A.N In my story Sherlock Holmes was a real person and not known of and his cases were never published by John Watson or Arthur Conan Doyle.
Oh and bear with me but sometimes it takes a while my creativity to flow.
It was April when my Grandfather died, Bertie his name was. We were close; he was more of a Father to me than my real dad, that's why I offered to sort out his belongings, I felt that someone else rummaging through his things and throwing out what they presumed to be rubbish would dirty my memory of him. Still it was late March when I could finally bring myself to do it.
He lived on his own, my grandmother Elisa long dead, in an old Victorian terrace house in the middle of London. It was split into sections A,B and C, He lived in the A section which covered the majority of the ground floor bar the hall leading to B and the staircase leading to the basement and C. When Mum, dad and I stayed over before my parents' divorce we stayed in C. It was dark and small but homely, of course my mum complained, that's she ever did but now she never talks to me. We weren't allowed in the hall leading to B or B itself. One day I asked my grandfather why be he said that the floors weren't safe and that he needs to get the contractors in to fix it; I now know that he was lying, the truth was just a whole lot more impressive and deadly!
A.N I know it short but just an introduction.