Sherlock Holmes Artwork Novels & Stories

And that was when one of the artworks caught my eye…I had seen a replica of it in that art room I stumbled into in Steven Noble’s residence. “What about this one?” I asked him. “Oh, it has been taken down and destroyed,” he answered. I peered into the computer to look at the name of the artist, but “Teddy Owl” wasn’t a familiar name to me. Something was amiss…

I only wanted to steal a glance at the mother and son duo but I didn’t expect to catch a set of resilient eyes that were glaring at me. My gaze faltered and I broke eye contact. I should be the one pissed at him, what right does he have to stare me down like I committed a crime punishable by death?! “This…! What is the meaning of this?” My attention was instantly stolen by Mr. Dalgliesh’s reaction. The gift was unwrapped and it was a painting. From my standpoint, I could see it clearly, the oil paint had a lot of colors poured into the masterpiece but something about it was revolting…

“Mel, look at this one.” I turned to see the painting of a jet-black wolf howling under a full moon. Something about it drew me in, the raw power and loneliness in the image resonating deeply. “It’s beautiful,” I murmured, unable to look away. Darius joined me, his gaze flicking between the painting and me. “You’ve got good taste.” “Too bad it’s way out of my price range,” I said with a rueful laugh. As the exhibition wound down, the boys handed me small, wrapped packages.

Just unmarked leather and the weight of secrets waiting to be discovered. I opened it carefully, mindful of pages that looked fragile enough to crumble at a touch. The first page made me gasp aloud. Ink drawings filled the yellowed paper—not the crude sketches of an amateur, but artwork of remarkable skill and disturbing beauty. A wolf, massive and powerful, its eyes rendered in such detail I could swear they were watching me from the page. And beside it, a woman in flowing robes, her hand extended toward the beast as if in offering or benediction.

And most prominently, the signature next to it read "Mountains." Some among the crowd recognized it instantly. "Isn't this Mr. Watson's work? His alias is 'Mountains'!" As soon as this was mentioned, excitement spread through the crowd. "Yes, indeed, this is unmistakably Mr. Watson's brushwork!" "Mr. Watson retired, didn't he? His artworks are priceless, and Christopher managed to get one!" "Not just that, this clearly is a painting Mr. Watson specially created for Mr. Wentworth!" "Ah, Mr. Watson hasn't produced any artworks for over a decade. I wonder how Mr. Patel managed to convince him..."

It also served as an art gallery, where he showed works by modern artists. For Andrew, who’d been ready to leave as soon as they made their purchase, the displayed works of unfamiliar artists , Helen Lundeberg and Herman Cherry might have been intriguing, but the entire store lost its interest the instant he laid eyes on a Dali painting. They took their leave quickly after. It was as they were winding their way through the city streets in the back of a cab that his curiosity piqued again and he twisted in his seat to let his eyes follow the object of his fascination.

Lorenzo scanned the room with detached interest. His gaze finally settled on an ancient painting hanging on the wall. His fingers mindlessly turned the herbal beads on his wrist—the ones designed to suppress his wolf-spirit's agitation. Chloe noticed him looking and walked over. "It's a fake," she said casually. "Obviously. A masterpiece of this caliber doesn't just show up in a place like this," Lorenzo said, an amused, lazy arch to his eyebrow. A spark of private amusement flashed in Chloe's eyes. "Well... you never know."

I whine. "Then show me." He puffs his chest. "Fine." I say in a defeated tone. I uncover the painting and he walks up to it, one arm wrapped around him and one arm up rubbing his chin. He analyzes the painting. "When will it be finished?" "When I can." I say. "Consider it sold." He turns to me. Stuffing his hands in his pockets. "No. Bastian. My pieces are not for sale." "Everything's for sale, Sammy. Just have to find the right price." He gives a cocky look.

I leaned back on the sofa then turned to look at Rupert. He was looking at me as well— his face was leaning closer— until I could see his features clearly. His eyes looked amused. "I bought that in an exhibit. It was an exhibit of rare puzzle works by different people. And that piece was called 'Trauma' by the woman who made it." He put one arm on the back of the sofa before his body came closer to me. His face was so close, I could feel his breath— a mixture of alcohol and mint— fanning my flushed face.

She drank standing up, looking at the walls. There was art she hadn't noticed before it was not the expected corporate abstracts. It was a painting of a storm over a harbor, all grays and blues, a photograph of an old woman in a market somewhere foreign, her face lined and laughing. There was also a charcoal sketch of a girl's hands holding a paintbrush. Eleanor's, maybe. The hands were young, but the grip was fierce like a professional.