The Strangulated Detective - A Study in Nonsense

I wrote this piece a while back, but didn't see it on my page. So I'm guessing this is a re-post.

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“You want me to do what!” I shouted.

“Strangle me, Watson,” said Holmes. “Get a firm grip around my neck and press until my eyes beg you to stop.”

“Oh, the is is absolute nonsense, Holmes!,” I said. “I will do no such thing.”

“If you do not, I will find someone who will. I know many men, and at least one woman, who would scramble at the chance, knowing I would pay a handsome penny. You see, Watson, I need to know what it would be like to poke my head in death's door without actually crossing the threshold. Would I feel terror? Relief? Euphoria?

“I have just read an article in the British Medical Journal of a woman who survived an attempted strangulation, yet she claims that after the initial terror, she had strong feelings of a sexual nature. So strong, in fact, that she had stooped to paying thugs to, yes Watson, strangle her for a controlled period of time. Unfortunately, her last attempt cost her her life, and resulted in the arrest and conviction of - not a thug, mind you, Watson - her fiance!”

“Oh, confound it, Holmes! This is insane!”

“Watson, I will have my way. One way or the other.”

“Damn it all, Holmes! I will do it! But what frightens me is the pleasure it may give me. You are exasperating, indeed!”

“I am that and more, old friend. Now, plant your feet firmly in front of me and grip my neck as though it were a pint of your favorite stout and some wretched pub swine were making a grab for it.”

“Very funny, Holmes. Very funny, indeed.”

“No offense intended, Watson. I merely wanted to stress how important it is to strangle me with intent to kill.”

“All right, then. Ready, Holmes?”

“Ready, Watson.”

As I gripped my old friend by the neck, he stood there as limp as ragweed, offering no resistance whatsoever as I tightened my hold. His eyes upon me like an infatuated schoolboy.

“Holmes! I must stop this! You’re making me quite uncomfortable!”

Holmes eyes shot to the back of his head and his limber legs gave way, the dead weight of his body causing us both to tumble to the carpet.

I immediately released my hold and reached for the smelling salts.

“Holmes! Wake up, damn it!”

Much to my relief, Holmes opened his eyes and asked to be helped to the sofa.

“Fetch me my pipe, would you, Watson. That was beyond anything I have ever experienced. We must to it again. Immediately!”

“We certainly will not! That damn bloody experiment almost cost you your life! I insist that you put an end to this nonsense, Holmes. I will not be partner to your wicked sexual desires!”

“Oh, hell, Watson! Sexual desires be damned! Just moments before I collapsed, I was having quite a nice chat with my dead mum. The old dear was so shocked to see me that she fainted dead away. I must go back and see if she is all right.”

“Well, Holmes, I am afraid you will have to take to the streets and pay for the privilege. I shall not have your eventual demise on my conscience.”

And take to the streets he did. Coming back at the end of each day regaling me with tales from the other side.

“When will this all end, Holmes? You look like hell!”

“Tonight was the last, Watson,” he said; lighting his pipe and reaching for the violin. “I am afraid I have had rather a bad time of it this evening.”

“Oh."

“Yes, old friend. I was standing in my usual alley in the East End, being strangled and having quite a pleasant conversation with my dead mother, when who do I see over Mum’s shoulder?"

“Who?"

“It was Professor Moriarty! And he was having a conversation with his dead mum!”

“Holmes! This is outrageous! You have completely lost your mind!”

“I am afraid I have to agree, old boy. Moriarty looked at me, and I at him. We tried hard to stifle our embarrassment, but to little effect. One brilliant consulting detective and one brilliant madman, the Napoleon of crime, reduced to the level of momma’s boys. Two misunderstood souls, chancing death to hear an approving word from their dead mothers! It was a pathetic scene, Watson, pathetic!”

Holmes, feeling the soothing affects of his pipe, lay back on the sofa and whispered, “Someday, Mum. Someday.”

I left the old boy in peace and headed straight away to the nearest public house. Trying my best to get the whole sordid business out of my head. Six pints did the trick. Then it was off to bed.
It was good to have Holmes back.

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