***This is a substitue for a book report I had to write earlier this year. It's a bit of a brief story, a bit of a summary of characters, a bit of everything. I do hope it's a bit good, but I leave that for you to decide.***

It was a stormy night in London, England. Master Sherlock Holmes was residing in his bachelor’s apartment, smoking like a chimney pot, as was his custom. Idly staring out the window, he caught sight of something that sparked his attention. There was an extremely tall man, if you could call it that, lurking in the streets; his face was hidden by the fog. Taken by the natural curiosity of his profession, Sherlock abandoned his pipe, pulled on his boots, and exited the scene through his front door.   The daemon was wandering the streets of London, wishing for the cottagers he used to watch, as there seemed to be no sign of civilization here. Wait! What was that? He turned around, but could not see anything because of the thick fog. He could still hear steady, determined footsteps coming up behind him. Just then a voice: “Hallo, old chap! What brings you to the streets of London?”     Sherlock had never seen a more hideous looking creature in his life, and he had seen a great many un-becoming specimens of the human race in his lifetime. This one did beat all. It seemed to not know how to respond to his greeting. The beast seemed ashamed to look at him, as if he had known how despicable his appearance was to the human eye. Perhaps he would feel more comfortable in his home. Sherlock was not afraid to let him in, the only problem was, how would he get in? This creature was huge! Oh, well, I jolly well should at least ask, Holmes concluded. “How about joining me for some high tea, sir?”   Frankenstein was astonished. Did this man not look at me? He thought. It would be nice to get off these awful streets. That cursed creator of mine never invited me for this high tea. Blast him! How shall I know what to expect? Tea could be some sort of poison, for all I know. Well, how much does life mean to me anyways? I couldn’t care less if I didn’t live past the hour. My only regret would be that my confounded creator would get to live, a life unjustly granted to him. Maybe he can help me seek my hideous creator. “I shall.” Frankenstein responded in a low voice.      Seated across from each other in Sherlock’s living room, with tea in front of both of them, and two cakes apiece, Sherlock began to study the creature now residing in Watson’s chair. He began to drill this odd looking animal/human with questions. Their discussion sounded something like this:   “Where were you born?” asked Holmes “I was not born. I was forced into being by my cursed creator. This was not my will to live!” Frankenstein got louder and more upset with each word. “Calm down, old chap, let’s just be scientific and reasonable about this. What exactly happened?” Frankenstein takes breath and winces before saying, “There is a man named Victor Frankenstein. He is my creator. I was not born, I was zapped into life.”   “Good God!”  Sherlock exclaimed. “I am not composed of my bones, but of the bones of others, unjustly called my own. My spirit is not that in the image of a Higher Being, but that of electricity. My creator managed to give me feelings, yes, but he has no regard for these feelings. I can never love one, because no one can love me, I can never have the joy of calling another ‘brother’ because I am the only in a despised race. That, in short, is my hideous existence.”   All this time, Sherlock had been flinching at the beast’s voice (which was the most horrible sounding voice he had ever had flung upon his ears) and was about to respond when the study door opened and in stepped Dr. Watson , who, upon seeing Frankenstein, gasped, and fainted into the nearest chair. Holmes, quick to react in these types of situations, flung his cup of cold water across Watson’s face and the good Doctor immediately regained consciousness. “Sherlock, I don’t mean to pry, but what in the name of London do you have in your easy chair?” “Ah, my dear Watson, let the daemon himself tell you the story.”   So, the daemon began again. At the end of his tale, he looked sadly at Sherlock and said, “I am not the type of person you would like to have here. I am not a person. I am a monster, created for the sole purpose of destruction and hatred. You are a man of justice, from what I see in your eyes, and I beg your pardon, and thank you for tea, but I really must go now,” he glanced around and said in a low voice, “Now.” Suddenly, he sprang from his chair and jumped out the two story window, and apparently un-harmed, ran down the street and disappeared into the shadows of London.   “Well, my dear Watson, I suppose we will get no case from that creature, unless we would like to take the case of how in the name of Scott he was created.” “Sherlock, old pal, I suggest we take the rest of the afternoon to smoke our pipes, read our papers, ponder life, and then I go home to the missus, and you stay here safe in the comfort of your den.” “Aye, my good doctor, I shall head your words, and for once leave a case unsolved.” The two men settled into their chairs, and began to smoke their pipes.