- Zagreus Nebula
"You see," said Holmes, "you see, but you do not observe.
How many steps lead from the street up to our door?"
"I've no idea," said Watson, "but I have observed.
I have observed a scuff mark you made the last time
You climbed them under the influence of morphine.
I have not counted. I have not calculated.
You tell me that you don't care to know that the earth
Travels about the sun, rather than vice versa,
Because it has no practical significance.
Similarly, you scorn literature & art.
You scratch on a violin to make foul noises,
Because you hate everything that is beautiful.
Then you insult me because I don't count my steps.
You may as well say I've not observed the Venus
Of Botticelli -- one of my favorite paintings --
If I haven't counted brush strokes on her nipples.
Your logic is the logic of the current world.
You devote your brilliance to solving petty crimes.
You praise Moriarty as some kind of genius,
When he is simply the London equivalent
Of an ignorant Sicilian Mafia boss.
Your brother Mycroft is even smarter than you,
And he is the head of our shadow government --
One more great modern democratic spy master --
Another contemporary waste of talent.
This is the world that treats me like I were a fool."
Holmes reached for his cane, and cracked Watson's skull open.
He calmly sat down and took a bit of cocaine.
He dragged Watson's body out of the apartment --
Threw it head first down the stairs he hadn't counted.
And then Holmes walked calmly to the police station.
"A new mystery, Mr Holmes?" the sergeant asked.
"No," said Holmes, "but Watson has had an accident."