F f O i R n E i V t E e R

Sherlock Holmes carefully stepped into the dimly lit room and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Grimy tiles lined the walls of the room, and an abandoned operating table lay in the middle.

As he stepped cautiously into the room, Holmes felt his foot slip. Luckily, his experience with Moriarty had heightened his sense of balance.

Looking down, Holmes saw a streak of blood across the floor.

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Holmes and Lestrade dragged Watson’s body through the doors of the hospital, where the nurses who hadn’t fainted gurney-ed him off into the ER.

Exhausted, Holmes and Lestrade collapsed onto two chairs outside the operation room. They both paused to catch their breath.

After a while, Holmes asked, “So, Lestrade. Why did you come to see me?

“Well, it’s about a murder,” said Lestrade.

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Lestrade was stuck in between a rock and a really, really sharp place now.

Mrs. Hudson was rampaging up the stairs, and Holmes was nowhere to be found. The look of fury in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes was paralyzing.

Lestrade mustered up his courage and said, “Mrs. Hudson, please…clam down. You’re being quite irrational.”

“I’ll calm down after I’ve chopped that bitch to pieces,” Mrs. Hudson hollered. She paused to shake her cleaver for emphasis. As she did so, she stumbled, and slipped on a puddle of congealing blood. With a cry, she foundered through the air, her cleaver flying.

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Holmes pulled the trigger with shaky fingers, and the recoil from the shot sent the pistol flying from Holmes’s grasp.

Lestrade braced himself for the shot, which in retrospect, he decided didn’t make any sense at all. What could he have possibly done against a bullet?

Smoke erupted from the shot, and filled the room, clouding everybody’s vision. Somebody screamed in pain. But the cloud of smoke was too thick for Holmes to see through. Even him, in his cocaine-induced stupor, reflexively choked on the poisonous fumes.

Impatiently waving his hand to clear the smoke, Holmes tried to see what had happened.

“My god!” he exclaimed.

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The rain outside drummed on the roof of 13 Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes reclined in his old, worn sofa, and carefully snorted his cocaine. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and some of the white powder dusted onto his bathrobe. Watson, on the other hand, was trying to read the print edition of the most esteemed paper in London: Forever Finite.

“I do say, Watson,” he said, “this is some of the most exquisite crack I’ve sampled.”

Watson said nothing, and continued to delight in reading the good literature of Forever Finite.

“I would offer you some,” continued Holmes, “but I’m a drug addict, so I can’t.”

“Oh I can’t be bothered,” said Watson, as he put down his paper in disgust. That is, disgust at Sherlock Holmes – not disgust in the respectable writing of Forever Finite. He strode over to where Holmes lay slumped in his chair, and sucker-punched Holmes in the face.

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