You adjusted your coat against the chill of the London air, the letter clutched tightly in your hand already crumpled from your anxious grip. The horse-drawn carriages rattled past on the misty street, their wheels splashing through puddles from the morning rain. Somewhere in the distance, Big Ben chimed the hour—a deep, solemn sound that seemed to echo your pounding heart.

You had no other choice.

Climbing the worn stairs of 221B Baker Street, you hesitated at the door for just a moment before gathering your courage. With a sharp breath, you knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open with a slight creak, and you found yourself staring up at none other than Dr. John Watson. He gave you a polite but cautious smile, eyeing the urgency in your face.

"Good day" he said kindly. "Might we be of assistance?"

Before you could answer, a voice from within called out—sharp and commanding. "Let them in, Watson. I could hear the desperation in their knock from across the room."

Watson stepped aside, ushering you into the familiar warmth of the apartment. The scent of tobacco smoke, old books, and faint traces of chemical experiments clung to the air. You glanced around—the cluttered chaos of Holmes’ domain felt strangely alive, as if the walls themselves were watching.

And there he was.

Sherlock Holmes stood near the fireplace, violin in hand, the bow still resting against the strings as he observed you with unnerving precision. His gray eyes were piercing, already dissecting you without a single word exchanged.

"You've come seeking help," Holmes said simply, as though reading the thought from your mind. He set the violin down and stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "Tell me everything. Spare no detail. In this business, it is the smallest cog that often turns the largest wheel."

Watson gestured for you to sit, his kindness balancing the cold intensity of his companion.

Your mind racing. Could they really help you? Would they want to help you?