A/N: I'm not sure about the rating of this-- at the moment I'm thinking a strong PG-13, and if I've horribly misjudged that, let me know ;)

Inspired by an online essay by David Richardson on the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. (No, really!)

And so: Humor! Whacha think?

Enjoy!

The Secret Code

I came down one morning to find breakfast laid out but hastily pushed aside on the table to make room while Holmes pored over a couple of sheets of paper with great concentration. After removing the plate of toast from its precarious position atop the coffee pot and helping myself to some of the contents of both these vessels, I inquired as to what my friend was doing.

"A code, Watson, of such cunning as I have rarely seen before. I can make nothing of it, yet its sender, the Reverend Bailey St. Clare, tells me his father received it by mail, took a look, and fainted at the sight of it."

"May I see?"

"Perhaps this is more in your line than mine, after all." Holmes sighed and handed it to me, rubbing his temples wearily.

"As a doctor?"

"As a man who has been… married."

"What does that have to—" I began to peruse the letter "—do with—Oh dear God."

"Yes, that was my initial assessment as well."

"Holmes, it's—how is there any question as to why an old man fainted at the sight of this?"

"The Rev. St Clare writes in an explanatory letter enclosed with this one that he has reason to suspect that his father had enemies that were contacting him in code, and that this is some sort of threat of death."

"More like the instrument thereof… How is it that you suppose me to have some expertise in this?"

"I don't, my dear fellow, I don't, of course, it's just, as I said before—"

"I promise you, Holmes, having been married gives me absolutely no extra knowledge pertaining to the…exertions… of six female acrobats, Walter the gleaming strongman, or Tina and Tanya, the, um, enthusiastic Siamese twins."

Holmes rested his elbows on the table and kneaded his eyes. "You forget Master Roderick."

"Who is—oh yes, the dwarf."

"Of the astonishing lingual appendage, yes."

"And you expect there to be a code in this somewhere?" I pushed it across the table to him and wiped my hand on my jacket, as if it had been tainted. "I wish you luck."

"Watson—" he pleaded. I sighed. I had not abandoned my friend facing the trials of humdrum existence, the peril of Moriarty, or the dubious morality of burglary, and I could not forsake him now.

"All right, Holmes. What can I do?"

"Just… sit there for now. Be my sounding board."

Grimly, I settled myself and waited.

"If it relies on predetermined symbols, we may be able to do nothing, although they may still be intelligible, depending on how arbitrary they are… but nothing springs to mind. If we substitute characters, perhaps—the recipient of the letter as the dwarf, and the aggressor as the strongman, since he has that whip. The whip may symbolize the threat. What then is the dwarf's answer? It is not much of a sentence—the words 'oh', 'yes,' and 'God' repeated several times each, in apparently random order. Not very informative, but it could conceivably be advising him to answer in the affirmative to whatever the disagreement hinges on. What comes next? Hm... Twins and acrobats, and a lengthy description of a large number of female legs… I cannot think of anything, it is all either arbitrary or subjective—no, no, this will not do!

"The vocabulary seems a little limited for choosing alternate words, and simple alternates will not work at all. Every third word looks more encouraging, let me see: 'The… big… strongman… throbbing… tasted… slick… oh… wriggled… strongman… whipped… legs… legs… tongue… legs… God… yes… yes… oh—' This is useless!" Holmes tossed the paper down in annoyance.

I sighed. "Holmes, really, this case—"

I was interrupted by a knock at the door, and a boy entered carrying a telegram. Holmes snatched it up eagerly, and the boy departed without awaiting an answer.

"From the Rev. St Clare!" he cried. I groaned. "Listen to this, Watson:

'Enclosed wrong letter. Cipher still in my possession. Respect your abilities but would prefer to take my problem elsewhere. St Clare.'"

In spite of Holmes' constant longing for cases, I think I spoke for both of us when I rested my forehead on the table and said, "Oh thank God."