Date: July 19th, 2025 7:16 PM
Author: Earl Dibbles Jr (πΎπ£)
The dim glow of the gas-lamp flickered in the cluttered sitting-room at 221B Baker Street, casting long shadows across the walls papered with maps and newspaper clippings. I sat in my accustomed armchair, the evening’s paper spread across my knees, the bold headline screaming scandal: Scotland Yard Implicated in Epstein Flight Logs. My heart quickened as I scanned the article, its sordid details of corruption and complicity stirring a righteous indignation within me. Across the room, my companion lounged in his dressing-gown, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes half-closed in that languid, almost reptilian manner that betokened either profound thought or utter disinterest.
“Holmes,” I ventured, folding the paper to meet his gaze, “have you seen this? It’s monstrous! Scotland Yard, of all institutions, entangled in this Epstein affair—names, dates, flights to that wretched island! Surely this demands your attention. Justice itself hangs in the balance!”
Holmes’s eyes flickered open, their sharp grey glinting with a trace of irritation. "Pray, what is this Epstein business to me? A tawdry melodrama of the rich and dissolute, played out in the press for the titillation of the masses.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “Holmes, you cannot mean to dismiss this! The evidence suggests a conspiracy, a network of corruption that reaches the highest echelons. Innocent lives may have been ruined, and you sit there, unmoved, as if it were a trifling matter of a lost umbrella!”
Holmes rose abruptly, his lean frame unfolding with a restless energy. He paced to the mantelpiece, where he retrieved his pipe and began to fill it with a precise, almost ritualistic care. “Watson,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “you mistake me. It is not the gravity of the crime that fails to stir me, but the banality of it. Corruption among the powerful? A conspiracy cloaked in wealth and influence? These are as old as humanity itself. My mind craves the singular, the unique—some puzzle that taxes the faculties, not this dreary parade of human vice.”
“But the public good, Holmes!” I protested, my voice rising.
"What the deuce is it to me? Let Lestrade and his ilk flounder in this mire. I have no taste for it.”
I sank back in my chair, the newspaper crumpling in my hands. “I never thought to hear such cynicism from you, Holmes. You, who have pursued justice in the face of danger time and again.”
Holmes exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing as he regarded me. “Cynicism, Watson? No, merely clarity. My pursuits are for the sake of the problem, not some abstract ideal. This Epstein matter offers no challenge worthy of my attention—only a sordid tangle of motives and alibis, as predictable as it is distasteful. If you seek a crusade, I suggest you take it to the editors of your sensationalist rag.”
I shook my head, a heavy disappointment settling over me. “Very well, Holmes. But mark my words, this will not fade quietly. The truth will out, with or without you.”
Holmes gave a low chuckle, settling back into his chair. “Perhaps, Watson. But until it presents a problem less tedious, I shall remain here, with my pipe and my thoughts. Now, pass me that treatise on rare poisons, if you please. It promises far more intrigue than your scandal-sheet.”
With a sigh, I rose and fetched the volume, though my heart remained heavy with the weight of justice unserved.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5752418&forum_id=2...id#49115098)