Blue Beanies For Blue Meanies

…because we ran out of red beanies


The Doclopedia #746

Fiction Snippets: Holmes Is Where The Heart Is

My second thought, as I stood there looking at the nervous little guy, was one of great sympathy. The whole pre-pubescent young love thing was one on those terrifying first stumbles towards adulthood that was terrifying when it hit you.

My first thought was that I would not go through it again for all the money in the world. My inner 11 year old still got the shakes thinking about asking Katie Connelly to that damned school Christmas party.

What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”, he asked, looking as though he might bolt any second. “What if she laughs in my face?”

Time for my Dad Voice, modified for a boy instead of my three daughters. “Look, Sherlock, we have already established that she likes you. She will want to talk to you and she won’t laugh at you. In fact, I’m willing to bet that young Miss Lattersham will hang on your every word. You have nothing to fear.”

He fixed me with that cold analytical stare of his and said, “You know, it is bloody unfair that you know how this will turn out and won’t share it with me.”

Time for a bit of lying. “Actually, I don’t know all of the details. I just know that you need to go talk to her and that you won’t come off as a big goob.”

Goob? Is that some American slang term from the future?”

Oops! Another mistake made. “Well, yes it is. But don’t worry about that. You have a pretty young lass to go talk to.”

He looked nervous again. It didn’t sit well on his face, being nervous. His face just wasn’t made for it.

Besides, Sherlock, you like mysteries, right? You love searching out the truth, right? Well right over there is one of the greatest of mysteries a man will ever face: a woman.”

He looked less nervous now. There was a challenge to his mind sitting over on that bench and I knew he was taking the bait. He turned towards her and took a deep breath before he started walking. Then he stopped and looked back at me.

Any last bit of advice?”, he asked hopefully.

Yes. Listen to everything she has to say as though it were the most fascinating thing you’ve ever heard. Works every time.”

He nodded slowly and then walked over to where she sat. All I could think of was what the 40 year old Sherlock had told me as we sat on his porch in San Francisco that day in 1890.

It was that moment, old friend, at which I knew that I would fear few things in my life as much. Honestly, compared to that moment and a few in puberty, all of the murderers and madmen I’ve faced have been a stroll in the park.”


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