The December 2nd prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma: Norbury

Inspired by Agatha Christie's The Third Floor Flat

When one has been acquainted with Mr. Sherlock Holmes for any length of time, it is plain to see that any boredom he encounters is potentially a lethal situation. And, although I would love to be able to say otherwise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes experiences boredom on a regular basis. That being said, it takes a great deal of patience to share a flat, not to mention a healthy disregard for tidiness.

On one of these dreaded occasions, I decided that I had had enough of Holmes moping about the flat, my army revolver at full cock. (I must confess that I have no idea how he managed to find the bloody thing, let alone any ammunition)

"Holmes, you really need to look beyond this attitude," I said, dodging as he swung around, narrowly missing my head with the revolver; I knew that my newspaper would hardly be an ideal shield in this situation. "You're going to be the death of us both."

"What exactly do you suggest?" asked Holmes, still examining the weapon in his hands as though trying to decide upon a worthy target. "I have no case. I haven't even received potential, dull clients; therefore I did not have the opportunity of turning them down. That leaves me with very few options in life, Watson."

I scowled at him; Holmes pivoted and the revolver swung about again, and I reached out to snatch it from his fingers. Setting it down on the table, I crossed my arms. "For a man with such an incredible brain, you are incredibly close minded."

He looked annoyed now that his toy had been taken away. "What do you suggest, Watson?" he repeated. "All that matters is the work. How many times must I tell you this? I couldn't just accept any case. It has to be worthy of my brain."

This was a string of excuses that I had heard time and time again. My gaze fell to the newspaper as I tried to think of a comeback; something caught my eye, and I strained to get a better look. "What about this, Holmes?"

He snatched the newspaper from me, trying to find the piece in question. "What about what?"

I stood, pointing over the top of the newspaper at the advert that I had discovered. It was an announcement for a play that was to be staged tonight. A murder mystery. "What do you say we go to this? You might enjoy it."

Holmes tossed the paper aside and shook his head, throwing his arms up in annoyance. "Are you serious, Watson?" he asked, looking at me with an incredulous expression. "This is a play."

"And what's wrong with that? I say that you might enjoy it."

He looked wounded. "Are you saying that my brain has been idle for so long that it will bow to a mere drama in order to become fully stimulated once more? I say that such a thing is not possible!"

I sighed, picking up the paper from where it had landed after the toss. "Why shouldn't we go?"

"Because it's an amateur production, most likely written by an amateur playwright. Not worthy of my time."

"Do you think that you would be unable to solve it?" I challenged, not able to help myself.

He drew himself up, looking annoyed. "I never said that," he said, crossing his arms. "I happen to know that I would be able to solve such a case after the first act. At the very latest. But that is beside the point."

"I think that you should prove that theory," I said, crossing my arms so that I mirrored him. "I'll bet you ten pounds that you can't solve this case."

It was an irresistible bet, even for him. He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see the conflict in his mind. "I'll take you on," he said finally. "I do hope that you are prepared to pay up, Doctor. That is quite a large sum of money."

"I'm aware of how much money it is," I said, knowing that it would be worth it to have a human flat mate for a few hours.

"What time is the show?" asked Holmes.

"In two hours from now," I said after having checked the newspaper. "Shall I send someone for the tickets?"

"Hardly necessary," said Holmes, retreating to the bedroom to dress. "Such a show as this is unlikely to be sold out."

"Of course," I said, a glint crossing my face. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson to send someone round for them.

Personally, I found the play to be quite enjoyable. I may not have been a genius criminologist, but the plot was enjoyable nonetheless. Once we reached the intermission, Holmes quickly scribbled something down on the corner of the program, tore the corner off, and handed it to me.

"Don't look at this until we reach the end of the play," he said, pocketing his pen.

"What is it?" I asked as I slipped the paper into my own pocket.

"The name of the murderer, of course."

Holmes kept his triumphant air throughout the last act of the play, safe and smug in the knowledge that his prediction had been correct. I could see that he was still absorbing the information of the play, but that his mind was quite far off. No one could say that he was not confident.

Then, we reached the end of the play. The actor playing the detective strutted his way across the stage in a manner that was faintly reminiscent of Holmes himself. He spoke out boldly, very proud of the fact that he had solved the case. And he began to reveal how it was all done.

As he did, I sneaked a peak at Holmes, seeing that he had returned from the land of his thoughts and was now paying close attention to the play. And he was looking extremely confused. When I tapped his arm to see what the matter was, he whispered for me to take out the slip that he had previously scribbled on. I did so.

Jeeves – the butler

I looked at the slip, at Holmes, at the stage, and back at the slip in bewilderment. I had not been expecting it to end like that at all.

"That playwright is an idiot!"

Holmes threw his hat and scarf on his bed, his furious voice carrying out to the main room. He shed his coat and returned to where I was standing, his face betraying just how angry he was.

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, trying not to make the situation any worse.

"We were not given all the facts!" he cried, flopping down in his favorite armchair. "The facts as presented pointed to the butler. That idiot of a playwright had the nerve to introduce characters that were never in the play before ten minutes before the end of the story! I cannot solve such a case if I am not told all of the facts! It's like that imbecile chose the least likely character and then rendered them a murderer just so that we wouldn't guess that it was them!"

I carefully removed my own hat, not quite sure how to respond to this one. "It is a piece of fiction, Holmes," I said finally. "A story."

His eyes gleamed with annoyance. "That is beside the point, Watson!"

I shrugged. "I believe that it was ten pounds that we agreed on, Holmes."

He scowled like a small child, but he crossed over to his desk to retrieve his checkbook. As he began to write the amount down, I couldn't resist adding: "Norbury, Holmes."

He tore the check out of the book and slapped it into my hand. "I hardly think that this is the time, Watson."

I chuckled, sliding the check into my pocket and making my way up to my room to allow him a chance to calm down.

Perhaps it was only right that Holmes had now experienced what angry mystery readers go through all the time, I decided. Yes, that only seems right. I began to laugh, sitting down on my bed. The ten pounds hardly mattered.

Holmes had definitely learned something that night.

Author's Note:

For anyone who doesn't know, in "The Adventure of the Yellow Face", Holmes ran into a case that he was unable to solve because he was thinking a bit too highly of his abilities. Once he found the true answer, he asked Watson to say "Norbury" to him any time that he ran into similar circumstances.

Hope you enjoyed!