3rd November 1877
I, Sherlock Holmes, have discovered my true calling in life – I can talk to doors.
No, I can communicate telepathically with doors. Each time I open a door, I merely THINK that I should close it when it closes by itself. I am not touching it, nor am I noticing any draft. It simply obeys my thoughts.
Just a few moments ago, I ordered my Main Entrance Door to go out and fetch the newspaper. It didn’t work, but I’m still waiting. Perhaps I have to blink, or turn around several times…
I’ll keep you posted.
4th November 1877
Another curious thing I have discovered is the complete lack of effort whenever I try to change my clothes. You see, I simply think of what I’d like to wear and POOF I am wearing it. I’m telling you, dear Diary, something must’ve awoken deep inside my mind.
In the past I only had one pair of clothes and I used to go around wearing it for months on end. But now? Now I can simply think about baldness and POOF – my hair falls out instantly.
This power might be dangerous. I tried it on John. I imagined him in a funny dress, but nothing happened. Perhaps it only affects inanimate objects… but then, why didn’t it work on John?
5th November 1877
I think I may be losing my mind. You see, I am quite brilliant at seeing things others don’t. I use my sense for details and my imagination to solve cases. Today, I accidentally used both senses at the same time. Hoo, boy, I was trippin’ balls.
Even Inspector Lestrade eyed me strangely as I was bumbling around through some old lady’s garden, talking to her turnips. As far as I understood, when I use this power of mine, my eyes bulge out and it creeps the hell out of the neighborhood children.
I should use it wisely. I managed to scare Mrs. Hudson today, she almost fell down the stairs. John seems to be sort of detached from the whole thing. Actually, it seems like he doesn’t do much at all. And he’s always wearing the same suit, what’s up with that?
6th November 1877
I am completely astonished.
There I was, working on a case with John Watson, when we stumbled upon a train station. As I was walking along, casually looking for clues in my own brilliant and unique way, I turn around and saw John buried knees-deep in the dirt! There he was, looking all professional and serious, with a quarter of his body under the gravel.
I approached him, I tried to see what was going on, but he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he was being buried alive. Pushing him, shouting at him, giving him the good ol’ run-and-kick-in-the-mustache didn’t help, and I was forced to leave him behind, seeking help.
I saw a young man minding his own business on a pile of wood somewhere in the distance, near a cabin that had a nice front porch with a simple set of wooden stairs. I ran towards the man, thinking I should ask for help, when all of a sudden I found myself stuck in mid air.
Now, dear Diary, I do hope you know that I do not drink, nor was I dreaming. There I was, climbing–nay–floating up the stairs, diagonally, as the man looked at me curiously. I must’ve seemed extremely impolite to him as mere seconds later I found my right leg stuck through the poor man’s door. That is a very stupid way to greet someone. “Hello, I seemed to have broken your door. How do you do?”
I’m telling you, dear Diary, we live in a messed-up world. God help us all.