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Warm-Up – 06/14/11 – Sherlock O’Holmes, Irish Detective

June 14, 2011

Watson burst into the room with the armed constabulary in hot pursuit of Sherlock O’Holmes, the Irish Detective. Watson knew that he had left word of his whereabouts on a napkin so cleverly scrawled that it took him and three Constables upwards of eight hours to of guesswork to deduce, get it wrong, and deduce again. Now they stood on the outside of a brownstone along St. James Street, where the weary Constables stood at the ready to kick the door in.

“O’Holmes! Can you hear me?” Watson shouted. Hearing no reply, the Constables lined up and one sprang forward to kick in the door when it opened suddenly, dropping the Constable to his knee and down the stairs.

Sherlock O’Holmes stood on the other side of the door. He was dressed elegantly, with cigarette burns, dirt and the stains of fresh booze upon his suit. “Watson! Well done! You are on time, you old bastard queer.” He turned and wandered back into the house.

“But sir,” Watson whimpered. “We are very late.” Sherlock walked back inside the house, where Watson and the Constables followed. The rank stench of the house caused the three to hold their noses with disgust but did not affect Watson, who had lost the ability to smell and taste hours after moving in with Sherlock.

“What the hell is that?” a Constable asked.

“It smells like piss.” Another said. “Rank piss.”

Sherlock O’Holmes laughed. “I brought two of my greatest passions together at last: Consultative detecting, the mysteries of science,” he beamed, “and drinking.”

O’Holmes pushed open a door to reveal a bloated corpse on the floor. The stench was overpowering.

“Dear god Holmes, what have you found?” Watson creaked. He immediately dropped to his knees and checked the man’s vitals. “He’s been dead for hours.”

“Of course he has Watson,” Sherlock said, taking a swig from a flask no one saw him produce. “I killed him.”


“Shut it, Watson.” He grubbily rubbed the sweat from his brow into his filthy red locks. “At least, trying to drink as much as me killed him. But now! I have solved the case of the bastard who tried to drink more than me!” Sherlock said, waving the flask above his head and swaying his hips in victory.

“But why is he wet? Is there a water leak somewhere? Or did you drop something on him?” Watson urged.

“Bah!” Sherlock shouted, leaping over the body until he straddled it. “I have been testing my theory of decay using bodily fluids.” He unzipped his trousers and produced his member before attempting to shower the corpse in his fluids.

It took all three Constables and Watson to wrestle him to the ground and cover his member while the ambulance arrived and dragged the body away.

“We must press on Watson, there are discoveries to be had and whoores to be attended to.” Sherlock spasmed on the floor while Watson sat on his chest to keep him from moving.

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