Driving home after a boring, uneventful day, through the fog, I spy a tall figure striding along impatiently, holding some long spear-like objects. As I slowed, an annoyed glance from glasz eyes caught mine, which immediately widened as I realized who I was staring at. Pulling over quickly, I waited until Sherlock Holmes approached my car and opened the passenger door.

"Do I know you?" He questioned warily, flicking his gaze over me and the insides of my vehicle.

"Nobody important, actually, but, I know who you are, would be happy to give you a lift to wherever you like."

"Thanks" he nodded abruptly, as he suddenly made a decision and jumped in, twisting gracefully to stow two harpoons on the back seat, "221B..."

"Baker Street, yeah, I know" I grinned like an idiot at him, putting the car in motion, and dodging into traffic.

As he looked over, his head lifted, in a "oh, I know what's going on here" motion, then looked away to stare out at the London street scene.

"It's okay, Sherlock, I'll just drop you off, no crazy offers, no requests, but how the heck am I going to keep it quiet that I gave Sherlock Holmes a lift in my car wearing blood-spattered clothes and carrying harpoons?"

He looked puzzled at me, "Would that interest your friends? Can't see personally why anyone cares. I suppose you're one of those people that read John's blog."

"You have no idea," I snort, shaking my head. "And for what it's worth, people do read your blog also."

Tipping his head, he deduces me silently until we pull up in front of his famous digs.

Abruptly, he hands me a harpoon. "This one has a bent tip; you might as well have it. Our little secret."

I stare incredulously, as he winks, and dodges for his door.

Later that night, I sit staring at the harpoon resting in the corner of the living room, realizing no one will ever believe where it came from. Life is wonderful, life is unfair.