I catch sight of him in the big mirror in the hall, and for a moment I think he is smiling. Time, which has been moving with geological slowness, halts as the world and I take a breath.
Dead men don't smile. I've seen him many times over the past few months, that memorable face splashed over the newspapers, that unique name on everyone's lips.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
And dead men don't smile. Holmes doesn't smile much either, I wanted to say to those who came to me constantly, plying me with questions, always with a numbing, past-tense certainty. What was he like? What had been the greatest part of his life? They walked around our rooms,
Sort of, sort of. We still get submissions and new members but not so much discussions or comments here. It's been some time since we did a contest, though, I might check with my co-admin to see what we'll do next. :)