Seven sorts run in and out of 221B, up and down the seventeen steps. Seven sorts interupt at all hours. Seven sorts cause Mrs. Hudson grief and laughter, and seven sorts make the flat a little livelier.
The first sort is middle-aged gentlemen, usually in various stages of panic; they inquire after Mr. Holmes, and if he's not in leave gold-embossed cards to announce their visit. The matter is urgent, they insist.
The second sort is the grimy and grim of the criminal underworld, and their slick masterminds.
The third sort is the grimy and grinning and growing, the Irregulars that snatch cookies and eavesdrop as a habit. Little snippets of people who will one day grow up, but they solemnly swear not until they have to get married. "Why weren't you ever married, Mister 'olmes?"
"He has no heart," Watson nimbly put in.
The fourth is young, beautiful ladies in their finery and good frocks, with a light sheen of perspiration on their foreheads; their matters is surely are urgent, and they too, leave their cards.
The fifth is Yarders and Inspectors, hot on the case (or so they may think), again seeking the detective's expertise.
The sixth is the course youth of London, with scarred hands, determined eyes, and lined skin. These are who Holmes really enjoys. Their problems are genuine and interesting and they themselves are as well.
The seventh sort is bright-eyed partners, sometimes alone and sometimes together, sometimes wielding revolver or stick; sometimes in unrecognizable disguise; sometimes out after the case or a good evening out.
But the warmth of home is only enriched by bustle.
Prompt: Seven Sorts, 221B style. This one IS exactly 221 words. YEAHHHHH. From Werepanther33.
AND GUESS WHO'S CAUGHT UP? Can I get a WHOHOOO! here?
