[There is very little that Herlock Sholmes feels ill-equipped to handle these days. His career thus far as a consulting detective has been wide and varied, running the gamut of sometimes dangerous, sometimes spectacular, but always intriguing. And such circumstances require preparation, or at least a sense of assuredness, that despite what may come—never mind his attempts, occasionally, to suggest otherwise—he and his trusted partner are always confident that no problem is impossible to tackle, competent through and through. Bold and never trepidatious in their resolve, such as they can be. Such as they are.
Of course, this was before Sholmes found himself charged with taking care of a small, wailing baby. He believes now that the frailty of a mortal man has finally applied itself to him, that no manner of effort will stop her crying at every hour of day and night, and that his own deductive reasoning, or simple powers of elimination, have failed him once and for all. Because if he cannot differentiate the audible subtleties between a bored cry, a hungry cry, an agitated cry, or a “I’ve just soiled myself again because I’m a baby” cry, then what good is he as a detective? None at all! A fraud! May his despair run parallel with little Iris wailing in his arms, straight into his ear, as he tries to calm her, with all attempts to do so being in vain thus far.
What’s a man to do? Sholmes cranes his head up, closing his eyes in a deep resignation. By god, where is Mikotoba? The man had stepped out for what feels like an age, and he could use someone else to relieve him of his baby-tending shift. A rotation of the guard.
Iris’ cries escalate, changing key. All in all, very impressive, his mind supplies uselessly, but somewhere within that pitch, he hears the approach of footsteps just outside the door. He knows that stride, the tempo they abide by. Any second now, Mikotoba should waltz right into the room, and Sholmes will make certain that he has the pleasure of dealing with not one wailing, desperate entity, but two.]
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Of course, this was before Sholmes found himself charged with taking care of a small, wailing baby. He believes now that the frailty of a mortal man has finally applied itself to him, that no manner of effort will stop her crying at every hour of day and night, and that his own deductive reasoning, or simple powers of elimination, have failed him once and for all. Because if he cannot differentiate the audible subtleties between a bored cry, a hungry cry, an agitated cry, or a “I’ve just soiled myself again because I’m a baby” cry, then what good is he as a detective? None at all! A fraud! May his despair run parallel with little Iris wailing in his arms, straight into his ear, as he tries to calm her, with all attempts to do so being in vain thus far.
What’s a man to do? Sholmes cranes his head up, closing his eyes in a deep resignation. By god, where is Mikotoba? The man had stepped out for what feels like an age, and he could use someone else to relieve him of his baby-tending shift. A rotation of the guard.
Iris’ cries escalate, changing key. All in all, very impressive, his mind supplies uselessly, but somewhere within that pitch, he hears the approach of footsteps just outside the door. He knows that stride, the tempo they abide by. Any second now, Mikotoba should waltz right into the room, and Sholmes will make certain that he has the pleasure of dealing with not one wailing, desperate entity, but two.]
Mikotobaaaaaa!
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