Title: Always 1895
Author: Pompey
Universe: ACD(ish)
Rating: PG
Warnings: existential horror?
Word count: 221B
Summary: It is always 1895. Always.
Prompt: July 2 – poetry prompt
"Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five." – Vincent Starrett
.
New Year's Eve day had been unusually quiet. The weather was mild. Any claim of not feeling festive would only be an invitation for Holmes to probe further. I had no valid excuse. I would have to stay in the sitting room to welcome the new year, such as it was.
It was 1895. In ten minutes, it would be 1895. In three hundred and sixty-five days, it would undoubtedly be 1895 again.
It has been thusly for the past thirty-two years . . . or rather, the past thirty-two New Year's Eves, for though seasons waxed and waned and each mystery was new, the year never changed.
As far as I could tell, I was the only soul conscious of this. Holmes never gave an indication he was aware of this phenomenon. He seemed oblivious to our lack of aging, the lack of damage to heavily-used belongings, the lack of damage to items remaining disused.
I didn't know if this was heaven or hell, or even some bizarre limbo. I dared not say anything, regardless. I had no proof and no desire to be locked away for madness.
I accepted a glass from Holmes, who raised his own in a toast as the clock chimed midnight. "To the new year," he said.
"To 1895," I replied, and downed my brandy.