A Game of Monopoly: Watson's Misadventure with Sherlock and Mycroft
Chapter 1: The Invitation
It was one of those dreary London evenings when the clouds seemed to merge with the fog, creating an atmosphere so thick you could practically slice it. I had returned from a long day at St. Bart's, where I had encountered everything from sprained ankles to the odd gunshot wound. As I settled into my modest sitting room, a whimsical thought entered my mind—surely a bit of distraction would do me good.
Just as I pondered this, a precisely timed knock shattered the silence. Who else but my dear friend Sherlock Holmes? I opened the door to find him, his trademark cap perched jauntily atop his head.
"Watson!" he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I have a delightful proposition."
"Another case?" I inquired, half-heartedly.
"Better! My brother Mycroft is coming over tonight, and we shall engage in a game of Monopoly."
Monopoly? The very name stirred a cocktail of nostalgia and mild dread in my heart. "And you chose me for this... endeavor?"
"Of course! You are the only one who won't shy away from losing gracefully," he smirked, adjusting his collar as if preparing for a duel at dawn.
With a slight groan, I agreed, thinking perhaps my medical expertise might shield me from too severe a defeat. How wrong I was!
Chapter 2: Setting the Scene
At precisely seven o'clock, Mycroft arrived, huffing slightly as he maneuvered his bulk through the doorway. He removed his overcoat with the care of a man disrobing a prized possession and flopped into an armchair like a beached whale.
"Good evening, Mycroft," I greeted, trying to ignore the weather patterns affecting the cushions. "Ready for a bit of fun?"
"Fun," he scoffed, adjusting his spectacles, "is a subjective term, Watson."
Holmes had already set the board up on the dining table, the color-coded property cards neatly arranged, and the little plastic houses glinting under the lamplight like emeralds waiting for a fisherman's net. Sensing the competitive air, I took my seat, eyeing the pieces with a sense of trepidation.
"Remember, Watson," Holmes said, "it's not merely about luck; it's about strategy, cunning, and understanding your opponent's weaknesses."
"Ah, yes," I replied, sarcasm thick as treacle. "Like the time you miscalculated the position of that criminal mastermind last week and ended up with a knife between your ribs."
"Water under the bridge," said Mycroft dismissively, already counting the currency notes like a banker at the end of the world.
Chapter 3: The Game Begins
With the rules reviewed and the instructions repeated three times (one for each of us, it seemed), the game commenced. I rolled the dice with all the optimism of a schoolboy entering an examination room.
Squeezing the dice between my fingers, I tossed them onto the table, watching as they clattered around and landed on... a measly two. "Park Lane?" I muttered, frowning at the unwelcoming space.
"Oh, pity," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow as if I had just announced I intended to fight an octopus. "That's one way to start your inevitable descent into bankruptcy."
"Thank you, Mycroft," I replied dryly. "You always know just what to say to boost morale."
Holmes, meanwhile, was busy engrossed in the nuances of trade. "My dear brother, perhaps if you weren't so concerned with mere finances, you'd realise I've strategically placed a hotel on Mayfair. You're all but bankrupt already."
"Strategically placed?" Mycroft chuckled. "That implies thought. There's no thought in your actions, Sherlock; there's merely instinct, a shallow grasp of economics."
The conversation volleyed back and forth while I struggled to decipher where the money trickling away from my grasp would eventually land me. Little did I know, the real chaos of the Monopoly board was only just beginning.
Chapter 4: A Low Point
Half an hour in, I found myself in dire straits. My financial reserves were dwindling faster than my patience at an Oxford dinner party. As I nervously counted my remaining notes, I realized I had only two properties left—both of which seemed somehow more valuable as coasters for my cup of tea.
"Surrender, Watson," Holmes said with smirk, reminiscent of a cat toying with a mouse. "You appear to be caught in an unfortunate downward spiral."
"I can't concede yet," I protested. "What kind of man would allow himself to succumb to despair before the game's end?"
"The kind who values his sanity, perhaps," Mycroft chimed in, laughing heartily as he collected rents like a modern-day Midas.
I threw the dice again, but the result, a four, led me to the dreaded 'Go to Jail' spot. "Well, splendid!" I exclaimed. "This game is relentless!"
"Jail is a temporary state," Holmes reminded me, "one you should be quite accustomed to, considering your career."
I raised an exasperated eyebrow. "Very funny. Next you'll be telling me hospitals are simply jails for the sick."
"Not a bad metaphor," Holmes replied, his eyes glinting with self-approval.
Chapter 5: The Turn of Events
Hours later, as the clock ticked closer to midnight, I found myself imprisoned in a figurative jail of anxiety and poor choices. Mycroft, maintaining his lead, had accumulated a small fortune, while Holmes continued to dominate with an empire of hotels.
Lifting myself from my chair, I made a desperate appeal. "Let's make this interesting. I propose a wager. If I win, you both agree to submit to my medical advice on your dietary needs for the next week."
"And if you lose?" Holmes queried, stroking his chin contemplatively.
"If I lose, I will refrain from touching another game of Monopoly for eternity," I declared, though secretly I wanted to suggest a lifetime of abstaining from baked beans, which Mycroft had previously consumed in epic proportions.
"Deal!" they proclaimed together, their eerie camaraderie a clear sign this was a ruse designed solely to extract further amusement at my expense.
Chapter 6: The Final Rounds
I rolled my dice with fervor, landing on Boardwalk and promptly mortgaging every asset I owned to buy it. It was a genius move—from my perspective—though the odds were still against me.
"Watson," Mycroft observed coolly, "you've just mortgaged your last property. Are you sure your acumen translates well into real estate?"
I shot him a glance resembling a wounded animal's—grief mixed with defiance. "I will not be shamed by the likes of you!"
As the game pushed on, Mycroft started taunting me with faux pity. "Oh, poor Watson. It seems your fate is sealed!"
A strange sensation swept over me. Perhaps I should use this moment to channel my inner resilience. I could not let Holmes and Mycroft have the final laugh.
I launched into a full-blown tirade about my many adventures in medicine. "Does anyone remember that time I saved that young lady from asphyxiation at the theatre? Or how about the time I—"
Holmes interrupted, "Ah, Watson, ever the lightweight! All talk and no substance. Perhaps you should consider a role more akin to advertising rather than medicine."
I ignored him. "And then, there was the scandal involving the missing cadaver. Certainly, you both recall that?"
"Not fondly," Mycroft muttered, "but I believe you owe someone a sizeable fee. Take away his monopoly privileges, Sherlock."
"I fear I'm doomed," I groaned, strategically throwing a few extra dice rolls to enhance my prospects, only to end up staring at the 'Chance' card that read: "Go Back Three Spaces."
The laughter erupted uncontrollably as I realized that indeed, I had circled right back to square one—a position now comfortably shared with my recently acquired 'Jail' card.
Chapter 7: The Conclusion
Finally, as the game dragged into the wee hours of the morning, my once stout determination fizzled out like a damp firecracker. My wealth, which consisted mostly of debts and old newspapers, shambled to meet its pitiful conclusion.
Holmes and Mycroft exchanged looks, both equally amused and almost triumphant. In a final roll of the dice, they claimed victory—not merely over me but clearly over the discipline of patience and even basic civility.
"Well played, Watson!" Holmes chuckled, handing me the board as I stared morosely at my dwindling properties.
I sighed dramatically, "Perhaps I should've played chess instead. At least there, the stakes involve more than the shame of losing Monopoly."
"Speaking of stakes, how about some breakfast?" Mycroft suggested, thoroughly unperturbed by my dejection.
"Fine, but I'm not eating any more baked beans," I declared.
As we trudged towards the kitchen, I realized that despite losing a silly game, I had gained a memorable evening potently infused with wit, strategy, and rather unfair sibling rivalry. This was decidedly worth the price of admission, even if my wallet would never recover from this particular Monopoly debacle.
Perhaps next time, I would choose something a tad simpler—like a nice game of charades—but I'd have to keep an eye on Holmes
