Blackwood Sherlock Holmes Novels & Stories

"Blackwood Asset Inquiries isn't a financial holding firm or an offshore shell company, Lydia. It’s a elite, black-budget private investigation and corporate surveillance firm operating out of Mayfair, London." He looked up from the screen, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Someone hired a team of high-end shadow operatives in London four years ago... and paid them fifteen million dollars to execute the hit on your life."

The city was still dark when Damian left Blackwood Tower. The conversation with the firefighter had ended nearly an hour earlier, but the words still echoed in his mind with unsettling clarity. Edward Blackwood. His grandfather. The founder of the Blackwood empire. A man who had built hospitals, research foundations, and entire industries in the name of medical advancement. A man Damian had once admired. And now possibly the man responsible for the chain of events that had nearly killed Evelyn. Damian drove through the quiet streets with the phone resting on the passenger seat beside him. The photograph the witness had sent remained open on the screen.

Blackwood Investigations is run out of a sleek office in the city centre and he charges according to the customer’s means. I help when my calendar at the Tribune thins. Fact-checking witness statements, sorting files, occasionally tailing someone who underestimates a woman in heels with a notebook. We’re an unusual team, but it works. He brings tactics, I bring words. Together, we keep finding the cracks.

He didn’t belong here—and yet, he looked like he owned the night itself. “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But Blackwood does inspire violent fantasies.” “Who are you?” “Call me Rhys.” The name didn’t ring any bells, but his smile did something dangerous to my pulse. There was mischief in his eyes. But something darker too. Something that made the hairs on my neck stand. “You shouldn’t be up here,” I said cautiously. “Neither should you,” he replied. I crossed my arms. “Are you with the press?”

“I’d like to announce that our greatest competitor in the business has been arrested.” His hazel eyes shift to mine, “Azure Blackwood is being charged with thirteen counts of murder after a failed mission overseas revealed that his product was misrepresented and unsafe for military use.”

A girl screamed: “Ma’am, look… that man!” Everyone turned. On the last row sat Inspector Rana. His eyes were completely black. A faint smile rested on his face—like the silence of the dead. “Who is he?” someone asked. At that moment, Rana’s shadow rose from the chair, but the body remained seated. The shadow moved forward toward the stage without stopping. Dr. Anusha’s legs were rooted to the ground. The shadow reached the stage… And the register appeared on her desk. The same black leather register—covered in ash-like dust.

Her heels clicked sharply on the floor as she approached the main entrance, and that's when she saw him. Alexander stood by the large glass doors, his tall frame unmistakable even from across the room. His black suit was impeccably tailored, and his cold gaze was focused on something—or rather, someone—on his phone. As he looked up and saw her approaching, his expression didn’t change. The sharpness of his features, the precision of his movements—they were all very much a part of him. Alexander Blackwood was a man who rarely showed vulnerability, and it made him all the more enigmatic.

I turned to look at who it was and was met with the handsome man who invited me to his car earlier. "Good evening," he greeted, eyeing me down to my breasts, and then looking away when he saw that I caught him staring. "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Dashiell Blackwood. I'm sure you must have heard about me from your husband," he added, looking at me with so much emptiness in his eyes. "No," I said rudely, almost barfing at his cockiness. He furrowed his eyebrows and came closer to me, "You didn't have an attitude when we met three hours ago,"

“Not Justin. I don’t know who. He didn’t say his name.” “Description?” “Black suit. Blue eyes. _Memento mori_ tattoo.” I closed my eyes. Saw the blood again. “He said ‘better.’” Rosie went very still. “Describe the tattoo.” “Across his ribs. Script. _Memento mori_. Why?” She didn’t answer. She went to her laptop. Typed. Turned the screen to me. WANTED. DOMINIC BLACKWOOD. 30. Armed and dangerous. Last seen Upper West Side. If seen, do not approach. Contact FBI.

“Blackwood Global controls half the industries this family touches. Do you understand what that debt has cost us in leverage for thirty years? Richard Blackwood is offering to erase it. All you have to do is sign.” “All I have to do.” I picked up the folder despite myself, because some numb, obedient part of me still hadn’t learned to say no to them. My fingers found the first page. Damian Blackwood’s name sat there in dense black print, cold and unfamiliar, a man I’d only ever seen in tabloid photographs, always in shadow, always described in the same three words. *Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable.* “They say he’s never even been photographed smiling,” I said quietly.