221B
Note: This is my 221st fanfic so I decided that it would only be fitting to do a short tribute to the iconic house of Sherlock Holmes. It turned out longer than I expected but I'm pleased with it.
This pretty much applies to any incarnation of Sherlock Holmes. But I've also decided to post this story to celebrate both the new year and the new series of BBC's Sherlock.
Enjoy and Happy New Year!
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Every house has a story.
These noble structures that we often take for granted have borne witness to all kinds of life, to joys and sorrows, to tedium and excitement, to time moving forward or time standing still. Every house has seen so much. But some have more to share than others.
And oh, the stories this one could tell.
Number 221B Baker Street started out as an unassuming building on an unremarkable street. People passed it by for years, never giving it a second glance. But it was a sturdy structure and it withstood all natural calamities, endured through wars and storms. Tenants came and went, leaving little to no trace of their having lived in the house at all. Until one person moved in and changed the house forever, elevated it to legend, and gave it more purposes than any ancient building could have ever imagined.
But all the fame and glory came at quite a cost. After all, if 221B Baker Street could speak, it would lament the miserable way it was treated by its most distinguished tenant. Perhaps the renown it gained from this peculiar man's activities would never be enough to properly compensate the house for all the abuse it suffered over the years. But it bore every hardship with endless forbearance, and remained standing tall despite everything that befell it. It helped that Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson tried their best to take care of the house, tidying and cleaning, having all the necessary repairs done, replacing broken parts, and refurbishing and renovating as needed. They kept the whole place standing so it continue to help Sherlock Holmes in his work.
If a house feel pride, this one would surely boast of its versatility. For while Sherlock Holmes lived under this roof, 221B was more than a house. On many occasions, it played multiple roles and it both rejoiced and lamented every transformation. Over the years, the house has been a laboratory, shooting range, morgue, library, study, conservatory, office, consulting room, police station, interrogation room, dark room, museum of curiosities, and at one point even a shop of some sort.
From the moment Sherlock Holmes set foot inside 221B, it became so much more than what it was, acquiring a multitude of purposes that would put even the greatest palaces and government buildings to shame. This time, the house was more than just a witness to history, it became an almost active participant in the lives of everyone who entered it. It became an agent of change, a refuge for the lost, and a source of hope for the despairing. There could be no greater kind of existence.
For many years, strangers entered the house, left their footprints in the hall, told their stories, took some tea sometimes. The house never wanted for visitors. And yet, when the consulting detective wanted peace and solitude, the house obliged, closing its doors and shutters, blocking out the distractions and hustle-bustle of the outside world. It was as much a refuge for him as it was for his extensive clientele.
But the house had some painful memories as well, not because of the tales of horror and murder that had echoed down its halls, but because of the heavy silence that reigned when Sherlock Holmes had been believed to be dead. Dust accumulated and cobwebs formed in corners that had been more accustomed to the constant flurry of activity. There was only this unbearable silence and emptiness. No one came to visit anymore, and the house had been forlorn, and it mourned its tenant because for a while it seemed that the grand adventure had come to a sordid end. And there was no one else in the world who would be able to fill the void.
Fortunately, this was not to be, as Sherlock Holmes made his grand return to the land of the living, and 221B rejoiced at his homecoming. The adventures began anew, the house enduring more abuse than ever, but never complaining, always complying. It molded itself to whatever the detective needed, and provided all that it could. One could even say that it had a certain magic about it but Sherlock Holmes would never have used such an irrational terminology.
But he knew. He and the house had a tacit understanding. Such a genius did not have many friends but the few he did acquire over the years were among the best that humanity could offer. And of course, the house itself had become such an integral part of his life, that he often spoke to it, at least when he was thinking out loud and there was no one else to hear his deductions.
The house was an almost ideal conversation partner as it would never contradict him, but the disadvantage was it would never be able to praise him for his cleverness. But no one was perfect, Sherlock would think with a shrug. He would never truly show his appreciation for his house, but it was enough that he would never leave it.
They would be companions until the end, until the great man succumbed to the cruelties of time, his hair turned white, his movements no longer as agile and energetic, his senses no longer as sharp, and his words no longer as numerous. The determined house would never let its foundations crumble, never allow its structure to falter, not while there was still a case to be solved.
So as the years went by, a great many things changed, as well they should, but some things remained constant, stubborn to the last. Sherlock Holmes would never stop working on cases, solving the puzzles presented by the peculiarities of human life, and seeking answers to the seemingly impossible. Dr. John Watson would forever be his loyal companion, supporting him in his work, and reminding him of his own humanity. There would always be mysteries to solve, quandaries to ponder, lives to save.
And in all this, the house on 221B Baker Street would remain, standing tall and proud, a house of many talents, a house with no equal, a house full of stories.