Month: January 2026

The 37% Solution

The door to 221B Baker Street didn’t answer Jonny’s knock, so he answered it himself with a hairpin and a bad feeling crawling up his spine. The stairs groaned like an old stool pigeon as he climbed, Nurse Alex Price right behind him, her heels quiet, her eyes sharp, her London calm about to be shattered. He’d ditched Boris earlier, left his precious pug in the care of England’s most celebrated brainbox so he and Alex could tangle sheets and forget the world for a few blessed hours. What waited for them upstairs was a crime scene without the courtesy of a corpse. Holmes and Boris lay sprawled like fallen idols, arms riddled with track marks, mouths slack, eyes rolled back to places no mind should visit without a passport. A bottle sat on the table, nearly empty, its white promise betrayed. Alex didn’t need to touch them. One look told her the truth. They were flying. High as church bells on Sunday. Jonny’s heart cracked like cheap glass. “I knew it,” he howled. “I knew leaving my pug with that pipe-smoking maniac was begging for heartbreak.”

“Your deduction is unsound,” came a voice from the gloom, clipped and wounded with disappointment. Watson stepped forward, mustache stiff, eyes colder than a London fog. “This isn’t your common Soho snow. Look at the label. Seven percent is the ceiling in this city, and that concoction is strong enough to wake the dead or put legends to sleep.” Jonny’s jaw tightened as the pieces clicked together, ugly and perfect. “Van Nuys,” he said, the word tasting like rust and regret. Watson nodded. The room seemed to sag under the weight of it. Boris, sweet, stupid, brilliant Boris, had gone home for his poison and dragged Holmes along for the ride. The two greatest minds in the room were unconscious, and the dumbest truth lay naked on the table. Jonny stared at his fallen partner, praying the line between genius and grave hadn’t already been crossed.

Jonny & Boris Meet Bulldog Drummond

Jonny’s grin stayed plastered on his face as they crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard, but it had the stiffness of cheap glue. The murder of Robert Vestal still rang in his ears like a cracked bell—shot clean through the heart on some manicured English estate, a heart Jonny had always assumed Vestal rented rather than owned. The chief inspector, all tweed and clipped vowels, laid it out with the solemnity of a man announcing the weather: they’d be sharing the case with a local bloodhound named Drummond, who’d been tracking it from the English side of the pond. Jonny knew the name. Ex–army, thrill-seeker, a legend in rain-soaked pubs and police files. The constable leaned in and lowered his voice. “Good chap, Drummond. Made quite a name for himself in the canine corps.” Jonny blinked. “Did you just say CANINE corps?” The word hung in the air like gun smoke.

The answer padded in before the question could cool. Drummond entered without a sound, Limey incarnate, every inch the Empire right down to the jowls. He was a bulldog—no metaphor, no exaggeration, just a solid, breathing slab of British beef with a detective’s stare. His eyes locked on Boris and lit up. “Smashing to finally meet you, old boy. After years of chasing villains with homo sapiens, I thought it time we dogs showed them how it’s properly done. Care to see the murder scene?” He turned, already moving, a paw clamped around Boris’s arm. “Your assistant can take notes.” Jonny bristled as the pug was hustled away, the thrill draining out of the room. Scotland Yard suddenly felt colder, and Jonny had the sinking feeling this case wasn’t going to let him enjoy a single damn thing.

Revenge of the Monday

Sunday bled out slow and sour at Casa de Jonny, like cheap liquor seeping into an expensive rug. Jonny, Linda, Boris, and Pussy lounged in obscene comfort while Pinion the butler performed the last rites of Christmas—stripping the tree bare, needles biting through his tuxedo trousers, sap clinging to him like a bad memory. He dragged the dead pine half a mile downhill to the dumpster, its branches clawing the pavement in protest, before returning to serve Champagne, catnip, and pug food with hands that still smelled of resin and defeat. Inside, the air was warm and golden, heavy with luxury and self-satisfaction. Outside, something watched. Pinion felt it in his spine, a cold finger tracing tomorrow’s date.

They ate like royalty on the edge of a cliff. Lobster tails flew, laughter cracked, bubbles hissed in crystal flutes as Boris snorted happily and Pussy rolled in narcotic bliss. Pinion’s unease earned him nothing but mockery. “There’s nothing out there, Pinion, you idiot,” Jonny sneered, beauty and cruelty sharing the same smile. “Go get us another bottle of Moët & Chandon Imperial Vintage 1946 from the wine cellar.” As the butler turned away, dignity straightened but fear stayed hunched, he caught it again—a hideous green blob skittering behind a cypress, moving wrong, like a thought that shouldn’t exist. He nodded and obeyed, because that’s what servants do when the world pretends it’s safe.

The cellar steps groaned beneath Pinion’s shoes, each one a countdown tick he could almost hear. He knew then what Jonny didn’t: looks, brains and excessively large penises don’t stop Mondays. They arrive anyway, wet and hungry, dragging the week behind them like a corpse. The green thing outside wasn’t just flesh—it was inevitability, slime wrapped around the calendar. Pinion tightened his grip on the bottle and squared his shoulders in the dark, alone with the wine and the truth. If anyone was going to slow the dread creeping toward Casa de Jonny, it wouldn’t be the laughing gods upstairs. It would be the butler with pine needles in his cuffs, standing between Sunday and the thing that came next.