It seems odd to put pen to paper and write out the events of this past month. Usually I leave that job to Watson. Though I have often criticized his writing technique, his "hero-worship" is flattering and, as I jot this at my desk in Baker Street, I see there are very few ways one can present a mystery to the public.
Fortunately, after I write this, I shall burn it.
Cases seem to be lacking at the moment and my mind continually drifts back to our last case, which Watson has fondly titled "The Hound of the Baskervilles".
It held danger enough, and blood, and romance, and all the things Watson's public seems to enjoy. Which would be why Watson writes such drivel and not I. Yet when he is finally finished transforming the case as to be almost unrecognizable, I will make certain he leaves one thing out.
My unenviable nickname: Snoop Sherlock. Or as the ever-gracious moor dwellers say it: Znoop Zherlock.
When I was first confronted with the almost sardonically ingratiating name it was a mistake. I had been drinking down at one of the pubs (incognito of course) trying to overhear something of interest when, to my chagrin, I heard (roughly translated into smoother, more proper English), "Snoop Sherlock wants to hear all about the Baskervilles and their (censored) hound dog! Do you believe that?" Shouts of drunken laughter from his fellows. "Maybe he wants to train it to sniff out clues to his cases," another shouted.
Something of interest indeed.
From then on it only escalated mercilessly. My acting ability served me well whenever someone would say it to my face. Yet if red ever did creep into my cheeks I could pass it off as being too battered about by Dartmoor's feral weather.
When Watson heard about it, he was shocked and then demanded that I allow him to put a stop to such blaspheme. My dear friend! Could I have allowed you to forsake your own name to pick up the scraps of mine?
The case concluded swiftly after that and we whisked ourselves back to London and into weather not unlike that of Dartmoor. Such weather has kept you inside our considerably warmer quarters oftener than usual, my friend. The cough you appear to have taken a liking to reminds me that one day you will not be there to transform my cases. One day you will not be there to catch me as I plummet to my death and when that happens I will no longer be there for anyone.
SH aka Snoop Sherlock
Editor's Note:
This, to all appearances, is an extract of Sherlock Holmes' private writings immediately following the Baskerville case. Whether or not he wrote such a thing is to be debated by experts more knowledgeable in their fields than I. It also says that after he had finished writing he would burn this paper. He must have finished writing (otherwise he would not have affixed his signature) why, then, was not the paper burned? Somehow Watson must have salvaged it. Either that or Holmes decided, for one reason or another, that the paper should be saved.
"It is, in fact, quite a pretty problem."
SRR