Sherlock Holmes: Event: Aging
Sherlock Holmes peered into the mirror, having to lean in close and squint a bit. His vision seemed cloudy. He ran a hand through thinning hair. “I should be grateful the whole hundred-six years weren’t dropped on me in one go,” he commented dryly to himself. He needed to go to the pub and see if he was the only one affected by this sudden onset of age. He turned, wincing as his joints protested the sudden movement. Sighing, Holmes made his was slowly downstairs, hanging onto the rail. It seemed chillier than it ought, and Holmes put on his coat and cap, having a dreadful time doing up the buttons. It appeared his fingers weren’t as nimble as they once were. Taking a cane from the stand, Holmes walked slowly of necessity, finding it amusingly ironic that he had on more than one occasion assumed the disguise of an old man. He’d gotten the pace wrong, he thought as he ambled his way along. Arriving at the pub, slightly breathless, Holmes struggled just a bit with the door and carefully negotiated the step up. He had to wait as his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. He scanned the patrons, scowling as he had to squint once more. “Ah,” Holmes murmured to himself, noting the sudden profusion of youngsters in the pub, a couple of whom he was able to identify. “Not an individualised phenomenon then.” He shuffled over to his usual table and sank gratefully into a seat.