Too Much Of A Good Thing
Strange noises from the floor below awakened me at about three in the morning one cold and wet night in early March of 1884. After a futile attempt of going back to sleep I decided to check on my flat mate for it sounded like he was doing his utmost to get both of us thrown out by our resolute landlady for disturbing her sleep.
I fear what I eventually found in the sitting room left me seriously in doubt of not only my eyes but also my sanity.
Every piece of furniture from our respective armchairs and the dining table to the settee had been arranged in a strange sort of obstacle course and Sherlock Holmes, the neatest and most intelligent man I have ever known, clad in his shirtsleeves and stockings, was jumping from one surface to the next with a speed as if a whole regiment of infatuated women was on his heels.
I became dizzy just from watching my friend's restless antics and I was afraid he would eventually loose his footing and fall, breaking his limbs or worse his neck.At first I suspected he had indulged in one of his vices, but I found no sign of either bottle or syringe. My gaze was finally drawn to the empty coffee pot which lay overturned on the sideboard.
"Holmes?" I asked warily.
"Yes? What is it, Watson?" he answered, a little out of breath, his gleaming eyes fixed on the next piece of furniture in front of him.
"Erm…how many cups of coffee did you have?"
"Seven…why do you ask?"
I felt my eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline.
"What on earth made you drink seven cups of coffee?"
"I thought I should give it a try instead of my usual seven-percent-solution of cocaine." he replied, leaping over the back of the settee to land in front of me, cheeks flushed a healthy red.
"I think I'd rather prefer you take the cocaine." I admitted after some consideration.
My friend's lips formed one of his quirky half-smiles.
"Really Watson, you are never satisfied."
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