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    Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel: Sherlock Holmes
    Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel: Sherlock Holmes
    Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel: Sherlock Holmes
    Ebook78 pages46 minutes

    Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel: Sherlock Holmes

    By John Pirillo

    ()

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    About this ebook

    He's dead!

    And another.

    And another.

    Drops of blood are the only clues.

    Puncture marks.

    Who or what killed the men.

    And why?

    Questions and clues that Homes must solve to stop a serial killer.

    Get your exciting read now.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Pirillo
    Release dateApr 14, 2019
    ISBN9781386304371
    Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel: Sherlock Holmes
    Author

    John Pirillo

    The author was born in Washington, Pennsylvannia. He loves animals and birds. Has two pet cockatiels that keep him company while he writes. He has a lovely daughter and a rascally grandson. He is rich in friends that matter and well adjusted to a life of challenges. He writes and draws every day. He loves anything science fiction, fantasy or extremely well written. Same goes for movies and TV. Not married currently, but has an eye and ear open to possibilities. :)

    Read more from John Pirillo

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      Book preview

      Sherlock Holmes Fallen Angel - John Pirillo

      Holmes

      Fallen Angel

      John Pirillo

      Copyright 2019

      Previously published as Case of the Fallen Angel

      Table of Contents

      Chapter One: Paradise Lost

      Incident: Contagious Magic

      Chapter Two: Falling Angel

      Watson’s Journal: Case of the Fallen Angel

      Chapter Two: Devil or Angel

      Chapter Three: Visit from Hell

      Chapter Four: 221B Baker Street

      Chapter Five: Scotland Yard Morgue

      Chapter Six: Interrogation Room

      Chapter Seven: 221B Baker Street

      Chapter Eight: Death Beckons

      Chapter Nine: To Catch a Devil

      Chapter Ten: Angel of the Roses

      Chapter Eleven: 221B Baker Street

      Chapter One: Paradise Lost

      "B etter men than he had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Better men than he had found themselves on the wrong side of death."

      -—Doctor John Watson

      A flat.

      London

      MidBells

      What?

      Andrew Stanton examined the red rose he had found on the other pillow of his bed.

      He lay on his side facing it.

      It was about twelve inches long, the deep, blood red of its petals about four inches.

      It was the largest rose he had ever seen. And he had seen a lot.

      It was his favorite tool to win the hand of his latest catch. Married women all.

      Tired of their lackluster lives. Tired of cooking for men who didn’t care. Having one child after another who grew up to be exactly like their father.

      That he was attracted to women with much the same outlook on life as himself, he didn’t ponder or give much thought. It wasn’t his nature to reflect upon his own rotten foundation, or what he might have done to shore it up, to improve him.

      He was first and foremost a schemer.

      Nothing more.

      Nothing less.

      He was a vampire in many ways.

      He lived off the love of others.

      And their money.

      He eyed the small cache of gold coin that lay on the bed beside him, just below the pillow.

      She had left him a small reward.

      He still remembered the touch of her silken skin upon his chest, hot and pulsing with life and expectancy.

      He had not disappointed her.

      She had not disappointed him.

      Especially this morning.

      He had thought them through with each other, but last night she knocking on his door urgently. The hallway, usually well lit, was dark.

      He couldn’t see her face, but he could tell it was her by her voice.

      Will you let me in? She asked.

      He had let her in.

      Now...he smiled as he reached out to take the gold coins.

      But for some reason he took the rose by its thorny stem instead.

      A splash of blood erupted from his thumb that held the rose thorn too tightly.

      Blimey! He cursed and sat up.

      He strove to throw the rose away, but it wouldn’t come free.

      More blood began to drip from the wound made.

      He ripped at the rose stem with his other hand, but instead of that hand removing the rose, it became caught on the stem as well.

      What the? He uttered, in a growing state of shock.

      He leaped from his bed to his feet and staggered about his small bedroom, hopping up and down, trying to remove the rose from his right and left hands.

      Now two streams of blood were pouring freely from the wounded areas. Not huge amounts, but slow, steady streams, like the trickle from a faucet not quite closed.

      He didn’t worry about the blood loss yet; he was too wrapped up in the act of acting to stop the blood flow.

      Then a great idea lit his mind at that moment. It was as if one those Oriental fellows with their flying rockets that exploded into myriad cascading darts of colored light had come alive inside his soul at that moment.

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