The Lodger
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock but he owns my feelings.
Note: This piece is included in the Frenchlockian fanbook which was released earlier this year at the Paris Comic Con. But since Sherlock Season 3 is upon us, I thought I'd share this on the Internet as well. Having lived in Paris for the past couple of years, some of these reflections are based on my personal experience. I hope this humble piece somehow does justice to both a great character and a great city.
No one paid much attention the lodger of 221bis Rue des Boulangers.
No one knew how he made a living but he seemed to have enough resources to lead a comfortable life. He had had excellent references and he had always paid the rent on time so his landlady didn't ask many questions. He spoke French fluently and almost like a native but there was still something unmistakably British about his manners. There was also something unnerving about the way he looked at people, like he could see right through all their masks.
But in a city where everyone was far too engrossed in his or her daily struggles, he was just another stranger. Not exactly a tourist but not quite a local. He was a shadow, in a bustling metropolis of ever-moving shapes and colors.
He was a quiet, pensive man who kept to himself most of the time. But he seemed filled with a restless energy that he was trying his best to suppress. Every now and then, he would venture out of his tiny flat and blend in among the crowds of tourists who filled the streets of Paris. He would observe each and every one of them with keenness and discretion. His gaze would move from face to face in the throng of busy people going about their lives, his eyes seeming to search for one face in particular even though he knew he would not find it.
He spent time acquainting himself with the narrow side streets and alleyways and the vast, convoluted network of Metro stations in the grand city. In a few months, he had memorized it all and kept a detailed map of Paris in his head. But it was nothing compared to the mental map of another major city which was more important to him. It was nothing compared to home.
The people on the narrow street in the heart of the 5th arrondissement barely noticed him. With his long, dark coat and high collar constantly pulled across his face, he seemed to demand anonymity. He acted timidly enough to avoid notice but not so much as to arouse suspicion.
The owner of the nearby Pomme de Pain often saw him come into the small café for a coffee and a read of the papers. The tall stranger did not speak more than was necessary but instead sat on one corner observing everything around him.
Every now and then members of the Préfecture de Police de Paris would receive anonymous tips which helped solve the most perplexing cases. Though a full investigation was launched to discover the source of these mysterious messages, it was all in vain. Whoever was sending them clearly knew how to cover his or her tracks. And after a while, the police decided they would just have to trust this strange "guardian angel" since this person was better at keeping crime off the streets than they were.
As always, he kept his distance from the world and remained as astute an observer as ever. It was not yet time for him to go home. So for now, he would have to content himself with the shadows.