Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets: An Anthology of Holmesian Tales Across Time and Space
The world's most famous detective, as you’ve never seen him before! This is a collection of orginal short stories finding Holmes and Watson in times and places you would never have expected!
A dozen established and up-and-coming authors invite you to view Doyle’s greatest creation through a decidedly cracked lens.
Read about Holmes and Watson through time and space, as they tackle a witch-trial in seventeenthcentury Scotland, bandy words with Andy Warhol in 1970s New York, travel the Wild Frontier in the Old West, solve future crimes in a world of robots and even cross paths with a young Elvis Presley...
Set to include stories by Kasey Lansdale, Guy Adams, Jamie Wyman, J E Cohen, Gini Koch, Glen Mehn, Kelly Hale, Kaaron Warren, Emma Newman and more.
something. He took off at a run across the baked earth, and I followed. It was a scrap of fabric, fluttering from the branches of one of the rare scrubby bushes. Holmes caught it up, but he only glanced at it for a moment before he was again scanning the featureless landscape around us. “What do you make of it?” He passed me the fabric. It was white, a sort of scarf or bandana, still crisp from an iron. Otherwise pristine, it had been speckled with ash from the fire. “Left behind by one of the
him. There was anger in the town over the museum renovations. The school needed work, and other public buildings. The roads. Money should be spent on buildings in use, rather than one not in use at all. However, the money was specifically left to the museum by a wealthy man who’d moved away and had come home to die. He’d had childhood memories of seeking out ghosts. “I don’t want to become a wall-tapper,” he’d said. “That’s why I came back.” Even the successful can be superstitions, Holmes
next door told you. You ordered a coffee and asked if he knew of any rental properties that might not mind someone approaching them outside of the usual online checks. I hadn’t listed the apartment on the DotGov database yet, so there was no need for us to worry about any of that nonsense.” “I was very fortunate to find these rooms.” Sherlock returned to his account without acknowledging Hudson’s reply. “In the years I’ve been here, the rent has never gone up, and it was extraordinarily low to
apparatus which allowed him to remain underwater for a significant span of time, breathing through a tube connected to a canister of compressed oxygen. There was a flying pack which used rocket propulsion to suspend him in the air and flit through the skies guided by rudimentary batlike wings. There was a mate to the gauntlet, which gave him a grip strength equivalent to that of the mightiest Hercules. There was even a prototype of what appeared to be a pair of steam-powered, wheeled boots with
heating the air as it streams through the window. That’s your magic, John. Motes of dust are simply pawns in the sun’s game.” “Take the joy out of everything, don’t you?” “Not everything, John.” He smiled at me, then, the first time I saw his secret smile; the one he only shared with me, and only when we were alone. That smile told me that this, that we, were special, but that it wasn’t to leave the confines of the private lair we would build for ourselves, there above Alphabet City. “Pawns.”