It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

One of the most beautful passages Arthur Conan Doyle has ever written.

From “The Golden Pince-Nez”

(via daysofstorm)

Truth. Gorgeous. And jesus christ, it’s really fucking hard work to pastiche.

(via violethuntress)

Sometimes Doyle didn’t give a damn, but when he did, hoo boy.

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