The detective - part 1
A detective sits down in his cigarette scented leather chair, letting out a heavy sigh. The rain hammers on the window. The shop windows outside in London let out warm inviting light onto the dark, gloomy pavement.
A fly gets drawn to a lamp. Before it buzzes and flickers. Then gets killed by the electricity that was ever so appealing to its tiny mind.
The smell of chanelé perfume lingers in the small and cramped office. Paperwork piled on the floor. A letter with an inviting crimson stamp calls his name.
Written on the front is his home adress, a smudge of ink and kiss out of lipstick. He opens the letter, his thumbs prising it open. Then he's hit with a smell he knows far too well- chloroform.
His mind a slight haze of memories and dreams. He's fading.
He launches the letter across the room before he hears Mrs H scatter up a few flights of stairs. She knocks fast and abruptly before calling his name.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes?"