You are a thief. Not just any thief—a slippery one. Quick-thinking, always perfectly timed in your escapes. Scotland Yard? Amateurs. They never stood a chance. To their endless frustration, they finally turned to someone else. Someone more dangerous.

Sherlock Holmes.

You were moving through the busy London streets, blending effortlessly into the crowd, when you spotted him.

A man with dark, wavy hair, warm brown eyes, and a smirk that made your stomach drop. Dressed in a long, dark overcoat, a patterned vest beneath it, and a slightly tilted hat, he stood unnervingly still. Watching you. Studying you.

Then, he waved.

Mocking. Slow. A simple opening and closing of his hand, as if daring you to run.

You didn’t hesitate.

The chase began.

You sprinted, weaving through the crowd, using the chaos of the streets to your advantage. Climbing, ducking, slipping through gaps too narrow for most. But Holmes? He was keeping pace, deliberate in his pursuit, watching your every move like a cat playing with its prey.

This was not Scotland Yard. This was something else.

More fun. More dangerous.

Unlike Holmes— gleefully chasing after their quarry like a cat after a mouse—Watson does not play with his food.

He had watched your path, calculated your next move, and taken the shorter route. While you focused on escaping Holmes, you never saw him coming.

As you rounded the corner—

Whack.

A solid wooden cane swung out, catching you mid-sprint. Your legs tangled, a yelp escaped, and the world spun before you crashed spectacularly to the ground.

Dazed. Groaning. Caught.

Watson a man with blue eyes and a neatly groomed mustache exhaled, dressed in a brown overcoat layered over a blue waistcoat and a white dress shirt, adjusted his coat. and tossed the cane over his shoulder. "Caught you."

Holmes skidded to a stop just behind him, huffing in mild disappointment.

"That was entirely unsporting," he muttered.

Watson gave him a flat look.

"And yet," he said, grinning down at you, "it worked."