I looked up from the British Medical Journal . “I should say his heart gave out. A tragic, if mundane, end.”
Holmes’s eyes ignited. He reached for his deerstalker. “The Mirror of the Blackwood Estate, I presume? A fascinating piece of Venetian glass. They say it doesn't reflect the sitter, but the person standing behind them in the afterlife.” subtitle Sherlock Holmes
A sharp rapping at the door interrupted us. A young woman burst in, her face as pale as the mist outside. She wore a silk evening gown, torn at the shoulder, and clutched a heavy brass key. I looked up from the British Medical Journal
The fog clung to Baker Street like a damp shroud, thick enough to swallow the hansom cabs whole. Inside 221B, the air was sharp with the scent of shag tobacco and the chemical tang of Sherlock Holmes’s latest experiment. He reached for his deerstalker