Inspired by my latest
adventures, I have drafted a new beginning :
Hands clasped behind his
back, the lanky man in the old-fashioned black dressing gown observed the
passersby in the street below. Once upon a time this game of deducing
nationalities from above had held some fascination for him. Since Londoners who
could afford to always left town on Christmas Eve, it was foreign tourists
exclusively who idled along Baker Street on Christmas Day in hopes of a glimpse
of the famous consulting detective behind the curtains of 221B. Shorts in icy
weather: Americans. Photo-snapping Asians: Chinese – if they consulted maps in
searching of the shortest route to Oxford Circus – or Japanese if they entered
SPEEDY’s Café next door. Deep frown lines: Germans. Chatty: French. Ladies
dressed in fur: Russians.
stereotypes, especially the ones that were spot on.
The faint rustling of a
newspaper page caught his attention. He turned, his eyes on the well-worn
armchair next to the fireplace. Empty of course. Lately, he had to admit, his
imagination was playing tricks on him.
Sherlock walked across the
blood-red carpet towards his shabby leather chair. He grabbed the pristine
remote. BBC One came on. Reruns of a 1972 Christmas show, by the looks
of the haircuts. ITV, too, all dedicated to Christmas cheers. 5Stars
with a close-up of a boy wizard waving a wand to dissolve a wall at Paddington
Station. Platform 9 ¾? Ridiculous! If children learned to replace logic with
imagination, humanity’s future would be doomed. Just like the future of the US
Navy if dead bodies continued to pile up daily, weekly, monthly as suggested in
the self-serving commercial on 5USA.
Obviously, all appreciation
of true intellect had dissolved in this age of …
His mobile beeped. Sherlock
dropped into his leather chair with a sigh and reached for his phone. A cursory
glance at the incoming message: Mycroft.
“BBC Four. Beat you at that
one, brother dear.”
“Desiring my applause?
#Fake Celebrities,” Sherlock texted back, then switched to BBC Four.
There he was indeed: the eminence
grise of the British government, the innocuous gentleman with the
impressive insider knowledge and the master mind behind CCTV London. Sherlock’s
brother Mycroft in an elegant three-piece suit, faking a smile into the camera,
divulged a secret or two about the celebrated Winston Churchill, recently
resurrected in a Brit movie by Gary Oldman.
Sherlock’s eyes focused
once again on the empty armchair. Dust had begun to settle on the aged fabric.
The thickness of the dust would tell him exactly how much time had passed
It was John Watson who had
resurrected him in the past: by desiring one more miracle, by forcing him to be
a better human, by refusing to let him die a story-less life.
Resurrection of John
Watson, his friend John Watson, was impossible, unfeasible, unattainable,
Logic demanded he came to
accept that life was NOT endless, regardless of what the writing near St.
How could he… imagine.
As the train came to a halt
at the ridiculously small station of the Griffin’s Forest, not a single person
took notice of the fact that England’s most famous consulting detective and his
faithful blogger had come so far to solve a century-old mystery. Probably, they
were not even aware of the secrecy surrounding the local university.
On that late October
afternoon Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stepped off the train, passed through
the frosty miniature waiting room of the 19th century station building and
found themselves facing a plastered square, devoid of humans and their
stories.Three churches shrouded in ghostly illumination towered over the town
with the legendary name, hiding its secrets in the dark underneath. The
Medieval Age’s shadows clung to every stone and every wall and without doubt…
John Watson could not be