Prompt: Sherlock's successor, from Michael JG Meathook

A/N: Seemed fitting to end with a retirement story. Thank you, as always, to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing this every year, and thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed my entries! Sidenote: if you messaged me and I didn't answer, I apologize. I found it difficult this year to keep up with writing the responses and reviewing, so please know I wasn't deliberately ignoring anyone.

I had a blast writing these as usual. Happy 2023 everyone!

While at times it seemed, in our little cottage in Sussex Downs, that time was unchanging and it would, indeed, always be 1895, there were many signs that the world had indeed passed us by. Automobiles soon outnumbered hansom cabs and radio replaced live performances when we wished to enjoy a concert, though Holmes still maintained that the sound quality was poor by comparison.

It was early 1921 when the final sign that Holmes and I were, at last, of the past, appeared in the tiny bookshop in town, which I made a point to visit each time we drove in to pick up our parcels. The shop could not compare in selection to those I had known in London, but this was more than made up for by the kindly owner, whose individualized care for his customers was the greater for it. He had supplied Holmes with many a text on apiculture, chemistry, music, and all other manner of esoteric study, and once I joined him, made an effort to know my tastes and keep in stock those novels I was interested in. What he did not stock, he made certain to order in for us.

Today, we had no specific order, but I often stopped in just to browse and say hello to our bookseller friend. I confess I took pleasure in stopping at the mystery shelves to see my published works on sale next to the likes of Poe and Collins. On this occasion, however, I noticed a new arrival and picked it up curiously.

"Oh, that's been very popular. Very good, too, if I might recommend it. Kept me up all night thinking it over," the owner, a thin man with a prodigious beard, said, noticing the volume in my hand. "She'll be right famous, I reckon."

"Hmm," I said. "In that case, I ought to buy it to research my competition." I chuckled, though I was still intending to publish some of Holmes's cases, now that the war was at last over, and it would do me well to see what was popular now.

The book in question, when I finally opened it that evening, was a short novel, and featured as its setting an English manor house, like so many Holmes and I had investigated in our younger years. The mystery, the murder of an elderly woman, the lady of the house, was compelling, with a cast of characters ranging from angry stepsons to a poison specialist to a scandalously younger husband. All were interesting and entertaining in their own right, and I found myself turning the pages eagerly. "Holmes," I said. "I think you may very well have a successor."

"It is about time," Holmes said, in his characteristically short way. "I shall never understand what the public found so very interesting about such a florid set of tales. Well, Watson, who has replaced me in the minds of the fickle population?"

"Well, he is not an official detective. In fact, he is not even English. A Belgian fellow, Hercule Poirot," I said. "A refugee from the war." I especially liked this detail, as it grounded the story in something real, much as my return from Afghanistan had done so many years previously. All had seen of the devastation wrought in Belgium by the invading German armies, and even today, there were many Belgian refugees in England who had no homes to return to.

Holmes appeared at my shoulder and read a few pages of the mystery along with me. "Well, that is obvious," he said at last. He detailed his theory and sniffed derisively. "I do not think much of this fellow and his 'little grey cells.' A child could work this out."

"Well, as a writer of mysteries, I can tell you this author has skill in weaving the clues together," I said. "It is not an easy feat to bring together the threads of plot and ensure that one's characters are interesting besides. And she makes hers up entirely!"

"Exactly. Yours, at least, have the benefit of being based in fact," Holmes said, a compliment which I accepted, however backhanded it may have been. "This fellow, for instance, is hardly a stand-in for you, Watson. Colonel Hastings has little personality to speak of. He seems to exist almost entirely to heap praise upon Poirot as he explains things in entirely too-long-winded a manner."

I need hardly explain where Madame Christie found her inspiration in this matter. That Holmes did not see it was typical of his personality, though it was also due in large part to his refusal to read the works which had made him famous.

"Well, I suspect that this is not the last we shall see of this Belgian fellow," I said. "Though I agree he hardly matches up to you, but then, 'life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent,' is it not?"

"You use my own words against me," Holmes said. "I suppose you are going to be a devotee of this authoress, are you, Watson?"

"I am certainly interested to see what she might write next. There is potential here," I said. I was quietly proud, too, that someone so obviously inspired by my own writing might herself write a popular detective series. I had no children, and it felt as if I had managed to pass on something of myself after all.

"Well, you are the expert in detective stories, Watson. I shall limit myself to the mysteries of the real world," Holmes said. "Pass me my violin. I find myself in need of music.