SHILOH HOLMES: The Broken Prayers

"Life is full of whimsical happenings, Watson."

THERE WERE CLOUDS with rain falling in sheets from the sky, drenching whoever was unfortunate enough to stand below. The clouds were grim in appearance, overshadowing the light of the quiet city they traveled over. The windows were assaulted, each raindrop a hammer in miniature. The wet cacophony as the rain pattered on sills and boards was like that of keys on a piano. The empty, cobbled roads were sparse, London's citizens preferring to remain indoors during the downpour. Nonetheless, on the cold flagstone, one person was daring enough to tempt the storm.

Out of the pitch came a figure. It was of tall stature with a trench coat sweeping the ankles. A flat cap, a deerstalker, sat on their head. They walked with purpose, briskly moving down the slope of the cobbled sidewalk, past the parked carriages and the rusted tin can lids that remained from young children playing in the street a while before. During the harsh winters, they would use them to mimic the properties of sleds.

The figure, hands in pockets save for carrying a single leather briefcase, strode down the stone. Their face was cloaked in shadow, their features unidentifiable save for the occasional flash of a streetlamp on pale skin. The black-heeled shoes clicked on the sidewalk, tapping in time to percussion.

The slum was dark. No street lamps were lit, the gloom introducing an unsettling sense that someone was always watching.

After a moment, the sound of footsteps reached a set of cold, stone stairs. They made their way up them, the toes just barely slipping off the edges as the leather slapped the damp pavement before they reached the door of an apartment building, the shining bronze number reading 221B directly above the door knocker.

Out of the trench coat, a hand appeared to grasp the handle, turning it slowly in rotation as they pushed inwards. With slight hesitation, they looked over their shoulder as if checking to see if they were followed. When the only motion visible was a dull, flickering streetlight under a block away, the figure stepped over the threshold.

Once inside the dark entryway, they turned to shut the door and flip the switch as a pitiful light flared, went out once, then came back on. The individual nodded as if this was expected and carefully removed the trench coat, placing their briefcase on the tile. Then, in turn, they removed the flat cap, revealing the facial features at last.

It was a man, his face currently occupied by a thick, brown mustache upon his upper lip. He appeared to be in his early-mid 30s, his face still kept young despite the creased lines formed in his forehead and around the corners of his eyes, the matter of which were a bright, dancing blue. He was of casual attire for that of a Londoner, strongly built yet thin in form. His square jaw was dangerously defined, his height slightly above average. He wore a dark, tweed brown suit, the tie and collar tucked elegantly as if he were about to attend a momentous occasion. Around his neck was a hand-knit scarf patterned with blues, whites, and grays that had, quite simply, seen better days.

In the entryway, the man glanced forward, looking up the carpeted staircase as he carefully pulled a pocket watch out of the linings of his coat, checking the time, agitated.

As if out of habit, he called, "Mrs. Hudson–" then inadvertently choked on his words, stopping immediately once he realized what he had done. His eyes clouded and, with a shake of his head, he attempted to placate the rush of emotions. After a moment, he placed the watch back inside, his foot tapping impatiently as he looked about.

In the small hallway adjacent to the door, to the right, paisley-printed wall was the staircase which held several wooden frames depicting faceless images. To the left, down through an entryway was a small, tiled kitchen with the lights dimmed and the auburn cabinets swinging on their hinges upon an unseen breeze. Not a footstep was heard throughout the apartment, the silence hair-raising as the drop of a pin could be heard as distinctly as a voice.