Not much to say about this really, hope you like it!
Jingling bells above his head announce his arrival in the shop. He glances around himself and calls out tentatively.
"Hello, is anyone here?"
His soft, unassuming voice doesn't travel well around the cluttered room and he steps over a carved, wooden chair. He peers into the ancient display cabinet to his right, examining the ornate jewellery and various knick-knacks lying on pieces of coloured silk in the glass cupboard. He calls out again.
"Hello? Can I open this cabinet? The one with the jewellery?"
"Yes. Sorry, I'll be there in just a minute." The response has an accent, barely discernible, Asian possibly. He doesn't try to define it more precisely, he doesn't want to any more.
"No hurry, I'd just like to look more closely at a few things in here." A smile plays upon his lips as he sees an ornate cigarette lighter, flowers etched into its silver surface.
"Are you looking for something in particular?" A small woman emerges from behind an empty bookshelf, dark hair straight as pokers. Her delicate features draw him in and his smile spreads further.
"Nothing particular, something special." The smile fades as he reflects upon his task, looking back at the lighter. The woman leans across and slips a small key into the front of the cabinet, twisting it deftly from her awkward position. Contents revealed he leans over, eyeing the woman, Korean he thinks, questioningly. She nods and he reaches in, pulling the cigarette lighter out.
"Good?"
"Yes, perfect." Warmth fills his eyes, crinkling at the corners into wrinkles well used to being formed. "How much?"
"Just take it." Her tone is knowing and he tilts his head in confusion as she walks away.
"No. How much?" He gets no response and assumes she is out of ear shot. Leaving a five pound note in the cabinet out of courtesy he leaves, the bells jingling over his head again as the door swings shut behind him.
Climbing into the waiting taxi he gives the driver directions and closes his eyes, wanting to be alone in his own head for a few minutes. Flashes of memory come to him and he frowns as if they're painful.
"Don't." He mutters under his breath and the driver queries him.
"Don't what?"
"Oh, nothing. Talking to myself, that's all."
"Okay, sure. Here we are anyway."
"Already?" The shock in his voice is evident but he hands over the money and steps out of the vehicle onto the grey pavement. Pulling his oversized coat around him he inhales the scent, allowing the tears to come to his eyes. He walks up the gravel path, cutting across the overgrown grass to reach the gravestone. He sits on the ground, leaning against the trunk of the tree behind the grave and pulls a book out of his pocket. He reads to himself, tracing a finger over the pages with one hand and flicking the cap on and off the lighter with the other.
He seems to be waiting but gives no indication what for until a old woman, unsteady on her feet and silver hair blowing in the wind, appears on the path.
"Over here." He waves and she responds by lifting a bunch of flowers above her head.
"Here we go." She places the flowers at the foot of the headstone and chuckles to herself. "He wouldn't appreciate them, I know, but it doesn't seem right, visiting a grave without flowers. Especially not on an anniversary. Did you get something?" Her tone is warm and mothering, standing close to the man and he shows her the lighter. Pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket he places them on the top of the gravestone with the lighter, letting his hand linger on the cool, dark stone before stepping away.
"A whole, year. I can't believe it's been a whole year."
"I can." The woman laughs aonce more. "It's so quiet without him around. Everything seems to move so slowly without his energy bossing it about."
"Yes, I suppose you're right." He puts an arm around the woman's shoulders, pulling her closer in a half-hearted hug. "I just… I thought he'd have performed a miracle by now, come back to us."
"Dear, I know you two were close but even he wasn't that brilliant." She turns and walks away, beckoning the man to follow her.
"Oh, but he was."
He touches the gravestone a final time, almost as if to convince himself it's real, before follwing the woman towards the path. He leaves behind the lighter and cigarettes, adorning the ebony black headstone. It's graffitied now, the beautiful black stone, the words 'fraud' and 'fake' spray-painted over the original inscription. The paint has been scrubbed and is faded so the letters underneath can be read.
Sherlock Holmes.
Thank you for reading, reveiws are welcome.