Watson's Holmes

Watson's Holmes

When I arrived at the Baker Street apartments, my good friend Sherlock Holmes was stretched out in his chair with his pipe and a cup of tea, reading the newspaper and warming his feet by the fire. I was not sure why he had called for me at this beastly hour, when the chill of the night fog was making way for the chill of the daytime fog, but I sensed from his mood that an adventure might be at hand. He addressed me without looking up.

“An interesting day, Watson, is it not?”

“I shall let you know when I can see beyond this blasted fog, Holmes. You seem in a chipper mood this morning, has some matter caught your attention?”

“Indeed it has, Watson. I have been contacted by Sir Henry Baskerville of late regarding your account of the affair of the Hound. He was rather insulted.”

“Insulted?”

“Yes, Watson. It appears the publisher mistook your handwriting and misspelled his name as ‘Bastardville’ throughout. Such poor penmanship is not well-befitting a writer of your reputation, especially on a typewriter. Then I looked at the recent details of our relationship and found a few other items of concern.”

“Items of concern? Such as?”

“You are aware that my slippers are lined with rabbit fur. Recently I noticed that they also had rabbit ears on the upper surface, and were made of a pink plush material. They are not really the footwear of a gentleman, Watson; at least, not of a sane gentleman.”

“Furthermore, you have depicted me sitting in my favourite chair holding this pipe, sipping from this cup of tea, and holding a newspaper, rolled though it is, in my hand. You have exceeded my usual number of hands by one, Watson.”

“Egad, Holmes! How can this have happened?”

“The answer is Elementary, Watson. Not only are you an idiot, you are also not Conan Doyle, and you are not a great mystery writer. Finally, your name is Eric, not John. Now wake up!”

 

I woke up to see her staring into my face, brandishing a scrunched-up pillow. I leapt out of bed and grabbed her, pulling her close so she could feel my excitement.

 

“Eric, you are going to rewrite that last sentence! I am your sister, and I will never – I repeat, NEVER – feel your excitement.”

“But Wanda, I had a great idea in my sleep! A new Sherlock Holmes novel!”

“And we can power London by hooking up a generator while Conan Doyle spins in his grave. Now get your butt in gear, Eric, you don’t want to miss your job interview.”

 

I could see the anticipation in this dame’s eyes; she had plans for me, and those plans would take away more time than the Grim Reaper with a Hoover. I could have pulled out my piece and drilled her right there …

 

“Eric!”