Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor his faithful companion, John Watson. I do, however, greatly enjoy toying with them.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Powers of Observation
"Holmes, your food is getting cold."
It was the third time in that quiet hour that I ventured to mention Holmes' untouched breakfast that my companion granted me something to the extent of a reply: Holmes harrumphed at my absurd suggestion and gingerly puffed at his distinct calabash pipe. The newspaper in his delicate hand angrily rustled at me for diverting its reader's attention.
"Holmes... my good man, did you hear me? I am afraid that our dear Mrs. Hudson is going to be quite disappointed if you refuse one of her delicious meals for a sixth time in two days. My goodness, have you eaten at all this week?" I suddenly noticed my friend's haggard appearance was more so than usual and that his jawline was protruding like that of a naked skull. The man looked positively skeletal.
"It has only been two and a half days, doctor, but I thank you for your concern regarding my health. I do believe, however, that your powers of observation are worsening rather than improving. Come now! Have you learned nothing under my constant tutelage? Your brain is rotting away with thoughts of women and glowing hounds..."
Holmes' monologue faded into silence as his glassy eyes squinted at "The Strand." Something within those pages managed to regain the usual glint of those eyes, a glint that had been lost with the absence of nourishment. His entire body quieted and the pipe was set dangerously upon our oak table. I prepared myself to ignore whatever announcement would follow that gleam and continued with my chastisement; who would take care of my dearest friend, if not me?
"Only two and a half days?" I replied, amazedly staring at Holmes amazedly staring at his piece of paper. I most nearly forgot his allusions to my humble writings. "Holmes, I insist that you, at the very least, eat your toast. You will not die of starvation under my roof."
The skeleton paid me no attention.
"Ha! Watson, it seems that despite the imbecile informants of this fine paper, something similar to truth has been published. I have stumbled upon the key that will unlock the prison cell containing the unfortunate Cecil Canterbury! Lestrade will be quite pleased." The impressive shadow that was Holmes jumped from the table with a cry of vain triumph and reached for a heavy, sand-colored overcoat.
"May I ask where you are going?" I said, trying to disguise the agitation in my voice.
"I shall be back by eight o' clock this evening," he said as if to answer my question. "Goodbye."
With that, the great detective swept out of the room in a wind of insuppressible and unexplainable energy. I looked at the wasted toast resting on the blue and white china plate and heaved a sigh. I then noticed that the table beneath it was emerging into flames, apparently much too eager to partake of Holmes' tobacco. 'Powers of observation,' indeed.