The case at the breakfast table

He was already half finished by the time I reached the breakfast table. This was a certain aberration from his usual norm.

“Good morning, Holmes. I never thought I would live to see the day when you would beat me to the breakfast table,” I quipped good-humouredly.

He chuckled. “Unpredictability is the slice of life, Watson.”

I dug into my plate of omellete. He was already attacking his with an unusual vigour. Something was different today, I could sense. He seemed purposeful and ate with a sense of urgency.

“Any news?,” I broke the silence feeling sure that he had bumped into a new case.

“If you are referring to any case, then I am disappointed to say that I’m jobless,” he spoke gravely.

However, there was a glint in his eye and yet again he was holding something up his sleeve. I had always loathed his underlying vanity which gives him an air of superiority. And I knew that he loves to keep his cards concealed till the very end, no matter how much I persuade him to reveal them.

Perhaps he read my thoughts (which is nothing unusual) and broke into a guffaw. Peeved, I confronted him, “What gives you the reason to cackle?”

My blood was boiling, but he continued to chortle.

“Do you think I do not know what’s going on in your mind?” he said. “You think that I’m hiding some fact from you. I assure you my friend that I have no new case in my hand.”

I continued to eat my food tersely, choosing not to pass any remark.

He grinned on seeing my peeved look. “Okay, I am expecting a parcel,” he gave his hands up and disclosed.

I raised my eyebrows slightly. But before he could utter another word, the bell rang. He rose and strode towards the door and returned in 2 minutes time with a package sealed with brown paper. I could discern an ill-disguised thrill in his eyes as he began unwrapping swiftly. As he peeled off the package, out emerged a fresh bottle of Black Dog! He uncorked the Scotch bottle and poured its amber contents into two glasses, eventually handing me one. He sniffed at it contentedly before plunging his impatient lips into its depth.

I knew that he had an occasional fetish for Scotch. “But why Black Dog,” I quizzed, failing to contain my curiosity.

“It’s….. elementary, my dear Watson,” he answered at length.

[Black Dog is an international label which is the number one brand for Scotch whisky. Even Sherlock Holmes prefers it. It’s elementary, my dear.]

Also read;  

i. The Case of the Facebook page

ii. The Case of  the Twitter handle

iii. The Case of Easy evenings

iv.  The Case of stylish living