It was an ordinary night at Baker Street. Sherlock was dictating the results of his latest case when, suddenly, he paused. “Watson, there’s someone here to see us,” he said. Sure enough, not a second later, there was a knock, and I opened the door to find a young lady tightly clutching a telephone, her face stricken in distress.
“Mr. Holmes, I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” she said, entering the study. “But I have in my possession a deep reservoir of text messages, and I can not tell if they are intended to be of a flirtatious nature.”
“Pray, give us all the details,” Sherlock said, bringing his pipe curiously to his lips. “When did this most ambiguous of exchanges begin?”
“About three weeks ago.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Three? That is a long while.”
“Yes, it is,” the young lady replied, shifting nervously on her feet.