hi hi steph! would you happen to know where the 'seventeen steps' up to the flat comes from? is it said/ written somewhere?
Hey Nonny!
Ah.... good question??? IIRC, it was actually officially stated somewhere, but I'm not 100 on this fact. Maybe in one of the official books or it's on a script? I know that there was a discussion about this YEARS ago pre-S4 and it's ESCAPING me about what I tagged it, or what was even mentioned in the post.
Any Classic Friends™ recall this discussion and what was said or where the 17 steps came from?? I am so BOVVERED that I can't remember!!! Thank you!!!
right well I'm gonna start using this blog to chronicle my progress writing longer pieces (and 99 times out of 100 you can expect that to mean prose) soooo
for anybody who's interested, I started a sherlock fic last night, s3-compliant, and I'm really really proud of my introduction so you'll find it under the cut
♥
Baker Street in the early morning always felt a bit like the breath before the plunge. Lined with silent cars, gazed upon by darkened windows, sometimes even drizzled in the pink light of dawn. It was generally tidy, so long as no one had blown anything up. It was cool, but it was a breath, a breath anticipating the flood.
John wasn’t there now, but something in his chest was. He was on foot, walking down the sidewalk of some street whose name he’d only bothered to remember as long as he’d needed it to find his way, and by now had long since forgotten. London was just beginning to wake, groggy professionals in smart dress venturing out their front doors, sloping out of cafés clutching paper cups. A few energetic cabbies were out trawling already. It was a typical Tuesday morning. John had been up for hours, and now he was walking to the surgery. His bicycle had gone flat on his way home yesterday.
Home. The word echoed softly.
The flat was empty now. 221B. Who knew if Mrs. Hudson was keeping up with the cleaning, what with no tenants to keep it up for. Maybe she was just that sentimental. But in John’s head, the place was utterly deserted. Quiet, tense, curiously full. Like it was taking a breath; like it was waiting. Even the dust didn’t stir.
John wasn’t there, but his heart was. It beat to the rhythm of seventeen steps.
