В недавнем выпуске, он баловался писаниной, для практики и для собственного удовольствтя, чтоб "подвигать мозгами". Решил написать адаптацию Шерлока Холмса, для более современного читателя, которого ни чем особым не удивишь. Написанно в форме сценария для кино. English.
Несколько строчек из сценария. Кликнуть, чтоб увидеть полностью.
STAMFORD
The St Bart's Gardens stil amaze me, y'know. No matter what the state of the rest of London, they still bloom.
WATSON
You know why, of course?
STAMFORD
Why?
WATSON
Why the gardens are so rich and beautiful, no matter what? The gardens are planted on mass graves. Lepers, mostly. Good compost.
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FADE IN:
EXT. LONDON DOCKLANDS - 1887
It's bleak and filthy here. Nineteenth Century London was dark, and busy with swarms of people. So it is here, with dockers going about their business as a long line of SOLDIERS crocodiles out of a moored ARMY SHIP.
SUPER: 1887
Each of the soldiers passes through a CHECKPOINT that's really just a wooden table and a seated INSPECTOR, reading through the papers each soldier provides. Reaching the checkpoint; DR JOHN WATSON, a lean man in his early thirties. He stands straight, but is down on his luck: in a dirty army uniform, with a weakened left arm and a small battered suitcase in his right hand.
INSPECTOR
Papers.
Watson hands them over. The Inspector peers through thick little glasses.
INSPECTOR
Captain John Watson.
WATSON
Doctor John Watson. I received my discharge before boarding.
INSPECTOR
Take the sodding uniform off, then. Next.
Wearily, Watson trudges off out of the docks, to the streets beyond.
EXT. LONDON STREET - DAY
Crossing a cobblestoned junction, not too different from the London of today aside from the horses and the dung, Watson looks around.
WATSON
Good God.
Walks on, sourly.
WATSON
London's still a fucking toilet.
Pushing on through the light crowds, Watson sees a tough STREET KID yanking the HANDBAG off an older lady.
WATSON
Hey!
The street kid looks him in the eye.
STREET KID
What?
Watson looks around, sees a POLICEMAN clearly turning his back - can't be bothered.
STREET KID
Got something to say, you gimpy bastard?
The kid pushes Watson in the left shoulder - Watson YELLS with sudden pain.
STREET KID
Come on then. You want some?
Watson drops his suitcase as the kid shoves again -- feints with his left side so that the shove doesn't connect -- and punches the kid in the head with surprising force. The kid drops backwards, smacking the back of his head on the cobblestoned street. He doesn't get up again.
Watson recovers the bag, hands it to the distraught woman.
WATSON
Madam, your handbag.
She's too shocked to speak. This just doesn't happen in London.
Watson, wincing, lifts his own case and soldiers on.
WATSON
A fucking toilet.
INT. PUB - DAY
A smoky pub, half-full. Watson is propped in a corner seat, reading a copy of The Strand magazine. Glaring at it furiously, in fact. He reads it to himself, as if that'd make what he's got there the more believable:
WATSON
"By a man's finger-nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his _expression -- by each of these things the scientific
enquirer may plainly reveal a man's calling and background"
He looks up, to see a large ROACH crawling across the damp, yellowed wall next to him. He addresses it.
WATSON
Is callosities even a word? Honestly, what crap.
He rolls up the newspaper and smacks the roach into pulp with it, even as he hears someone call his name.
STAMFORD (V/O)
John Watson?
WATSON
Hello?
STAMFORD appears at the table, a very clean young man in a suit, the very image of the young doctor.
STAMFORD
Dr John Watson? It is you, isn't it?
WATSON
Is that you were with me at St Bart's Hospital, weren't you? Young Stamford?
STAMFORD
Watson, whatever have you been doing with yourself? You're thin as a rake and you look like you've been roasted on a spit, man.
WATSON
I've just been booted out of the army, Stamford.
STAMFORD
That sounds like call for a drink.
WATSON
Several.
Stamford waves his arm at MARY, the grim woman behind the bar, eagerly sitting down next to Watson.
STAMFORD
Mary! Two pints of best over here!
MARY
Get 'em yourself, you bloody layabout!
STAMFORD
They love me here. So tell. You were in the Afghan War?
WATSON
Army surgeon. Took a bullet in the left shoulder at Maiwand. Busted up the bone pretty badly and clipped the subclavian artery.
STAMFORD
Nasty.
WATSON
They got me back across British lines and on to the hospital train to Peshawar. Which was the worst thing they could have done.
Watson reaches for his beer; just a slight shake in his hand.
WATSON
Men laying in their own blood and piss and shit, Stamford. Breeding ground for disease like you wouldn't believe.
STAMFORD
What happened?
WATSON
Enteric fever. Nine months I was in bed. Had my last rites twice. And with my health therefore officially irretrievably ruined, here I am back in London, pensioned off.
Stamford laughs and raises his pint.
STAMFORD
Cheers. So what now?
Watson takes some more of his beer, settles back and considers.
WATSON
Well. No living relatives in England. Hell, no living friends in England. So, first thing is to look for somewhere to live, on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Comfortable rooms at a reasonable price, anything so long as it's not a bloody tent in Afghanistan.
STAMFORD
Funny. You're the second man to use that phrase to me today.
WATSON
Tents in Afghanistan? Don't tell me it's some new slang phrase I have to learn. Doesn't mean anything to do with bums, does it?
STAMFORD
No. The comfortable rooms bit. There's a man at the chemical laboratory at Barts right now, and he was moaning just this morning that he couldn't find anyone to go
halves with him in some nice rooms he couldn't otherwise afford.
WATSON
Well, if he wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, then, right now, I'll share with anyone who doesn't intend to shoot me in the subclavian artery.
Stamford looks uncomfortable.
STAMFORD
Yes, well. You'd have to talk to him about that.
EXT. ST BART'S HOSPITAL - GARDEN - DAY
The gardens surround the ancient old edifice of St Bart's Hospital, flowers blazing with the first real colour we've seen.
STAMFORD
The St Bart's Gardens stil amaze me, y'know. No matter what the state of the rest of London, they still bloom.
WATSON
You know why, of course?
STAMFORD
Why?
WATSON
Why the gardens are so rich and beautiful, no matter what? The gardens are planted on mass graves. Lepers, mostly. Good compost.
Stamford looks around with new eyes, and then hurries into the building. Watson follows, smiling.
INT. ST BART'S - CORRIDOR
Footsteps echo in here - all marble floors and wooden walls. The pair walk together, past flocks of nurses.
WATSON
So he's a medical student?
STAMFORD
No. I mean, don't get me wrong, first-class chemist, excellent anatomist, but he flits in and out of here like a mayfly. I have no idea what he intends to go in for.
Some shouting ahead. STUDENT DOCTORS in white coats running out of the LAB they're approaching, and down the nearby STAIRS.
STAMFORD
Hey, hey. What's all the noise?
STUDENT DOCTOR
Your crazy mate's up to something in the morgue!
Watson eyes Stamford sourly, and then they follow. The sign on the stairs shows that they're descending to the MORGUE:
INT. MORGUE
The morgue's dissecting-room is a separate office within the larger room of the morgue, big windows allowing one to see clearly inside. There is a door into the dissecting-room, currently locked, and an aged MORGUE ATTENDANT sits on the floor outside it, tending a cut lip.
In the dissecting-room, two male corpses are arranged on benches. And a tall, spidery man in black is waving a cricket bat above them. His name is SHERLOCK HOLMES.
STAMFORD
What in the name of God is going on?
MORGUE ATTENDANT
He's beating up the dead people, Dr Stamford.
And, true enough, as they stand there, the tall man laughs out loud and smacks one corpse in the belly with the cricket bat.
WATSON
Bloody hell!
STAMFORD
Get that door open.
MORGUE ATTENDANT
He's locked it from the inside. I tried to stop him, but he smacked me one and then said if I kept bothering him he'd do an experiment. On me privates, like.
The morgue attendant dissolves into tears, as the others look up at the lunatic in the dissecting room. The tall man puts his bat aside and hunches over the body, peering at the place where he struck. His eyes narrow. He studies the area intently. And then snaps upright, walks to the door, unlocks it, and greets Stamford with a brilliant smile.
HOLMES
Stamford, old man! Good to see you. Come in, come in. I was attempting to conduct an experiment.
WATSON
With a cricket bat?
Holmes looks Watson up and down, as if studying a small turd placed in his path, and then turns his attention back to Stamford.
HOLMES
It is, you see, extremely important imperative that I know how long after death the body can produce a bruise. These things matter.
WATSON
So you were slapping corpses with a cricket bat for science.
HOLMES, dismissive
Yes, yes, of course.
Stamford turns to Watson.
STAMFORD
Dr John Watson, I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes. He's looking for someone to share an apartment with.
Watson sags.
WATSON
Good God.
INT. ST BART'S - STAIRS
They head up the stairs. Holmes, tall and quick, leading the way.
HOLMES
Back from Afghanistan, then? I trust your recuperation wasn't too distressing.
Watson glares at Stamford. Stamford puts his hands up, like; how would I have told him?
WATSON
How did you know that?
HOLMES
Doctor, yet clearly military. Your face is darker than your wrists, yet not the rich tint of a man fresh from the tropics. Your face is haggard, you are somewhat undernourished, and you hold your left arm in a stiff manner. Where else could an army doctor gain and lose a tan, and take an obvious battle injury?
Holmes crests the stairs and turns to grin at Watson with intellectual triumph.
HOLMES
Plus, I think you've had the shits recently.
WATSON
You sound like a magazine article I just read.
HOLMES
In the Strand?
WATSON
Yes, actually.
HOLMES
I should think so too. I wrote it.
Watson turns to Stamford.
WATSON
If I give you my service revolver, will you please shoot me in the head?
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