The Adventure Of The Red-Haired Thief
Sherlock Holmes pulled his coat tighter as he walked through the wind and rain. Time was of the essence and he had to find his best friend.
He knew which way to go, he could follow the tracks, he knew the signs, and It wasn't long until he came upon the crime scene and the rush of information hit him.
A shred of cloth - the material from a familiar shirt, dirty, chewed, covered in sweat and saliva. It belonged to a ten-year-old boy with black hair.
Some disturbed soil - something was buried there. Sherlock felt uneasy, he was fairly sure he knew what.
Watermelon seeds - undigested, and Sherlock knew all too well who'd stolen a watermelon recently.
Red hairs - the red hairs of the perpetrator. The red hairs of someone he could always forgive for all their transgressions, he just hoped that Mycroft wouldn't notice that one of his shirts was missing presumed buried.
"Redbeard!" he shouted, and for a moment he thought his young voice had been lost in the storm, but then the mischievous Irish Setter bounded up to him, jumping on him and licking his face. "Calm down, boy," he said, with a smile. "Better get you indoors. I know you don't like thunder and there's an east wind coming."
And so they headed home, a boy and his dog, as the storms approached.
The End