Preview
It was a normal day on Baker Street. It began like most of them do, rainy, dull, cold… London. That's how it always looks, to the untrained eye. For someone like me, it's so much more.
From my flat I can see across the street in the window of 221B. It was the home of the great detective Sherlock Holmes. He died months ago, or rather killed himself months ago.
His friend, Dr. John Watson, has visited the flat only twice since the death. Once, carrying books away, and a second time bringing them all back. His first steps in the door were always slow and hesitant, his steps away took twice the time, ending with him turning back to look once before sliding into the cab.
I visit every night, not literally, only though my imagination (and my windows that can see through to the windows of 221B). It's not my imagination however that creates the man. Every night at precisely eleven twenty-three I see a tall man crawl through the upper window. After he is in the flat I can see his shadow pacing to and fro, often stopping to look out the window at the street below. After the figure disappears in the morning Baker Street looks itself again. Some nights I wonder if I might ever actually see the figure's face.