As my good friend Sherlock Holmes looked out across a morning darkened by the Los Angeles smog, he smiled and said, 'You know Watson, this very much reminds me of times of old. I see you are still troubled by that Afghanistan war injury.'
'Good Lord, Holmes!' I ejaculated. I apologised and went to get a cloth. Quite how he knew that I was still troubled by the Crabs I'd caught from a young man at an Anti-Taliban protest I'll never know, but he was quite right. Upon my return, he simply waved my questions away with a murmur of, 'Elementary deductions, my old friend, from the clues at hand,' and he sank into a musing silence that lasted the rest of the day as he put his prodigious intellect to work on his latest case for Scotland Yard. Holmes had been in America ever since he'd been asked by the BBC to investigate the kidnapping of the actress Letitia Dean and her substitution with a bloated and unconvincing lookalike. This case successfully solved, he was now working on concerns about an assassination attempt on the celebrity singer Charlotte Church. The concerns were that it wouldn't happen. And so, as his exclusive chronicler, Holmes has asked me to make use of this quiet time to explain to my readers how the famed Victorian detective came to be alive in 2005.
It all began when Holmes was frozen in Carbonite when one of the beehives he tended in his retirement was booby-trapped by a distant relative of the late Professor Moriarty. His frozen form was placed in the Scotland Yard offices because it could be a tribute to crime-solving and because they never had enough tables for their celebrity dinners.
It was at such an event that Holmes was freed, when a celebrity present that evening - an athlete we shall call Miss X? No, hang on, Paula Radcliffe, that was her name - accidentally released him. Due to a roadside incident, Miss Radcliffe had been charged with a prodigious amount of electricity, and while putting some balloons on the wall to the amusement of the Yard's finest, she grounded herself through Holmes. No sooner had Holmes recovered consciousness than he had solved three of the most puzzling mysteries of the day: the location of racehorse Shergar, Jade Goody's unaccountable popularity, and why Miss Radcliffe smelled slightly of stale piss-
(Help me, please. This is the only place I can ask for help, because Holmes cannot bear to read my accounts of him. Please. I don't know how to get myself out of this. I was working as a waiter in a cocktail bar when I met him. He was smoking a pipe - a pipe? it would be more accurate to describe it as a brazier on a stick - and I was sent to ask him to extinguish it. As with most bar staff in LA, I have a script on my person to show to producers and directors. Holmes asked if he could examine my bulging m/s, which clearly has a different meaning in Victorian London slang because eight hours later I woke up in his apartment. When he discovered that my surname is Watson and that I am a writer, he immediately offered me terms to become his companion and biographer. Although I had to talk him up from a shilling a week, soon we were an item, and it was better than occasionally sucking off a producer in order to get a line of dialogue or two in Star Trek. I know my friends hated him, but I swear I thought I could change him, but however it is getting worse and worse. He leaves all the shopping and cleaning to me, ridicules my writing without reading it, and now he's beginning to mould me into the image of his ex- who's been dead for a hundred years! It's got so bad that I even have to do an accursed ejaculation gag in each tale, just because I'm the comedy sidekick to the alleged master detective. "Master Detective?" That's a joke - he showed me a picture of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, and it's clear to me that he shot and shaved a greyhound! Please help me if you read this. Get me away from this man. I can script-edit, have worked under several producers on TV (and on one occasion, with), and even once sat in the same Starbucks as Joss Whedon.
Oh, the case of the Left Handed Apple-Tree? God knows, some B/S about a banker not being able to hang himself because of his overwhelming fear of artichokes and the murderer being captured because one of his pubes had gone grey on a Monday or something. It's the Emperor's New Deductions, frankly).
I nodded as Holmes explained how the murder had occurred, and applauded his genius.
'It is nothing, my dear Watson, but an elementary deduction based upon the facts at hand. And next I propose to investigate that mysterious noise of teeth-grinding I can hear.'