The Future Door by Jason Lethcoe

stared down at the still form of Sherlock Holmes. A tear rolled down his cheek as he gazed at his sad, angular face. Holmes would no longer prowl the streets, keeping his keen watch over the innocents who trusted him. No longer would criminals fear the shadows, knowing that a human bloodhound would find every bit of evidence they left behind and bring them to justice.
    Sherlock Holmes was dead.
    And the worst part for Griffin was knowing that the great detective had been murdered.

17
THE FUNERAL
    O n the day of Sherlock Holmes’s funeral, it didn’t rain. The sun shone down upon the grassy cemetery of Christ Church Newgate, and the birds chirped. But the sun also caused long shadows to fall, and, in Griffin’s mind, the shadows that stretched across London were darker than ever before.
    As he limped along with the long procession of policemen and well-wishers, following the pipers as they played the traditional dirge, “Flowers of the Forest,” Griffin heard snatches of conversation from the crowd. Most people said things like, “Mr. Holmes was a great man,” or “What’ll we do without him?” but he also thought he caught snatches of darker talk, a word or two whispered between disreputable types expressing their joy over the great detective’s demise.
    â€œThe old professor got ’im in the end, didn’t he, Jim?”
    â€œ ’At’s right. The old hound went a-sniffing where his long nose didn’t belong.”
    Because the crowd of mourners was so thick, Griffin couldn’t see who had said these things, but the comments made him feel sick to his stomach. He realized that for as many law-abiding citizens who were devastated by the loss of their protector, there were just as many criminals who had been longing for this day to come.
    The procession stopped near Holmes’s final resting place. Griffin was glad to find himself situated near a stump, for he was too short to see over the towering mass of adults. Climbing upon it, he had an excellent view of the tall monument that had been placed there by the grateful city. And although he was a fair distance from the huge stone, he could still make out the bold inscription engraved on the polished marble.
    S HERLOCK H OLMES
T HE W ORLD'S G REATEST D ETECTIVE
    After reading these words, he couldn’t help glancing over at his uncle. Rupert was dressed, like Griffin, in his Sunday best. His uncle’s black frock coat gleamed and stood in sharp contrast to his battered brown bowler. Rupert had been determined to wear the hat in spite of Griffin’s insistence that it looked so bad as to seem disrespectful. But he didn’t press the point. Just getting his uncle within a mile of a church was a major feat in and of itself.
    Rupert was scowling at the inscription on the monument. And Griffin knew his uncle well enough to know that seeing the words The World’s Greatest Detective on Holmes’s tomb bothered him, almost as if they were a written insult directed at him. Rupert had always thought his investigative methods superior to Holmes’s. But now it seemed that this memorial would forever cement in people’s minds that Holmes truly was the greatest detective who ever lived, and not he.
    Griffin sighed and turned his attention back to the funeral. Would his uncle ever get over himself ? Why did it seem that everything revolved around him and his pride? But then, Griffin realized, the temptation to feel important in other people’s eyes often had to do with a deep need to be loved. He reminded himself to try to feel more compassion for his uncle, rather than to judge him too harshly. After all, standing in judgment of his uncle was just another way of being prideful himself.
    They were both too far away to hear the minister’s sermon. But Griffin could see Dr. Watson and his wife standing next to the preacher, looking sorrowful. Until that moment he hadn’t considered how Dr.