As I peruse my musings on my dear friend and companion Sherlock Holmes I have reached the conclusion that I have been remiss in describing his relaxation habits. I dare say that the common reader, if indeed any of this sees the light of day, may assume that his avocations consist of other than playing his violin, opium dens, and an occasional injection of dubious nature. I assure you this is not the case bur rather merely the context in which the cases I have thus far had cause to put to paper have resided in. I am pleased to say that the case I now recall begins in a much more medically benign manner. Continue reading
It has been some time since I have put fountain pen to parchment, and there have been a great many mysteries since this one that have vexed me. Why did Holmes fake his own death? Was it to elude Moriarty or to get out of the invitation to my birthday party? How did that questionable stain end up on my vest pocket? Was it food or something I didn’t want to investigate? Who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp? Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?
Still, with all the twists and turns this case took, I am compelled to transcribe it.
It was a blustery wintery day and I can recall standing on a poorly lit street corner just outside a local pub Holmes had wanted to visit, The Billowing Blurtle. The light in its lamppost flickered and darkened. Deep black clouds blotted out the sun and a blizzard was impending. Snow sloughed off a nearby thatched roof and fell just behind me, a splattering of snow sneaked under my collar.
Twas a bleak evening on February 18th, the cold air seeped into every crevice of our residence at 221B Baker Street, and I found myself huddled against the floorboards, searching for warmth under several coats and blankets. I searched for kindling to chuck into the fireplace, but Holmes had used the only logs we had for a disguise he declared he needed for a case that I wasn’t a part of.
Watson is waiting for that one Iggy Pop album to become relevant before he finishes his notes on this case.
Something something something, Watson was left in an opium den and is still working his way out of there before he can even begin to describe what happened here.
Watson is working his hardest to transcribe this adventure, but some other excuse made it impossible.
Watson is painstakingly transcribing this adventure as best he can, but as it was a case that needn’t solving, it wasn’t high on the priority list…