12-11-10, by Sherlock M. Holmes
12/11/10. An interesting date, if completely arbitrary. You can't say much about arbitrary things without getting superstitious, but the date does prompt reflection on numbers in general.
They decrease like a count down…just like the one and only time I didn't want to be the person in charge of a difficult case. I'd done everything in my power, or thought I had, to prove that the painting was a fake, and had come up against a wall every time. I was out of ideas and for once I didn't even know anything about the victim who was surely depending upon me. Not even the regular updates about how much time I had left. I found that oddly unsettling.
Of course, once the kid started counting down from 10, I was completely and instantly focussed on the problem, and my point of view was no longer important. But just before that, standing in front of everyone having checked out all the leads I could think of and coming up short every time, I felt like I was walking blindly through thick white fog towards the invisible edge of a cliff. I wanted out.
I love a good murder, especially by an unique murderer, but I hate to be powerless, especially when I know that the whole thing has been set up for the sole purpose of working my mind and staving off boredom. Not only is it annoying to fail, but because the puzzle was set up purely for me to solve, failing makes me responsible for any deaths. Nobody wants that on their record. On the other hand, despite John's smugness about the whole solar system thing, I am glad I did work it through, albeit compromising my public image in the process. In fact having got that far I'd have been glad to see it through to the end even if the stakes had been lower – there's nothing elegant or admirable about leaving loose ends.
Then there's the case of the Blind Banker where numbers saved the day – well they saved the day on that occasion. It's the sort of case that can be repeated over and over with almost exactly the same circumstances, since the book used simply changes. Who'd have thought an arbitrary number such as nine million could send a person into happy hysterics? Of course it was a trivial occurrence – her reaction I mean – and it had no importance in the case (except confirmation that she was an innocent in the matter, which I knew anyway), but it was an unexpectedly pleasing experience to be the bearer of good news for a change.
My favourite number of all though has three digits, and there's a letter stuck on the end. Since I've associated myself with it my existence has been more fulfilling and less tedious than at any other point. And I don't need the skull anymore.
