Sherlock Holmes and the Viking's Dilemma

I had looked into Baker Street to update my website, www.mymatesbrighterthanme.com when I found a laughable misunderstanding had arisen.  Mrs Hudson, mounted on a penny-farthing bicycle, was cycling round and round our room while Holmes, in a state of some perturbation, was attempting to make her desist by loading the contents of a box of boxer cartridges into his hair-trigger revolver and taking pot-shots at her as she whirled past.

“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed.  “Why is our worthy landlady biking round the room?”

“Because she is a little deaf,” he explained, stepping to one side as Mrs Hudson whirled past.  “I said, “Admit the VIKING, not, “Do a bit of BIKING!”

He loosed off another round of bullets and this time a shot went home.

Mrs Hudson, leaving the remains of the mangled bike behind, leapt lightly from the saddle.  “Very good, Mr Holmes,” she said and, laughing heartily at her own mistake, scurried from the room to return seconds later with a magnificent yellow-bearded, yellow-haired man, dressed in leather and swinging a huge hammer.

“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed.  “You astound me!  How did you know this man was a Viking?  What little clue, what subtle indication, what almost imperceptible fact led you to that conclusion?”

“The fact he is wearing a helmet with bulls’ horns,” said Holmes.

I was amazed at his perspicacity.

“Now, sir!” said Holmes, addressing our guest.  “In what way can I be of assistance?”

The Viking kicked the remnants of the penny-farthing out of the way and sank down upon the ottoman, his face a frenzied mask of worry.

“Mr Holmes, you are my only hope!  My only remaining relative in the whole world is my aged Aunt, who I love dearly.  Crippled, infirm and with her sight failing, she waits for me at my little home, Dunpillaging, across the wild, tempestuous sea.  Her one desire, Mr Holmes, is to own a beautiful stainless steel sink.  And can I find one? No.  My life is bitter indeed when I think of how she yearns for a beautiful stainless steel sink and how crushed with sorrow she will be when I have to Confess All and return empty-handed, feasting on the acid fruit of failure.  Which will be,” he added, “about all I’ll get to eat when she realises she hasn’t got what she wants.”

“She’ll have a sinking feeling?” I suggested.

Holmes idly hit me over the head with a violin to curtail my levity.  As I emerged from the wreckage, I felt I had struck the wrong note.  Several wrong notes, in fact.

“You say your Aunt is crippled?” said Holmes, his sympathies keenly engaged.

“Yes.”

“Infirm?”

“Yes.”

“With failing sight?”

“Yes.”

A rare smile crossed Holmes’ finely chiselled features.  “Fear not! The solution is elementary.”

“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed.  “You astound me!  What solution can there possibly be to this poor wanderer’s abstruse problem?”

For an answer, my friend picked up a builder’s hod which was lying, together with other bits and pieces, such as a speckled band, five orange pips, a blue carbuncle and a beryl coronet on the mantelpiece.  “Give this to your Aunt,” he said, pressing the hod into the Viking’s eager hands.  “This is the object of her desires, this is all she craves.  After all,” he added as our visitor got up to leave, “a hod is as good as a sink to a blind Norse.”