A Collection of Shorts

The Haunting of 221b

Crash. And then, the sound of breaking glass. Third time that day, sixteenth time that week, and the fifty-eighth time since the first. A tall and thin man raised his dolichocephalic head and held himself very still. This only lasted no more than a few seconds, before the man's hawk-like nose was once again buried in the book before him, the strange noise left ignored.

It is no doubt that Sherlock Holmes is a man of logic and science, and did not believe in ghosts or the supernatural, and he had simply dismissed the strange occurrences. However, it became very clear as the days went by, that whatever forces were now at 221b, they were trying to catch Sherlock's attention. The occurrences became frequent and harder to ignore. Books would fly off the shelves, chairs would move across the room, and the curtains would sway even when there was no breeze. Worst of all, all of Sherlock's most personal items, like his deerstalker hat, his pipe, and his cape, were tossed across the room. The great detective began to feel uneasy in his own home.

Curious, how he had managed to ignore it all for so long. Perhaps he had remained oblivious to the occurrences for a reason. Perhaps a sort of subconscious thought had stopped him from looking into matters. Perhaps there was a feeling of recognition when the supernatural force was at work. Whatever had been holding him back had lost its effect, and Sherlock Holmes had had enough.

As the very pipe between the detective's teeth was forcefully yanked out and flown across the flat, Sherlock snapped shut the book and rose to his feet, looking about him. Contrary to the detective's flustered movements, the flat had become still. It was precisely what the flat wasn't doing that now brought a new sense of fear to Sherlock.

Gathering himself together, he reasoned with himself. There are no ghosts. He was a detective, and his knowledge of religion was collected purely to be able to understand religious messages should they appear in his cases. Feeling much more confident, he strode into the bathroom and looked around. He found, to no surprise, one of his test tubes shattered, on the floor. A roll of toilet paper slathered across the tiles. The ordinary, Sherlock concluded. Although it was unpleasant, it was predictable.

Suddenly, movement caught the logician's eye. Sherlock froze, for merely a split second, yet he felt that whatever was watching him noticed his reaction. Slowly, his body betraying him and beginning to shiver slightly, Sherlock turned to the mirror. In it, staring at him with cold, emotionless eyes, was a familiar figure.

After the initial shock, there was uncertainty, then dread. Sherlock had always been a skeptic of the supernatural, but now, he was faced with something that simply could not be explained with science and logic. Especially as he noticed key features of this thing (he could not yet bring himself to call it a ghost or a spirit or anything of the sort).

The dolichocephalic head, sharp cheekbones, grey eyes. Different, yet......the same? Sherlock had never been more frightened. At least the Hound of the Baskervilles was a case that revolved around Henry Baskerville, not himself. This, this was far more frightening, especially how close to home it was for Sherlock.

"Who are you?" Sherlock blurted out. He didn't need to ask. Somehow, he already knew the answer. It was himself. It was Sherlock Holmes. Some other version of himself, but Sherlock Holmes nevertheless. A ghostly apparition which resembles me. Sherlock corrected. Although the figure had not spoken, Sherlock knew that they both knew Sherlock was utterly afraid.

And then, the figure did speak. In Sherlock's voice. Sherlock couldn't even be sure if he was speaking the words himself.

"Pray, enter the living room. We have unusual guests tonight."

Sherlock exited the bathroom somewhat dazed, and found numerous – an estimated well over 200– men, all wearing deerstalker caps, some with the brim turned up, some down; an Inverness cape draped on their shoulders, flowing down their ankles; underneath the cape, a suit, standard attire for gentlemen of the late 19th century, consisting of jackets and trousers made from high-quality fabrics, mostly tweed and wool.