Sherlock Holmes and the Council of Seven

by John Paul Medhurst

Nikola Tesla said to think of the Universe in terms of energy, frequency and vibration, and with mankind standing at the dawn of a Type 2 civilization, the Master of Deduction is tempted into the case of his life; one that will pit his wits against the enigmatic Dorian, a celestial messenger bursting with equal amounts of good and evil and will uncover our secret history and lift the lid on the unforgivable crimes of the elite.

The human race is about to be wiped out in a game that has no right or wrong answers, only choices made and the bodies are starting to pile up. This time, however, deduction won't be enough, and Sherlock realizes that going deep inside his soul is really the only way out.

Excerpt

Chapter One

I miss Doctor Watson. I do. I miss him terribly. Silly sod. I would never have told him to his face, of course, I would never have told anybody that. As a rule, when it comes to people, I still prefer their space to their company. I view them in much the same way as I see the English weather. I don't mind the rain, the cold or the wind, I can tolerate them, but not all at the same time. I hate rudeness, laziness and selfishness and I find most lazy people are selfish and most selfish people are rude and more of them are turning out to be all three; the next generation of Brits will be born with fog lamps and flippers, and I can't deal with society anymore.

So, I have retired. I haven't retired from life as such, just from confusion. I have discovered that the human body, much like the planet we populate, is designed to keep going, to replenish and repair itself and that only through the constant onslaught we put our bodies under, are our lifespans considerably shortened.

The reader will become aware that I am undergoing an etheric, alchemical process, a crystallization of the elements in me, a purification and regeneration of my mind and body and for this I need to gather materials from pure sources only.

I have given up the more unreasonable of my vices, though I still like to mingle with the upper reaches of the lowerarchy and general beggary from time to time, but spiritual nutrition can only be found away from the scream of London and in order to complete the transmutation of my cells, they need peace. So, I brought them here to Cornwall, at once my sanctum and my oubliette, and as I take breakfast at the bottom of the garden and gaze out over the bay, I am reminded of the uncommon minds who also came to these shores to convalesce. Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, Agatha Christie, John Le Carre and Daphne du Maurier all chose to recharge their batteries on the coast. They also came here to write.

Now I'm no scribe, but Dr. Watson has left me with little choice, and it would be a travesty if the events of our last case (the details of which, just like the streets of London, are carved into my very marrow) were left to disintegrate in a filing cabinet in Marylebone, such was the jeweled multiplicity of it. I have often wondered if I could write and which writer I would be like. I imagine my scribblings to be a blend of Bukowski and Dickens; bitey, pragmatic prose with a touch of Victorian swazz, and if Dr. Watson was here now, I would throw my arms around him, I would hold him by the shoulders, look him straight in the eye, and I would tell him from the bottom of my heart, that I loved him and I missed him. And I would, I really would. If I knew where he was.

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