"When angels can no longer fly, they fall to their deaths..."
Four months after their first confrontation in the swimming hall, bored Sherlock Holmes is recontacted by none other than Jim Moriarty and forced into offering his consultations on a rath...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Wednesday 25/08/2010, 01:34 p.m.
The droning of the telly blended with the hum of an air conditioner as Sherlock Holmes pushed quietly open the inner 12-lite door to his landlady's warm-hued abode. Just ahead he could see a number of framed impressionistic paintings of an unknown artist - probably stolen goods from her deceased drug dealer husband - and thrifty plants that weren't slotted into his selective knowledge of botany. His towering stark form filled the entire L-shaped corridor that, after a few neat and snug spaces, emptied into the decorative birthplace of homey aromas and food with wallpapers that were the tint of light upon clouds, and opposite to it was the spirit of her home, the cosy living room that was practically a hug of violet-blue walls and classy cushions offering greater comfort than beauty. A step into a place as welcoming as musical notes on an eclectic composition.
The last dregs of her afternoon Twinings sat on the rich and well-cared browns of the coffee table. Having slipped into the dull routine of retirement, Mrs Hudson lounged on the tan couch in front of the TV, being fed a diet of eye-wateringly vapid dating game show - I forgot its name but who cares - she and John would watch together every now and then. So typical of Mrs Hudson, so typical... Sherlock's inner monologue was equivalent to flicking through millions of TV channels, enough to entertain him for a lifetime. But then again, he wasn't ordinary, and he needed extraordinary entertainment.
Besides, as age crept up, people seemed to turn more scatty. Sherlock didn't want to think about what John would be like in his 80s. A tiny nagging pops and his twelve grandchildren. That would be a nightmare. That is if they both dodged death long enough to get wrinkly. Who knew, maybe he wouldn't have to tolerate John's foibles and suffer through the hell of his family life?
Monopolised by endearing affection toward his daft landlady and friend, the corners of Sherlock's mouth kicked up in a small smile, his swirling orbs travelling to the floor absent-mindedly. Although it was not conductive to efficiency in the art of detection, even he would allow himself to feel a millisecond of volatile sentiment every now and then when his mental barriers were lower.
"Sherlock, why are you smiling?" Mrs Hudson had twisted her body around to get a better look at her uninvited visitor. Her floral-patterned dress was a perfect marriage of spring colour, and the petals of her frisky mouth tinged with pink. Sherlock hadn't even noticed that he'd broken her flow of concentration.
"Am I?" Sherlock asked, touching his lips that were apparently wearing a schoolboy grin and neutralising his expression. There's no way I'm telling her. Never. "Well, people smile when they're happy, don't they?"
"Why are you happy?" On inquiring why, she was hoping for him to shed light on a certain subject. The air grew thick with unsaid words, and roguish inquisitiveness had beaded her withered skin like dew on the grass in anticipation of a reply.
