From the Casebook of Dr. John H. Watson.
I had called upon
my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, on the morn of last Wednesday. Mrs
Hudson had warned me as I ascended the stairs up to his drawing room
that he was in a dejected mood, and indeed, as I entered I heard him
scratching an angry rendition of 'As Long As You Love Me' by Justin
Bieber on his violin.
"What up, me Holmesie?" I asked him, extending my arm for our customary
fistbump. Holmes, however, declined, instead lowering his instrument
with a weary sigh and fixing me with one of his steely expressions.
"You ask me, what is up," he retorted, "when you know full well the reasoning for my foul mood."
I sat down in an armchair and leaned back, trying to appear nonchalant.
"By Heavens, Holmes, I haven't the modicum of comprehension as to the nature of your dejection."
Holmes sat down too, steepling his fingers together as he studied me
carefully, as one might study a hardening scab, measuring whether it is
yet ripe for the plucking.
"If that were true, Watson, if that were true..." he murmured to himself, sadly.
"You're not still moping about that time I said that Benedict Cumberbatch had the face of an otter, are you?"
"No," he scowled, his face twisted in otter contempt. "I am, of course,
referring to you having gallivanted off to that infernal reading group
last night."
"By Jove, Holmes, how the devil can you possibly have known about that?"
"It's simples, my pal, John. The barely healed papercut on the fourth
finger of your right hand indicates that you have been recently handling
a book, whilst the angle and deepness of the cut would suggest a hasty
flicking through pages, as though trying to eagerly find a reference for
a quotation you wish to read out to others during a boistrous
discussion. The colouring of scuffmarks on your shoes could only have
been made in two locations: either on the doorway to the Pope's
bedchamber in the Vatican, or in the entranceway to Edin's
café/restaurant on Broad Street in Nottingham's city centre, and as all
flights to and from East Midlands Airport have been delayed due to the
bad weather we have been experiencing it is obvious that you have not
made any recent trip to Italy. Also, you remember a wizened old man
with a limp who was sat in the corner of the room, watching you intently
throughout the course of the evening?"
"How could I forget that eccentric fellow!" I replied. "The way his
accent changed suddenly when he spoke to a waiter, from a refined, well
spoken manner (much like yours, Holmes) to suddenly a very awkward,
strange, Scottish falsetto. Or the way he kept reattaching his eyebrows
whenever they fell off. Plus the fact that he insisted on wearing his
deerstalker, even indoors. A very strange choice of hat; the only other
person I know who wears such a thing is you, Holmes!"
Sherlock Holmes smiled at me; a wry, knowing smile.
"If you had
engaged your powers of observation more astutely, Watson, you would have
deduced that that wizened old man was in fact, me!"
"F*** me in the
eye, Holmes! You really are a master of disguise! But does this mean
you overheard everything we spoke of that evening about 'The Adventures
of Sherlock Holmes' written by Sir Arthur Conan D- I mean, written by
myself?"
"Why yes, Watson, it does."
"Meaning you must have heard the mixed
response to the tales of your cases, where although many of us enjoyed
them (sometimes from a sense of nostalgia), it was generally agreed that
the mysteries were too convoluted with not enough clues for the reader
to have a go at solving them, that the characterisation was severely
lacking, and that - with a few notable exceptions - the stories felt
rather repetitive?"
"Yes, this is all true."
"So that is why you're in bad humour this morning, Holmes!"
"Indubitably."
"Well,
I am sorry. Perhaps if we'd read one of the novels instead, we might
have found it a bit more substantial and gotten more out of it?"
"That is certainly possible. But we shall talk more of this another time, for right now I have an animal to secretly follow."
"An animal, Holmes?"
"A deer, to be precise. Why do you think I wear this hat all the time?"
"I did wonder! So who is this animal you stalk, Holmes? What's her name?"
"Ella Mentory, my deer, Watson."
"That was tortured."
"I know."
Thus
I left Sherlock Holmes to his misery, once again astounded by his
incredible powers of observation, disguise, and deductive reasoning, and
headed briskly home to begin reading the next book for the Nottingham
Readers. This one was a novel set in the far, far future, where rich
people can afford private craft which let them travel amongst the stars,
and depicted what befell a man who has the knowledge of all of past,
present and future in the Universe. I look forward greatly to
discussing it with the others anon, hopefully this time away from the
bitter and jealous eyes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
End of case.
