Monday, March 17, 2003

Holmes leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and pressing his fingers lightly against each other.

“Watson,” he ruminated, “would you wire the good Inspector?”

“But Holmes,” I explained, “you know Lestrade spends his Monday evenings imbibing with all the Yard.”

“All the more reason for him to be agreeable,” he said with eyes closed. “I believe, Watson, that the most outre Affair of Winter Quarter has come to an end.”

“Why, Holmes!” I sputtered, ignoring his incomprehensible use of French. “The case began not more than a few days ago, yet you’ve solved it already. How? Her Majesty will be most pleased.”

“It’s quite simple, really,” he said in that gratingly condescending tone. “You know my methods, Watson.”

“I do?”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he said impatiently.

“Quite so, Holmes,” I nodded, “quite so.”

We sat in profound silence for a moment. I felt my wound from a wayward Jezail bullet flare up.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Get the hell out of 221B Baker Street, foo’.”