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Sherlock Holmes and the 5% Solution
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Sherlock Holmes and the 5% Solution

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.

Sherlock despised 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.
Resurrected.
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 since…
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, beyond… logic.


Logic demanded he came to accept that life was NOT endless, regardless of what the writing near St. Bart’s suggested.
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 resurrected.

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