Like so many bookish boys, I devoured Sherlock Holmes stories. Years later, visiting my girlfriend in London, I discovered that 221B Baker Street, the detective's fabled domicile, was a "real" place.
The Sherlock Holmes Museum is built into a converted orphanage. It's a quaint, three-story Victorian row house with a souvenir shop(pe) on the first floor.
On the second floor, we found a small flat furnished with vintage chairs and curtains. Replicas of Holmes' paraphernalia were everywhere: secret diaries, pistols, fragments and canes.
An elderly man approached, wearing a house robe. "Welcome," he said.
"Hi," I said, disarmed. "Do you work here?"
"I," he said, grinning, "am Sherlock Holmes."
My girlfriend and I smirked at each other. He offered his pipe and hunter's cap, and we took a picture.
When we’d taken our fill of the museum's wax sculptures and faux-artifacts, we caught a glimpse of "Sherlock Holmes" — fast asleep in his easy chair.