Boredom is a curious thing. It is induced by a tedious monotony that must grip every mind at one time or another. It is never the same twice, as individual and unique as those it inhabits. As dull and explosive as the lives it invades.
But boredom visits one type of mind more than any other. For the mind that rebels against it, that seeks to thwart its every move, is the mind that presents the challenge.
The mind of a genius is a curious thing. It is both world-weary and full of wonder. It craves occupation. It hates boredom.
These enemies often meet but their most common battlefield is one small, cramped room in the city of London. Here, they wage war. Often several times a day.
Sherlock Holmes is a curious thing. For him, distractions are few and short. With every problem, his genius excels, solving the riddles of life in ridiculously short periods of time.
Then he becomes bored.
And this he cannot solve. He can delay it or avoid it with practised ease but it is never conquered. Always there. The boredom itself becomes boring. And the genius is driven insane.
How ironic.
For those who admire the man will tell you that for one so plagued by boredom, he is never, and could never be, boring.