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Elementary, My Dear Watson
No. A word as simple as that could have anyone terrified. Sherlock Holmes on the other hand took it as a passage to a new opportunity. One door closes, twenty more open. He is a man of a cat like brain, more questions, no answers. No answers until they are sought upon with hunger for madness and chaos. But no one could find more curiosity to no, and Holmes himself, more than Dr. John Watson. The very man who he finds incapably insane for that matter of which contrasts in no. Fiddling with his mind, tweaking his thoughts, one could only come upon Dr. Watson in the manner of no. Only two men can take the ground upon which the word no stands. Cunning, witting, and good mannered. But ever last, who are we kidding when they just walk away and refuse with one simple word. No.
The fine teaching of sleuth can be mastered only in the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Watson is still in that stage of 'my, my, this man is an insane genius.' At last he is, but Sherlock never applies himself towards his duties till he is kicked off his bum into a good case with dignity. Trouble may arouse the man for which he speaks part in, only Dr. Watson can stand in the way of Sherlock and jail. But to Sherlock this is just, elementary.
On a frost bit afternoon in February, on the snow specked street in London, sat a brick building of three stories. A fire humbled quietly in the marble set fireplace, burning away the hidden secrets of the present. The clatter of teacups could be heard over the hushed silence in the room. Dr. Watson sat eagerly on the edge of the floral print arm-chair. He waited for the muffled patter of two slouched, size eleven feet to clamber down the stairway. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes past, the fire decayed to a silent roar, the tea cooled, but nothing came about.
Dr. Watson leaped from his chair, scurried up to the empty second floor. First room, second, third, fourth, and fifth room all empty with the all to familiar silence. Third floor, the attic. He quickly unlatched the opening rift to reveal the dimly lit room, with a man continuing his insanity.
“Morning Watson.” Sherlock hung, by his ankles, upside-down above the glass dinner plates.
“If I do say, what mad theory are you testing now?”
“No time for questions, Watson. If my hypothesis is correct, I should be able to remove the plates by using the force of gravity and not break a single one. Untie me Watson.”
“Holmes, you're a mad man ready to strike death,” said Watson.
“Fine, if you wish to not let me proceed then you may just tie strings around my wrists and ankles and control me as if you were some master puppeteer.”
“You seem to be able to tie yourself up perfectly well.” The buzzing of a bell alerted the two gentlemen of an on coming guest, for Watson a long awaited arrival. “Holmes, I do believe there is someone at the door. I'll get it if you chose to lower yourself to reality.”
“Watson, I find the madness behind reality oblivious. Why is right right and left left? These are the questions that embark their presence among us as humans. Now, if you would like me to remain intact to Earth's gravitational pull, you must untie me,” Holmes stated.
Watson prodded over to the large weight the rope was tied to. He undid the knot and released Sherlock to plummet, head first, into a stack of porcelain plates. One, two, three, five plates broken, a man lay upon them. The bell rang again, then a knock, and another ring. The clatter of the incident caused the voice at the door to call for the two men. They both shuffled down the stairs to the familiar stranger in the doorway.
“John,” she bellowed in an accusing manner.
“Elizabeth, my look at the time. We must get going.”
“Watson, where are you planning to excuse yourself so quickly too?” Holmes asked, his detective personality over-taking his mind. “Elizabeth, why don't you and Watson here join me in tea.”
“Holmes, we are leaving,” Watson stated.
“John, if your colleague here wants us to join him, we must accompany him from the state of loneliness.”
“Jolly, Watson, get us some warmer tea. This batch seems to be utterly cold.”
“No,” Watson said. “Elizabeth a date is a date. We will not spend another evening together under this roof with this man!”
“John.” Watson was in shock, Holmes had never seemingly taking upon his first name, and here he was, stating what was only a fact.
The bell ceased them from further argument. Watson hurried to the door to stumble upon yet another case. There stood a short man. A very short man. His grubby hands were bandaged in filthy white cloth. His coat was ratted and two sizes too small for the unthinkably plump man. He wore no shoes, only white cloth tied around his feet. A long beard masked his face halfway, revealing two deep hazel eyes, roaming the room before them with curiosity.
“Holmes, could you come here,” Watson asked. “Now.”