Sherlock’s soft reflective voice, for that moment of emotion, was then set aside as he stated the conclusion to his argument. “The only abnormal moment after the death of the man, was undoubtedly the returning breath. The wife most likely considered it a miracle up until he began to eat her face. A daughter did hear her mother’s explicative cries, and discovered the grotesque scene you did not bother to read through.”
He stood then, brandishing the newly honed blade in such a way that it would be but a pen pointed at a student of his past. He then checked the edge, looking down the end like any man would a site on a riffle. Nodding perfunctorily at his work, like a general to a cadet’s salute, he sheathed the blade. Walking across the room to a cabinet, that was recently nailed to the wall, so as to prevent from any of the guests from using the wood for fire; he pulled out the key that unlocked it. This key was at the end of a ring that was placed on a chain. The links were pristine, obviously because Sherlock himself cared for the treasure, a sentimentality that belonged only to Irene or his mother. As his mother was long past dead and not returning, I can only assume it was a gift from her. It looked similar to that of a pocket watch chain, now fashioned into a necklace. I did not bother to watch him further as I smoked my cigarette, as I was so familiar with the scene. Thusly, when the cabinet closed and his steps indented the floor with his slight build, walking towards me. I was only forced to attend him when he handed me a pristine bohemian tea cup and saucer.
“You will admit that those details are not likely to occur within the imagination of the average storyteller?” He questioned. I was in such shock of the small cup that I did not touch it, nor did I answer his question.
Holmes, who had been sitting on his stool, wiping down the blade, placed the weapon aside, looking more directly at me as he registered the newer form of debate unfolding. Placing his hands under his chin and resting his elbows on the frayed blue denim jeans that covered his bony knees, he leaned forward.
“A certain selection of discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect,” he said. His gaze then moved to another blade in need of his administrations. “More stress is laid, perhaps, upon the survival of the living, than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter.”
He stood with the newly cleaned knife and placed it in the sheath that hung on the back of his wooden chair. Holmes’ back was to me as he took another piece of wood, which at one point could have been a comprising part of a bed frame, and put it into the fire. He reached to the floor and picked up another blade that glistened with coagulated blood and brain matter. The remains, that were no more than an hour old, sizzled and popped like any meat would on an open flame. The smell that had been off putting to the both of us, when we first began the sanitizing process, now held significant meaning to us, telling us that one more of the unnatural public was no longer haunting Baker Street.
He said, rather sullenly, “Depend upon it my friend; there is nothing as unnatural as the commonplace.” I took this to be an admission that the life we lead now a days would indeed be unnatural to the years before that first up-spring of the dead.
Welcome to a new blog! This blog is my spring and summer serial project. The inspiration was, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes series. I picked the “The Case of Identity” as my first victim to zombie-fy because it seemed right to have the first story be about a missing person. The full length of the project ended up being twenty-seven beautiful pages of a zombie-ridden London encompassing and effecting the pleasant conversation of Sherlock and Dr. Watson.
The setting is simple, as we never really leave the sitting room of Sherlock Holmes’ apartment at 221B Baker Street. The year is 2025, so as to keep the original story and this one entirely separate. Society has been transformed as the only way to really survive a plague is in small communities, which are called clans. A little expected, but the anthropologist in me kept to the patterns society tends to lean towards in a catastrophic setting. The disease originated in the city, and it spread quickly through the countryside. Similar to the Black Plague, which decimated the European population in 1348-1350, the infection is growing and there is no cure and no stopping it until every living person is undead. There is caste system which, gives roles to the characters’ based on their talents and education. This will be explained further in later posts, as the story is long enough to break up. Feel free to ask questions or leave comments as the story progresses. Here are the first paragraphs, of Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity, and Zombies.