmed by lamplight, scattered books, Southern hospitality, and one gnome who had developed an alarming amount of confidence since acquiring Hott Sizzle Pink bloomers, the official toast was recorded:

To the Queen of Gooey Goodness.

Long may she reign.

May her brownies be warm,

her ice cream unmelted,

her music loud enough to annoy respectable neighbors,

and her shelves properly supervised.

Gregory lifted his spoon. "Motion carried."

Selah laughed and set down her bowl.

"Love y'all. Enjoy the rest - I have a few things to take care of. I'll be back later."

She gathered her things, then turned back toward the table.

"And y'all don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Watson accepted her quick hug with one arm because the other was still holding a spoonful of brownie diplomacy.

"That," he said, "provides an unnecessarily broad field of permission."

Gregory, chocolate already appearing in his beard, raised his spoon.

"We shall behave."

Watson looked at him.

Gregory sighed.

"We shall behave within previously demonstrated parameters."

Watson nodded. "More accurate."

Selah left them with the pan.

This would later prove to be an error in judgment.

When Selah returned that evening, the Study was quiet.

Too quiet.

She stepped through the doorway and stopped.

Watson was stretched across the cracked leather couch with his argyle-socked feet propped over one arm. His waistcoat had been abandoned across a chair. His collar stood open. His belt was unbuckled. His glasses sat slightly crooked, and the orderly wave of his hair had given up entirely, falling into dark curls across his forehead.

Selah noticed the curls.

She also noticed that she noticed them.

That was inconvenient.

Her attention moved, with deliberate discipline, to the rest of the crime scene.

Gregory lay flat on his back on the table beside the brownie pan, which now contained nothing but dark crumbs and a heroic amount of regret.

Two bowls held small puddles of melted vanilla streaked with brownie remnants. The Blue Bell container sat empty on the kitchenette counter, the scoop still inside.

Neither of them had noticed her enter.

Selah pressed her lips together.

She was not sure whether they were asleep, comatose, or simply unwilling to face the consequences of their choices.

She kept her voice low.

"You boys eat ALL those brownies?"

Watson did not move.

Not at first.

Only one argyle-socked foot gave the faintest twitch - the sort of movement a man's dignity might make if it had been caught in the act and was deciding whether to return to its body.

Gregory opened one eye.

It was the eye of a gnome who had seen glory and was not yet prepared to discuss consequences.

Watson finally spoke, eyes still closed.

"Define... all."

Selah looked at the empty pan.

Then the empty ice cream tub.

Then Watson.

The curl had fallen a little farther over his forehead.

She ignored it.

Mostly.

Join us next time, when The Aftermath Ensues.