Crash. And then, the sound of breaking glass. Third time that day, sixteenth time that week, and the fifty-eighth time since the first. A tall and thin man raised his dolichocephalic head and held himself very still. This only lasted no more than a few seconds, before the man's hawk-like nose was once again buried in the book before him, the strange noise left ignored.
It is no doubt that Sherlock Holmes is a man of logic and science, and did not believe in ghosts or the supernatural, and he had simply dismissed the strange occurrences. However, it became very clear as the days went by, that whatever forces were now at 221b, they were trying to catch Sherlock's attention. The occurrences became frequent and harder to ignore. Books would fly off the shelves, chairs would move across the room, and the curtains would sway even when there was no breeze. Worst of all, all of Sherlock's most personal items, like his deerstalker hat, his pipe, and his cape, were tossed across the room. The great detective began to feel uneasy in his own home.
Curious, how he had managed to ignore it all for so long. Perhaps he had remained oblivious to the occurrences for a reason. Perhaps a sort of subconscious thought had stopped him from looking into matters. Perhaps there was a feeling of recognition when the supernatural force was at work. Whatever had been holding him back had lost its effect, and Sherlock Holmes had had enough.
As the very pipe between the detective's teeth was forcefully yanked out and flown across the flat, Sherlock snapped shut the book and rose to his feet, looking about him. Contrary to the detective's flustered movements, the flat had become still. It was precisely what the flat wasn't doing that now brought a new sense of fear to Sherlock.
Gathering himself together, he reasoned with himself. There are no ghosts. He was a detective, and his knowledge of religion was collected purely to be able to understand religious messages should they appear in his cases. Feeling much more confident, he strode into the bathroom and looked around. He found, to no surprise, one of his test tubes shattered, on the floor. A roll of toilet paper slathered across the tiles. The ordinary, Sherlock concluded. Although it was unpleasant, it was predictable.
Suddenly, movement caught the logician's eye. Sherlock froze, for merely a split second, yet he felt that whatever was watching him noticed his reaction. Slowly, his body betraying him and beginning to shiver slightly, Sherlock turned to the mirror. In it, staring at him with cold, emotionless eyes, was a familiar figure.
After the initial shock, there was uncertainty, then dread. Sherlock had always been a skeptic of the supernatural, but now, he was faced with something that simply could not be explained with science and logic. Especially as he noticed key features of this thing (he could not yet bring himself to call it a ghost or a spirit or anything of the sort).
The dolichocephalic head, sharp cheekbones, grey eyes. Different, yet......the same? Sherlock had never been more frightened. At least the Hound of the Baskervilles was a case that revolved around Henry Baskerville, not himself. This, this was far more frightening, especially how close to home it was for Sherlock.
"Who are you?" Sherlock blurted out. He didn't need to ask. Somehow, he already knew the answer. It was himself. It was Sherlock Holmes. Some other version of himself, but Sherlock Holmes nevertheless. A ghostly apparition which resembles me. Sherlock corrected. Although the figure had not spoken, Sherlock knew that they both knew Sherlock was utterly afraid.
And then, the figure did speak. In Sherlock's voice. Sherlock couldn't even be sure if he was speaking the words himself.
"Pray, enter the living room. We have unusual guests tonight."
Sherlock exited the bathroom somewhat dazed, and found numerous – an estimated well over 200– men, all wearing deerstalker caps, some with the brim turned up, some down; an Inverness cape draped on their shoulders, flowing down their ankles; underneath the cape, a suit, standard attire for gentlemen of the late 19th century, consisting of jackets and trousers made from high-quality fabrics, mostly tweed and wool.
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......