Truth be told, I liked that blurriness. That line where reality and fiction jutted up against each other.

John H. Watson might have been many things - a doctor, a storyteller, and by most accounts a kind and decent man-but he clearly wasn't a zoologist. There's no such thing as a swamp adder. And the idea that Sherlock Holmes deduced its existence from a saucer of milk is ridiculous- snakes have zero interest in milk. They also can't hear anything but vibrations, so they wouldn't hear a whistle. But they do breathe, so a snake couldn't survive in a locked safe.

We weren't Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I was ok with that, I thought. We had things they didn't, too. Like electricity, and refrigerators. And Mario Kart.

I began wondering if there was some kind of Watsonian guide for the care and keeping of Holmeses.

The two of us, we're the best kind of disaster. Apples and oranges. Well, more like apples and machetes.

Where does fiction end and reality begin?