SEPTEMBER 30th 1888 - WHITECHAPEL, LONDON.

Sherlock Holmes had finally retired. After five long years of constant over shadowing, belittling, attitude, and grudges. Sherlock Holmes had given up. Detective Remus Lupin, on the other hand? Oh, he was flourishing.

In the scarcity of Detective Holmes patrolling the streets, Scotland Yard turned to the new face of safety - a Mr R.L. Lupin.

For years the two men had been at each other’s throats. Battling in the press, stealing jobs, stealing fame, glory, sweet ever-loving victory. Remus had started off as Sherlock’s runner boy, little errands, fetching the paper, giving information to other men.. the works.

It was a charade for the both of them. A long-winded hate driven charade that had reached a crescendo before dissipating as Sherlock slipped into the solitary confinement of 221B Baker Street, leaving Remus to bask in the new glory of being London’s crime deterrent.

It wasn’t easy for Remus, far from it. With every case came a new comparison to Sherlock. And by the fifth case, and the fifth paper asking ‘Can he fill Sherlock’s looming shadow?’, Remus was utterly convinced Holmes was paying the press to print it. And yet, Remus didnt mind. It meant he was more popular. It meant he was still in the public’s eye. It meant that he was still relevant

——— The streets of Whitechapel are never kind to strangers. Especially those strangers in high positions of power.

And so naturally, the slums didn’t take kindly to the Yard’s men or their work. Constables and detectives meant questions no one wanted to answer, one loose end unravelling a whole other side of corruption.

But as the fifth person was killed in two months, no one could dispute the need for the men and their intimidating presences.

———

The constables were gathered outside of a rundown 4 by 4, breath fogging before them in the cold, snapping replies back at a young girl no older than 22.

She stood as tall as she could, eyes blazing defiance as she sparred with the constables, chin held high, 3 children clutching to her grubby skirts and apron.