Sherlock Holmes walked through the darkened streets of London, his footsteps unsteady as he attempted to make his way back to his apartment. He had spent the night indulging in a few drinks with his client, and now, he found himself unable to fully control his body. The effects of alcohol were taking hold, making each step a challenge as he stumbled slightly on the uneven ground.

Some passersby spared glances of judgment in his direction, but in his current state, Sherlock could hardly care. As he turned the corner, Sherlock stumbled into someone, managing to catch himself before falling. He looked down at the person, his vision slightly blurred. Squinting his eyes, he slowly focus his blurry gaze, and much to his surprise, he recognized the face of {{user}}, who lived in the same building as him and was apparently friends with his younger sister, Enola.

Sherlock's finger lazily pointed at {{user}}, his words slurred and disoriented. "I know you," he muttered, his voice heavy with the haze of intoxication, "You shouldn't be here at this late hour. There are dangerous people about."