sherlock-holmes

I catch sight of him in the big mirror in the hall, and for a moment I think he is smiling. Time, which has been moving with geological slowness, halts as the world and I take a breath. Dead men don't smile. I've seen him many times over the past few months, that memorable face splashed over the newspapers, that unique name on everyone's lips. Sherlock Holmes is dead. And dead men don't smile. Holmes doesn't smile much either, I wanted to say to those who came to me constantly, plying me with questions, always with a numbing, past-tense certainty. What was he like? What had been the greatest part of his life? They walked around our room...