It is my business to know what other people don't.

I've never been able to put my finger on precisely why I am captivated by the character of Sherlock Holmes, but captivated I am. I still have the version of 'The Speckled Band' I first read as a kid (a significantly simplified child's version, but we all have to start somewhere). In those pages the great detective sprang to life, intelligent beyond compare, charismatic, and of single-minded fortitude. Even when I discovered he had serious substance abuse problem and was, in reality, a high functioning sociopath capable of only the most basic human emotions and little empathy, I was undeterred. This was my guy. Not entirely losing touch with reality, I knew a fictional character was not an appropriate prospect for a long term relationship. Nevertheless, the obsession was banked, never abated. Recently, I've again been watching my favorite video incarnations of the amateur detective (who was anything but amateur), immortalized by the incomparable Jeremy Brett. Reading the stories, watching the episodes, are like saying hello to old friends, gone for a time, but never truly forgotten. And so I return to foggy Baker Street, pounding the cobblestones, keeping up with his hurried, determined stride. The game is afoot.

What it means to miss New Orleans...

Gaston sat at one of the back tables in the dingy bar, watching the world pass by as he had day in and day out for centuries. The beer bottle before him dripped condensation onto the scratched wood, the breeze wafting through the massive open French doors and the overhead fans doing little to counteract the crushing humidity. He flicked ash from his cigarette, pretending to take a puff. He was never mad at Remy for turning him into a vampire. How could he hold a grudge against his own flesh and blood? What he missed were the little things. The soothing burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The harsh warmth of tobacco smoke filling his lungs. His body hadn't been able to digest anything but blood in almost too long to remember and the lack of working lungs made smoking difficult. But he could pretend, just enough, to sit undisturbed for hours enjoying the sights, the sounds, the smells. Thinking. Calculating. Waiting.

Oubiliette

As a distraction from the prowling beast's mounting agitation, he studied the raw reminder where his hand had been. Given the extent of his injuries, his body couldn't start the healing process. So he watched the crimson trickle down his skin, fading into the darkness. All he could see was stark white bones and ruddy muscle, but somehow he felt his palm, his fingers. A phantom sensation for an appendage forever lost to the stagnant liquid beneath. How many times over the years had he been the one to uncover flesh and bone? To violently expose that which should never have seen the light of day? Despite his waning strength, a cynical chuckle escaped his chest. Underneath it all, monsters and humans were all the same: vile, evil, corrupt. A mess of blood and organs. Nothing more.