My Weekend With Sherlock
I’m fully aware that those of you who read these posts regard me as some autonomous demi-god, a divine being with a razor sharp wit, who slumps himself over a couch eating grapes, dictating each post to an inferior human being, who in turn dictates it verbatim to another, even more pathetic creature. Yet, for all the poise and grace you imagine I have, and which I do have, I still can’t gain direct access to Cumberbatch and his oddly angular face.
The closest I came to meeting him was when I chloroformed his postman, and stole some of his mail. Admittedly, the letters I had stolen turned out to be nothing more than a water bill and a Thai Restaurant menu; but as I sat there slurping on some noodles and shouting down the phone at Thames Water, I felt as if Sherlock and I were the best of friends.
Of course, what this all boils down to is the simple fact that I fucking love Sherlock. It’s a brilliant piece of televisual entertainment, period. I love it so much that I kind of wish that Cumberbatch was really Sherlock, instead of being Cumberbatch. I wanted this so much that I decided to make it a reality, and when I say that, what I really mean is that I decided, then and there, to defraud a charitable organization, say, one that grants wishes to terminally ill children, for my own gain. Simples. I even had a mark. Her name? Let’s just call her Ms. Make-A-Wish-Foundation-UK, and not ask any more questions. Anyway, my wish was simple: To spend a weekend with Cumberbatch, during which he would assume the identity and personality traits of Sherlock, from Sherlock. And my supposed terminal illness? a unique case of Super Cancer AIDS. A fictitious disease so horrible, that it’s not just worse than having Cancer or AIDS, but worse than both combined (that’s what the qualifier ‘super’ refers to).
Needless to say, the nice folks over at M-A-W-F-U-K were very kind and considerate, especially after seeing how debilitating my disease was. I convinced them as to the seriousness of my imaginary Super Cancer Aids through a number of methods:
1. I stopped showering, sighed wistfully and claimed water made my skin burn (I stole this from that witch in The Wizard of Oz)
2. I covered my body with salami slices and claimed they were extra nipples (I stole this from an episode of Family Guy), when this was questioned I claimed I couldn’t lift up my shirt as I was body conscious, before sighing wistfully.
3. I painted a swimming cap pink and wore it as “proof” of my Chemotherapy. I explained away the tufts of hair poking out near my ears as the last few hairs I had left, before sighing wistfully.
4. I bought a Kerry Katona DVD and, instead of watching it to lose weight and account for my AIDS-ridden body, I instead simply showed the M-A-W-F-U-K team that I had bought a Kerry Katona DVD, before sighing wistfully, and being immediately bumped up to ‘critical condition’.
5. I starting sighing wistfully a lot more
I think you’ll all agree that it was quite the perfect crime. So, within a week all the relevant forms were submitted and I started hearing rumours that Cumberbatch might be interested. These rumours were proven true one Saturday morn on which I read an interview Cumberbatch did with that stalwart of journalism, Gordon Smart, from the Sun’s Bizarre pages - the home of the latest showbiz, celebrity and entertainment news – in which Cumberbatch heavily implied, by out rightly stating, that he was very interested in working with M-A-W-F-U-K. His almost perfectly perfect cheekbones were almost perfectly ensnared in my almost perfectly dastardly plot. I could almost smell him (and not just because I knew what aftershave he wore and had bought if for myself).
A fortnight after this I received a letter from M-A-W-F-U-K congratulating me that ‘although you are dying, your wish has been granted! You will be: spending a weekend with Cumberbatch during which he will assume the identity and personality traits of Sherlock, from Sherlock.’ This was the best news I had received since being acquitted of all charges in that unmentionable (rape) court case I might have (definitely) been involved in (I wasn’t) (I was). I checked the calendar on my iPhone 4S – a gift from M-A-W-F-U-K well-wisher, score bitches! – And realized that the weekend that I had been allowed access to Cumberbatch was literally days away! I was so excited I almost pissed myself, and then I decided it would probably just add more credence to my Super Cancer AIDS story, so I did piss myself; and let me tell you, that the hot, wet mess between my legs didn’t dampen my spirits at all, no-sir-ree.
But it did ruin my chinos.
It was three days later and I was all packed and ready to go. I had even packed a small gift for Cumberbatch, to thank him for giving up his time for me, a dying child. Although, to be honest, had he not given up his time for a dying child, I would have given a tell-all interview to Heat Magazine, and made him look like a right selfish prick. But, thankfully, he wasn’t. He and his cheekbones were as friendly as they were sharp. With bag in hand, a smile in my falsely diseased heart, and a skip in my step (not too much of a skip though), I made my way into central London to meet Cumberbatch, henceforth referred to as Sherlock.
I bought a sausage sandwich from a greasy spoon along the way, and upon arriving at 221b Baker Street, I promptly sat cross-legged on the floor and started chomping on my sandwich. Weirdly, as I sat there, tongue wrestling with the rubbery bread, people started throwing coins at me as if I was some kind of homeless charity case. I couldn’t believe the nerve of these people: I’d gotten what I’d wanted – Sherlock – by being falsely terminally ill, not by being residentially challenged. And that’s pretty much what I said to the next person, who threw a coin at me,
“I’ve got Super Cancer AIDS, I’m not fucking homeless,“ I paused, and then added “you twat,” for extra emphasis.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” blustered the man, a balding middle-aged specimen.
“So you should be, it’s not like you’ve got anywhere to be, unlike me. I’ve got big things going on”
“Excuse me?” he stuttered,
“You’ve got nothing on going on. Why would a middle-aged man, his peak earning years, be walking the street at 11am on a Monday? Unless he had no work to go to and was instead meandering to the dole office, just for something to do. Maybe along the way he’ll concoct a tale of how he injured himself and now needs to claim extra money because of his handicap. No, no, your V-Neck sweater and polo shirt combo suggest that you’re not a man who cares to lie to the government, to the man, to the duke of dark corners. You’re just a scared little man, who went so far as to rig up a home painting job so that you would “accidently” fall off your ladder, and thus have a legitimate case in claiming extra, and undeserved, money from a government you fear. Yes, I can see the splodge of red paint on your jogging bottoms sir. And the traces of rust under your finger nails, let alone the t-shirt you’re wearing bearing the slogan “Oxfam Volunteer: Neighborhood decorator” – You sicken me.”
The balding man stood still for a moment and gulped. I knew then that I had Sherlocked his ass.
“H-how, did you do that?” He eventually managed to stutter.
“Never you mind Smee – that is my new name for you: Smee – never you mind Smee. But, away with you now. Tell all your little criminal friends that Thomas Watts, nay Doctor Watson, is here to clean up this town,” as the words left my mouth I screwed up the left side of my face, chewing on an imaginary stick, just like Clint Eastwood did in all those films he done.
Again, the man, Smee, paused before he spoke, “Are you okay mate? Your face has gone all…all, weird. Are you having a stroke?”
“How’d you know all that stuff? You been following me?”
“No, I simply Sherlocked your ass”
“You’re gonna what to my ass? Listen mate I ain’t one of those benders. You’re a freak! That’s it isn’t it! You’re gurning because you’re on those gay pills, the ones the gays take”
I was shocked. Clearly, my utilization of Sherlock’s mind palace technique had been mistaken as a homosexual advance – each to their own, I guess – and as such had brought out quite an adverse reaction in this pathetic, unemployed man.
“What on Earth are you talking about, you pathetic little man”
“Oh, I’m pathetic now am I? Well fuck you, I ain’t gonna let you rape me!” and with that, the once timid man, threw himself at me, raining blows down on me.
I had no idea what was happening, but a second became an eternity, I was falling into the darkness, I felt like Gandalf when he fell off that bridge.
And then it stopped. The blows had ceased. I cautiously opened my eyes and was greeted by the sigh of the little, balding, unemployed, repressed man turning and leaving (scurrying is how I would describe it), without once looking back.
I looked up at the shadowy face of the person who had broken up the fight; could it be? It had to be really, didn’t it! It was Sherlock.
Actually, it wasn’t Sherlock, but a nice man called Simon, who lived in 221a – directly below Sherlock.
I was sat at Simon’s table, drinking hot chocolate and generally recovering from my war wounds, when I noticed the time: It was 4pm and there had been no sign of Sherlock all day. What kind of wish request was this? I turned to Simon,
“What kind of wish is this?” I bemoaned to him
“Yes, wish. I’m terminally ill you see, I’m dying of Super Cancer AIDS,” I sighed wistfully before continuing, “and I was supposed to be hanging out with Sherlock all weekend,” it felt good to get it off my chest, as well as reinforcing my neediness, thus opening up the possibility of exploiting any more of Simon’s clearly altruistic nature.
“Hmm. Umm who were you supposed to be seeing today again, sorry?” asked Simon as gently as a baby bird hitting the floor having fallen out of a nest.
“I was supposed to be seeing Sherlock, the actor Cumberbatch,” Damn, I’d mentioned his name, “Damn!”
Simon just stared at me,
“I mentioned the actor’s name,” I explained.
“Oh. Well, I live here and I’ve never met this Sherlock character,” he paused, and repeated, “And I live here!” This time gesturing to himself by jabbing his thumb into his chest.
That’s when it hit me. It had been staring me in the face for so long: Sherlock’s non-appearance, Simon’s…Simon, all the other things! It all fitted so neatly together, like a jigsaw made entirely of squares. The perfectly tessellated crime.
I took a deep breath, paused, exhaled, then said, “I know you did it Simon”
“Did what,” asked Simon as he casually stirred his own, slightly foamier, mug of hot chocolate. The stench of guilt was written all over him like an alarm siren.
“I know that you’ve recently been around barbed wire as I can see that your woolen sweater has been torn at and caught recently. Barb wire? You may ask, well what better place for a body disposal than somewhere that’s hard to access? And I know that you were carrying firearms as I can detect a whiff of gunpowder in your aroma. I can see the flecks of dirt under your nails, and in your cracked skin. You’re a man who enjoys cleanliness and so such of an oversight in personal hygiene tells me that there’s something on your mind. And that subject is murder most foul Simon, murder most foul indeed!” Without a pause for breath I whipped Sherlock’s present from out of my bug, split the sellotape with a single deft motion, and donned the deerstalker hat that I had so lovingly knitted all last week.
“Murder?” He managed to slip in, before I cut him off,
“The murder of the resident of 221b Baker Street – the murder of Sherlock Holmes. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the dirt on the spade in the corner of the room, and the photos of women with the eyes cut out on every wall, let alone the blow up sex doll you keep referring to as ‘Janice’, and last but not least because you have a mad glint in your eye, a look that say’s “I’m going to kill you now, because you know my terrible secret” but without the foresight to have predicted that I would have already have assumed all this, and placed a phone call to the police alerting them to the murder you committed. The murder I knew you had committed as soon as I noticed you leering out your window upon my arrival to Baker Street. Yes! It was then that I placed my call to the police, and taking into account traffic times, bird migration patterns, earth tremors, tire erosion, gravel deposits, and my intense knowledge of the Earth’s wind systems, I predict that the police will be here in…2…1”
With that the door smashed open and several armed policeman exploded into the room, and encircled the murderer.
I smiled smugly, “Nice try Simon…or should I say: Professor Moriarty?” I felt like a peacock; never had my chest been so swollen before, and never had my tail been spread so regally.
“Moriarty? What? What are you talking about?” Wailed Simon, as the policeman unlawfully beat him a little bit.
“Simon, please, you’re shrieking. It’s really taking the sheen off of my victory,” as if in response a policeman belted Simon in the face with the butt of his gun, “ah, that’s better,” I answered in response to the newborn silence.
By the time all plaudits had finished coming my way it was about 7pm, and though I was a hero to these mortals around me, I still had yet to see Sherlock. But somehow, it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Sherlock was dead, killed by Simon Moriarty for all I knew, or cared. It made no difference; I had come for the party and been named King of the Prom, did I meet Sherlock? No. Was I certain Simon committed Cumberbatch’s murder? No. Was I certain that Simon had even murdered anyone? No. Was I certain that Simon had at some point in his life done something that was worthy of police caution but no one had been around to see it? No. Did I give shit? No. Had I sent a creepy, yet essentially, harmless weirdo to jail for no real reason? Hell yes. And I’d do it again.
So, drowning in the velvety truffle-like nature of my own ego, I decided to forgo the police offered, taxpayer funded, taxi and instead walk home. Sure I was dying of Super Cancer AIDS, but M-A-W-F-U-K had given me something better than a wish: my life back.
I started walking with purpose, each breath a little deeper than the last, and each thought a little wiser than the one that preceded it.
It was three streets later that one of my salami nipples fell off and I remembered I wasn’t really dying.
In the end, Cumberbatch never turned up - well he might of, but by that time I’d already started walking home so as not to miss the start of Take Me Out – but of more importantce was the lesson that I had learned. And that lesson was how lucky I was (and still am) to have not been caught, and sent to jail, for defrauding a charitable organization for terminally ill children.