Since Cabin Pressure and Sherlock have both fried my brain cells, I present to you this blatant crack fic of pure drivel. I sincerely apologise to BBC and the creators of these shows. I merely would like to get this fic off my mind. Thank you.
No one knew how the one and only consulting detective had managed it, but one lazy Sunday afternoon, a message had popped up in every computer in practically every part of London that read:
Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I have just finished a very satisfying case, which my blogger has successfully uploaded on to his blog. And I just thought I'd let you know that I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, boooored! There are no experiments to do since I've blown up most of the chemicals I bought yesterday. The body parts are just festering in our fridge. And the people at the New Scotland Yard continue to be stupidly incompetent. They've been chasing a small-time criminal for a week now despite the various clues that I've given to them and it doesn't look like they'll be catching him any time soon. So if anyone out there knows any mysteries, murders, or would like to have some sex as an experiment, please do make your way to 221-B Baker St. Thank you.
Another message had followed that first one almost immediately that went:
Err, ladies and gentlemen, I do…I do profoundly apologise for my flat-mate and his badly misjudged attempt at humour. I do hope you weren't distressed by his outburst. And, and let me just say, in his defense, that inside this apartment it is unbelievably bor-ring!
A message on Sherlock Holmes' website had announced:
So boring!
Followed closely by an entry on Dr John Watson's blog that went:
So very, very, very, boring!
The final message appeared simultaneously in both websites:
Booooored!
Needless to say the New Scotland Yard was deluged with complaints while 221-B Baker St. was mobbed by people looking for their pets or wanting a quick shag on what was turning out to be a not so very lazy Sunday afternoon after all.