No Shit, Sherlock

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It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Groaning in aggravation, I plopped myself down onto the old beat-up couch situated in the living room of 221B Baker Street.

“Sherlock!” I whined as I threw my head back in irritation “I’m bored!”

“You and me both.” The detective agreed from the other side of the sofa.

We sat in silence for a minute, just staring at the roaring fireplace.

“Well don’t just sit there,” I suddenly cried, “Do something about it!”

“Like what?” Sherlock snapped in frustration.

“I don’t know, you’re the genius here, figure it out.” I shot back.

Another meaningless minute passed and I heaved a sigh of annoyance.

“Isn’t there like a case we can solve?” I complained as my gaze wandered over to the window.

It was there that I found my answer.

The streets were covered in a thick blanket of snow. The familiar bustle of London had been replaced by an eerie calm. It was much too cold for anyone to be caught walking outside – let alone committing a crime.

My thoughts then began to wander to my other favourite accomplice.

“Where’s John?” I asked abruptly, hoping that the doctor would be able to provide me with at least some kind of entertainment.

“Out.” The genius responded curtly.

I scoffed, “No shit, Sherlock. Where?”

However, before he could reply, something unexpected happened.

My lips slowly quirked up into an amused smile; It spread into a wide grin and soon, I broke out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

The detective stared at me as if I had completely lost it.

But, how could I blame him?

After all, it wasn’t every day you got to use that phrase in its most literal sense.