A Lukewarm Investigation Begins
In Gods of War, James Lovegrove’s crime novel, Sherlock Holmes is now in his sixties. No surprise, then, that his joints creak and crack like an old staircase. And chubby Dr. Watson? Let’s be honest—he’s not exactly in top shape anymore either. Lucky for them, they barely need to do anything in this story.
The great detective, get this, can’t even be bothered to pull off the biggest cliché in every Holmes story—using his signature method to deduce, without breaking a sweat, what extraordinary adventures his long-lost buddy had on his train ride—because, supposedly, he’s “too excited about the new case.” Which, by the way, turns out to be nothing more than a pathetic little burglary.
(Feels a bit cheap, doesn’t it? I mean, how hard would it have been for Lovegrove to throw in that Watson’s seatmate across the aisle was an elderly, half-limping horse trader from Devonshire on his way to buy feed for his prize stallion, Oxhead—while to his right sat a spinster in a pheasant-feathered hat, off to visit her sister, who suffers from trichotillomania, casually reading Northanger Abbey, fourth edition.
Cost him nothing.)