Prompt from BookRookie12: "Why are we like this? No, seriously, why is it *always* like this?"
The policeman grabbed his hat and rushed out of the office.
"Busy day?" Constable John called out.
"Yes, off to investigate the missing peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked."
The constable shrugged and tugged at his ears, "must be losing my hearing."
Just then a tall, white-faced, flaxen man nearly ran him over.
"Pardon, constable," Gregson barely looked up from his notes with 'Little Bo-Peep' and 'lost sheep' scribbled across. "Just popping off to the countryside. Know anything about wagging sheep?"
Constable John shook his head.
"Ah well, see you later then." Gregson trotted down the road briskly.
"I want to make a missing person's report. It's my wife. I can't seem to keep her." The man at the front desk was quite insistent. "Name's Peter – Peter Pumpkin-eater."
The constable wrote up the missing person's report dutifully with just a small quirk of the eyebrow.
"Pumpkin scone?" Peter offered a bite to the busy officer.
"Thank you but no," he dismissed the pumpkin treat with a friendly wave. He turned around to glance out the window when a crash outside occurred. "Oh dear, Humpty Dumpty has fallen again." He sent off a quick dispatch to all the king's horses and all the king's men.
Bradstreet wandered down the hallway of the Yard. He reviewed his report on the case of Jack and Jill who tumbled down the hill. His eyes suddenly opened wide when an itsy bitsy spider dropped down on a thread from the ceiling. "Yikes," he ducked and scurried forward. As he rushed along the hallway, he nearly tripped over Little Jack Horner sitting in a corner. "Christmas pie?! What are you doing here?"
"Mmm, nothing," Jack Horner mumbled with his mouth full of pie.
"Finish your pie then wash your hands and report to my office," Bradstreet waggled a warning finger at the lad.
A flurry outside caught his attention before either reached his office though. "My cupboard is bare. No bone for my dog," Old Mother Hubbard and her dog both started howling just as Hickory dickory dock, the mouse, ran up the clock. Bradstreet sighed, 'pop goes the weasel'.
Suddenly, the Yard's alarm bells started tolling. "London bridges falling down," a hue and a cry arose. The Yarders streamed out the office in tumbling droves.
Just as uniforms came tumbling out onto the street, sirens wailing, Inspector Lestrade returned from his investigation into the crooked man who walked a crooked mile. He stared, taking in the chaos before him. "Why are we like this? No, seriously, why is it *always* like this?" He raised his arms in dismay. His words disappeared into the thunder of scrambling police feet upon the cobblestones.