Joseph Ganisewski

The Periwig Runner

-Part 1-

John hummed quietly to himself as he pulled out a rag to wipe down a nearby table. It had been just three days since he had taken the job at the coffee shop across town. He had needed the money since consulting detective work turned out to be a rather low-paying job; not to mention the notable lack of employers looking for ex-military doctors with psychosomatic limps. In fact, the only reason he had taken this particular job, was because he was certain Sherlock wouldn’t find out. It was on the opposite side of London, in a district the detective rarely frequented. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of needing money--food doesn’t pay for itself—it was just that he was certain it would lessen Sherlock’s view of him; something which, in John’s eyes was, unacceptable.

As John continued to carry out his duties as barista, his mind turned to the tall, scarf-wearing man he had recently moved in with. The two had undoubtedly hit it off, what with John saving Sherlock’s life and all. But John still couldn’t help but think that perhaps things were moving too quickly. He thought back to what an officer had said about Sherlock at the first crime scene they had visited together, “You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends.”

“Could that be true?” he thought, “Most people have friends. Though admittedly most people don’t have someone they refer to as their archenemy; and if they do it certainly isn’t their older brother.”

Still John Watson found himself strangely drawn to Sherlock Holmes, and not in the way everyone seems to assume. He felt like he had finally found a true friend; someone he could trust. He just hoped Sherlock felt the same way.

-------------

Sherlock sat motionless, staring out the window in the main room of 221B. Moments later he snapped out of it, realizing he had become fixating on a man at the street corner, smoking. “Lucky bastard” he thought as his mind raced through all the possible places John and Mrs. Hudson might have hidden his secret supply. He didn’t really even want to smoke; it just seemed a humorous thought to him that they thought they could hide something from him.

As he continued to sit there, his eyes began surveying the small flat. He couldn’t help but notice several things; the most pressing of which was that John appeared to have left for the day. “He didn’t even say goodbye,” thought Sherlock. Then again, perhaps he had—he couldn’t be expected to keep track of everything John said.

“Mrs. Hudson.” He cried out in the silence. No reply. She was probably out talking up the shop owner next door. If she only knew about his wife in Piccadilly, she’d stop wasting her time. He had been about to tell her so the day earlier, but John had stopped him; saying it was in poor taste. Perhaps he was right.

As he thought on the matter, the sudden urge for tea struck him, causing him to drag his body up and into the kitchen. They were out. Normally he would simply repress the urge, but today was a Tuesday, and he and John had agreed that he needed to be more human sometimes; and it had been decided that the ‘sometimes’ would be Tuesdays.

Moments later the slender detective was tying his scarf around his neck and throwing on his long coat. As the door to 221B slammed shut behind him, he realized he hadn’t turned up his collar, which he promptly did with a smile. John often accused him of doing it just because it looked cool, and he was right; though Sherlock would never tell him that.

-------------

John stared at the faces of the customers as they approached and left his register, ordering their coffees and teas. He often found himself trying to notice things like Sherlock, but was never quite able to. He would occasionally notice a detail that seemed to hint at something, only to have it contradicted later on.

As he stood behind the register working, but lost in thought, a woman with brilliant red hair approached him. She stood in front of him for a moment before she ordered, giving him some time to attempt a deduction. He easily noticed that she was rather attractive, on the shorter side, and that her eyes were surrounded by thick, black glasses. And then, of course, there was the hair: a bright red mass of tangled curls precariously held in place by a large, black pin.

As he took in the young lady’s beauty he became suddenly aware that she was talking to him, “Where is your bathroom?” she asked, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an unknown threat.

“Umm, oh, around the back through that door there, but watch out: the door’s a bit squeaky,” he replied after a second, motioning towards the rear of the shop. He smiled at her while he did so but she seemed so distracted by whatever or whoever it was she was looking for that he was sure she hadn’t noticed. And then she was gone, replaced with a line of unremarkably ordinary customers.

John could have sworn he had seen the woman before; perhaps she was a regular customer. “Yes,” he thought, “that was it: he had seen her sitting at a table outside the front of the shop; although he had never before noticed her hair.” As he continued to think about the woman, he remembered that she only ever ordered the same thing: a blueberry scone. John stood, deep in thought, trying to remember more about this beautiful woman. So deep in thought in fact, that he failed to notice two large men step up to his register.

“Oi mate, I said two black coffees, large,” said a deep, gruff voice which broke John’s trance, “is you dumb or something? Two black coffees, large.”

“Very sorry sir,” John replied, flustered by his own lack of attention, “that’ll be 4 quid 50.” As he did so he looked up, and, for the first time noticed the two, rough-looking men standing before him.

“Highway robbery this,” remarked the smaller of the two men as he reached for his wallet, “Hang on, I think I left me wallet in the cab.”

“Never mind your wallet,” whispered the other in a tone easily heard by John, “the boss said we have to finish this today.”

Just then, a high-pitched squeaking came from the rear of the shop, making the two men silence their hushed conversation. John too found himself compelled to check on the sound, turning just in time to see a flash of red pass through the rear door.

-------------

Sherlock hated talkative cab drivers. Normally he would have simply walked somewhere local for tea, but he was apprehensive about possibly running into someone from the station. He knew they all hated him. It wasn’t his fault he was better at their jobs than they were. He stared at the people walking outside as the cab sped down the road: two lawyers, four divorcees, and one woman with particularly bright red hair.

“Shut up.” Exclaimed the detective suddenly, causing the cabbie to look back in surprise.

“I didn’t say anyth--” he started before being cut off by Sherlock.

“You were thinking; terribly annoying. Let me out just up here. And please do so without opening your mouth.” After paying for the cab and suggesting the driver try a new pair of shoes to help with his bad back, Sherlock started making his way towards a nearby coffee shop.

As he walked briskly down the pavement, he was suddenly thrown off-balance by a large man in a black coat walking even faster. The man made no attempt to apologize for the incident; in fact he didn’t even turn to see what he had hit. Before the man was lost in the crowd, Sherlock was able to see a slight bulge beneath his coat, the shape of a handgun. As Sherlock contemplated the reasons a sidearm would be in the hands of a man so clearly not in the military, judging by his unpolished shoes, he continued towards the shop.

After walking for several minutes but still half a block away, Sherlock saw a flash of red hair identical to that of the woman he had seen walking down the street before, but this time it seemed to be running towards him.

-------------

 “Actually I think we’ll pass on those coffees mate,” said the taller of the two men as he craned his neck to look at the back door of the small shop, “something’s…something’s come up.”

Before John could say anything, the two men had taken off towards the rear of the shop, “That was strange,” said the next customer as he approached to place his order, “why do you think they were in such a hurry?”

But before John could answer, his mind raced back to the beautiful woman and the way the men reacted when she left; then he remembered their hushed conversation. Almost before his mind realized what his body was doing, he threw off his apron and ran out of the back of the shop, bursting onto the crowded pavement.

In the distance he could see the two men chasing the red-headed woman, shouting as they gained on her. John cried out as well, racing and pushing through the crowd only to be knocked onto the ground by a bicyclist.

-------------

Sherlock's eyes scanned the crowded street, looking for the reason for the woman's flight. She was slipping through the crowd with ease and was quickly advancing on his position. A loud shout snapped his eyes to a familiar figure in the distance, which quickly disappeared in the swelling crowd.

As the woman passed him, Sherlock spotted a single strand of auburn hair dangling from the bright red mass of curls. He also took note of a peculiar scar just above her left eyebrow. Moments after the young woman passed him, Sherlock was met with the sight of two men stumbling down the crowded pavement; gasping for air. "Officers," said the detective with a sly grin, "you look like you could use a doctor."

-------------

John's eyes opened to the sights and sounds of a crowded street in downtown London. His hazy mind struggled to recall what had happened just moments before, resulting in a piercing pain shooting across his skull. "Fantastic," he thought, suddenly remembering what had occurred; "now I have no job and a headache."

John struggled to find his footing. Despite his blurry vision, he could make out a tall figure pushing its way through the crowd towards him. Moments later, the strong, familiar hands of Sherlock Holmes gripped his shoulders tightly, planting him on his feet.

"What are you doing here?" Was all the stunned doctor could manage to get out.

"We were out of tea," Replied Sherlock curtly, "Now, onto the case."

"The case?" John started, "What case?"

"The case of the red-headed woman John. Why was she running? Why were the police chasing her? The game; is on."

-Part 2-

“Irene Adler,” announced Sherlock as he and John burst into the small flat at 221B that evening, finding Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in their kitchen, “you should have told me you were after her.”

“Look it’s like I told you over the phone,” began the policeman, “we were handling it fine until you interfered.”

“Oh, and I suppose you planned on her outrunning from your two men in the coffee shop. Honestly Inspector, I don’t know why you ever try to solve crime without me.”

Suddenly, a rock smashed through the large window in the front room of the flat, interrupting Sherlock. He rushed to see who had thrown it and caught a glimpse of a young man in black walking away swiftly. “Come on John,” exclaimed Sherlock, still wearing his long coat and scarf, before bolting out the door and down the stairs. John quickly followed, giving no mind to his leg.

-------------

The two men pursued the vandal for what seemed to John like ages but was, in reality, closer to ten minutes. They ran across rooftops and through back alleys, finally catching up to him nearly thirty blocks from where they had begun. Cornered on the roof of a four story building the young man turned to face his hunters, “You’ll never catch her,” he said, looking down at the street below, “No one can catch The Woman.”

“Are you talking about Irene Adler?” asked John just before a loud crack rang out across the night air. John looked on in horror, and Sherlock in indifference, as the body of the young man crumbled onto the rooftop. Sherlock approached him slowly, checking the surrounding rooftops for the shooter, while John rushed to check for a pulse.

Without warning, Sherlock swooped down and jabbed his finger into the hole the bullet had made, causing the man to cry out in agony. “Sorry, but we’re on a schedule,” Sherlock said to John before focusing entirely on the man writhing on the ground. “Where is she?” he demanded as the man cried out in the silence of the cold night, “Where is Irene Adler?”

“Gaaah!--On a train--out of Bromley.”

-------------

The cab in sped through the streets of London, rushing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes to the elusive Irene Adler. They had left Lestrade and the paramedics to handle the young man and his wound; they were on the hunt for a much larger prize. Earlier that day, Sherlock had told John who Irene Adler was, a woman of sin and mystery. The truth was that the British government didn’t know all that much about her, except that her name was connected with countless crimes.

As the taxi sped on into the night, John looked at Sherlock and wondered if he had been hurt by the fact that he had kept his job a secret. Almost as if on cue, Sherlock’s voice boomed awkwardly in the cramped cab, “You know John, if you ever need money--”

“No, it’s fine it’s just that--”

“I was just going to say… that I would be happy to steal some from my brother for you.” said Sherlock, smiling as he did so.

“Bromley Station, just ahead.” Announced the cabbie; breaking the laughter that had erupted between the two friends.

Within minutes, Sherlock and John were in the middle of a crowded station, looking for a woman who seemed destined to elude them. “So we’re looking for red hair?” asked John as his eyes scanned the faces of passers-by.

“Not necessarily,” replied Sherlock just loud enough for John to hear over the buzz of the crowd, “that was a wig so it’s likely she looks completely different.”

As Sherlock said this, a woman walked into him muttering, “Sorry babe,” as she did so. Sherlock looked at her eagerly, but was discouraged to find the wrong shaped nose; noting only a small scar just above her left eyebrow.

John and Sherlock continued to scan the hundreds of faces in the crowd, looking for one in particular. “She could be anywhere,” said John in defeat, “we know she wears wigs; what’s stopping her from wearing prosthetics?” This last comment caught the ear of the detective, who gripped John strongly by the shoulders before throwing up his hands in amazement.

“Oh that is good. She is good” he shouted.

“Who is? Who is good Sherlock?” asked John just as a loud voice rang out calling for final boarding.

“She’s on the train!” shouted Sherlock, pushing his way through the crowd, trying to make it to the train before it left. As he fought against the horde of people, he could see a flash of brilliant, blonde hair just ahead.

The doors of the train slammed shut just as Sherlock reached out his hand to grab the woman’s shoulder. She smiled at him as the train lurched forward, blowing him a kiss before taking off her wig to reveal long locks of dark, golden brown hair falling to her shoulders.

As he watched the last car of the train grow smaller in the tunnel, Sherlock found himself intrigued by the mysterious Irene Adler. Flashing a quick smile, he determined in his mind that he would one day catch her.

John Watson watched as his friend, the infallible Sherlock Holmes, stood on the edge of the platform. Realizing it was the first time he had witnessed Sherlock fail in a case. Then he saw a knowing smile slowly appear on Sherlock’s lips; and he knew that it wouldn’t be the last they saw of the woman, Irene Adler.

Writing Exercise part 2

The silhouette of a man appeared suddenly in the clearing smoke. Against the ever-rising flames of the overturned tanker, the image struck a supernatural fear into the hearts of the attacking natives. Then suddenly the figure was gone, quickly forgotten as simply another event in the midst of a bloody battle. But the silhouette did not forget. It was medical officer John Watson who had emerged with a purpose from the armory; he couldn't bring his friend back to life, but he was sure he could avenge it. After collecting his bearings, Watson made his way around the lines of natives. As he snuck his way past patrols and groups of angry men, he wondered how they could have gotten this way. He had always been told that he was there to help and that the native people welcomed British aid. Obviously he had been lied to, a mistake he will not allow to be repeated. Noticing an opening, Watson tightened his belt, grabbed his revolver, and made a silent dash for a nearby tree line.

A brilliant ligh suddenly engulfed the revenge-bent officer. He heard the cries of nearby enmities, calling for aid. This was his chance, his opportunity to make a difference. If he could manage to take out the light operator and swing it around, he could expose the attacks of the invading natives. Watson reached for his revolver, but before he could grasp it, a sudden pain shot across his skull. 

John Watson awoke in a crowded field hospital next to a harried looking nurse who noticed his eyes open and said, "Ohngood you're up, now someone else can finally use this bed."

"How long was I out?" He questioned.

"Long enough to be an inconvenience," spat the rude nurse, "now get up, I wasn't having a laugh, other people need this bed." 

John looked back at the nurse with a blank stare. "Three days," said a voice from behind, "you've been out for three days."

John spun around in his bed suddenly. Could it be true? Could he really have been out for three days? "Did we win?" He asked the battle scarred soldier who had spoken before, "was it worth the cost?"

"We did win," replied the soldier, "at least as well as anyone can win in war. But the cost was great, the camp was in flames for two days straight, and the brigadier general was shot sometime through the second night. The natives seem to have given up. The only thing anyone's doing now is clean up; well that and patching up the wounded."

"I can help with that," exclaimed John, "I'm a doctor."

"I don't think you'll be doing much of anything mate," the soldier said, motioning towards John's legs.

"What are you on about--" started John as he quickly pulled the sheet off and exposed his legs. The left leg appeared untouched, but the right was wrapped tightly in blood stained rags. "My leg! What's heppened to my leg?"

To be continued

Writing Exercise

A sudden flash of light lit up the small barracks in Southern Africa. Medical Officer John Watson sat up in his cot; reaching for his revolver. An eerie silence fell over the hot, African night, but it didn't last long. A siren suddenly erupted, bringing Watson completely to his feet. He scrambled to find his boots in the darkness, cursing the cheap candle issued to him. A sharp, piercing "psst!" broke him away from these thoughts.

"Atkins," Watson whispered in reply, "is that you?"

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Was the only thing Atkins seemed to be able to mumble as he silently slipped into the tent, filling its interior with his enormous girth.

"Get a hold of yourself man," Watson exclaimed, slapping Atkins across the face, "that's the call to arms ringing so it doesn't matter what's happening; we have our orders."

Atkins slowly turned back to Watson and said with a surprising glimmer of delight in his eyes, "the armory then?"

As the two soldiers made their way across the chaotic camp, Watson couldn't help but reminisce about his childhood. He had always heard that a man's entire life flashes before his eyes when he was about to die, but this was different, maybe he wasn't going to die. Instead of focusing on such morbidity, the eye of Watson's mind turned to the man trying to keep up with him. Harry Atkins had been John Watson's friend since school. They had met in the schoolyard after a large, brute of a child had pushed John into a pile of mud. Harry walked calmly over to the large child, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced his fist to the boy's face. After this, young Harry and John were inseparable. When they had graduated their primary schooling and John left to begin his medical training and enlist, Harry smuggled himself in the fledgling doctor's coach, only making himself known when his empty stomach betrayed him. And so it was that the two friends found themselves in this strange predicament, thousands of miles from home.

A loud crack snapped Watson back to reality. They had reached the armory and were just about to enter when a young private dropped dead mid-stride. Watson hoped Atkins hadn't seen it, but he knew it was a pointless dream. Harry Atkins had never possessed the constitution for blood, further expanding the mystery that was his enrollment in the royal military.

As John entered the small, hut that comprised their camp's armory, he was hit with a sudden sense of futility. "Why are we even doing this Harry?"

"Well I'm here because you wanted to be a glory or something"

"I wanted to help people," John said as he cast his eyes back towards the dead private, "not help kill people."

"Well my dear friend, we can't choose our lot in life. We get what we're given and it seems we've been given mosquitoes and sand."

"But surely we aren't destined for only this."

"Maybe you are, me I'm not so sure about---" but that was all he said. That was all he would ever say. John Watson stared in horror as his childhood friend slowly sank to the ground, a red stain expanding on his dirt-covered uniform. 

"Harry!" shouted the doctor, suddenly very much alone. 

To be continued

A Summary of Sorts

More than slightly ambiguous title aside, this first section will, as always be a summary. This time, a summary of Arthur Conan Doyle's, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle. The curtain opens on a chorus line of hopefuls--no wait, wrong thing sorry. The story begins with Holmes already in the midst of a case, sort of. An aqua thence of his, a concierge at a local hotel, witness several ruffians grouping around a man on his way home several nights earlier. As the concierge approached to see what was going on, both the ruffians (a word seriously underused in casual conversation) and the seemingly innocent man fled; leaving only a hat and an uncooked goose behind. These are what the good-willed concierge brought to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in an attempt to determine the rightful owner. Now that you understand the basic premise- which I assume, based on the fact that you can obviously read seeing as you got this far- I will skip ahead to the conclusion: the "witness" was actually the thief and he had simply put the diamond in the wrong goose's throat. There, all clear now right? Oh, what's that? You actually know less now than you did before? Well maybe you should just read the stories instead of relying on my summaries. Sorry, that was uncalled for. I have no way of knowing if you did or didn't read the story ahead of time;it's wrong of me to assume. That being said, if you haven't already read the story, go and read it. It's not half bad...it is however, also not half good.  Compliment-ception!!!

Side-note: I recently discovered how to use the italics feature on the app I use to do these blog posts, so that's pretty great.

Now comes the promised ambiguous portion of the post. The part where I ramble on and on, somehow tying it into the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's writings in the end. Or is it? Maybe I'll surprise you today reader. Maybe I prepared a special message ahead of time for this very moment. I didn't, I'm just saying I could have. I guess that just shows you how much I care: this much. I realize you can't see my hand gestures as I type this, but rest assured that my hands are so far apart right now; representing the seemingly endless capacity of my cares.

Hey remember a few minutes ago when you read that that last part was the promised ambinguous section of the post? Well I lied, it's this part. Haha I got you good. Just kidding it wasn't even supposed to be funny, it just worked out that way. Happy-coincidences aside, I will now discuss the importance of modern re-imaginings of older things, like Sherlock Holmes, in relation to their lasting popularity. That was a mouthful wasn't it; Hey-oh! If that didn't get a chuckle out of you in don't know what will. Just kidding I do, but (spoilers) I'm saving that for the ending. Ok, so back to the meat of the post: how much of a role does the re-introduction of a classic through a more modern medium, such as TV, play in that classics longevity? I believe it is nessesary to present classics in a new light to the new generations. Not because the new version is better, but because without it, the new fans would likely have never discovered it. If a person who watches a lot of TV but doesn't read sees the BBC's Sherlock, they might just love it so much that they go out and buy a copy of The Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes. These re-.imaginings shouldn't be viewed as replacements, simply the gateway drug to a vast and wonderful world of literature.

Ok, now that that's over with, the promised chuckle-inducing ending. What do you call a elephant mixed with a rhino: 'el-if-i-no. I mean seriously how can you not laugh at that? 

Additionally, I used an unprecedented amount of dashes on this post, I do not know why-it just happened that way I guess. See what I did there? 

Summary and a Not so Original Re-Casting

I'm not dead, joy of joys. But enough sentiment. When last I posted, I promised to finish my summary of the Hound of the Baskevilles; allows-y! The last thing I remember telling you is that Sir Henry Baskeville had lost his shoes and that Watson was to accompany him as he returned home. After arriving at Baskerville manor and hearing the cries of a woman through the night, Watson began his questioning of the locals: Sherlock Holmes' primary suspect, the aged groundskeeper of Baskerville hall, a local wildlife fanatic, and his wife, to name a few. While there, Doctor Watson experienced many strange occurences, the disembodied howling of a dog and the silhouette of a mysterious man being the most noteworthy. I will now attempt to sum up in true Sherlock fashion in an effort to save both your time and the stamina of my fingers. The mystery man was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, and the howling dog belonged to the aforementioned wildlife fanatic. It also just so happens that the owner of the dog was also the one responsible for the murder of Sir Henry Baskerville's predessor. That about does it for the summary portion of today's post; apologies if the feel of it was off, I wasn't expecting to be blogging at all today and had neglected to preform the usual pre-blog ritual.

Oh hello again, still here are you? Well you might as well keep reading I suppose, seems rude to stop now. As the title of this post suggests, I will now re-cast the major roles in The Hound of the Baskervilles; spoilers, Benedict Cumberbatch is Sherlock Holmes - if it ain't broke, don't fix it right? The role of Doctor John Watson remains with its current actor, Martin Freeman. If you need to ask why, see my reason for choosing Benefit Cumberbuzzle. Now onto the less major characters, the role of Sir Henry Baskerville goes to Tom Hiddleston. Tom has showcased his talent as both Marvel's Loki, as well as numerous serious dramas so he would be perfectly suited for walking the line between Doyle's serious and comedic undertones. Finally, the role of the murderer, whose name escapes me and quite frankly doesn't matter right now. British actor John Simm. His role as The Master in Doctor Who perfectly prepared him for, "embodying a murderer" (sounds bad when you put it like that). Well that does it for me today, I'm off to eat lunch now. I'm leaving now, and I shan't be bac- puts on ring and disappears- I just realized you can still read what I write if I'm invisible. I'll just go now.

Summary, Dissection, and a Bit Extra

When I last posted, I had just begun reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. Since then I have read several more short stories: A Case of Identity, A Scandal in Bohemia, and The Adventure of the Red-headed League to name a few. Rather than spend twenty minutes summarizing all of these, I will focus on my continued reading of the full-length story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Starting from where I left off, Sir Henry Baskerville has lost a boot. Several boots to be exact. It is unclear what role the missing boots will play in the future, but what is clear is that we can expect great things from the boots. After all, footwear in the past did great things. Terrible! Oh yes, but great. Additionally, Holmes volunteered Watson to accompany Baskerville back home, so that happened. Keep this page bookmarked because in another one to three weeks I may post an update.

Now on to the second part of the post. You know, the completely voluntary and in no way required part. Well as I was saying, this time I will be dissecting the, "emotional journey of a round character in my novel". I should clarify, this previous use of quotations in no way references someone's telling me what to write about, that's just how I, "talk". You wouldn't know because you've never spoken to me; you've only read my thoughts written out. Unless you have spoken to me. But even then can you really be sure? Perhaps you've just never noticed. Perhaps you've just never noticed a lot of things. Perhaps the people you thought you knew, you never knew at all; and the people you didn't know, never really existed. This has been Food For Thought, a new, third segment I am introducing effective immediately. It will continue to be included in these posts until a time I no longer think it necessary, or until I forget.

And now, you're regularly scheduled post:

Doctor John Watson has undergone quite a trek these last few stories. When he first met Holmes, the good doctor was an out-of-work vet, looking for a place to live. Now he is married with his own practice as well as the continued side-business of aiding his friend in solving crimes. But do these physical changes in circumstance equate to equally radical changes in emotion, or do they simply present the facade of change while allowing the person to remain emotionally stagnant? While it always depends on the character, in this instance I believe the first position to be more accurate. Doctor Watson has grown over the course of his time spent with Holmes. He has become more open, more observant, and more caring. And while these changes might have occurred without Holmes' intervention, they most certainly would not have had the same effect. 

Entry Five: The One That Comes After Four

To begin, a summary of recent reading. The Hound of the Baskervilles is the next story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that I have chosen to read, and it's looking good so far. I'm hopeful for this one in particular since it is one of the few that have been adapted in the BBC's modern retelling, Sherlock. Quick editorial: watch Sherlock if you haven't already. seriously, stop reading right now, and go watch it! Alright, now that that's out of the way (for now), I'll get started with the summary. the story opens on Holmes and Watson discussing the owner of a walking stick they had discovered in their flat after arriving home. Holmes presses Watson to make several deductions of his own, but unfortunately for Watson's pride, they turn out to be incorrect. They soon uncover the identity of the stick's owner when the man returns to hire Holmes. Without getting to specific, the man is a doctor and one of his patients (an old man) has died. The patient believed that his family was cursed and the doctor has come to believe it was this very curse that was responsible for the old man's passing. Holmes is intrigued by the supernatural aspect of the case, and agrees to assist. The game--is on!

And now a word from my sponsors: "Contrast one round and one flat character."

Well you heard them readers, and since "they" are the ones that make this blog possible, I suppose I must comply. Here we go. When it comes to a round character, that is to say a character that is well-rounded or developed, look no further than the title character; mister Sherlock Holmes himself. Although Holmes displays qualities of a flat character to an unobservant eye, a keen reader will observe that he uses this flatness to distance himself from others and aid in his deductions. He would be the first to tell you that the moment you develop a personal attachment to something, you become compromised. Apart from this, we also glimpse Holmes' vulnerable side: through his addiction to opiates. Additionally, Holmes has developed a strong friendship with Watson, going against his own practices. Why does he do this? Because he's human. He may not like to remember it, but Sherlock Holmes is very much a human with emotions and feelings. And now, in accordance with the sponsors' wishes, I present to you a flat character: any of the "assisting" detectives. These so-called professionals are basically only good for calling in Sherlock Holmes for help. They have little to no back story and limited dialogue. And certainly no development to speak of, perfectly embodying the term "flat".
Sorry for all the colons, I don't know why I used so many: weird.
Do you see what I did there?