{11} - The Hound of Baker Street
[Voice Post]
((Scrabbling, shuffling. It takes a moment for any real sound to become clear. Then...a monumental sniff.))
How very droll. How very droll and very inconveniencing. Oh yes, I remember: this has been the subject of many a joke, none of which were amusing either then or now. If my old friend were here, likely he'd invent an entire narrative around this single incident. I can only imagine it--and the response to it. Monumental as ever.
((A whuffling sigh.))
A bloodhound is only so good as his nose, and he is only good for following a scent. He is useful when that scent must be traced, but if the source of that scent is not the guilty party or the lost object, what good is he then? He is but a tool. However, his tenacity I can admire, and his talent. For the best bloodhounds are trained, even if they have born in them an innate and particular skill at tracking those scents.
There were those in my own time and place who, observing my methods without understanding them, would liken me to a bloodhound. ((A small, rueful chuckle.)) The parallel is distinctly inaccurate. For the bloodhound only tracks what is set before him. He is given a piece of cloth and he follows that scent to the places which carry it. I, meanwhile, find the cloth, the scent, the places, and the one to whom the scent belongs long before I began even to trace it. Though my methods, I anticipate. The bloodhound only may only track.
And yet...that parallel persisted.
And now I see that the City has, in my absence, not at all lost its remarkable sense of humour.
Very amusing indeed.
But, the great variety of scents which I now find fairly bombarding my senses is quite remarkable. And the nuances of each which distinguishes it from similar scents would likely, to a man's nose, be identical. This is not the case. The scent of one object is not identical to the next, as the scent of one man is not like another. And here I sense now, plainly how it is to a dog's mind. It is a peculiar insight and I shall not soon forget it. Here, then, is something to be filed away, perhaps.
I am still distinctly inconvenienced lacking both Mrs Hudson and my hands. However, at least there is some interest to be had from the day.
And the familiar curses are very clearly yet striking this great City.
((Another whuffling sigh.))
((A moment or more of the shuffling again, and then--!))
[//voice post ends]
[ooc: ...it had to be done. Had to.]
((Scrabbling, shuffling. It takes a moment for any real sound to become clear. Then...a monumental sniff.))
How very droll. How very droll and very inconveniencing. Oh yes, I remember: this has been the subject of many a joke, none of which were amusing either then or now. If my old friend were here, likely he'd invent an entire narrative around this single incident. I can only imagine it--and the response to it. Monumental as ever.
((A whuffling sigh.))
A bloodhound is only so good as his nose, and he is only good for following a scent. He is useful when that scent must be traced, but if the source of that scent is not the guilty party or the lost object, what good is he then? He is but a tool. However, his tenacity I can admire, and his talent. For the best bloodhounds are trained, even if they have born in them an innate and particular skill at tracking those scents.
There were those in my own time and place who, observing my methods without understanding them, would liken me to a bloodhound. ((A small, rueful chuckle.)) The parallel is distinctly inaccurate. For the bloodhound only tracks what is set before him. He is given a piece of cloth and he follows that scent to the places which carry it. I, meanwhile, find the cloth, the scent, the places, and the one to whom the scent belongs long before I began even to trace it. Though my methods, I anticipate. The bloodhound only may only track.
And yet...that parallel persisted.
And now I see that the City has, in my absence, not at all lost its remarkable sense of humour.
Very amusing indeed.
But, the great variety of scents which I now find fairly bombarding my senses is quite remarkable. And the nuances of each which distinguishes it from similar scents would likely, to a man's nose, be identical. This is not the case. The scent of one object is not identical to the next, as the scent of one man is not like another. And here I sense now, plainly how it is to a dog's mind. It is a peculiar insight and I shall not soon forget it. Here, then, is something to be filed away, perhaps.
I am still distinctly inconvenienced lacking both Mrs Hudson and my hands. However, at least there is some interest to be had from the day.
And the familiar curses are very clearly yet striking this great City.
((Another whuffling sigh.))
((A moment or more of the shuffling again, and then--!))
[//voice post ends]
[ooc: ...it had to be done. Had to.]