CSI
Who Shot Sherlock?

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Elementary, Dear Grissom

Gil's patience for these hijinks has come to a short, wet end; he curtly explains that he's with the Las Vegas crime lab, and the first speaker cheerily says, "Ah! A colleague. Perhaps we can be of some assistance." The woman adds, "Yes. Have you discovered any shoe impressions in the soil." Gil snaps, "Not yet. This is a crime scene." The glowering man over-enunciating each syllable fails to clue in these would-be detectives as to the actual nature of the case. Hence the third man sneering, "Oh. A scenario created for our own entertainment, yes?" This is the point where Gil's struck dumb. He can only look and marvel at how he had never thought it was possible to find any group that made dress-up D&D players look like models of calm rationalism.

Fortunately, the paramedics pick right then to wheel out Kingsley's body, and everyone looks dumbfounded. Gil gets a little bit of his own back with "I guess it depends on what you call entertaining." Heh. I love Gil when he's irritated.

Inside the house, Liam is busy looking at Kingsley's innermost thoughts, helpfully freed by the bullet that left them scattered all over the floor. Sara comes in and asks if he's up for pizza and Liam says sullenly, "Very funny." He picks the bullet out of the soppy muck and Sara coos, "Oooh. BFB. Big freakin' bullet." I love the IAs -- irreverent acronyms. "DFO" is another one I find amusing. Liam observes it out loud: "The nose has mushroomed. Looks like pure lead. Two cannelures, consistent with a revolver. One, two, three, four, five, six lands and grooves. Left-hand twist." "Which usually means," Sara prods. Liam thinks it's a Colt 45. Sara grins her delight that he got it right. Yes, you read that previous sentence correctly. I did just state that Sara is pleased with Liam. Try to contain your shock. Liam asks if Sara's checking up on him, and she says that she's merely trying to lighten his load by letting him concentrate on that room while she handles the rest of the house. Before Sara can leave the room, however, she happens to notice an antique syringe. It holds the traces of a not-so-antique concoction. "I guess everyone needs a hobby," she muses.

Speaking of people who need hobbies -- or perhaps people who need different hobbies that don't entail behaving idiotically around law enforcement -- we're back with the dress-up crew that so amused Gil and Brass, if by "amused," you mean "drove into fits of pique." We learn that their group was a combination reading/history group, and they met every Thursday night. The guy who had the snide, Richard E. Grant delivery snarks, "You make it sound like a bowling league. This is a serious literary society." Well. Someone who wrote this -- maybe David Rambo, maybe Richard Catalini -- has clearly spent time listening to someone vigorously defending a hobby others mock with impunity. By the way -- this guy plays Moriarty in their little club. The first schlub is Watson and That Woman is, of course, Irene Adler. And we find out that tonight was to be the last meeting of the Vegas Strip Irregulars or whatever it is these folks call themselves; Kingsley had promised "an evening none of you will forget." Going by his pre-death preparations, he must have been planning to make a low-maintenance evening nobody would forget.

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CSI

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