LITMIR.BIZ

      Dedications

      For much littler me – there’s nothing wrong with being quiet. Anyone worth your time will be patient enough to wait for your voice to ring out.

      Jamie Ashbird

      For my mum, who rode her mobility scooter like a chariot from Ben Hur. Who listened when I said I wanted to be an artist, and trusted that I would be when I didn’t. I miss you.

      Janet Anderton

      The stories you’re about to read are precisely 221 words each, with the final word of every one beginning with B.

       You’ll no doubt have deduced that this idea was inspired by 221B Baker Street, the address of the world’s first consulting detective.

       This prose, and sometimes poetry, style is a unique and intriguing way to tell these tall tales and true, about a fine detective and his lovely doctor. Enjoy!

      Atlin Merrick

      Acquisitions Editor

      Improbable Press

      2085

      ‘Dad could never keep that look out of his eye. it was there with every word he spoke to Sherlock, even the angry ones – or mock anger depending on what Sherlock had broken that day. Every look was a love letter to his soulmate.

      ‘And on behalf of Sherlock I will roll my eyes at the word soulmate. He preferred the ever-so-romantic: mutual chemical attraction.

      ‘Though once, when he and I were drinking tequila shots under the kitchen table after my divorce, he called Dad – and this is true – his bestest forever friend.

      ‘Sherlock could never hide it either, that look. Every scratch from a retort stand, every stain from an experiment, every bullet hole in the wall, those were love letters too. Uncalled for as they were.

      ‘They were together until the end. And I’m thankful that neither left the other behind. Neither could have borne that pain.

      ‘But now they’ve one last adventure, to nourish these trees, in whose shade people might find wisdom and kindness.

      ‘Two elms, inosculated at their trunks, just as they were inosculated at their hearts. And yes, Sherlock bet me I couldn’t fit inosculated into a eulogy – three times, Papa.

      ‘The last words are theirs.

      ‘From Dad: be brave, be kind, be true.

      ‘From Sherlock: use your big words, always tell the bees.’

      1810

      ‘I must congratulate you, Mr Watson.’

      Lady Margaret Renthwhistle hooked her arm through John’s as he peered up at the stars.

      ‘Whatever for, Lady Margaret?’

      ‘Why, my dear, it is fifteen years today that you and Mr Holmes were acquainted.’

      John’s jaw wavered. ‘I’m sure I don’t–’

      ‘Come, we’re old friends. Do you imagine me an innocent? The way you look at him, and he you? Like two ravenous imps.’

      ‘Madam, I assure you–’

      ‘Ah look, there’s Polly,’ she interrupted, pointing down into the garden. ‘And she has our bags.’

      ‘Your chambermaid?’

      ‘My chambermaid.’

      John jerked out of her grip. ‘But Mr Holmes is–’

      ‘About to confront the lover my husband thinks stole the family jewels? Yes.’

      A scream rang out from the ballroom beyond the balcony doors.

      ‘Best see to your man, Mr Watson.’

      John cried out as Lady Renthwhistle leapt off the low balcony and ran into Polly’s arms.

      ‘Tell Mr Renthwhistle he can spend every deuced minute at the club now.’ And with a wave she and Polly dissolved into the night.

      John raced back indoors to find Sherlock grappling with Lady Renthwhistle’s innocent lover. After pulling them apart and whispering in Sherlock’s ear, he helped both men off the floor. With lavish apologies and a nod to Mr Renthwhistle, they scarpered hand in hand from the ballroom.

      1973

      ‘Not so much the great detective now, ey?’

      The speakers in Crackers pumped out The Temptations while the magic of the dark room was chased away by the harsh fluorescent lights. The patrons had gone from dancing to cowering from the man with the gun.

      Sherlock, his hands up, exhaled sharply. ‘I’d heard you were an interesting case.’

      ‘You what?’

      ‘But here you are being quite obvious. Shame, really.’

      ‘I should gag you.’

      ‘Wise idea.’ Sherlock’s eyes flickered behind to a man in a plum corduroy suit crawling slowly toward them. A soldier? No civilian moved like that. Tanned, perhaps returned from Dhofar.

      ‘Bet you’d love that, you deviant. Why you dressed like a disco ball?’

      ‘I’m considering a career change to decorative ceiling ornament.’

      Without taking his eyes off the gunman Sherlock watched the soldier move closer in his periphery. A quick glance and Sherlock saw his signal. Keep him busy.

      ‘Well? Are you going to gag me or tell me what it is you want?’

      ‘I want,’ the man barked out. But what he wanted remained a mystery as the soldier surged. He grabbed the gun, twisted the gunman’s

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