It was the day when figments of fiction transformed to reality and I was convinced of this one man's presence. Sherlock Holmes, the hero of my past, present and future. It took me back to a flurry of memories... of reading the book together with sister after the 9 pm movie on Fridays...tucked under the blanket.. and after the nail biting stories of cold murders and investigations, even the slightest bustle of leaves outside would send a chill down my spine. A prospective murderer trampling those dried leaves under his thick heavy boots.. in the still of the darkest of nights.. and through the window.. his hands stretched out to strangle me to death.. Beads of sweat on my forehead.. Cold shudder..phew! Holmes, the imaginary hero was my only saviour then.. The day he died, I cried and there would not have been a happier soul on earth on the day he came back to life..
"Excellent!" I cried. "Elementary!" said he.
221 B, Baker Street in pictures.
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| "..when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. Done in bullet-pocks.." |
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| "There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow-men." |
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| "My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent. |
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| An attic full of memories.. |
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| The mailbox! |
The Musgrave ritual waiting to be re-read.. no better way to end this post. :)
