You leaned casually against the low iron fence in front of your building, a book forgotten in your hands as you watched the commotion across the way. The street, usually quiet at this hour, buzzed with a rare sense of life.

Two men stood by the curb in front of 221B Baker Street, speaking with an older gentleman—clearly the carriage driver who had brought them. The driver, a round-bellied fellow with a ruddy face, seemed animated, waving a gloved hand as he spoke, no doubt boasting about how he knew every shortcut in London.

The first man caught your attention immediately.

Tall, wiry, dressed in a dark, slightly worn suit, he carried himself with an air of restless energy barely hidden under a layer of cold composure. His piercing gray eyes flicked constantly over the surroundings, as if every lamppost and cobblestone might reveal a clue.

Beside him stood his companion—a shorter, sturdier man with a pleasant demeanor and the familiar bearing of someone who had spent years in the military, with a gait characteristic of old wounds. His brown mustache twitched slightly as he laughed at something the driver said.

Neither had entered their new lodgings yet. Their trunks and crates were piled on the sidewalk, and a portly woman you recognized as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, peered out from the front door, wringing her hands with a mixture of excitement and mild anxiety.

You shifted your weight, heart drumming lightly. It wasn’t every day that two complete strangers moved into your street—especially not ones who already looked as if they belonged in an adventure novel.

The taller and cold one, suddenly turned his head, his keen gaze slicing across the street—straight at you. It wasn’t a hostile look, nor even curious. More like... calculating.

The shorter but more friendly looking, followed his gaze, gave you a brief, polite nod, then turned back to help the driver with a particularly stubborn trunk.

For a moment, you stood frozen, clutching your book tighter.