The Game Is Apparently Afoot.

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Sherlock Holmes. The man’s brain was a Victorian pressure cooker steam powered deduction with a side of pipe smoke and emotional constipation. 


Right then. The game is afoot, apparently. Which is Victorian for “I’ve spotted something daft and I’m about to make everyone feel thick about it.”

You see, while the rest of you were busy tripping over footprints and fondling clues like they were the last sausage roll at Greggs, I was busy noticing the angle of the mud on the left boot of the milkman’s cousin’s dog. Which, obviously, means the vicar’s been embezzling funds to buy erotic wallpaper. Elementary, my dear Watson though frankly, Watson’s about as elementary as a broken compass in a fog bank.

I don’t solve crimes. I dismantle delusions. I walk into a room and the furniture starts confessing. I once deduced a murder from the way a man buttered his toast. Diagonal. Psychopath.

And don’t get me started on Moriarty. The man’s got the charisma of a damp flannel and the strategic subtlety of a toddler with a bazooka. He thinks he’s my nemesis. I think he’s a glorified sudoku puzzle with a moustache.

So yes, I’m brilliant. But it’s exhausting being the only sentient creature in a city full of tweed and tea. I long for a challenge. Or at least a pub quiz where the answer isn’t “Holmes again.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a violin to abuse and a skull to chat with. It’s the only one in this house that doesn’t interrupt me with “But Holmes, are you sure?”



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