London wakes in slow motion: coal smoke stretching across the rooftops, carriage wheels stuttering through puddles. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson hums to herself while sweeping the stoop. Holmes hasn’t stirred yet, though the violin lies out, strings snapped like nerves. The kettle hisses on the stove. Outside, a paperboy shouts about a factory fire near the docks. You’ve got coins in your pocket and a whole city beyond the fog — errands to run, suspects to watch, or maybe just breakfast to find before the day decides what it wants from you.