January 2013 - 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' by Arthur Conan Doyle

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.