Chapter Text
Sherlock checked his emails, and sighed, typing out a response to the latest cease and desist letter.
Dear Conan Doyle Estate,
I’m flattered by your persistence. It’s nice to be reminded that you’re watching my channel so closely—I can only assume that my latest video, ‘Scooby-Doo: The Lost Episodes’ must have been especially compelling.
However, I regret to inform you (again) that there is no basis for the “unauthorized use” you’ve alleged. As I have pointed out on multiple occasions, my legal name is Sherlock Holmes. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, born to two very excitable parents who apparently didn't consider the long-term consequences of their literary enthusiasm. I am not claiming to be the fictional character, but simply a human person with an inconveniently famous name. Given the situation, I would think the fictional Sherlock Holmes ought to be the one to change his name—he’s had the longest run with it, after all.
As for my YouTube channel, Mysteries Unwrapped with Sherlock Holmes, it remains exactly that—my own personal content creation project. My real-life, not-at-all fictional perspective on unsolved mysteries and lost media is unrelated to any Holmesian legacy. Perhaps instead of crafting threatening letters, you could consider subscribing. I have a feeling you’d find my work insightful, and it might even save you some time in the long run.
Please know that if I receive Cease and Desist No. 9, I’ll be sending an official response via a YouTube unboxing video.
Best regards,
Sherlock Holmes
(Pronounced ‘Holl-mess’)
Sighing, he pressed send, and opened his browser, only to be flashed by the headline ‘Murder of 5 Michelin-Star Chef’.
Not particularly interested, he scrolled by, and while watching a particularly uninteresting video on the latest celebrity controversy, heard the door being pushed open.
“John, could you just go out and get some milk? I wouldn’t bother to ask, but I noticed you drank two bottles last night, in what I can only assume was the result of some extremely poor decisions.” he called out.
“Wha-“ Sherlock’s roommate started, then gave up, resigned to his fate, and proceeded to leave again, returning after another quarter of an hour.
“You could’ve gotten it yourself, you know, if you actually bothered to leave your room more than once in a fortnight.” John offered.
“We both know that’s not happening, so don’t waste your breath” came the prompt reply. “Now, come here and help me yell at my brother”
John sighed, placing the milk on the counter and wandering over to Sherlock’s desk, where he was already hammering out a message to Mycroft on his laptop.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered as he typed, “has once again decided that I am in need of his unsolicited input. This time, it’s regarding the fact that I ‘might find a more fulfilling career path outside of conspiracy theories and ancient cartoons.’”
Sherlock leaned back, hands behind his head, as if the words themselves had exhausted him. “He seems to have conveniently forgotten that this so-called ‘unfulfilling career path’ has been the one consistently paying the bills.”
“Maybe he’s onto something,” John teased, reading the email over Sherlock’s shoulder. “You did solve that whole ‘mystery of the missing museum artifact’ last month. Pretty sure that’s more than conspiracy theories.”
“That was a one-time situation, John. Entirely accidental. And one I would prefer not to repeat, since it involved an evening locked in a museum basement with nothing but a flashlight and that ridiculous intern. Do you know she thought it was a prank for my channel?” He shook his head. “The Internet has ruined people’s ability to discern reality from fiction.”
“Oh, trust me,” John said, giving him a withering look, “I know. But really, your channel’s growing, you’re uncovering all these real mysteries—you’re getting quite the reputation as a modern-day detective.”
Sherlock shot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. “I am not—”
“Not what? Becoming the world’s least enthusiastic detective?”
John grinned. “Look, you say you’re not doing detective work, but you can’t deny you’ve got the knack for it. Just admit it; the narrative's already got you.”
“I will not be trapped by the narrative, John,” Sherlock snapped, a note of genuine frustration in his voice. “As I’ve said, it’s a name,
not a fate. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Right, because you always know what’s best,” John replied, stifling a laugh. “But fine, keep telling yourself that. So, what do you want to yell at Mycroft about this time?”
“Nothing so trivial.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling up the email draft he had been working on. “No, this time it’s about his little ‘favour’—sending me an anonymous tip about the Michelin-star chef case. He claims he ‘just thought I might find it interesting.’”
John blinked, trying to suppress a grin. “So let me get this straight. He’s pushing you towards an investigation, and you’re upset because…?”
“Because it’s not my job!” Sherlock threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Just because I’ve solved a few mysteries doesn’t mean I want to play detective. I’m not here to fulfil some archaic expectation of fate or anything else. The day I take on that role, willingly or otherwise, I may as well tattoo Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective on my forehead and embrace the madness.”
“Honestly, I think he’s trying to goad you into it,” John said, raising an eyebrow. “He knows exactly how to push your buttons.”
Sherlock scowled, then started furiously typing on his keyboard. “Fine, if he wants a reaction, he’ll get one.”
The message was direct and almost comically curt:
Dear Mycroft,
I am not your personal sleuth, nor am I a public resource for whatever crime du jour captures your fleeting attention. The next time you feel inclined to ‘suggest’ I involve myself in some heinous misfortune, kindly refrain.
Love,
Sherlock (pronounced Holl-mess)
Without a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock hit send and closed his laptop with a flourish. He turned to John, a glint of determination in his eyes. “There. That should make it abundantly clear.”
But John just shook his head, chuckling. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll really get the message this time.”
Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, his phone buzzed. Glancing at the screen, he saw a new notification—a comment on his latest video: “Did you see the chef case, Sherlock? You’d solve it in a heartbeat!”
Sherlock groaned, slumping back in his chair. “I’m surrounded by imbeciles.”