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Monday, January 28, 2013

She was dead on her feet.

Allow me to introduce Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson as you've never imagined. We all love a good clean twist on an old tale.

Sherlock Holmes in Dead on her Feet

At some point before his stories begin, Sherlock had to master his craft. And he didn't learn it from his brother, Mycroft.

Holmes and Watson are thrust into helping the police solve the puzzling murder of a female army sergeant. Poor woman. She was dead on her feet.

Here is an excerpt:


"Captain Holmes?"
Holmes looked up from his desk to find a small man standing in the doorway of his office. Towering above and behind him, as she was the tallest of the pair, stood his young clerk, Corporal Taylor.
She shook her head in an apology. "I'm sorry, sir. This man insisted on seeing you. I told him you were busy, but he said it was important." She shot the little man an unimpressed glare. "He just rushed in here."
"That's all right, Corporal." Holmes directed a calm, curious stare at the man. For some inexplicable reason, he annoyed Holmes, so he used his best British accent when asking, "How may I help you?"
The man glanced behind him, not at the departing non-commissioned officer, but in the other direction. He bit his lip and swallowed, looking uncomfortable in this military setting. Holmes wondered briefly why the man was even allowed on the base. In these distrusting times, even CTC Gagetown in New Brunswick restricted access to its base.
But Canadians had a different idea on access, Holmes noted. And Maritimers an even different take than the rest of Canada. Bordering on total lax, actually.
For that reason, Holmes noted some curious details about the little man. A few beads of sweat, numerous chewed cuticles, a slight hunch. Red lines of chafing between his thumbs and forefingers. The man normally wore wrist braces, Holmes assumed, possibly for carpel tunnel. A repetitive strain injury? On a computer too much?
"Are you Captain Sherlock Holmes?" the man whispered as he looked down at the paper in his hand. "Of Her Majesty's Coldstream Regiment?"
"Yes, I am. And you are…?"
The man took a tentative step into the office. "My name is Oliver Hemp. I-I run the website called 'Find the Truth'"
Ahh, yes. Hemp. Recognizing the name, Holmes stood, walked around his desk and offered his hand. Find the had promised him they'd do their best to locate his birth parents.
Since returning from Afghanistan, where his men had discovered a Taliban torture chamber, Holmes had felt the strong need for truth in his life. So much death and pain over there for so many people had sparked a desire to find answers in his life. Shortly after applying for this exchange position with the Canadian Armed Forces, Holmes had registered with Mr. Hemp's company. And when he received confirmation he was coming to Canada, he felt supreme satisfaction. After all, New Brunswick was his birth province. Why not start his search here instead of in England where he'd been raised?
But the news the nervous man was here to convey was not good. That much was obvious. "Have you found my parents?"
Again, Hemp swallowed and glanced over his shoulder. "Not quite. First, sir, allow me to apologize for showing up here unannounced. I know you asked to be contacted by email only, but since I, um, live right here in Oromocto, and, well, other reasons, I thought I would, well, deliver the news personally." The last part of his speech spewed from his mouth with great urgency.
Stepping back, Holmes controlled his growing annoyance. "And that news is?"
A woman's shrill voice sliced the air in the outer office. Then, the source of such harshness barreled in, shouldering Hemp aside. She was shorter than even the little man, and given to plumpness, with hair that was once as dark as Holmes', although now streaked with white at the temples.
She stood in front of him, akimbo. "So, son, who the hell named you Sherlock?"

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