A Collection of Shorts

The Haunting of 221b

Several ghosts caught his attention. The ghost (he decided that whatever he called them no longer mattered) that stood closest to him, was clearly not from the 19th century, and had a head of raven-black curls, but possessed the same sharp cheekbones and wore a large trench coat. Another one had brownish hair and was square faced, with muscles plainly shown under his clothes. The Sherlock Holmes next to him looked no weaker. However thin some of the Sherlock Holmes appeared to be, Sherlock knew that every one of them were excellent fighters, to say the least.

"Sit down." The deep voice erupted from the Sherlock Holmes in the corner, firm, full of the commanding tone. And Sherlock obeyed, seating himself in his usual chair. The Sherlock Holmes ghosts stared down at the living one, their eyes cold and their expression unreadable.

"What do you want?" Sherlock wondered aloud, trying to stop his voice from shaking. He was very alarmed by the presence of so many supernatural beings, horrified, at the knowledge that each one of them was himself. In a way.

The other detectives did not reply. They simply parted, revealing something else. Something that Sherlock had almost missed, for it was a ghost nearly transparent, no more than a mere sheen. It was a man, Sherlock could make out, and as the fading figure neared him, he began to see the details. The man was tall and thin, with a long nose and a pointed beard. He wore a tweed suit and a bowler hat. He carried a cane and a leather bag. Sherlock felt some relief that who stood before him was not another version of himself, but as he looked into the man's eyes, he felt cold dread envelop him. The man's eyes, piercing and angry, focused on the one living Sherlock Holmes with contempt.

The man then glared around the room, and the other Sherlock Holmes seemed to wince at his gaze, however thin the ghost appeared to be.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man addressed, his voice hinting a Scottish accent and ringing with authority and power. Sherlock noticed some of the other versions of himself shrink away. He himself pressed himself into his chair, almost frozen with terror. He couldn't even put his finger on why he was so shaken.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock attempted to calm himself down. He noticed that the man looked older than he expected (what had he been expecting?). He had wrinkles on his face and grey hairs on his beard. He looked weary and troubled, as if he had been through some hardship or sorrow. He also noticed that he carried a revolver in his pocket, which he tried to conceal with his coat.

Sherlock pushed back whatever he was feeling, and turned his mind to wonder what the ghost's motive was. Was he here to confront him? To apologize? To kill him? The last suggestion was very likely.

"I trust, no self-introduction is necessary." The spirit remarked. "It is no doubt you all recognize me. Arthur Conan Doyle."

The moment those three words rang and seemingly echoed in the flat, Sherlock felt drenched in cold water. Sherlock recognized the ghost before him at once. He knew the name, of course. He knew that this was the man who had created him, who had written his stories and made him famous. He knew that this was the man who had also tried to kill him off, who had grown tired of him and wanted to be rid of him. How could he not have known earlier? No. Wrong question. He had never seen the man in his life, and yet with the uttering of those three words, he understood that his existence was fictious and that the ghostly man before him was his creator.

Conan Doyle looked at Sherlock with a bitter smile.

"Mr. Holmes," he said," you are indeed a remarkable detective. You have solved many mysteries in your career, but this one may be beyond your powers."

He took out his revolver and pointed it at the living Sherlock.

"They keep urging me to move on," he continued. "But I simply could not. Not yet, at least. I cannot bear death knowing that my entire life is a failure, my plans thwarted, myself shadowed in something that I had created. I wanted to see the creature that had ruined my life."

He cocked the hammer of his gun. Somehow, it was entirely understandable, and it was that split second that Sherlock regained his calm self. This was business. The business of his life.

Sherlock expected his creator to shoot. But Conan Doyle never pulled the trigger. He simply set the gun on the table that stood between the two men.

"You, or me."

Sherlock gazed into his creator's eyes. Both men were now calm. Sherlock swept to his feet, with his eyes still fixed on Conan Doyle as he spoke,"I will finish it."

Conan Doyle nodded firmly, and reached out his hand. Sherlock shook it sincerely.

"It has been my pleasure, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Conan Doyle remarked. Sherlock nodded solemnly. The ghostly figures began to fade away. Sherlock watched them leave.

Once they had all faded, Sherlock came to realize what he is, or rather, what he has become over the years. Tall, thin, a dolichocephalic head, a clay pipe between his teeth, his Inverness cape, the large coat, and the deer-stalker hat. Sherlock remained in his chair, silent. He glanced down at the gun that still lay on the table before him.

Sherlock Holmes knew what he had to do.

Sherlock Holmes began, by removing the iconic pipe from his mouth, tossing away his classic large coat, letting his cape drop to the floor, feeling the pointed mustache sprout from his skin, his head rounding over, and his hair smoothing out.

THE END!!!!!!!!!!!

A/N: Honestly, I had a different idea for this story, in which Sherlock Holmes on the Reichenbach Falls, where he jumps off the cliff. However, he is stuck in a forever falling stage, as his readers and fans would not allow Sherlock as a character to just be ended off like that. The story concludes with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes standing at the edge of the cliff, watching the real Sherlock Holmes suspended, falling, forever.

I have been stuck in a crisis over deciding which ending to write, and I ultimately decided to go with this one. 

I asked Bing about the two endings, to which Bing responded,"The ending where Sherlock Holmes jumps off the cliff but is stuck in a forever falling stage, is more dramatic and tragic. It shows how Sherlock Holmes is trapped by his own fame and popularity, and how he can never escape his role as a fictional detective. It also shows how the ghost of Sherlock Holmes is haunted by his own guilt and remorse, and how he can never reconcile with his creator. This ending might appeal to readers who enjoy dark and twisted stories, or who want to explore the psychological and existential aspects of being a fictional character." This is what Bing said about the other ending.

I then asked it which ending would it prefer more, and it told me that I should go with the second ending, because, as it said, "I think that ending is more hopeful and optimistic, and it shows how Sherlock Holmes is able to transcend his fictional identity and embrace his human nature. It also shows how the ghost of Sherlock Holmes can forgive himself and his creator, and how he can finally rest in peace. I think that ending might appeal to readers who enjoy happy and uplifting stories, or who want to celebrate the legacy and influence of Arthur Conan Doyle." Which settled my inner battle.

Well, I guess I always had this idea that my story just might be able to get published on our school's magazine or something (don't know if they'll take fanfiction though) but whatever.

No guarantees that I will return with the other ending written, but I just might come back several months or years later......