Author's note- If you haven't noticed from the title, this is pretty much a fanfic on Sherlock Holmes, genius. Something I just thought of a few seconds before, after reading up on a site called Fanfiction.net. I used to write a lot of fan fiction on almost anything that really hit me- Laurel and Hardy, Deus Ex, NWN, LOTR, even copied some stuff off Alister Maclean and James Joyce.
Most of it, though, remained at home- I used to write then, and now I've grown soft, and touch typing has replaced my favourite inkpens.
Before I digress further, enjoy.
"'MYRLOK CHROME SOLVES BAFFLING MYSTERY, RECOVERS ANCIENT FIRE-BREATHING DRAGON, FINDS THE MISLEADING MEDALLION, FORGETS TO PAY RENT AND IS EVICTED.'"
'Must you read that out so loud, Wiston?' Myrlok contemplated over his joint, while his cigar-smoking, neo-nazi companion continued in his soporific baritone to describe, in painful detail, the nerve-wracking case that had had them both evicted from their premises in 333 Junkie Street.
'Yes, I must, because unless you feel the full weight of your transgressions upon you, you will not realize just how much you must change in these modern times, Hermock!'
'Wiston, we've lived together for nearly fifteen years. My name is Myrlok, S.O.B.!'
'And mine is Witson, but you still forget it after your fourth joint. Which one is that? Why haven't I got a drag? Is that my weed? Didn't you buy your own? Jew scum.'
'Wiston, I am not a jew. Hitler is dead and gone.'
'Mein Fuhrer has sequestered himself in Antartica, building his spaceships for an invasion of Earth,' Witson dropped a gigantic cigar stub into the nearest ashtray, swatting away the dog when it came to smell. 'Do not poison my dog, Shenlock!'
'I don't need to,' the eminent detective propounded, watching the dog gulp down the stub. 'You do it well yourself,' he observed, now poking the dog's paralysed body with his walking-stick. 'But the dog is not what interests me, Wiston.'
'Of course it wouldn't. It's not your dog.'
'It's our dog.'
'I don't see your name on it!'
'That's because you forgot to buy a collar!'
'You know fully well that you spent that money last week gambling!'
'Who wanted to see that new pub? Not me.'
'Our weed stocks were done!'
'So now, it's our weed stocks, eh?'
'Oh my dearest lord, please save me from this asshole, for he knows full well what he does,' Witson lamented. 'This is like being married all over again.'
'You're not married, twit. Not yet, if I have a say in the matter.'
'You don't! Not even your brother does, and I owe him four thousand pounds!'
'That four thousand that you wanted to use to relocate to Cuba? The tickets for which are sitting in our cabinet? Which you have been thinking about since you came back from the airport?' Chrome's keen eye had missed none of those details- the world map with a squiggly line pointing to Cuba in bright pink ink, the ticket sitting in the open cabinet, and Witson's half-finished letter with five words on it- "Want to go to Cuba?"
'Good god, Chrome! You've outdone yourself! How did you- no, don't, because after you finish explaining I will say it is absurdly simple!'
'But it is, Wiston! Absurdly simple! Nothing simpler! Just a pimple!' The great detective's brows furrowed and he giggled at the rhyme for three seconds and twelve frames before taking a deep puff at the joint. 'But Wiston, past the usual arguments, I would really like to explain to my readers how exactly I found the Misleading Medallion!' Chrome had a tenacity for accentuating exactly those words as he saw fit. The Napoleon of Crime wandered in to borrow a light, lit his cigar and wandered back out for a stroll.
'What's there to tell? You went to the pub, got high, pulled some legs, discombobulated some morons, and found the Medallion disguised as an anklet around one of the serving maids who escorted you to your room.'
'But consider, my dear Wiston; how would I know that the medallion was around that maid's ankle? How would I have known that it would be in that particular pub? And also, how many maids escorted me that night?'
'The answer, Chrome, is that the police inspector had given it to the maid because he thought she was pretty good in the bower, if you know what I mean.'
'I concur, Wiston. She was something extraordinary.'
'The inspector also told us of the fact, but you were too tripped out to notice such small details at the time that normally go to no great lengths to evade your vision!'
'I declare, Wiston, that I will never take a cocaine shot before a case. Never again!' He looked around for the nearest mound of cocaine, and found the dog snorting it up. 'Gadzooks! Wiston! Pass the marijuana! This is abysmal! That was two thousand pounds worth of uncut cocaine.' Chrome shot the dog with his revolver, or tried to, but he remembered that there was no money for bullets, so he'd never bothered to load it.
'So the answer to your last question, Chrome, is that you went up with several ladies of rather questionable reputations.'
'Chambermaids. Never insult them!'
'As for the Dragon, Chrome? Where does that lizard fit into all of this?'
'The lizard, my dear Wiston, was elementary.'
'I can hardly see how a flesh-and-blood mythical creature is elementary, Flintlock.'
'No, I mean it was made out of iron, and calcium and some traces of radioactive uranium-234.'
'A mutant? Where did it come from?'
'It came, Wiston, where all these bad things come from- John Carpenter's imagination. After "The Thing" was released, I believe he and Guillermo Del Toro are hatching a conspiracy to flood our imaginations with monsters of most unique and distelled macabre malice. I also suspect Tim Burton's hand in thus, although I am not sure.'
'So how did the dragon fit into this?'
'I thought it would be fun to let the ACJ press get a shot of myself holding the radioactive lizard.'
'Good God, you bastard, they're still a month into their course! You should have at least charged them ten shillings to look at it!'
'They're media, Wiston, and they invoked Article 19 of the Constitution as well as the RTI Act- but thank providence that most of them just wanted to borrow some weed when they were passing by.'
'Fine. Forget I asked.'
'What task? Fart?'
'No, I said that you can leave the matter.'
'Cleave the batter? Sieve the ladder? Wiston, you're making no sense, old chap!'
Witson retreated into the depths of his soul, praying to the one God for patience. Chrome was a mean stoner, but now he was turning into a deaf stoner.
'Never mind, Chrome. Pass me the lighter.'
'Sure.' Chrome tried to move from the chair, unsuccessfully, but was too psyched to do so. He then to eliminate the impossible, and knew that whatever was left behind would be too improbable. So he switched on the laptop nearby, and went over the hour's footage, trying to find where he'd left the lighter, all the while listening to Witson's ineffectual complaints about what a huge fag he was.
'So that's it! The Napoleon of Crime, Profe-shor Jamesh Moliandi actually wandered in here and stole my 1249 gas lighter!'
'They didn't have pressurized gas in 1249 AD, Chrome. You bought it for two cents from the Cornerstore this morning.'
'Never mind, Wiston! We have our next case! Where are my cocaine shots!'
'Didn't you promise to stop snorting coke before a case?'
'Chatter, chatter, chatter! Ah, that feels good. Come on, old chap! I fear Moliandi has already escaped into London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained!'
'Hey! That was my line from A Study in Scarlet!'
'That was our line, Wiston. Now let us pursue the fiend and reclaim our honour!'
'Strange that everything becomes ours in times of your cases, Chrome! What is the conspiracy?'
'I will tell, my mentally challenged friend, in time! For now, tell Miss Busdon to skip the tea and let us run!'
And so they ran, behind the trail of one who would be Myrlok Chrome's ultimate rival, and would lead him to his death- by the nose- but that is a story for another time.