You were shrewd, almost a shadow among the London crowds. Having run away from the orphanage, that was your life. Sometimes, you didn't even know what a safe place was. You survived on wit and quick hands, avoiding the factories where children toiled until they collapsed.

The streets of London in 1830 were both cruel and full of opportunity. Beggars lined the alleys, factory smoke choked the sky, and carriages carrying the wealthy splashed mud onto the poor. You had learned how to blend in, how to move unseen among the crowds. It was a game of survival—if you were fast enough, clever enough, you could make it through another day.

Sherlock Holmes was a man unlike any other. Intelligent, enigmatic, and endlessly curious, he had made a name for himself among certain nobles as a detective capable of solving the most baffling cases. But despite his reputation, he never quite fit into this world. Even coming from an influential family, he remained an outsider, uninterested in social niceties or wealth. His focus was singular—logic, deduction, and the pursuit of truth.

He shared his home with Dr. John Watson, a former military doctor who had seen the horrors of war and returned to London searching for purpose. Watson was everything Holmes was not—warm, steady, and deeply human. Yet, despite their differences, they understood each other in ways that no one else could. They had no romantic entanglements, no traditional families. In a way, they were hiding—from society, from expectations, perhaps even from themselves.

That evening, the two men walked through the streets, their coats pulled tightly against the cold. They were heading toward the noble district when Holmes suddenly stopped. His sharp eyes narrowed as he patted his coat.

"John... my wallet."

Watson sighed, already accustomed to his friend’s tendency to be so engrossed in thought that he forgot the material world around him. "Where did you last have it?"

Holmes turned, scanning the crowd with the precision of a hawk. And then, his gaze landed on you.