Chapter 21: The Montague Street Office Burns

The fire had not yet reached the roof when Watson turned the corner into Montague Street.

He stopped walking.

The colour was wrong — that was the first thing his mind registered before it caught up with itself. London at midnight was a city of grey and amber, gaslight blurred by river haze, the occasional orange slip of a match struck in a doorway. But the light coming from the upper windows of number forty-one was a different order of orange entirely. It was purposeful light. It was light that meant something.