Review: Sherlock Shaving Soap by Chiseled Face

Skulking my way toward Baker Street as London's mist descended at twilight, I struggled to remember just what it was she'd said. What was it? The memory flitted about the outskirts of my memory like the vision of that Baskerville Hound, prowling just beyone the glow of the firelight's reach. Surely it was there, if only I could peer a little more deeply, see just a bit more clearly. Resigning myself to having lost the memory, I pulled the collar of my coat close about me to ward off the impending damp.

And that is when it all came flooding back. That smell! How narrow of me to be looking for that clue, when I should have been reaching back across time with the sense most associated with memory. That smell! The leather and pipe tobacco mixed with a hint of pepper and syrupy caramel flooded my nostrils, taking me from this day to that, shaving at the sink with a rich, full lather, the soap building up into an impossible texture of thick mossy cream. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, pressing against my back, and that's when she had said it. I smiled now at the memory, remembering how her lips felt, moving against my back as she had mouthed the words, and how I thought, "Surely this shave can wait a little longer..."