FallingSnowflakes

It should be mentioned that I use the word 'office' lightly. If you were to take a look inside room 221B, you would be reminded more of a cheap flat in the shady parts of Hackney; dust covered almost everything that wasn't already covered in various papers and documents detailing our many escapades over the last several months, the blank, periwinkle-coloured wallpaper was starting to peel off in some places, and the entire place smelled mildly of pharmacy-branded perfume. Now, if you were to take a look inside room 221B on that particular late Friday afternoon, you would find Sherlock sprawled in a reclining chair, staring up at the ceiling,

Ask any person what they think of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, and they will most likely all say very similar things: "a freak", "weirdo", "he should be in an asylum", among others. Sometimes I agree, but none of those does him any justice. Sherlock could tell a person's life story by just glancing at them.  His mental capabilities (which I will never wrap my head around) were only limited by the fact that he's still human. Sort of. You simply could not find a person in London, perhaps the world, that is more odd yet-still-sane than him. Sometimes he'll just suddenly shut up and won't talk for weeks on end, instead just sitting ar