London wore a cloak of the finest drizzle, one of those days when the city decides not to vulgarise its soul with sunshine. I sat in my rooms on Baker Street, far from the pedestrian world of footprints and cigarette ash, studying the elegant folds of a human brain. A glass model, naturally. The original was precisely where it belonged: inside my s...

On the cover it read: “Brain fog after infection – MRI unremarkable.” Ah. The classic. When the MRI shows nothing, people start using their imagination against the patient. I opened the file.

On my desk lies a crime of subtle almost poetic malice. A crime not committed in alleyways, but in the hidden subway tunnels of the brain. I call it: The Case of the Swollen Waterworks.

It is a crime committed thousands of times a day on prescription pads, right under the noses of the finest physicians in the land. And yet no one notices. I call it: The Case of the Stolen Meaning and the Phonetic Crime.

Public opinion, that notoriously unreliable mob, has long since identified the culprit: the smartphone. A digital succubus that robs us of our sleep, night after night. An accusation of such primitive simplicity that it is almost painful. But I, Sherlock MS, always see the hidden patterns that escape the common eye. The truth, my friend, is rarely ...

A messenger brought me an envelope. On it, only this: “Primary endpoint missed. Still a triumph of the clinical trial. Please examine the study manuscript.” I smiled. “Ah,” I murmured. “A classic. The culprit’s name is: spin.”