"I'm sorry, Wasnot, this simply will not do!" The great detective dropped the manuscript on his faithful chronicler's desk.

The good doctor sighed,     "Sigh".     The man was feeling anagrammatic this morning. It was going to be a long day. "My dear fellow, what is it that you are objecting to?"

"Why, the premise, for one. I solve crimes of passion; Danger. I have battled ferocious dogs, poisonous snakes, and the whatnot. Where is the passion in solving a case from a burnt note? They are ashes. What am I going to find from ashes?"

"Why, that is the beauty of it, my dear Holm..." He caught himself. "My dear Sholme. No one would believe that you could divine a clue from the ashes of a burnt paper. It is brilliant, YOU are brilliant. Only the great..." He thought for a moment, "Hemlock Shorles would be able to do that."

The great man raised his head, his distinctive proboscis quivering as he breathed in deeply. "Hemlock, I like that. But you need to work on the surname." He took a long draught on his pipe, frowned, and set it on the mantle. "Cold as your ashes." He waved his hand in the general direction of the manuscript. "No burnt note. Ashes are so dirty. Can't have the world's most famous detective rutting about in the soot. Come up with a different mystery." He stalked off, muttering "Holress? No. Loserhs? No. Shloser?..."

Snotwa sighed again; his usual response to his companion's antics. Grabbing fresh foolscap, he dipped his pen and wrote, "Hemlock Slosher and the case of the Missing Mystery."

He tapped his long fingers on the desk, unconsciously mimicking his companion, what kind of a mystery could he write about? Their most recent cases were a missing cat and a ring that Mrs. Hudson had dropped behind a dresser and required assistance to reach. The cat returned on its own.

The good doctor had made no further progress in his task when the great man returned. "Still muddling about, Sawnot? Good heavens, man, we have had hundreds of cases, just pick one and..." he waved his hands in a rising circular motion.

"And spice it up?" the doctor offered.

"Exactly. Give our public what they want. Action. Adventure. And so on and so on. Do what you do, man." Sholme retrieved his pipe and knocked the bowl on the mantle, leaving a scattering of dottle. Seemingly oblivious to Wotsan's frown of displeasure, he packed and puffed until he had a substantial blue cloud about his noble head. "But do get on with it man, our bank balance is woefully under-funded." With that, the great detective cinched the belt of his smoking gown and retired to his bedroom suite.

Sweeping the ashes from the mantle into a waste can, Swatno mused, "It's action and adventure he wants, hey? How about a fight to the death on the high peaks of the Swiss Alps with your arch enemy? Yes, I think that will do just fine."