The Speckled Paths: A Sherlock Holmes Mystery

The chill April dawn breaks gray over Baker Street, painting the familiar rooftops in shades of slate and shadow. You, Dr. John Watson, have been awake since six, drawn from sleep by the persistent rattle of wheels on cobblestones and the distant cry of the milk vendors beginning their rounds. The fire in the grate has burned low, and you are contemplating whether to stoke it when you hear the sharp rap of the brass knocker echoing up from the street door below.

Mrs. Hudson's voice rises in muffled greeting, followed by the creak of the stair. Sherlock Holmes stands already by the mantelpiece, tall and lean as a rapier, his dressing-gown thrown over his nightshirt. He has not, you realize, been to bed at all. The chemical apparatus on the side table still steams faintly, and his long fingers are stained with silver nitrate.