Sherlock and the Three Watsons
Once upon a time, there were three Watsons who lived in a little house in the woods. One was Father Watson, one was Mother Watson, and one was little John Watson. Although they all shared the same name, that was just about the only thing they had in common.
One morning, Father Watson plopped three bowls of porridge down on the table. Each of the Watsons doctored up their porridge in a different way.
When little John Watson took a bite of his, he cried out in pain. "Ow! I've burnt my tongue!"
"What did you expect?" Mother Watson said. "Your father always makes the porridge too hot."
"Well, if you weren't so busy nursing a hangover, you could have made the breakfast yourself!" snapped Father Watson.
"Let's go for a walk, while we wait for our porridge to cool," suggested little John Watson.
With a bit of grumbling, Mother Watson and Father Watson joined their son for a walk in the woods.
While they were gone, a young boy named Sherlock came across the little house. Being a curious lad, and not overly constrained by legal niceties, he picked the lock on the front door and went inside.
Spotting the three bowls of porridge on the table, Sherlock went to investigate. First, he dipped his finger into Father Watson's bowl.
"This porridge is too salty," he said. "I deduce that this bowl belongs to a man who will soon die of a stroke."
Next, he stuck his finger into Mother Watson's bowl. "This porridge has whiskey in it," he said. "I deduce that this bowl belongs to a woman who will soon die of cirrhosis."
Finally, Sherlock tasted the porridge in John's bowl. "Ah…" he sighed, contentedly. "This porridge is just right — sweetened with a little bit of honey, exactly the way I make mine. I deduce that this bowl belongs to a boy whom I will like very much."
Although Sherlock rarely had much of an appetite, he found the porridge in John's bowl so delicious that he ate it all. And, although Sherlock rarely slept, once he'd finished his breakfast he found himself rather in need of a nap. So, he went upstairs in search of a place to rest.
First, Sherlock went into the master bedroom, where he found two beds, pushed up against opposite walls. "These beds are unfriendly," he said. "I deduce that they belong to a couple with marital problems. Perhaps they will kill each other before they can succumb to the stroke and the cirrhosis."
Then Sherlock went down the hall to the smaller bedroom, where he found a single bed. "Ah…" he said. "This bed looks quite inviting. I deduce that it belongs to a boy with whom I would not mind sharing it."
Sherlock lay down on John's bed, buried his face in John's pillow, and breathed in the scent of John. Soon, he was fast asleep.
Meanwhile, the three Watsons had finished their walk, and returned home. They found the front door of their little house wide open.
Mother Watson turned angrily to Father Watson. "Were you raised in a barn?" she demanded. "Why can you never remember to close the door?"
"You were the last one out!" Father Watson retorted. "But you're probably too drunk to remember that."
"Maybe the wind blew the door open," John suggested. "Let's go inside and see if our porridge is cool."
When the three Watsons entered the kitchen, they could immediately tell that something was amiss.
"Somebody's been eating my porridge!" said Father Watson.
"Somebody's been eating my porridge!" said Mother Watson.
"Somebody's been eating my porridge," said John Watson. "And it's all gone."
The three Watsons went upstairs and stepped into the master bedroom.
"Nobody's been sleeping in my bed," said Father Watson.
"Don't you lie to me, you cheater!" shouted Mother Watson. "I know you bring your trollops here when I'm not home!"
"Well, nobody's been sleeping in your bed, 'cause by the time night falls you're always too drunk to make it up the stairs!" yelled Father Watson.
"Maybe we should look in my room," said John in a small voice. But his parents ignored him in favour of continuing their argument.
John walked down the hall to his room alone. Cautiously, he peeked inside. He saw a slender body on his bed, and a mop of dark curls upon his pillow. He crept closer.
Just then, Sherlock opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw John.
"Would you like to run away with me?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, god, yes!" John said.
Out the window the two boys climbed, onto the branch of a conveniently located tree, and then down to the forest floor. Hand in hand, they set off together into the woods.
And they lived happily ever after.
End Notes: I find writing therapeutic. So, lots of stories today. If you enjoyed this, please leave a nice review. The world could use a little extra positivity right now. :)