The rain dumps down onto the paved streets of London as I duck under every overhang, but I still have to squint to see two feet in front of me, making it difficult to get anywhere. I have to tell someone what I've witnessed, but I can't just go around telling everyone, and I diffidently can't go to the police, I may not have gotten a good look at him, but I know he saw me, which would be more than enough to put a hit out on me. What I really need is a detective, a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes to be exact. But he's dead, I saw him fall, and saw John rush to his side, but that's all I could handle, he didn't deserve to die. Something else had to have happened on that rooftop the day Sherlock died. Of all the things Sherlock Holmes was, a fraud was not one of them. He was genuinely brilliant, running around with his friend, John Watson, catching criminals. But now he's gone; now there's no one to help me.
I walk for what seems like hours, thinking through everything that happened that day, why did everything have to go so wrong? It's hard to believe I won't be reading about his latest solved case in the newspaper tomorrow morning, won't be able to see the latest on him and his infamous deerstalker. I stand silently on the sidewalk, getting completely soaked in the rain, but too lost in thought to notice or care. When I finally realize where I am, I can't say I'm surprised, it always comes back to this, right? 221B Baker Street, the former sleuths flat. I make my way to the tall, black chipping door, wary of anyone walking by while I slowly turn the knob, not getting my hopes up that it's unlocked. When it is I let myself in and step under the threshold into the entry way, still not letting my guard down while I walk up the creaking steps. I hear shuffling coming from downstairs and I freeze, John Watson used to mention his landlady in his blog, I can't quite remember her name, but she sounded nice enough, not that I was going to take any chances. Soon enough she quiets down and I continue my slow journey up the stairs, with adrenaline pumping through my veins and all of my senses of high alert.
I know something is off the moment I reach the top of the steps. The lights are on, and is that… tea? Yes, it has to be tea that I smell. I stand in the room, just staring for at least five minutes when I get the feeling I'm being watched. I flick my eyes to every corner, every shadow, and toward every creak, desperately trying to find whoever is here with me. The feeling eventually dulls as I become accustomed to it and I begin making my way around the room, examining every aspect, from the creepy skull and riding crop on the mantel, to the spray painted smiley face on the back wall, with presumably bullet holes tracing the smile. I'm still examining the various test tubes and empty bottles when someone strikes me on the head and everything goes black.
