It was a dark morning. The clouds had spread thickly over the skies that the phantom wind could not thin them out and so the sun was absent. Rain poured from the skies above, spilling over rooftops to pooling in the roads. The forecast wasn't better; this was to stay until next week where the chances lessened. Even then, it could've stayed the same for another week.

But for one man, it was nothing more than a mild annoyance.

He lived in a small flat in the Downtown. It wasn't small it couldn't support two people. It was small in a sense he had it filled to the brim with everything that he fancied. Books in neat stacks near the walls and skulls of late friends dotting the mantle of the fireplace, jars of oddities given as gifts from still living friends, papers of various subjects strewn about the flat, often on the floors, and the occasional heads in the refrigerator as means to test theories. But for the man with his skulls and books, it was a humble living.

He had a website dedicated to his service, with people bombarding him daily with inquiries. He was often called upon by London's finest whenever there was something they were stumped on and he came to mind. To say, if you had a peculiar case and you needed an expert to call upon, he was your expert. His name was Sherlock Holmes and he lived on 221B Baker Street.

Today marked a day where a peculiar man was to visit the famous detective. For why, he didn't mention in the email, only that he desperately needed Sherlock's help. It could've meant anything where everyone's concerned. Sherlock was no stranger to frantic calls for help, but this one aroused his curiosity. The man who contacted him was named Alice Walker and he worked as a simple clerk in North Shire. He claimed that he needed Sherlock because as he put it, "only he can solve it". What he meant by that, Sherlock was hoping to find out from his meeting.

Sherlock played on his trusty violin as he shuffled around the flat. Alice would be arriving in a few minutes and Sherlock wasn't someone who would wait idly. He had to keep himself busy, too. He would play his violin until he heard knocking at his door. It was not the usual knock by Mrs. Hudson nor was it John, it sounded frantic. He laid down his violin in its case and headed toward the door. Upon opening it, he was greeted by the appearance of a disheveled man in his sixties who looked to have seen a ghost.

He was pale like the moon. His graying hair was matted from the rain, covering the top of his rounded glasses. The man was drenched in a mixture of rain and sweat as he had been running through the rain and toward Sherlock's residence.

"Good morning," said the man as he pulled his wet hair away from his glasses. He looked at Sherlock and asked, "Are you the one they call Sherlock Holmes, London's greatest detective that ever was?"

"I am," Sherlock nodded. Alice sighed as he tapped his shoes against the mat in front of the door before he entered the flat. He was shown his seat, a simple wooden chair that was placed in the center where Sherlock would gaze at those who sat in it. As Alice sat down he pulled out a wet envelope and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock took it into his hands and stared at it. It took no time at all to pry the envelope loose and inside was at least four hundred dollars, American.

"You're giving me American dollars, Mr. Walker?" Sherlock gazed at the four Benjamin Franklins that were slightly damp. They were fresh off the conveyer belt and from the looks of it; they were only in circulation for one year. Alice nodded and said to Sherlock as he studied the money, "I was going to exchange them for Euros, but I didn't have the time. I hope it's an acceptable payment."

"Hm, we can start with how you got into contact with me," Sherlock sat the money down neatly on the table near the lit fireplace before he turned back to Alice.

Alice nodded. He explained to Sherlock, "When it happened, I tried going to the police, but they weren't any help. I tried reaching out to friends in Norfolk, but they didn't believe me. So out of desperation I went on a library's computer and came across your website, sir."

Sherlock eyed him and slowly nodded. He then asked, "And what is it that you need help with that needs my attention?"

"I figure a man like you, who solved so many odd and quizzical cases, would understand my plight. I come to you, Mr. Holmes, with fevered thoughts and dreams, because I fear my end is near," Alice said mournfully. Sherlock raised a brow at him. He was used to men and women who came to him unnecessary for menial reasons, such as cheating and what have you, but there were never really any times where someone actually believed that they were going to die or be killed.

"What do you mean, Mr. Walker?" Sherlock gestured with his free hand as he crossed his arms at Alice. Alice sighed as he wiped water away from his brow. He said to Sherlock as he rubbed his palm against his drenched trousers, "Thirty years or so ago, next week on the 31st, I was involved in a murder. I was a young reckless police officer who bit off more than he could chew. I was boorish and foolish, but above all else I wanted to rise through the ranks. Unfortunately, it meant I had to take bribes in order to achieve my dream."

Alice shook his head as his green eyes shimmered in the light. Sherlock stared at him as he heard his tale and his mind was already working on deconstructing Alice's story. As his mind deconstructed the story, Alice continued.

"I was good friends with a journalist at the time. Frank Colton was his name. And he was on the cusp of releasing the story of a lifetime. It was an insurance scam. It would have made Ponzi believe he was getting off lightly. A company was building affordable homes in Galahad; it's a small town close to the border of Scotland. However, the houses weren't built for comfort in mind. The scam was that if something were to happen to the houses, the company would be paid for the loss by the insurance company. Frank was going to expose the scam, but he couldn't," Alice rubbed his eyes. He stopped as he noticed Sherlock's light eyes moving up and down, eying him. Sherlock blinked when Alice noticed and cleared his throat.

"Frank Colton, I don't believe I heard that name," Sherlock shook his head.

Alice frowned. He said with a straight face, "Because of me he's dead. He died before he could expose the truth. He was just a normal man who wanted to do good for his community. Because of me he is now just a spook story told to kids by irate parents."

"What did you do?" Sherlock's natural curiosity rose as he was told by Alice Walker that he killed the late journalist. It wasn't the first time that people have confessed to crimes, more often or not, confessing solely because Sherlock exposed them. Yet, it was the first time someone confessed a crime without Sherlock poking holes in their alibis and the like.

Alice looked at Sherlock, "I was paid a bribe. The Hilton Association wanted to know where Frank would be. I thought they were just going to scare him. Frank had the good sense to back off if he felt his life was threatened so I assumed they were going to scare him enough to quit."

Alice looked down to his worn slacks as he shook his head. "The next day, I got a phone call. They were pleased with my contributions. When I asked about Frank, they didn't say. Only when I went into work that morning did I get my answer. Frank went missing. No one could find him. His flat was ransacked and his typewriter was broken and his article ruined. They turned to me asking for answers and I didn't know what to say. The Hilton Association wasn't giving me clear answers and why would they?"

Sherlock wrote down mental notes as he listened to Alice. It was unheard of that a corrupt business would send men to rough up those they disliked. Yet, there were also the cases of a corrupt business making sure those they didn't like ever make it far. And hearing Alice, it was the case. The Hilton Association bribed Alice and used his knowledge of Frank to sweep their scam under the rug. As Sherlock learned in primary school, they were eventually caught red handed and there were lawsuits after lawsuits. Even then, they never admitted to any crimes committed toward those that displeased them. Any records or knowledge was swept away.

"Why tell me now?" Sherlock was genuine in his response. It wasn't everyday this situation occurred. Though if it did, it would've made Sherlock's job boring. He did enjoy his usual fare of running around in the pit black night looking for clues. He heard Alice, "Because, Frank came back."

This was rousing Sherlock's interest in more ways than one. He eyed Alice. "Frank came back?" he gestured. Alice looked around uncomfortably, as if checking to see if anyone else was hearing them. He nodded at Sherlock. He said, "Frank came back, but not the way you'd expected."

"What do you possibly mean?" Sherlock blinked. This was getting quite interesting, so much so, it made the Lady in Pink look trivial. "Mr. Holmes, I am not going to ask if you're a praying man. I know by the look of you, you aren't. But heed me, for what I am saying. They killed Frank and he rose from the dead to claim vengeance against those responsible."

Now, Sherlock could tell you all sorts of cases that he had solved over the years. Some were trivial. Some were questionable at best. But there were a few cases that had him wondering what he was thinking. In this case, it was one of those cases.

"And what has he done to cause you distress," Sherlock asked Alice.

Alice told Sherlock, "I had a son, Peter, he was twelve years old. He loved his rugby and football as any lad. One day, he came down with the flu. He became bedridden soon after. I and my wife were doing everything we could for him. Doctors, specialists, no one knew what it was. Eventually, one night, he called me into his bedroom and told me."

Alice tried to suppress the tears that were forming under his eyes as he continued. "He told me, he wasn't afraid. He died before my very eyes, Mr. Holmes. We buried him on a hilltop outside Cheshire, his favorite spot. It wasn't long before my wife met the same fate. My wife developed depression early on and began to refuse to take her medications. One day at work, I got a phone call, she died of an overdose. Took all her medications at once and was found huddled in our son's old bedroom."

Sherlock offered Alice a box of Kleenix and Alice thanked him as he took it into his hands. He pulled two sheets of tissues and stuck them under his eyes as the tears began to pour freely down his cheeks. As Alice wiped away his tears, Sherlock asked him. "How are their deaths linked?" he blinked. Sherlock knew grief would often get the best of people and often or not, some will begin to grasp at straws as means to cope.

"A raven appeared and perched on a torch outside the stationhouse the day after Frank disappeared. I know you're going to say, Mr. Holmes, and I trust you know what I am going to say. The raven had amber eyes, bronze colored beak, and had the strangest caw that I ever heard. It was watching me and no one else. It followed me to and fro from work and home. I disregarded it until my son's death. When we buried him, Mr. Holmes, it was there watching us. Same raven, I know it by heart. It sat upon the tallest branch of the tree as it watched us grieve. Then, when my wife died, it was there in the apple tree outside our son's window," Alice gestured. "Frank is punishing me for what I have done. I betrayed him, Mr. Holmes, and now he plans to take me next."

Sherlock was in disbelief. True he heard of similar tales from those he helped in the past, but this was something very peculiar. Indeed, it could be said that Alice's son, Peter, was inflicted by a terminal illness, and Alice's wife couldn't handle the loss and in her grief turned to suicide as means to cope. But the tale of a raven following Alice around and seemingly there when a tragedy occurred was something out of a Poe tale. Hearing from Alice about his woes and it can be said that it was indeed a Poe tale. What one, Sherlock hedged a guess.

"Mr. Walker, tell me, why would Frank come back from the dead to torment you now?" Sherlock asked him. Alice's response was something even Sherlock couldn't make heads or tail with. "A year after he disappeared, there were reports brought to my stationhouse about a strange man. He was described to be tall and thin, enrobed in a costume. When we went looking, we found nothing. Every year around this time, we'd get complaints. I always thought it was nothing more than people playing a prank. But it wasn't. Every year on the anniversary of his disappearance, one of the people responsible is killed. I know this sound strange, Mr. Holmes, but do believe me when I say that it doesn't take long to notice the pattern."

"How many were involved?" Sherlock tilted his head. Alice took off his glasses and wiped them with a clean tissue as he replied, "Aside from me, I don't know how many were involved."

Sherlock had a hard time deciding whether or not to believe Alice. Words and notes appeared before his very eyes that said differently. Alice didn't look like he was coming up with an expensive story in order to receive Sherlock's aide. Yet, Sherlock's methodical mind cynically reminded him that there was always more to a story than told. Sherlock nodded and said to Alice, "If he's coming after you. You only have a week before then. Why not hide?"

"You think I didn't try?" Alice balked. He stopped and sighed heavily before putting on his glasses. He responded with, "Every time I hid, I always saw it, that raven! Following me with its amber eyes, always there watching me from afar, it knows where I am even before I do."

For practical reasons, Sherlock asked Alice, "Why didn't you attempt to kill this raven?"

"Because the last soul who tried that wound up under a lorry," Alice replied. He sighed as he sat back in the chair. "One day, a bloke by the name of Dimitri was out partying with his mates. I suspected he was part of the people responsible, because of the raven following him. In a drunken rage, Dimitri tried to kill the raven, claiming it was "talking" to him. What it said to him, I can only guess. The raven attacked him in return and forced Dimitri out into the open road. As Dimitri was fighting it, he didn't notice a lorry coming down the road. Took him out and the raven disappeared. I know this, because I saw the raven in the picture of the scene."

Reasonably, it could've been any raven that was caught in the frame. But, as Sherlock noted, Alice was held to his convictions and will not change even with reasonable doubt. So, Sherlock had to oblige. He watched as Alice settled back into his seat as he stared up at him.

Sherlock then asked him, "Has the raven showed up?"

"It has," Alice quickly nodded. "I see every morning outside my window. I had to sneak out the back just to get to you!"

"When does Frank usually come around?" Sherlock asked. He had to know everything to make a deduction. Even if it was farfetched as it was.

Alice mumbled under his breath as he tried to quickly parse together a sentence. "Um, from what I've noticed, he only seems to come around late at night on his anniversary. He'll appear as soon as he deems fit," Alice answered.

Sherlock slowly nodded. This was beyond any case he solved before. And the fact that Alice was desperate led him to believe that perhaps there was something to it. What that exactly was, Sherlock aimed to find out. He cleared his throat and said to Alice, "I'll take up the case. How do I get into contact with you?"

"Ah, I'll contact you. It's better that way. But, thank you, Mr. Holmes," Alice stood up and shook Sherlock's hand. Sherlock slowly nodded and watched as Alice headed toward the door. He stopped as he was about to grab the door knob and slowly turned back to Sherlock. He mumbled under his breath before he said something to Sherlock.

"Beware the light, Mr. Holmes. He hides where there is light," Alice said in a tone that made even Sherlock's hair stand up. Before Sherlock could get a word in, Alice was down the stairs and out the door. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived.

Sherlock mulled over what he was told. Since Frank never turned up again, it was safe to assume that he wasn't with them anymore. Frank was murdered by the Hilton Association as means to cover up the insurance fraud. As for where Frank's body was dumped, Sherlock had no real way of knowing. He never had been to Galahad much less knowing much about it other than what Alice told him. Suppose his body is there?

No. Even the Hilton Association couldn't afford the risk of someone finding it. And even then, there were still ways of dealing with bodies. They might've chopped it up and scattered the pieces elsewhere. As for why the police hadn't discovered the remnants. Well, perhaps Alice wasn't the only one paid a bribe.

Or, maybe they cremated the body. Spread the ashes in the wind and no one's the wiser. Yet, Sherlock's mind mulled over the fact that the crematorium was too risky. The body would be exposed before being burned. And then of course, anyone could see it was in use just from looking at the chimney. A small town with so few deaths, someone would've gotten suspicious.

As Sherlock mulled, he reached for his violin. He played a few tunes as he mulled. It was something that he did when he was stumped and needed something to keep him occupied. Something to keep him going when there was doubt. Sherlock only stopped after an hour because his phone chimed. It was a text from John asking if he was up. Ah, perfect!

Sherlock, in a way only known to him, asked John to quickly come to his flat. He had a case that he needed help with. When John asked what case, Sherlock was stumped and hadn't even named it yet. Instead he just said for him to get here as soon as possible.

While he waited for John to arrive, Sherlock went around the room readying. He didn't know where to begin rightly, but if Alice was anything to say, find the raven, find the answers.

In thirty minutes, Sherlock was greeted by John who entered the flat. He tapped his umbrella against the bin as he looked over to Sherlock. "Some weather," John sighed as he let his umbrella rest in the bin. He then asked Sherlock, "Now, what's got your curls in a twist?"

"I was asked for help," Sherlock told him. John nodded, "What's new about this one?"

John went over toward the fireplace and held up his palms. "It's an odd case, I'll say it now," Sherlock rubbed his lobe. He overheard John, "How odd is it that it beats out your other cases?"

"A man claims a dead man has come back to claim vengeance against him," Sherlock summed. John chortled as he turned around to face Sherlock. "And you actually took up the case?" John asked. Sherlock pointed to the table with the four Benjamins. John's dark eyes moved down to the table and widened when they spotted the bills.

"He paid you four hundred dollars for you to solve it?" John stood there, shocked. Sherlock then corrected him, "Four hundred dollars, American."

"American dollars, for a case, and you took it anyway?" John waved his hand. Sherlock crossed his arms. "It would be rude if I didn't give a look into it, John," Sherlock pointed out. "It's only proper. He paid for my service."

"And what are you supposed to do, grab an Ouija board and start making noise?" John chortled.

"No, he mentioned a raven with amber eyes, bronze colored beak, and a peculiar caw," Sherlock shook his head. John stared at him. John would then say, "Are we in a bloody Poe book?"

"I gave him my word, what was I supposed to do, John, say no?" Sherlock blinked. John sighed and raised his hands. When he lowered his hands, he noticed something peculiar. He collected the Benjamins off the table and looked at them.

"Sherlock, what does this look to you?" John called him over. Sherlock stepped near him and looked at the bills. From afar, they looked like any other. Up close, they had very faint lines that were not a part of the design.

"John, fetch me my black light," Sherlock instructed him as he laid the bills down on the table. John went and grabbed the portable black light Sherlock kept in his flat for such occasion. Sherlock took the portable black light into his hands. John pulled the curtains over the windows and Sherlock flipped the switch.

The black light gave the room a dark hue and the bills on the table lit up neon green. Each bill had a unique design. One bill had a detailed picture of a raven facing right. Its eye was where Benjamin Franklin's head was. On the back were the words: BEWARE THE LIGHT.

The next bill had to be flipped long ways to reveal a dark foreboding figure, a plague doctor. On the back of that bill were the words: HE HIDES IN THE LIGHT.

The third bill was scrawls of the late Frank Colton. On the back of it: BEWARE THE RAVEN.

The fourth and final bill was a raven flying. On the back: IT IS DEATH.

John eyed the bills and the peculiar designs on them. He had his fair share of odd cases, but this was something that both intrigued and frightened him. The few cases that involved people trying to get Sherlock's attention for nefarious purposes, they weren't as intricate as this. This made Mycroft's attempts to get Sherlock to help him look pale in comparison.

John finally said to Sherlock, "Alright, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Good, now help me," Sherlock quickly said as he went toward the table near the windows. On the table was his laptop and as Sherlock tapped a key to wake it from hibernate, he glanced at John. John came over and watched as Sherlock quickly typed out the characteristics of the peculiar raven. The results that came up were quite unusual to say. There were countless forums dedicated to what was termed as, "the London Crow".

The London Crow was supposed to be the messenger of death. It came and went, seen day and night. Its appearance alone was meant as an omen. When it appears and follows someone, their end was near. When that someone died, it disappears. Detailed pictures of the foreboding raven cropped up, some colored and some black and white. Those colored detailed the bright amber eyes and the bronze beak. Descriptions of the raven came up as Sherlock clicked through. It was much larger than the common raven and had a peculiar caw. When other ravens hear its caw, they flee. Its eyes was said to be the color of fire. Its beak had a metallic sheen.

"Sherlock, are you absolutely sure that he isn't one of the loonies?" John looked at him. He glanced at the screen and saw what were reported to be actual photographs of the purported London Crow. They were dated and each photograph showed the raven in some fashion. In some it was perched on top of storefront signs. In others, it was looking down on passerby from a phone booth.

Only when the photos became more detailed as the duo looked, they indeed saw the raven with its bright amber eyes and bronze beak. The photo they came across had the raven perched above a taxi. John stepped back from the screen for a moment and pointed at it. "Photoshop, it has to be," he insisted.

Sherlock mulled over the idea as well. It wouldn't take much to Photoshop a raven into different photographs and recolor it to match the descriptions given. Yet, Sherlock wasn't the type to quickly dismiss ideas. Even outlandish an idea was, he was going to give it a thorough look through. They didn't call him the Great Detective for nothing.

Sherlock's light blue eyes looked at every sentence until they came across a section where an occult store was said to have their answers. Well, it claimed, anyway.

"Ah, good, we'll start there," Sherlock pointed at the screen. John stared at him with disbelief. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John chastised him, "Sherlock, have ya lost your damn marbles?"

"I don't own any marbles," Sherlock gruffly said as he stood up and walked toward the door. He stopped and turned to John. "Then again, if I had any, Mycroft would've known."

And so John had no other choice but to follow. Even if John was aghast at the idea, Sherlock couldn't be trusted to solve a case alone. Like a puppy, Sherlock was prone to getting into trouble. Unlike a puppy being scolded, Sherlock was reprimand with bullets. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock's shenanigans had a nasty habit of bringing unwanted attention. Why, John and one of his exes were kidnapped by a gang because of Sherlock's prying. As well as the many times John's life was put in danger because of Sherlock. So, as a way to keep up with Sherlock and avoid being injured or worse, John was going to have to help Sherlock. Even if it meant that the duo might become the laughingstock on the telly and the internet.

Down the stairs and out into the streets, Sherlock called for a taxi. As the taxi pulled up, John couldn't help but glance up. He had no particular reason to do so, but he did. Up above on a signpost was a rather large raven. John couldn't discern anything about it other than its size because it was far from him. It tilted its head as it glanced over and John's mind instantly murmured the word "amber".

"John," Sherlock called to him. John blinked a dozen times before he got into the back with Sherlock. "Off to Samson Oddity Shoppe, please."

Before the taxi took off, John glanced up to the signpost again. The raven was gone. His mind continued murmur the word amber. Amber.