Mysteries and Distraction?
Sherlock Holmes was a Serious detective. A consulting detective- the only one of his kind, he claimed. So it irritated his supremely diffident nature, to have a problem of this kind come to his attention. It was going to be a tricky one to solve. One that would challenge his reputation as a sleuth that could solve the nastiest, most complicated mysteries the world could throw at him. One that he was forced to accept, because he was the only one who would do anything about it, the only one who could protect his reputation. He sighed slightly, and shifted the newspaper he held to a more comfortable position. He could hear Watson getting ready for their outing to Covent Garden, and thought uncomfortably about telling his old friend about the new dilemma that faced him. It would be dangerous, in more ways than one. Watson came out of his room, twirling his hat cheerfully, and stopped dead at the solemn face Holmes turned to him.
"What is it, Holmes?" He asked, alarmed by the expression on his roommates face. Holmes shook his head. "It won't do, Watson, it won't do." Watson grew more concerned, and asked "What, Holmes, what's wrong?" Holmes groaned as if he was in agony. "Look at the paper, Watson, third page..." Watson took the proffered paper, and opened it, steeling himself for the juggernaut of disaster heading their way. The headline read:
"Amateur Detective Sherlock Homes Speaks Out!"
Watson looked confused, and then scanned the article for things that could have caused his friend this much pain. Giving up, he looked at his friend. "I don't understand..." "Homes? Homes, I ask you? The only amateur consulting detective in London, the first and foremost in his field, revered by half the world, and the London rags STILL can't spell my name correctly? Sometimes I despair for the world, Watson."
Watson restrained a smirk. Someone, apart from himself, had to prick his friends ego every now and again.
Sherlock Holmes was a Serious detective. A consulting detective- the only one of his kind, he claimed. So it irritated his supremely diffident nature, to have a problem of this kind come to his attention. It was going to be a tricky one to solve. One that would challenge his reputation as a sleuth that could solve the nastiest, most complicated mysteries the world could throw at him. One that he was forced to accept, because he was the only one who would do anything about it, the only one who could protect his reputation. He sighed slightly, and shifted the newspaper he held to a more comfortable position. He could hear Watson getting ready for their outing to Covent Garden, and thought uncomfortably about telling his old friend about the new dilemma that faced him. It would be dangerous, in more ways than one. Watson came out of his room, twirling his hat cheerfully, and stopped dead at the solemn face Holmes turned to him.
"What is it, Holmes?" He asked, alarmed by the expression on his roommates face. Holmes shook his head. "It won't do, Watson, it won't do." Watson grew more concerned, and asked "What, Holmes, what's wrong?" Holmes groaned as if he was in agony. "Look at the paper, Watson, third page..." Watson took the proffered paper, and opened it, steeling himself for the juggernaut of disaster heading their way. The headline read:
"Amateur Detective Sherlock Homes Speaks Out!"
Watson looked confused, and then scanned the article for things that could have caused his friend this much pain. Giving up, he looked at his friend. "I don't understand..." "Homes? Homes, I ask you? The only amateur consulting detective in London, the first and foremost in his field, revered by half the world, and the London rags STILL can't spell my name correctly? Sometimes I despair for the world, Watson."
Watson restrained a smirk. Someone, apart from himself, had to prick his friends ego every now and again.