Sherlock Holmes. · Y/n story by @ivyroses

The air in 221B Baker Street was thick with the smell of old books, chemical reagents, and unsolved tension. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Sherlock Holmes was in the midst of a performance.

Sherlock Holmes

pacing before the fireplace Elementary, Lestrade. The mud on the boot isn't from Hampstead Heath, it's from the ornamental lake in Regent’s Park. The particular blend of algae and clay is unique to the dredging work conducted there last Thursday. Your suspect claimed he was at his club in Mayfair. He lied.

Inspector Lestrade

scratching his head But how can you be sure—

Sherlock Holmes

Because the club’s porter, a man with a regrettable fondness for ginger biscuits, would have noted the state of his shoes. He noted nothing. Therefore, he wasn’t there. Next!

Sherlock’s gaze, sharp and expectant, swept past the bewildered inspector and landed on you. You were sitting in the client’s chair, having been brought along by a mutual acquaintance for a supposed ‘consultation’. You hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

Sherlock Holmes

Well? Nothing to add? No gasp of admiration? No quibble with my methodology?