Sherlock Holmes And The Curious Case Of Vaccine Misinformation

Elementary, my dear Rogan.

I was lunching with Holmes in the latter’s abode when suddenly there came an urgent knock upon his door. Less than a minute later, Sir Frederik Pounce was standing before us in an utter sweat.

“Forgive me for the intrusion, gentlemen,” Pounce said nervously. “But I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“No apologies necessary, Sir Frederik,” my companion replied, drawing upon his pipe. “Whatever the matter is, it’s clearly been bothering you for at least a fortnight, judging by the old snow stains on your galoshes.”

Pounce blushed at the uncleanliness of his footwear as I marveled at Holmes’s insight.

“It’s this vaccine business, you see,” Pounce resumed.

“Go on,” said Holmes, unable to mask a hint of intrigue.

“I cannot seem to get a clear answer on whether it will endanger my good health,” Pounce continued. “Indeed, I fear this ‘vax’ may be a government conspiracy designed to reduce me to a docile, impotent snowflake, what. I figured you were just the man to quell my fears. Will you take the case, Holmes?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Having an extensive background in the medical field myself, I was glad for the opportunity to take this “case” and put poor Pounce at ease.

“The vaccine is perfectly safe, dear man,” I spoke. “It goes through a rigorous — ”

“Excuse me,” Holmes interrupted sharply, causing me to nearly spill my tea. “But you must forgive Doctor Watson. He’s gotten quite in the habit of speaking without first considering all the admissible facts.”

The rebuke stunned me to silence.

“So you’ll take the case?” Pounce said hopefully.

“I will take some time to examine all the available sources,” Holmes said, resuming his pipe. “Not just the ones the woke mob wants us to read.”

Pounce bowed deeply and left the room almost as quickly as he’d entered it.

“Holmes, what the devil are you doing?” I asked once Pounce was out of earshot. “Don’t you trust my opinion on the topic of medicine?”

“You know my methods, Watson,” Holmes replied after a brief coughing fit. “Besides, you claimed you were late this morning because you were engaged in running errands.”

“Yes, what of it?” I inquired.

“If those were the facts, then how did you find time to read the morning news?”

I looked down at my ink-stained fingers. There was no denying Holmes’s genius. Perhaps his personal vaccine research would prove equally intuitive.

When I returned to Baker Street one week later, I was shocked at the disarray. Dishes cluttered the counters, clothing was strewn about the floor, and a foul odor wafted from the lavatory.

“Holmes!” I shouted, fearing the worst.

“In here,” came the response.

I walked into the bedroom and found Holmes hunched over a computer screen, window shades drawn.

“Close the door!” my friend snapped.

“Holmes, dear chap, what the devil are you up to?”

“I have made some of the most remarkable discoveries of my life,” Holmes said distantly. “The conspiracy goes deeper than we thought, old boy.”

“What conspiracy?”

“Vaccinations, of course,” coughed Holmes. “Or should I say, ‘Sheep serum.’”

“What on earth are you reading,” I exclaimed.

“The truth,” my friend said with a knowing smile. “Q sent me.”

“What the deuce?”

Holmes showed me his computer screen, which was filled with hundreds of tabs related to some bilge called “QAnon,” “Joe Rogan” and “cansel [sic] culture.”

“I’m afraid you were quite incorrect regarding the vaccine, doctor,” Holmes reiterated. “This Rogan fellow has helped me piece together the puzzle and see the answers more clearly. Elementary.”

“What is that?” I inquired, pointing out a tab that said “Hentai.”

“Nothing,” Holmes said, closing the tab quickly. “Watson, are you listening to me?”

I closed the computer and helped Holmes into bed. It seemed to have been days since my companion had a good night’s rest and I managed to convince him it was quite necessary to “solving the case.”

The following day, I returned to discover Holmes writhing in his bed. I looked at his bedside and spotted a bottle that read “Ivermectin” — a dewormer fit for horses.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, attempting to wake him. “Moriarty has struck! You’ve been poisoned with a horse dewormer! We must get you to a hospital at once, old boy!”

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, coughing some blood onto his shirtsleeve. “Do you know how foolish you sound?”

He then instructed me to fetch his laptop for more research, but when he opened it the screen was filled with this “Hentai” business and he threw it across the room, claiming Moriarty “must have hacked it.”

Somewhat relieved that his device was shattered, I attempted to talk some sense into my companion regarding accurate vaccine information. But the old chap wouldn’t listen. He kept saying, “Let’s go, my dear Brandon.”

In either case, it seemed old Pounce had stopped responding to telegrams. Holmes suspected his client had been kidnapped by ANTIFA and forced to take the vaccine. When I asked how Holmes had made that deduction, exactly, his response was a knowing smile. Then an alarm went off and I watched as the man sipped from a thimble of bleach.

It was difficult to leave my friend in this manner. He’d disappeared before and managed to return, that much is true; but this time, I daresay I fear he is truly gone.