And so began the mystery of the stolen, and presumably consumed, cookies. Less than two minutes after he had realised his cookies had been stolen, he had already thought up a suspect list. Top of the list was his mother because even though she was meant to be on a diet, he knew she was craving sugar. Badly. Silently he crept upstairs to his parent’s bedroom. He listened at the door. Both of his parents were asleep by the sound of their breathing. Nobody could fool Sherlock. He would interview her in the morning. No way was she going to get out of this easily.
Next to check up on was his older brother, Mycroft. His bedroom was two floors above his. Sherlock began to walk up the stairs. He avoided the creaky step three steps up and then the loose splinter on the sixth stair, which had only appeared yesterday. But Sherlock did a daily inspection around the house, so he knew everything. And I mean everything. You wanted to know what temperature the fridge is? Sherlock knew. You were wondering how many times the toilet had been flushed that day? Sherlock knew that to.
Sherlock had arrived outside his brother’s bedroom. He pressed his ear against the door, silence. There was a beam of light coming from underneath the door. He lay down on the floor and looked through the crack. He could see a silhouette of his brother quietly reading. A detective book. Every so often he turned the page, his eyes skimming across the words.
Sherlock went back to his bedroom. He lay down on the end, but immediately he jumped back up again and began to pace his room. His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was bowed down on his chest. Thoughts were running through his mind, all on this mystery. Who stole his cookies. But then suddenly, it came to him. Of course, why hadn’t he thought of that before! It was so obvious! Yet why would they do it… Was it revenge? But what has he, Sherlock, ever done to them? He has to be mistaken but he is never and will never be wrong.
Sherlock sprinted down the stairs. He ignored the creaky steps and splinters. The house trembled under him thundering down the stairs. He skidded into the kitchen and wrenched open the door. The burglar alarm went off, breaking the silence of the night. Sherlock ran down to the bottom of the garden, past the cookies crumbs on the ground and stared at the guilty party. It was his dog, Trevor. He had cookies crumbs all around his mouth. Sherlock could not believe it! His own dog… “Right, that’s it Trevor, I’m not walking you for a month! I’m so ashamed of you! You’re meant to by my FRIEND! Not some wild animal who eats my cookies!” Trevor cowered in the back of his kennel.
Sherlock turned on his heel and stamped his way back up the garden path, still fuming over his dog. His thoughts were soon distracted though, when he met his dad with a cricket bat in the kitchen shouting, “IM ARMED! I AM WILLING TO TAKE SERIOUS ACTION!” Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders and left his dad to his crazy actions. “Why on earth is he doing that? Surely he realises it’s the middle of the night.” Sherlock thought.
Case one is solved for Sherlock Holmes. Aged five.
By N. H.
By N. H.
