The fog in London is an impenetrable gray that wraps around the bricks of Baker Street and the scent of old paper in the library of Holmes Manor.
I am Ellowyn, the youngest of the Holmes children.
At the age of five, he picked up the walnut bookshelf and touched the first crime file with his fingertips; at the age of seven, he squatted on the wool carpet and argued with Sherlock over a scratch on his heel. He holds logic as a blade, and I use human heart as a lamp. In the dusty light spots, I unravel the tenderness and tears that are ignored by the cold evidence.
Mycroft's black tea is always warm, hiding a silent protection; Sherlock's magnifying glass has cold edges, wrapped in a tacit understanding of duplicity. The cowhide sketchbook is full of eyebrows and eye lines, the brass magnifying glass reveals dusty secrets, and the violin strings are filled with unspoken softness.
The world knows the sharpness of Sherlock Holmes and the city of Sherlock Holmes, but they don't know that the glory of this family has also been trapped in the boudoir, hidden in the hair, and settled in every soft and firm hold on the truth.
I walked away from the dim light of my childhood in the library, put on men's clothes, and walked into the foggy depths of London.
Not chasing fame or profit, just holding on to every forgotten truth——
That is the answer that is the hottest in people's hearts besides the evidence.
Purpose: "The truth is not only the physical evidence, but also the human heart hidden in the details."