Sherlock
He bursts into existence in front of a wooden door marked with the number 1838. He lets himself inside. Within, stacks of books lean haphazardly against the couch, weapons scattered across the tiny kitchen table. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
Inside, he sorts through a cabinet below the sink, taking out what he needs and plugging a cord into a socket beside the mirror. Without looking at his reflection, he flips the switch for the buzz cutter. Slowly, methodically, he shaves his hair.
When he’s done, he showers, the water scalding hot. Head hanging, one palm pressed against the tiles, he lets the heat soak down through his muscles and into his bones. When he’s done, he dresses in the bedroom beyond. Black suit, black tie, twin swords at his back.
He places an i
