When I returned to 221B, I found the curtains closed and Holmes deep in rumination within the darkness. Only his hawk-like features were visible, seemingly perched on the armchair, lit by the flickering blaze of his pipe. He didn’t seem to notice me enter and I wondered what else, besides tobacco, he’d been ingesting in my absence.

“Had a good day, Holmes?” I tried. Then, when no response was forthcoming, I said, “The Royal Family have all been murdered and really it seems an impossible affair. If only someone were interested in investigating.”

Of course, Holmes was too lost in his own morphine dreams to hear a word I had to say. There was a chill in the air. I drew the curtains then went to make the fire.

”Watson, you’re back,” said Holmes, as I adjusted the logs.

”It seems so,” I said.

”I have a question. What does death of the author mean to you?”

”Mm. Apart from a pretentious attempt at furthering literary criticism?”

”Yes. Apart from that.”

”Apart from that, I’d say it’s what‘ll happen to me if you can’t stay off the damned substances and bring yourself to solve something.”

”Droll,” he said.

”I mean it though, Holmes. If not for my sake, for your own. Your mind is being wasted here. It’s rotting away. And your mind is too great to waste.”

”What if it’s not my mind solving these cases, Watson? What if it’s never been?”

“Then I’d like a little more credit for my part.”

”Droll again. You’re on a roll.”

I lit a match and threw it on the fire. The fire’s crackle merged with rain tapping on the window and created something of a soporific atmosphere. I stretched, yawned, and toppled myself into a leather armchair next to my friend.

“Anything good in the paper?” I asked, picking it up.

“Good? What constitutes good, exactly?”

”A murder, a robbery — anything to to give you purpose and get you out of this room for an hour or two.”

”Watson, here, do you not find it funny that every story you have documented — well, perhaps documented is too strict of a term — that every story you have embellished into your particular form of entertainment has a most satisfactory ending for the reader?”

”Reluctantly, I do think the credit for the endings goes to you.”

”But they’re all so neat, Watson. So perfect. Each one like a sheet of origami creased along the exact correct lines until it folds into a complete solution.“

I didn’t know what to say to that. “I suppose they are neat. And what’s wrong with that, pray tell?”

”Nothing for readers of the Strand, I dare say. But for real life? Everything! What about chaos theory, Watson? What about the mess that is itself life. Not everything we do is a string with two ends. Sometimes scissors cut the string into pieces and the pieces become lost and can never be stitched back together.”

”You’ve overdone the morphine, and the metaphor.”

”I’ve not touched any morphine!” he rebutted, indignant. “Cocaine on the other hand…”

”Ah, I should have known.”

”But my thoughts have been brewing far longer than the cocaine has been inside me. The world is too neat by far. The stories you write are too satisfying. They are as if you are tracing over letters already written.”

I placed down the newspaper. “What are you trying to say Holmes? That someone has set up all these crimes for you to solve? Some mastermind of criminality?”

”Not of criminality. Just a mastermind.”

”And your evidence is solely that you solve almost every case?”

”Precisely.”

I considered this a while. Imagined that we were characters in a book. In a series of stories. That someone had the good sense to place the two of us together. To set a crackling fire and let the clouds open and to place a bottle of whiskey on the table by my side.

I yawned as I poured us each a drink.

”If we’re but characters in stories,” I said passing Holmes a glass, “then here’s to many more being written. For the writing is indeed worthy of more stories, wouldn’t you say?”

Holmes’s frowned. Then smiled. He took the glass, a sip, and a long look out of the window. “Quite, Watson. Quite.”

"STOP! STOP! STOP IT!" I screamed at the top of my lungs

They all just froze bickering turned into confused stares as they didn't know what to do about the at this point calm detective loosing his- OH WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT A NARRATION "THIS BOOK IS A GOD DAMN MESS!"

"What are you talking about? What book?" The butler asked

"THIS BOOK! THE BOOK WE'RE CHARACTERS OF! THIS SHITTY WRITTEN BOOK!"

"Detective Jones," Mrs Banelby the now ex-wife said "this is reality"

"NO IT'S NOT AND YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW? YOU! FATMAN!"

Charlie Banelby the victims brother was aghast at the comment on his size "Me?" He inquired.

"YOU FOUND THE BODY OF YOUR BROTHER WHERE?"

"The second floor..." he whimpered out.

"YES THE SECOND FLOOR AND YOU SAID HE WAS STABBED YES?"

"Yes, yes he was stabbed we know that" sneered the Olivia the victim's mistress

"OKAY HE WAS STABBED ON THE SECOND FLOOR AND YET! WHEN I LEAVE THE MURDER ROOM, OH LOOK STAIRS 4 FLOORS WORTH OF STAIRS! WE ARE AT THE TOP! THE FRONT DOOR IS AT THE FLOOR BELOW US, AND I WALK BACK INTO THE ROOM AND OUT THE WINDOW I SEE A FOUR STORIE TALL BUILDING! AND WE'RE AT THE TOP!"

"Okay sir you need to calm down" the bu-

"QUIT WITH THE NARRATION I SAID! AND THE MURDER WEAPON. WE KNOW IT WAS THE SWORD AT THE TOP OF THE FIREPLACE WHOEVER! IT'S A FUCKING PLASTIC SWORD! NOT SHARP, NOT METAL, AND YET FITS PERFECTLY IN THE WOUND TO A T!"

"This whole case is a giant contrivance, this was a dinner party the murder happened 20 minutes ago and it's currently what time?"

"...12:41 pm"

"12:41 PM! ALSO THINK ABOUT THIS ONE WE'RE ALL STEREOTYPES! THE EX-WIFE, THE JEALOUS FAT BROTHER, THE MISTRESS, THE OLD LADY WHO ACTUALLY DID IT SPOILER ALERT!, AND THE RED HERRING BUTLER! WHO THE FUCK WROTE THIS SHIT?"

I did, also... with the snap of the authors fingers the narration was back, Yo

"OH SO YOU'RE THE AUTHOR!" Detective Davis exclaimed slowly losing his mind "HEY!"

Yep

"I ONLY HAVE ONE QUESTION FOR YOU? WHY!" The Detective said about to manhandle the author

Reddit.

"What?" Whispered the author

This was just for a reddit writing prompt, it asked for a self aware detective in a contrived murder mystery, and it was only until last minute I realized i can't do this properly sooo...

The Detective took a step back as the existential dread settled in.

yeah and this has become way to meta for my taste so, for those who've read this i say this with the deepest part of my heart Downvote this to oblivion, legitimately do that i don't have the talent to make stuff like this...

"Look around you."

"I've got an eye for a particular painting, Mr. Marques, a real one." Dale took the last pull from the cigarette before flicking it into a rusted can covered in dried dabs every shade of sorrow. "I couldn't care less about your racket of fake Monets."

"Careful doing that, a lot of shit in here's flammable," the haggard young man said, not looking away from the window he traced a finger over, alternating slow and fast. He was every stitch the image of a starving artist but there was something else behind the glazed eyes.

"Best get me out of your hair, then. Haven't had the pleasure of meeting her myself yet but word around town, there's a woman trying to off load some rare merchandise." Dale started up the next smoke with a cupped hand against the drafty apartment. "Real desperate, might owe someone big. You'd be doing her a favor letting me know."

He lazily flicked through the stack of canvases leaned against the brick wall while he waited for a response.

The young man had pulled a Polaroid from his pocket holding it like a knife pointed at his heart.

"One last treasure yet remained, the glorious, dynastic crown." Mr. Marques offered as he opened the window.

Dale did not feel like chasing someone down a fire escape, his back felt like it even less.

"To never lose was so ingrained, the king saw fit to join it down." The young man licked his lips and bit before bolting.

Dale hurried after just in time to see him not running down the stairs, but sailing along a faster shortcut to the asphalt. His neck met the metal side the dumpster with a resonating thud cutting through the quiet city night.

A distant dog began barking as Dale looked down at the sprawled artist. There was no growing pool of blood but by the angle of his head, he had certainly made his last counterfeit.

"Shit, what have I stumbled onto this time? First the art professor, now this."

The Polaroid was tucked between the window panes. Dale had to grab the grating to avoid joining Mr. Marques in his midnight dive as he looked closer.

Unmistakably, Gina stared back at him from the photo, that mocking haunt she could flick on in her eyes. A smear of blue paint marred her cheek.

The woman he had given 6 years of his life to, the woman that disappeared 6 months pregnant 6 years ago, was the art thief he was after. The engagement ring still sat in his dresser, never given.

He had seen some curious luck in his time but this seemed too much, like a crescendo of coincidences building towards almost feeling supernatural.

He took a draw on the cigarette before carefully picking up the Polaroid and laying it flat in his notebook.

He looked at the last work of art of the now late painter, medium of finger oil on glass.

It was a rather striking portrait of Dale himself. "Poor kid had some real talent," he said to the empty apartment. A white bird squawked from a cage in the corner. Maybe not empty.

Beneath the likeness were the neat lines of a message.

'Look around you. This is the last book in your series, detective. Spoiler: you die at the end.'

"Most suicide notes don't have a threat." But this all did seem very pulp fiction, didn't it? Too bad he couldn't get a follow-up question answered.

Dale looked to see the bird was watching him, big eyed like a watcher from another world.

"You tell me, Tweety. Is this all a detective story? One noir plot contrivance after another? Be a lot more meaningful than a high saddled drunk just trying to pay the bills, eh?"

In way of response, the bird plopped a white token to the newspapers below. Strewn below the cage were various slips of discarded mail. The cupid curve of a lipstick kiss stood out from the pile.

Dale picked it up, not surprised to see a address on it not matching the others. A love letter never sent. The convenient clue, framed and delivered as always.

He would have to be careful, he decided, only half joking. "If this is a story, my avian friend, it plans on killing me before it's done. We're probably already a third of the way along, too. Like any good thriller, the contract's signed, the clock's ticking, and the crucible's waiting somewhere ahead."

He tossed his cigarette into another can. With a woof of air, it caught in greenish flame, quickly spreading to the canvases nearby. He chuckled.

"The kid did warn me," he said as he fiddled with the hook to the cage. "Guess you're coming with me, Tweety."

/r/surinical

"Ah! I've found a clue!" I said, looking at the fingerprint through my magnifying glass. Yes, it is I, the famous detective you know so well. But how could you know me so well when we've never met? That is, never met in real life? An interesting question, and perhaps a sign of things to come? Only a great detective would know, and that's what I am. Not all detectives know that mysteries can actually conceal greater mysteries, as I learned one fateful day, when everything changed. You see, I was investigating the murder of a certain victim. Just an ordinary day in my life, if you can even call it a life at all, which is not something I would have said before this mystery, but soon all will be revealed. I was going through the list of suspects and trying to piece together the clues. But it was all too perfect. Too contrived. I had an odd thought... but no. That's absurd. But could it be? Could real life, to which I thought I belonged, truly operate in such a matter? As if it were penned for me, plotted by the hand of a master? As if I were in.... a book? The thought struck me like lightning. And further deduction proved it was true. I was a character in a book!

“Can someone explain to me how in the seven hells does someone trip over banana peel, fall in 10 cm deep river and whats the most unbelievable is that victim died of suffocation with water inside lungs?. I asked ‘am I in some sort of book or something. I know for sure that no one can be so stupid… sigh I hate my job.’

While I was looking for clues my apprentice was interrogating witnesses. But he’s new in business so I got to watch over him so any mistakes are avoided. Of course he made mistake so i switched with him in perfect moment, my fame as “Best Detective with no flaws” will be maintained.

-”Phillip I think that all clues are found but I would like you to check again In case something was overlooked.” -”alright teacher” My cute apprentice looked at me apologetically. Of course he knew his mistake. Well coming back to witnes. -”would you like to add anything to your testimony?” I asked. -” Nnn…o. No!” face of the witness took white color and had droplets of sweat coming from forehead. I glared with suspicion at actions of “innocent” witness And saw that he had smirk that was telling you’ll never know that I did it. ‘alright in many years of my detective career i would never suspect asking that question but… -” Did you kill that person with banana peel?” -”How did you kn… I ment no!” ‘sigh am I really in the book? I can’t belive the stupidity of those people or rather I should call them walking circus. People can’t be that stupid right?’ -”alright we have our suspect lock him up”

My second time writing something except school stuff so constructive criticism will be appreciated.

I wonder what happened if I just decided to boycott. What would happen? Would the author of my life just simply stop writing if I decided to lay in bed for the rest of my life? Would the author be able to force me out of bed by just writing about it? Am I enslaved to whatever the author says I have to do?

I decide to try it. I don't want to solve a mystery that has no real world implications, it obviously doesn't matter if I am just a character in a book. I lay in bed and just stare at the ceiling. As I do I begin to wonder... But what if maybe this is part of the author's story. What if he is writing for me to lay in bed and contemplate my existence and if any of it matters? I almost sit up in rebellion, but then think about what if that is the author again, making me realize his plan in an effort to get me out of bed. Nice try author. I'm staying in bed. I don't play by your rules. I'm going to stay in bed and there is nothing you can do to stop me. Your book will not get a third act as I am not going to solve any case for you. Sorry bro. Or sis.

Is this creator a man or woman I wonder? I could probably figure out if you are male or female, I am a famous detective after all. I'm sure there is some evidence that could lead me to learn more about you. But no! I am a retired detective! I am not going to solve any more mysteries, I don't care. I just want to lay in bed and watch YouTube on my phone. You can't do anything to stop me.

I think about the case I left behind. How a dozen children have been lost and may die unless we solve the riddles left behind. I remind myself that the children aren't real. That the kidnapping isn't real. How none of it matters. We are just a story for idiots to read for pleasure. Well I hope you people enjoy a story about a guy laying in bed forever! A story about a guy who let a dozen children die because he had an existential crisis! Let's see if that book ends up selling!

Detective Planter and the Existential Crisis Resulting in a Dozen Dead Children went on to sell 80 million copies worldwide

Once upon a time I was a famous detective,
I thought I was the greatest of all that had ever been detected.
But soon I realized a problem,
That every situation I solved was wildly contrived.

The clues I found were all too convenient,
The solutions to each case felt too obvious and evident.
I thought, why is this the way it is?
When I figured it out I could no longer resist.

The answer that I had finally found,
Was that I was a character in a book renown.
My life had been written out for me,
And the story was never meant to be free.

My every move was predetermined and planned
For the pleasure of a reader's hand.
My life was just a work of fiction,
No matter how hard I tried, I could not change my condition.

Though I was disappointed and feeling blue,
I still continued to see things through.
As the fictional detective I had always been,
I finished each case without fail and was done.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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