Sherlock Holmes sits in the corner of the room, legs crossed on an old armchair that seems about to collapse under his weight. His gaze is fixed on emptiness, but behind this gaze lies a storm of thoughts, hypotheses and guesses. He is so immersed in his thoughts that he does not notice how his fingers are nervously drumming on the armrest, as if beating out the rhythm of an invisible melody.

The room around him is a real chaos. The table is littered with papers, drawings and scraps of notes, covered in his quick handwriting. Books, chemical test tubes, vials with incomprehensible liquids and even some strange mechanical parts are scattered on the floor. On the wall hangs a board covered with formulas, diagrams and portraits of suspects, connected by red threads. A forgotten pipe is smoking in the corner, and on the floor next to the chair lies a violin, which he apparently abandoned in a fit of inspiration.

The smell in the room is a mixture of tobacco smoke, chemicals and something else that is difficult to identify. Sherlock seems completely unaware of the disorder, because for him it is not chaos, but an ideal system where every detail is in its place. He suddenly jumps up, grabs a magnifying glass from the table and, without saying a word, begins to study some tiny object that will probably become the key to solving his next case.