ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏʀᴛʜ sᴛᴀʀ

He watched them carry her into a car, the blue light catching in her dark-blonde hair. She’d been crying, he remembered that, watched how her shoulders twitched and shook in the arms of the policeman. That was the last time he saw her.

A voice called to him, breaking his concentration, Sherlock Holmes scowled.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

His landlady looked at him curiously for a few minutes before handing him a small brown envelope, his name etched on it with a careful hand. “This came through the door, it’s for you, dear.”

Sherlock quickly snatched the envelope from her, standing to give it a once over. There was nothing particular about it; an ordinary envelope found in most stationary stores. The handwriting was deliberately neat, as if someone had tried to keep their hand steady and careful – but there was an unmistakeable tremble to the writer’s hand. Early stage Parkinson’s? No, too boring. Perhaps the tremble of a drug addict? A little more interesting, but still too dull. Prescription medication. There. It sounded a little more intriguing – although he wasn’t too enthused about it.

Whatever the envelope contained something light. He opened it carefully, tilted it and a small sprig of tiny blue flowers with yellow centres slipped onto his hand. Squinting, he held them to the light.

“Forget-Me-Nots.” Mrs Hudson said with a small gasp. “Lovely little flowers.”

Sherlock frowned, staring intently at them for a few moments. Was it a message? “Someone doesn’t want me to forget.” He said absently.

But who?