The Address is 221B Baker Street - July

It was morning, and the sitting room of 221B was uncharacteristically both silent and flooded with sunlight. Clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, Sherlock, of course, couldn’t see himself (or rather wouldn’t seek out his reflection unless prompted) but the abundance of natural light made him look ghostly, ethereal. His pale skin glowed and his eyes were no colour at all. This apparition sat, long fingers and slim hands steepled under his chin as he contemplated the dainty, decorative bottle which he had nicked out of his family’s attic the previous December.

It was sealed.

It was sealed with lead.

He found he was a little bit frightened of what it might contain.

The fear was what made it exciting.

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