Sherlock Holmes Artwork Novels & Stories

“Lizzie, it's a Gustave Loiseau,” Jane gasped, her hand to her mouth as she stared in wonder at lot number 327 of the auction. A lovely seascape hung on the wall. I could almost smell the warm sea air coming from the white sandy cliffs.

he asked, leaning forward slightly, refocusing on the painting. I signed my paintings with my alias, Abigale Rourke, however, hidden somewhere in all of my artwork where my real initials, HD for Hycinth Diamonte. I pointed to two swirls by the wolf's ear. Luca nodded. My glance drifted away from the painting and landed on another piece of artwork. I hadn't created this one. Instead, we'd found it at a local flea market, and it was one of my favorite pieces in the loft. A massive, metal steampunk-looking clock with interlocking gears. The time on the clock face jolted me out of our softly-spoken moment.

It was too calculated to keep this place from even the cops in the US and here in London. I walked into my father's room and headed back to the bookshelf where I found the picture of him,my mum and Mrs Grayson and Justin Anderson. I began to scatter through the books on the shelves and every photo album I could find. There was nothing. The giant painting of him just above the table in his study began to look a little too suspicious. I had seen this type of thing in those Sherlock movies where something is hidden behind the portrait. I managed to climb over the office chair with wheels as I try to balance myself from falling off.

At the coffee cups. At the chaos. Anywhere except at her. Then finally spoke. "The police found artwork." Jessica frowned. The answer made no sense. "What kind of artwork?" Henri looked up. His face pale. Disturbed. Haunted. The sort of expression people carried after seeing something they wished they hadn't. His voice came out barely above a whisper. "Paintings." The office remained silent. Waiting. Then: "Dozens of them." A chill moved through Jessica. Cold. Slow. Unavoidable.

It looked exactly like one of my unfinished works from before prison. I zoomed in. Every hair on my arms rose. I remembered abandoning that piece the day I was arrested. The bowl featured a bull motif, but I had never completed the tail. The exhibit piece was missing the same tail. My wolf snarled. That is ours. I leaned closer. The empty space where the tail should have been was still untouched, obvious to anyone with real skill. No true restoration artist would leave such a flaw. I checked the listed creator. It was Laura Stone.

A grand bookshelf stretched across one wall, filled with ancient-looking tomes and leather-bound volumes. The furniture was carved dark wood, polished so perfectly it gleamed even in the soft light. A massive desk sat near the window, scattered with papers, quills, and what looked like maps marked with red ink. But what drew me in most was the art. Paintings and sketches covered nearly every space not occupied by shelves, landscapes of forests, wolves under the moon, storms tearing across oceans. And then… my breath caught. There, near the far wall, above a small table covered with candles, was a sketch. It was unfinished, the strokes sharp, almost impatient.

But for Lilia, none of that mattered. Her eyes were fixed on the painting—the last item of the night. "Horizon’s Lament," a masterpiece by Elian Devereux, the last work from the renowned artist before his untimely death. She had spent months studying it—memorizing every brushstroke, tracing the artist's intentions in catalog prints, and immersing herself in its history. This was more than just a painting. It was her last connection to something pure, something untouchable. And tonight, she was determined to win it.

Her eyes alight upon scattered sketches strewn across the surface, drawing her in with an irresistible pull. Picking up one of the sketches, she is met with the striking image of a wolf, its form captured in intricate detail. As her gaze flits to another sketch, a closer view of the wolf reveals its menacing features—fangs bared and saliva dripping, an embodiment of primal ferocity. A series of similar sketches follow, each portraying the majestic yet fearsome creatures in different poses. A furrow creases Rose's brow in puzzlement as she contemplates the artist's apparent fixation on these lupine subjects.

The whole idea seemed futile but no other way than to make themselves appear prepared. On their way, Allie spotted a large painting of a Hellhound standing in the middle of a misty, darkened forest, its eyes glowing and taking the attention away from everything else that had been expertly drawn on the canvas. The omega tilted her head at the artwork, admiring it for a while.

she said “ No that's alright, I figured you'd have called me if you wouldn't be able to come today” I replied “ So where is my priceless artwork?” she asked I moved over to where I kept some already packed paintings and picked out her painting named “Estranged heart”. It was a painting of a wilted rose that seemingly looked like a heart. “This is really a masterpiece Lexi!!” she exclaimed as she saw it “ I am glad you like your painting Mrs Shelby” I said with a smile