Work Text:
'It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.'
The words of my friend echo in my mind as I walk, the massacre in the house behind me has left me reeling and sick at heart. That such wickedness should dwell in the midst of such beauty for so long and only be discovered when it comes to bloom so bloodily.
Silently like a ghost locomotive I follow the abandoned tracks between the enclosing living green tunnel walls pulling my sorrows behind me like carriages full of ghosts, if only Holmes still walked this earth, but such thoughts will lead no where save perhaps to the bottom of an empty bottle.
The sun is bright and warm, and the heady smell of life in full and unrestrained growth fills the air driving away the horrors I have witnessed. The song of birds and the buzzing of insects make a soothing choir in this place. I know Holmes often scoffed at such fanciful utterances, but I choose to take this image of life away from this slaughter house rather than remember death. This world is ugly enough that a man should make it his business to remember beauty.