Here's a short story I wrote in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
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THE FRUSTRATING CASE OF THE PRIVATE CLIENT

As told to
Squelch

By

John H. Watson, M.D.

Chapter One

MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES




"I say, Holmes," I said, gazing down from my usual perch watching the streets below the large bay window in Holmes� study, "what do you make of the gentleman below, who seems to be bent on entering number 221 in the fastest possible manner?"

Holmes, who was noodling at his violin across the room, said languidly, "Other than that he has had very little to eat this morning, that he lives in Sussex but keeps a flat in town, that this flat is in Cheapside, that he has never read the works of Tacitus, and that he is without a doubt the most foul-smelling individual in the Kingdom, what did you have in mind?"

"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

"Clean that up, would you, Watson?" said Holmes, gesturing at the ashtray.

"But Holmes, you could not even see him at the window!"

"Ah, Watson, the simplest trifles! Surely you noted that before I began my latest excursion into the late neoclassical violin sonata, I polished the wood to a mirror-like sheen?"

"Then you saw his reflection in your violin?" I asked, amazed and elated at my friend�s visual prowess, especially as would have had to see not only a reflection but through the casement of the window.

"Close, Watson, but not quite!" he chuckled. "I saw a reflection of your glasses--in which I saw the reflection of the gentleman on the street."

I nodded in frank admiration, then pondered, "But what of his meal (or lack thereof), his living arrangements, his knowledge (or lack thereof) of classical literature, and of course, his stench?"

"Ah, yes. Well, you see--"
At this point, our guest thundered into the room, and I was never to know the subtle yet no doubt evident details which allowed my friend to make his deductions. However, I can say that at least one hypothesis was correct. The gentleman was indeed ripe.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" the gentleman blustered, red-faced.

"A name to which I have been known to answer," said Holmes.

"I have a most--damned, a most perplexing issue to be dealt with!" The gentleman shook his head and took a handkerchief from his waistcoat and began mopping his brow.

"Pray, take a seat, Mr�.?"

"Foogypants. Horace Q. Foogypants." The gentleman sank into the all-too-tiny chair I provided. He looked askance at me. "That�s a name I would care to keep secret. Dr. Watson, I presume?"

I nodded. "The same."

Foogypants turned to Holmes, an air of contempt mixing with his abominable smell. "Must he be here?"

"Dr. Watson has assisted me on a number of occasions," my friend intoned carefully, moving his hawk-like nose from side to side and upsetting a wine glass in the process.

"I require utmost privacy!"

"I assure you," Holmes assured him, "he is the soul of discretion."

Foogypants rounded on me. "I�ve read your stories in the Strand!" the portly gentleman snarled. "They always start with Mr. Holmes here assuring the client that you are the soul of discretion. But the stories wind up published nonetheless. Is it not so?"

I must admit, dear reader, my situation was not ameliorated by the foolscap and quill I had produced upon the client�s abrupt entry. Even so, I was stunned when Holmes turned to me and said, "He may have a point, Watson."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Go on, go on. If the man wants a little privacy, you had best go home to your wife anyway. I deduce today is her birthday." With a wave of his hand, Holmes bade me to the door, and, sputtering, I left, walking dejected and alone down Baker Street.
As to the rest of the adventure, dear Reader, if you happen to run across Mr. Horace Foogypants, do ask him how it turned out, as I�m quite curious myself. Why he didn�t want to be written about, I don�t know�

The End