I'm catching up. This is Day 19, prompt

Truth is Stranger. Use a strange fact in your work today.

Fact: You actually can use animal brains to tan leather, but I'm not sure about reptile leather.
https://www.leather-dictionary.com/index.php/Brain_tanning

Related work by Gardnerhill (Read the whole series! It's fabulous).
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841698




I never much liked the snakeskins. They come with the job for a boot and saddle maker in a nowhere Western town like this, of course, but that didn't mean I had to like them. Every few weeks some cowboy sumbitch would come in with the skin of a rattler he had to shoot - usually cause they'd got drunk and done something to rile it up, but they didn't say that part. Most times those skins was stinking, since the cowboys didn't have enough brains to skin them proper, let alone extra to use for tanning. I could no more make a pair of boots out of those half-rotten skins than I could fly, but it didn't help to tell them that. I'd just use some snake leather I bought from a regular supplier up in Fort Worth, and let the fool cowpoke think the extra cost was part of working with it.

The snake skin Doc brought in wasn't anything like that, of course. He'd scraped it real careful with one of his scalpels that he was about to throw out anyway. Tanned it up nice, too, with some alum from his medical supplies. It gave me the willies all the same.

"So, Doc," I asked, "is that from, you know, the snake?" I didn't need to say which one. When a man picks a rattler up with his bare hands and throws it at a murdering sumbitch, I imagine it tends to stick in his mind a bit.

"Yep," said Doc. He always was a man of few words. "I thought I'd get some boots from it, in case folks need reminding."

I didn't think anybody was likely to need reminding anytime soon. It'd be a while before I forgot, at least.

"You sure you want boots?" I asked, "She'd make a beautiful belt, and cheaper, too." I didn't say a belt would make up quicker and get the thing out of my shop sooner.

"Naw," drawled Doc, "It's gotta be boots. A man who looks at my belt sees my gun. He don't need reminding. A man who looks all the way down to my toes is sizing me up. He might have forgot."

Well, I made those boots up for Doc and they were mighty pretty. But I was glad to get 'em outta the shop when he paid and picked them up. I never have liked the snakeskins.

Sherlock followed Marcus around the crime scene, a historic apartment in the Upper West Side with an unfortunate dead body in the front doorway.. "So the neighbors say the occupants are only in two or three days a week, but they couldn't agree for certain on which days or even if it was always the same day. Nobody knows them or talks to them, they only see them right at the door," said Marcus.

"One of the days is Wednesday, unless there's a housekeeper. You said he victim and his partner broke in. If you can't get in touch with the homeowners, you can expect them tomorrow," said Sherlock.

"Ok, I'll bite. How do you know that?" asked Marcus.

"See this clock? It's an eight-day. These weights are raised to the top when it is wound and then fall down gradually, providing the clock with its power. Mechanical clocks have winding periods intentionally a little longer than an easy-to-remember time period, to allow for a little discrepancy without the clock stopping. So 30-hour clocks are wound once a day, 40-day clocks are wound once a month, and eight-day clocks like this are wound once a week. It's Tuesday. The weights are three quarters of the way to the bottom. It was wound six days ago and was intended to be wound again tomorrow."

"Ok, that's good enough. If we don't hear from the homeowners tomorrow asking why there place is sealed off as a crime scene, I'm gonna start thinking seriously that they're in on it."

Looking over my partnership with Dr. John Watson, there is some irony in the fact that this partnership became illegal exactly one week before he first heard me testify in a court of law. As part of the proceedings, John heard me being sworn in. So it was that he learned that although Sherlock is one of my Christian names, it is not the first.

"Really,Holmes? William? Were you called Billy as a child?" he teased me.

"No," I teased back, "that was never my nickname." Pausing slightly, I added, "John, come and do your Will."

So he did.

Ernie looked with confusion at the array of seven milk bottles, with one tipped over, broken, and spilled. He asked out loud "Who could have spilled this milk? To figure that out, I'd need a detective!"

DETECTIVE MUSIC

Sherlock Hemlock appeared out of nowhere and announced "Egad, it is I, Sherlock Hemlock, the world's greatest detective. How can I be of service?"

Ernie explained, "Well, I was looking at these milk bottles. One of them is broke. I was trying to figure out who tipped it over."

MORE DETECTIVE MUSIC

"Gadzooks, man, you will need some clues to figure that out. As the world's greatest detective, I am an expert on clues. Why just look at this hair in the next to the puddle of milk. It is very short, gray, and wavy. That's a clue."

"Well, I guess it is," said Ernie. Do you think the bottle-breaker had hair like that?"

"I am sure of it. And egad, here's another clue. There are tracks coming out of the puddle of milk. They have one, two, three, four - four toe marks with claw scraped and a pad underneath them."

"Well, gee, Sherlock, my feet don't look like that. I wonder who has feet like that? But look. The tracks kind of make a trail away from the milk puddle."

"Gadzooks, you're right! We can follow it!"

EXTENDED DETECTIVE MUSIC

Carefully observing the tracks with his magnifying glass, Sherlock Hemlock leads Ernie along the trail of tracks to a corner of the room. In the corner, they find Sherlock's dog Watson, curled up asleep.

"Look, Sherlock, I see another clue. Watson's fur is wet and smells like milk. Watson must have tipped over the bottle by accident!" exclaimed Ernie. You really are a great detective, Sherlock Hemlock. How can I pay you?"

"Can I have one of those bottles of milk that isn't broken? Come on Watson, it's time to go home."

YET MORE DETECTIVE MUSIC

The climb was the easy part. I was wet, frightened, recovering from a bad shock, and wearing the wrong shoes. Loose gravel slipped between my fingers on several occasions, threatening to destroy my grip and send me down into the whirlpool below. I had never trained in rock climbing before. If I fell, it would be no more than what I deserved.

In spite of all this, the climb was nothing compared to what came next. You came. You called me name again and again, and each time I longed to answer. Finally, I could bear it no more. Your name sprang to my lips, but I allowed my mind to call it back. I covered my mouth with my hand when I should have covered the mountains with my voice. I abandoned my best friend. I would surely be lost without my Boswell.

Sherlock dived out of the villain's reach before he could swing the lead pipe into his skull. Sherlock dashed through the streets, losing the villain in a concealed alley.

Sherlock arrived home to hear the voice of Mrs. Hudson."I'm sorry sir, but I won't be able to bring your hot water on time this evening. The pipe to the pump broke and the skilly has to walk an extra three streets to get any."

Sherlock entered his own flat and took up his briar. He would only need one fill. That was enough to make it a three-pipe day.

Inspector Athelney Jones hauled himself into the attic room with mild disgust. All these places around Montague Street were the same, full of students and dilettantes, pretending to be writers or artists or something else to make up just enough rent to be three weeks behind. There wasn't one of them who would ever do any honest day's work, let alone respectable police work.

Jones knocked on the door. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes" he said. "Your landlady gave me your name.I am a police detective and I have some questions about Mr. Tompkins, your neighbor from the floor below."

"I don't know him. Should I?" asked Holmes.

"Well, he lived right below you, so it would be usual to be at least a little acquainted," said Jones, "but if you can't tell me about him, you can't."

"Oh, I can tell you about him. We've just never met. He pretends to be a painter. I don't mean like most of the people here, who paint and pretend they can make a living out of it. Tompkins didn't actually paint at all. He'd leave in the morning with more stains on his hands than when he came in at night, so the stains didn't come from a studio somewhere else. But his rooms never smelled of paint or turpentine. He smelled a little like paint when the stains were fresh, of course, but there was never enough smell in his rooms to be a painting drying. He never put paint to canvas. I think he had family somewhere giving him money, but only for as long as he worked at his art.

"He was usually late on his rent, even later than me, because Mrs. Murchison would have to go up and hassle him for it twice to my once. He got his money regularly, though because his hair never got too long and his clothes never got worn out. He was spending the bulk of it on something else, either drink, or gambling, or being blackmailed.

"He was left-handed - he carried things and used his key that way, but the right hand was the more stained one, corroborating what I said about him pretending. He liked strawberries. Miss Murchison never planted strawberries, but there are some growing in the yard, just under where our two windows line up. I never eat them, and there aren't any other windows there, so he must be the one who dropped them."

"All right, that's enough out of you! You can come along with me to the station," said Jones.

"Why? What has happened?" asked Holmes

"He got murdered last night at Limehouse is what happened. And anyone who knows that much about a man they claim not to know, knows something about it. Come along with me and I won't have to use the handcuffs."

src="https://images.app.goo.gl/cERK9QPiTJTkRe5e7" alt='Poster with the words: some people aren't loyal to you. They're loyal to their need for you. When their needs change, so does their loyalty '

Sherlock was already bored with the crime scene. The victim himself was fascinating, with contradictory clues scattered all over his body, but his flat was as dull as could be. Beige everywhere, few books, even less music. He had illustrated calendars. With puppies. He had posters. With affirmations. Sherlock hated affirmations. They had all the banality of Anderson with none of the opportunity for mocking.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped cold. It wasn't like the all over pause he got with a great idea. This was closer to the jolt of a shower going suddenly cold - simply the opposite of how he expected to feel.

He must have made some noise or strange expression, because Lestrade was looking at him with concern. "Are you all right, mate?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He read the poster again. John wasn't like that. He hadn't moved on, not really. Surely he would continue to want Sherlock in his life even if he didn't need a flatmate, a source of danger, or a wingman. Wouldn't he?

My words:

propose
accidental
little
quirky
fireman
crook
curved
cherries
faulty
come

Pong! Pong! Pong! Pong!

Joan listened just long enough to be certain the sounds were not gunshots and made her sleepy way up to the roof. "Oh, good morning Sherlock," she said. It's nice to see you've shrunk your cherry bombs almost down to the size of actual cherries."

"Yes, the tennis balls were rapidly downgrading my status from quirky neighbor to dangerous neighbor. These little ping pong balls work just fine," replied Sherlock.

"As long as they help us catch this crook from Red Hook, that's just fine. I wouldn't want them to cause an accidental fire, though. Last time not even one good-looking fireman managed to come."

"Watson, I would never propose you be exposed to fire. That last time was entirely due to faulty wiring."

"I know," replied Joan. "I'd never accuse you of such a thing." They say together, watching the curved paths of the cherry bombs before their explosions.

We planned together, starting with an argument, of course.

"It will be safer if I go," insisted Watson. She was right. The greatest risk of this operation was head injury caused by the jump. If the jumper were knocked out, it would would be deadly even with Alfredo's buddy hiding in his boat beneath the bridge. A more mild injury would have more long term consequences for me than her, and we both knew it.

"That's not the point, Watson. You can take on many roles, but you cannot make yourself look like McNally, even from a distance. The bulletproof vest and wetsuit under my clothes will bulk me up just enough to be convincing as Reichenbach approaches. This is the only way to draw him in."

Watson looked at me hard. "Promise me you'll be careful. I want this death to be a fake one."

I promised caution, which is how I ended up meeting Reichenbach on the bridge. We had our confrontation, my bags of blood burst at his shot, and I slipped down into the East River with a splash. I am well, and will remain so.