[ WP ] A blizzard strikes during a massive comic book convention , completely isolating the building and the attendees , most of whom are in costume . Then there is a murder . And as you made the mistake of dressing up as Sherlock Holmes , everyone expects you to solve it .

`` Professor Xavier has been murdered!'' came the high-pitched howl of a young woman, only moments after the lights had come back on. It was soon followed by further shrieks and cries. Intrigued, I walked towards the source of the tumultuous uproar. I was already rather aggravated, what with the promise of my meeting Benedict Cumberbatch snuffed out by a thick wall of snow. 
 
 `` Out of the way, please, *out of the way*,'' I yelled, pushing aside a crowd of sweaty, oddly dressed adolescents. They were imitating superheroes about as well as I could imitate being a well adjusted middle aged man. 
 
 I found a Doctor Strange leaning over a body. Cumberbatch's *second* best character, and everyone there knew it - regardless of the season finale. The boy wore a thick red cape ( curtain ) over a blue wool jumper. It was *he* that had likely discovered the body; **he** whom I had heard cry out in the same vocal range as of many ladies - a mistake even the *real* Holmes would no doubt have made. 
 
 He stared daggers at me as I pushed him out of the way. `` Does n't matter how hard you stare, Boy Strange, those daggers will never *actually* materialise,'' I thought to myself later that evening. 
 
 A bald, until-recently wheelchaired bound boy was lying prone by the side of said wheelchair. Blood was still dribbling out of his nose and settling into a small pool of scarlet around his face. There was a dent on the back of his head, just above the base of his skull; evidently he had been hit by a rather sturdy object during the blackout. Or, he had simply fallen over and landed badly. I was already musing over the possibilities, proud of how fast my mind was computing them. Not Downey level of speed yet, but quite near Cumberbatch. *Not bad, Christopher. Not bad at all. And remember, you're just getting warmed up! * 
 
 `` Clearly,'' I mused out loud now, `` A large object, probably thick and blunt, struck his cranium at an extremely high velocity.'' 
 
 `` I do n't know why you're all looking at **me**,'' said a boy as he raised his eyebrows suggestively. He was dressed in a long red t-shirt and his face was covered in a horribly clashing shade of orange makeup. 
 
 `` Shut up Deadpool,'' hissed a girl in Iron Man pyjamas, slapping'Deadpool' on the back of his head. `` You're so immature.'' 
 
 `` Mr Holmes,'' said Iron Man, turning her gaze on me, `` There's a murderer amongst us. There could be more killings - please, we need your help.'' 
 
 `` *Mine? *'' I said absentmindedly, `` Well, I'm not *actually* Holmes, dear girl.'' 
 
 `` No, but you must have watched the tv series a few times - you know his methods better than anybody. Besides, you're easily the oldest person here.'' 
 
 `` Methodologies,'' I corrected her, ignoring the ill placed age remark, `` And yes I am somewhat of a Holmes expert - not just the modern reincarnation either. **I** have read the books.'' 
 
 There was a gasp from the ever increasing crowd. 
 
 `` Well, not all of them, of course. But the smaller ones,'' I admitted, not wanting to get myself in too deep. 
 
 Another gasp. Clearly the superheros and heroines gathered in this sweat-stenched hall did not read much beyond the sticky paper walls of their comic books. 
 
 `` Very well. I will, however, need a Watson to chronicle my adventure. I will also use him as a plot device to allow you to hear my thoughts as I talk through the case with him. Exposition, dear Superheroes.'' I could tell they were impressed by my sagacious word choices ( that I kept *just* within their realms of comprehension, which says a lot about my ability to relate to *anyone* ). 
 
 There was a murmur throughout the crowd as they passed around my request and searched within their ranks for anyone dressed as Watson. Unfortunately, no one had thought to come as the rather drab doctor. Instead, a Rorschach volunteered his services. `` I have a jorunal, and a hat,'' he negotiated, `` and if I take off this mask'' - he removed it, `` Ta da.'' A skinny, spotty and rather repellent face looked at me. 
 
 `` Put the mask back on, for Gods' sake,'' I cried in revulsion, instantly realising why he'd come dressed as such. `` Then, yes, you may chronicle my adventure.'' I regained my composure remarkably quickly, as his trembling lip was replaced once again by a white towel with black ink stains. 
 
 
 > ~~Rorschach's Journal~~ Doctor ~~Wotson's~~ Watson's Journal 
 > 
 > ~~Chicken carcass in kitchen this morning. Cat brought it in. The city is afraid of him.~~ 
 > 
 > My good friend Sherlock Holmes and I were thrust into the epicentre of a most dastardly case, when we were both visiting a comic book convention. The weather turned unfavourably chill and the snow lashed at the doors and windows. Within minutes, we were locked inside a glorified coffi-'' 
 
 `` Yes, yes - very good, Doctor, but a little more hyperbole would go a long way, `` I said, peering over his shoulder to examine his crudely scribbled notes. I turned to face the crowd and chewed lightly on my plastic pipe. `` Now, the **game**...'' I drew *out* the pregnant pause, to draw *in* the crowd. I had them in my palms. 
 
 `` Get on with it,'' grumbled a Wolverine. 
 
 `` My God man, how did you smuggle all those plastic knives in?'' I asked in astonishment as I saw his cutlery embellished knuckles. `` Never mind - it is of no import right now. For *now*, the **game**... is afoot!'' I yelled with aplomb. 
 
 And so began the case of the Fallen Professor. 
 
 It was sometime later that we realised that the boy was still alive. He *had* just fallen and so I'd been right all along ( at least, one of my postulations had been ) - which was wonderful news. I had done Holmes proud. I could all but see Cummberbatch grudgingly smiling and shaking his peculiar ( but rather handsome ) head whilst reading about my exploits over his morning croissant and cup of Earl Grey. 
 
 Sadly, the boy did n't last long. They'say' he might have lived if we'd noticed he was still breathing and we'd seen to his wounds sooner. But really, what do these so called'experts' know? They also made a point of calling *me* an idiot for trying to preserve his ( apparently alive ) corpse in a snow-pit just outside of the building. *How* **dare** *they? * Of course, all of that was purely the fault of the overly dramatic Doctor Strange ( who, as I had suspected all along, was not a real doctor at all ) yelling out blue murder without even checking for a pulse. To this day, I still ca n't look at his image without shuddering. 
 
 Doctor Watson and I did *not* keep in touch. 
 
 I *am* available for private consultations. 
 
 -- - 
 
 Thanks for the prompt! 
 
 More of my stories on /r/nickofnight 
 
 
 

