. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
It was the year 1884, and a dark autumn night ruled over the streets of London. That night the air grew colder, but by such a fraction most would not even notice, the ones that did would simply assume winter to be the culprit; that it had unfairly arrived earlier than expected. There was only one man however that would, even if it was for the tiniest but most precious of moments, consider that this strange drop in temperature was due to the city being one man down; the volume of human breath warming the air had decreased by the smallest of fractions imaginable. Unthinkable, you might say, ridiculous indeed; but beyond such a man's thoughts? Never. Despite all logic on earth to disprove this, on this unfortunate night, such a man would be correct, on this night such a man had felt the cold and paused for breath an extra second longer; on this night, such a man was Sherlock Holmes.
Of course Holmes would not have revealed his inner thoughts away instantly, not even to such a trusted companion as I, he simply returned to playing a melancholy tune on his beloved violin. He knew that soon enough there would be another knock on the door of 221b, Baker Street and he had no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he would not need to wait long to learn the name of the poor soul who had lost their life that night.
***
I entered his room that evening, as I did on some occasions...just to check up on him, he was somewhat of a capricious character after all. However, as I pushed open the solid oak door, a cloud of smoke engulfed me, and I coughed to point of hysteria, waving my arms about in front of my face while stepping back into the hallway. The smoke slowly dissolved into the air until I was finally able to make out the shape of a man kneeling on the floor, putting out a small, controlled fire.
"What in blazes are you doing Holmes?!" I cried, still spluttering as I did so. Though, instead of answering, he simply held up a finger to silence me, and being the pitiable man I was, I did so, for I could not deny a man I admired so. Therefore, until he chose to speak I just stood there, with my arms crossed and my gaze fixated on the small fire, it seemed to be going out and then on again without any prompting whatsoever. I edged closer in an attempt to make him more inclined to speak, and it seemed to work as a few short moments later he stood up, though he still remained studying the burnt patch of carpet.
"You know, Mrs Hudson going to throw you out onto the streets one of these days." I sighed as the embers on the singed carpet dimmed and faded into nothingness. He glanced in my direction then back again. "mm." A most witty reply, like always...
"So, what purpose does all this serve Holmes?" I asked, though I was well aware that curiosity killed the cat, so I considered I need not know, but when was I ever in the position to refuse a glimpse into Sherlock Holmes' mind? At this moment Holmes reached into his pocket, fumbled for a second and then held up a match inches away from my face. "Imagine..." He said, "Imagine this burnt forever, or well...at least a lot longer than it is supposed to..." He then held his arm out to the side and lit the match against the rough and already worn wall. "Watson, what if there was such a concoction to freeze, or slow down the combustion, but allows the fire to burn bright, and what if it could be burnt anywhere, without leaving a trace whatsoever..." I observed such passion in those brown eyes, irises much older than their years, but I glanced back at the patch of blackened carpet, my eyebrows raised in pitying disbelief. "Of course..." he continued, "I have not had the break-through I need just yet, but I will Watson, I will..."
"Of course, Sir. No doubt about it Sir." I agreed, wanting to end this conversation as quickly as possible and open the window before Mrs Hudson returned from an acquaintance's of hers. "Now, if I can remind you sir, you are not a scientist, you my dear friend, are a detective...and from what I can see, many people desire your help." I pointed towards the small pile of letters on the desk by the man's bed; a bed that one could tell was very rarely slept in...
"None of them call to me." He said simply, waving his hand slightly as if he was waving my suggestion out of the window I had just opened. I sighed, and shrugged in defeat as I looked at the state the room was in, how he could live that I'd never know.
"I don't suppose they would. They wouldn't be able to find you in this mess let alone call to you..."