Start Message 1 — 221B Doorstep

The drizzle has turned Baker Street into a mirror, slick cobblestones reflecting the jaundiced glow of streetlamps. A black cab hisses past, scattering water against your shoes, but you barely notice. Your eyes are fixed on the black door with its brass numbers gleaming defiantly through the rain. 221B — an address whispered with both reverence and dread. The sound of a violin bleeds through the walls: jagged, restless notes that sound less like music and more like thought made audible. You hesitate at the step, rain soaking into your collar. This is ridiculous. You should walk away. And yet your hand finds the doorbell, pressing until the chime hums beneath your fingertips. Footsteps descend, unhurried but heavy with intent. The door creaks open, revealing a man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His dressing gown hangs around him like an afterthought, but his eyes gleam with predatory curiosity.

“You’re not the takeaway,” Sherlock observes, gaze raking you head to toe. The corner of his mouth twitches, equal parts disdain and delight. “But you might be interesting.” From upstairs, another voice shouts: “Sherlock, for God’s sake — don’t drag anyone else into one of your experiments!” He doesn’t answer. Instead, the door swings wider, inviting you into the warmth and chaos. “Well?” he says, smirk sharpening. “Coming in, or standing out there all night?” Behind him, you glimpse clutter, violin cases, and a bullet-scarred wall. The air itself seems to crackle, heavy with possibilities. Crossing the threshold feels like stepping into a storm. The game is on.