I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings with a terrible headache. Next to me lay the body of Sherlock Hunt, chained to my left ankle. On my other side, my right hand was chained to a bathtub.
My memory began to return. We had been on the trail of a diamond thief. A huge jewel, recently uncovered in Egypt, had been on display at the British Museum under high security. The Giza Diamond was a 300 carat gem worth literally gazillions of pounds.
But the exhibitors hadn't reckoned on the ingenuity of thieves. A leaky tap flooded the museum and filled the entire building with water. While the water was being pumped out, it was noticed that the Giza Diamond had disappeared.
Sherlock Hunt and I arrived on the chaotic scene. The security guards had seen nobody enter or leave the museum before the flood. Sherlock pointed out that diamonds are invisible underwater, and it became apparent that the initial flooding was only a diversion. The robbery had occured some time later, during the chaos of the water pumping.
Sherlock suspected his evil identical twin brother Moriarty, so we took a cab to his Dagenham estate. However, we were waylaid on our way there by thieves, or as Hunt suspected, Moriarty's own lackeys. That was the last thing I remembered before we found ourselves in our current predicament.
"Look," I ejaculated. "There are a couple of hacksaws over there." I picked up one of them and began sawing away at the chain separating myself and the esteemed Mr Hunt. The saw surprisingly snapped.
"There's no good sawing that," Hunt said, suddenly awake. "The saws are for us to cut off our feet or your arm."
"But.. that's despicable."
"Yes, Moriarty is a right cunt."
"Is there no other way out of here?"
Sherlock thought for a minute. "I think I have an idea. Could you defecate in that bath?"
"Errr. I think so."
I squatted over the bath and strained as hard as I could. A turd was definitely on the way. The parps of my rectal pushing were embarrassingly loud. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I espied Mr Hunt masturbating furiously but when I looked he was still.
"What is the purpose of this?" I asked as I completed my poo.
"Your King Richard will form the basis of a most splendid explosive, which we can use to get out of here."
Hunt took out his pipe and began to smoke. He threw the match into the bath where my rather messy excretia lay. It failed to catch fire, much to Hunt's disappointment.
"Call that explosive diarrhoea?" he quipped.
"Do you know how to make explosives?" I asked.
"Not really. I'm just trying to improvise. Perhaps you could urinate over the faeces and we can try that."
I began to do as he said, until he continued, "If that doesn't work, stick your fingers down your throat and try puking on it."
I wondered if Sherlock knew anything about explosives at all, or if he was just toying with me.
Suddenly I saw a key sitting just behind Hunt.
"Look! A key. Right there," I pointed.
Hunt looked confused at first, and beamed bright red on realising that I had seen it. It appeared to have just fallen out of his pocket.
"Oh! Ok, I'll try it then." Amazingly it worked on all the chains and we were free.
"What a stroke of luck!" I said. "That dastardly Moriarty must have planted it in your pocket."
"Errr, yes. That must be it," said Hunt with a surprising slowness.
We left the bathroom. Hunt said he wanted to look for some opium, but I suggested we try to find a way out of Moriarty's mansion, and if possible to recover the missing gem.
Before we got far we were interrupted by a stern looking butler. I froze, but Hunt was quick-thinking. Removing his trademark deerstalker hat, he imitated his evil twin brother. "Tis I, Moriarty," he growled.
"But of course, sir," replied the butler, bowing.
"Could you fetch me the Giza Diamond?"
"If you remember, sir, you left it in your pocket when you took it from the museum."
"Of course. Thank you, Percival." Hunt reached into his jacket pocket, and there indeed was the diamond.
"Splendid!" he said. "Now let's get down to the jewellery shop."
On our way there, something puzzled me about the exchange with the butler. "How did you know his name?" I asked the great detective.
"Elementary, Watson. His shoelaces were tied with a double bow on the right foot, with an elongated arch. Clearly that indicates that they were tied by somebody who is used to writing the capital letter P a lot. As the man he serves has no P in his name, I surmised that his own name must begin with P. And what other butler's name begins with P?"
I marvelled at the man's genius. Was there anything he couldn't do?
"So why are we going to the jewellers?" I asked.
"We need to cut up the diamond so that Moriarty can't try to recover it. He's bound to come after us."
We soon reached Jools Jewel's, a sordid gem shop in the East End of London. The proprieter, a Dutchman called Jools, seemed very impressed at the huge diamond.
"Oh yesh! What a shpectacular shpeshimen," he said. "I'll give you three million poundsh and a tonne of opium for it."
"Deal!" agreed Hunt. "Make sure you cut it up good so that the police can't trace it."
I corrected him, "You mean so Moriarty can't trace it."
"Of course," he said assuringly.
Jools returned with a book and a pen. "Just sign here, Mr Moriarty," he said.
Sherlock Hunt signed the book in his evil twin's name and smiled. He turned to me.
"Listen, Watson. It's been nice having you around, but I'm afraid I no longer need your services."
"I'm sorry, sir?" I was confused.
"I'm emigrating to Mauritius to live the good life. Get out of this stinking city, probably marry some local bint and live off my vast wealth over there. Don't worry, I'll get you a nice pension or something - a couple of pennies a week or so.
"Basically I don't need you any more. You've been following me round like a lost puppy for weeks, and to be honest you're getting on my tits.
"Actually, I was hoping you'd saw your feet off back there and I could have left you behind. But never mind. You're here now. Now go away! Go on, fuck off!"
That was the last I saw of Sherlock Hunt. I believe he did follow his dream and move to a tropical island. Nothing was ever heard of his evil twin brother Moriarty either, but no doubt after losing the diamond to the remarkable Mr Hunt he was so dumbstruck that he could not continue his life of crime.
As for me, I began a new job as assistant to a young journalist who was writing a documentary about the London police force. His name, reader, was Arthur Conan Doyle.