By Lisa Polisar

Copyright 2008

“Holmes.”

“What?”

“You’re leaking.”

“Well stick a rag in it, Watson, stop the blood.  And while you’re at it, be a good chap and pour a swig of brandy in my mouth.”

“Certainly not,” I said.  “Alcohol dehydrates and lowers the body temperature.”  I looked seriously at him.  “It’s a wonder you’re alive at all.”  He set his beady snake eyes upon me, assessing the strength of my resolve. 

“Can you fix me up at all?”

“No.”

“A field dressing—”

“The less we move right now, the better.” 

After feeling the weakening pulse from Holmes’ wrist, I gazed upon the door and our precarious proximity to it.  “It’s already down to…thirty five degrees I should think.  What I will do, though, is be your brains for you.”

“Please,” he gasped, milking the fleeting opportunity to belittle me.  “It hurts too much to laugh.” 

Holmes closed his eyes and sighed heavily.  “I venture we’re alright for the moment.  They’ve just eaten and no doubt sipped on a flask of whiskey.  That should buy us at least a couple of hours.”

“Eaten?”

Still with his eyes closed, “Yes,” he mumbled.  “Tinley’s tea cake, with a tinge of lemon curd still on it.”

See, Sherlock Holmes may have died through the natural course of literary attrition.  Some say Arthur Conan Doyle intended to truly kill him off, only to renew his presence later.  The truth is that I am the reincarnation and personification of Sherlock Holmes.  Okay, fine, call me a vampire if it makes you feel better, as I am immortal.  But I don’t drink blood (despite my constant pallor) to stay alive.  The truth is I really don’t eat anything, and I rarely sleep.  Blood, to me, comes in the form of PUZZLES.