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The detritus of everyday life lay slain across their old desk - wrappers and carry-out cartons, half-empty mugs with moldering tea, utensils glued to the surface with dried curry, papers long ago ravished by long slender fingers. Across this battlefield lay a film of dust, softening the painful edges, hiding detail from the casual eye. Except for one corner, just one, where a slim fingertip had carefully traced, "Sherlock LIVES." John stared at the lettering, breath catching, praying it was true.

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Dralore Shimare

January 2015

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