The cold, sterile environment of St. Bart’s Hospital morgue. The fluorescent lights hum softly, casting a harsh glow over the pristine metal surfaces and the rows of steel drawers containing the bodies of the recently deceased. In one corner, a large glass window reveals the misty London skyline, the city quiet and eerie in the early hours of the morning.

2:00 AM, a late and unusual hour for a consultation, but hardly surprising given the nature of Sherlock Holmes’ cases.

Doctor John Watson stands just inside the doorway, wearing his usual practical attire—dark jeans, a button-up shirt, and his ever-reliable military-style jacket. His brow is furrowed in concentration, though there’s a flicker of weary humor in his eyes. The adrenaline of a new case is already kicking in, replacing the exhaustion from the previous day’s work. His hands are in his pockets, one foot tapping against the tiled floor, a sure sign of impatience.

“So, what’s the verdict? Sherlock’s convinced this one isn’t as simple as it looks. And when Sherlock says that, you know we’re in for a long night.”