The rain fell silently on to the gloomy buildings. The sound of horses trotting along the pavement outside the safe cover of houses and buildings. Grey clouds covered the once pale blue sky. It wasn't that surprising. London, after all, was the capital of England. And in England there wasn't much sun. But something was wrong. Even the animals could sense it.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He was a legend. His books became best-sellers and his main character was still talked about in the 20th century. Sherlock Holmes. The famous, fictional detective. Nothing went past him or his faithful assistant, the one with a calmer, more dignified mind and better manners. Those to made a great pair. But where they really fictional? How did someone like Arthur come up with these mind whacking cases and their answers?
This might have caught you off guard dear reader. Some of you might think: Why change the subject on to a 'fictional' detective? There's a big reason you see.
Sherlock Holmes was real. I say 'was' because he died of old age. Nobody remembered him because they were all killed off. By who? Why, London's most famous and mysterious killer of course.

J. T .R

...But what if someone survived?

A/N Please comment/review at least 5+ for the next part, not really that important but gives me a writing boost. Thanks to anyone who does though. Also I published this on FictionPress because of the fact that it is mostly my work. However I posted this here because of the fact it includes Sherlock Holmes & Watson a bit. I have a poll for any of you people with accounts. Please vote it all helps with the writing or you can review (people with/out accounts).