A modern update finds the famous sleuth and his doctor partner solving crime in 21st century London.
— Is your friend quiet mad?
— Ho, he's an arsehole, but it's an easy mistake.
— Are you tweeting?
— No.
— Well, that's what it looks like.
— Of course I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?
— Give me that.
— What? No. What are you doing? Get off. What?
— Give it here. "Back on terra firma.."
— No, don't read them out.
— "Free as a bird."
— God, you're such a spoilsport.
— Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?
— I am taking it seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking it seriously?
— Hashtag, "Ohwhatabeautifulmorning."
— How did you find me?
— I'm Sherlock Holmes.
— Really though, how? Every movement I made was entirely random. Every new personality, just on the roll of a dice.
— Mary, no human action is ever truly random. An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped on to a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably. I myself know of at least fifty eight tecniques to refine the seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables. But they're really difficult, so instead I just stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick.
— Why am I looking at this?
— That's her, John and Mary's baby.
— Oh, I see, yes. Looks very...fully-functioning.
As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe. To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas to me it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time. If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle.
The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other. What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable. As inevitable as mathematics.
— So how's it going then, fatherhood?
— Oh, good. Yeah, amazing.
— Getting any sleep?
— Christ, no.
— You at the beck and call of a screaming, demanding baby, woken up all hours to obey his every whim?
— Must feel very different.
— I'm sorry, what?
— Yes, well, you know how it is. All is you do is clean up their mess. Pat them on the head...
— You two having a little joke?
— Never a word of thanks. Can't even tell people faces apart.
— This is a joke, isn't it?
— Yeah, and it's all "Oh, aren't you clever? You so, so clever."
— Is it about me?
— I think he needs winding.
— You know, I think that really might be it.
— No, don't get it.
— We'd like you to be godfather.
— God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend.
— Yeah, but there'll be cake. Will you do it?
— I'll get back to you.
— Keep me informed.
— Of what?
— Absolutely no idea.
There was once a merchant in a famous market at Baghdad. Oneday he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise. And he knew that the stranger was Death. Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way many, many miles to the city of Samarra. For there he was sure Death couldn't find him. But when, at last, he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death.
— Very well, — said the merchant. — I give in. I'm yours. But tell me, why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?
— Because, — said Death, — I had an appointment with you tonight, in Samarra.
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