Few things are better when I'm ill than a wander into the stories of Sherlock Holmes.

I have a concussion right now, it's mild, and indirect, but nonetheless I need to take care of myself. These stories (and many others) kept me company.

I know what's coming, I've read these stories so many times, and yet they never fail to make me happy. The case is usually discovered on a Friday, to be solved by the Monday. There must always be a face so dreadful and so horrific that maids fainted at the sight of it, usually on a victim.

There is sometimes a femme fatale, dark-haired, dark-eyed and sharp enough to escape and make her own way for herself. There must always be Sherlock delighting in some small trifle which tends to be the final clue for the case.

Dr. Watson and Sherlock must always wait, for some period of time, not talking, in the dark. They sit together and wait, either for dawn or a murderer. Dr. Watson, revolver tucked away, produces it, to fire a shot off into the darkness. Or else a match is struck to reveal the perpetrator.

There are always types of tobaccos, poisons and inks.

I know the stories so well I feel like I could write them.

But why write them when I can read them again, just as they are? ( )

It's Sherlock Holmes, you can't go wrong! ( )