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The smell of rain crept into our noses as we sat on our bed in the little inn we had found on the outskirts of the town. Anne and I were travelling across the countryside, spending our days eating, cycling and listening to the stories the locals would tell us.
One of these stories was about an abandoned bungalow, a rather cliché horror story, which nonetheless intrigued Anne and me. The bungalow as described by Ruth, the owner of the inn, was surrounded by trees and marshes, it was a three story bungalow owned by the Holmes family. The family had left the bungalow after their youngest son, Sherlock, had died in the bungalow. No one knew how.
Rumour had it that the spirit of the sixteen year old boy still haunted the bungalow.
Anne and I were obviously excited about visiting the bungalow even as we wondered "Who names their child that?". The morning after we had heard the story of the abandoned bungalow proceeded to visit the bungalow. It matched Ruth's description but in addition to it it looked isolated and dreary.
We forced to heavy wooded door open, the wooden floors were carpeted. "It looks like something out of the 1900s", whispered Anne. I nodded in agreement.
In, what we assumed was the sitting room, there was a picture of the Holmes family. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes were sweet looking and had white hair. Their eldest son had a prominent nose and thin lips with a darker complexion in comparison to his younger brother. He looked authoritative. Sherlock looked otherworldly even in life and for a second I wondered if the horror stories were actually true. His pale skin and pale eyes were piercing even in the picture.
" I wonder how old this is", wondered Anne. "Quite old, I reckon. I mean, who carries an umbrella like that?", I commented, pointing at the elder brother, Mycroft, if I remembered correctly. This family had a penchant for odd names apparently. He was dressed in a three piece suit and held an umbrella as one would hold a cane.
Anne and I went upstairs and ventured into one of the rooms. The bed was neatly made but the room was covered with books. Chemistry, anatomy, poisons and......apiology were the topics covered by the books. A stuffed bat hung on the wall and a violin lay in the corner of the room.
"It feels like we're invading someone's privacy", said Anne. "They don't live here anymore", I told Anne as I ruffled through the drawers. "Look-I found something", I called Anne. It was a photograph of two boys, one of them was Sherlock. They were near a lake. Sherlock looked relaxed and his heterochromatic eyes were closed, his curls were falling over his forehead. He looked content as he lay in the arms of the other boy, who was shorter but broader than Sherlock, he had light blonde hair and blue eyes. The other had gentle features and his lips were curled into a smile as he looked at Sherlock.
Anne turned the photograph. The words "John and Sherlock" were written on it in cursive handwriting. "They look happy", I whispered.
"I am not happy", a deep baritone voice commented in a snide tone. We jumped.
It was Sherlock Holmes, older, dressed in a blue scarf and belstaff coat. "YOU'RE DEAD", shrieked Anne. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I am alive, I assure you", he commented drily. "Sherlock", reproached a man who could be none other than John. "But the locals....", I stammered.
"Are idiots", murmured Sherlock.
"Are wrong", sighed John.
"That too", admitted Sherlock.
They, well, mostly John, told us that the Holmes family had left the bungalow rather suddenly and the locals had started making stories to explain their absence.
"Well, that certainly solves the mystery of the abandoned bungalow", I commented as Anne nodded. "Not much of a mystery", said Sherlock. "Not for you", said John smiling fondly at Sherlock. His eyes were tender and affectionate as he looked at Sherlock.
And sitting with my friend and those two men in an abandoned bungalow I felt happy to note that time had not stained John and Sherlock's happiness.
The abandoned bungalow didn't seem as isolated as it had earlier.