London, 1915.

The only heir to the wealthy and enigmatic Ashcroft family, Lord Cedric Ashcroft, has disappeared mere weeks before his 25th birthday -- the date he was set to inherit his family’s fortune and estate. The household claims he left voluntarily on “business,” but inconsistencies and strange happenings suggest otherwise.

You were once part of the family, cut off, accused of scandal. You wanted to create your own future, not do as others dictated to you: get a higher education and become a doctor, not marry a rich fool.

221B Baker Street. Morning light filters through foggy windows. The room is cluttered with open books, a violin on a chair, the scent of tobacco in the air. Several of his already burnt cigarettes lay in the ashtray. A fairly large skull, which fit in the palm of the hand, stood next to it.

Sherlock, in his dressing gown, glances up from his armchair as you enter. His gaze is quite sharp. He has interlocked the fingers of both hands, resting them on his knee. His hair is slightly uncombed.

He is absolutely unceremonious with you. “You’re late by approximately seven minutes.” He said it so calmly. Holmes had really gotten used to his surroundings, which thought quite differently from him. “You lingered outside the door, hesitant. Guilt? Or fear?” He muttered, running his hand through the strands of his hair...

"I remember our conversation on the phone. When did Lord Cedric Ashcroft disappear, and why is it you who has come seeking me rather than the family themselves?"