December 17
From hold . my . coat: Sherlock Holmes: The Fake-Dead Years
For three years Sherlock Holmes was dead. During those years, his travels took him to many exotic, far away places. In spite of his Bohemian habits, he found his heart yearning for human connection at times.
On Christmas Eve, somewhere in the Far East, an exceptionally tall stranger, weathered by the harsh, dry mountain air, stood in the shadows of the temple interior. His head was bowed. His body was so copiously swathed in layers of cloth that only his upper face showed. His eyes, respectfully lowered, glittered with eagle intensity and drank in the proceedings of the temple.
The interior was beautifully decorated with thick red and yellow drapery, edged in gold. Adoring worshippers had left behind gifts of flowers, food, and trinkets at the base of the gleaming golden Buddha. The only light in the temple came from hundreds of candles flickering along the walls and altar steps. Their soft warm light shimmered over the shaved heads of a group twenty monks seated together. Their lyrical chants filled the room with the gravity of eternity.
Gradually, their chants trailed off into silence without any apparent signal. The candles burned bravely. The monks remained seated, immobile, for many more minutes in solemn meditations.
The stranger watched from the sidelines without a sign of life except the occasional blink of his eyes which never wavered in their observation.
A sober gong rang out… one deliberate vibration, its tailing note hovering in the air. At last, the worshippers began to shuffle out of the temple. One monk with small, dark, bright eyes veered away from the group. He stood in front of the stranger. He placed his hands together in a prayer position in front of his heart and gave a small bow. As his head rose, his dark observant eyes captured the grey piercing ones of the stranger. Their gaze lingered for the briefest of moments. It was only a glance… a silent exchange between strangers. The message was as clear though.
The stranger turned and filed out silently. He picked up his walking stick and began navigating his way down the mountain. The monks filed on upwards to their remote living quarters. Both had miles to go before they slept.
~o~