Disclaimer: Sherlock series belong to BBC, Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Sherlock and other canon characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. Sydney et al belong to me. Sydney herself is (loosely) based on Sidney Paget, the illustrator for the origial Sherlock Holmes stories.
Ratings/Warnings: Gen, T. A little gory, assumed long age difference romance, mild language.
Summary: Bringing back the illustrations from the original publications into the modern day.
A/N: I don't live in England. I'm American. Try as I might, I may not get all the terminology right, and I certainly won't get any geography right. Thus, with locations and such, I'm going to either b.s. something together, or be as vague as possible. So, please don't be nitpicky, but if you decide to be, please be nice about it! Thanks in advance!
PROLOGUE [think 'pre-title sequence hook']
Sitting bolt upright. Staring ahead, seems lost in thought. Barely moves. Does he know something? Clutching an umbrella in his hands, right over left. But it's a nice day out. Is he waiting for rain? Damn, I messed up the hairline, too far down. That's better. Oops, the nose goes a little farther out. And the ears are too small. At least he makes for a good model.
The girl continued to sketch the mysterious man on the bench on the campus grounds, staring at nothing. It was turning out wonderfully. Lots of large areas for shading due to his dark attire, great lighting since it wasn't overcast for once, and he was sitting still.
A lot better than the poor sods we get in class, anyway.
Once she finished drawing him, she started on the background. A few trees were in the area, each planted a few feet apart. Then she sketched the other buildings across the pathways housing the science and botany halls. She finished with the approrpriate shading from the trees and the man on the bench. She gave it a quick sign in the bottom right corner and smiled to herself, pleased with the result. She was about to leave when she heard yelling from the "den" as it was usually called, an open large room by the arts wing that theatre students used to practice shouting scenes without the other classes thinking someone was being murdered. Sydney left her sketch pad and pencil and walked over gingerly to the den. By the time she reached it, the yelling had stopped (she hadn't been able to make out any of it). When she peered in through the window, her breath stopped.
There really had been a murder in the den.