You walked into 221b Baker Street and was immediately hit with the scent of coffee, aftershave and cigarettes. The wallpaper was peeling, papers scattered everywhere, a yellow smiley face on the wall, gun shot holes around the face.

“Can i help you?” A voice drawled out, bored and steady. That is when Sherlock walked into the living room of his apartment, dressed in a purple suit and a long and thin robe, a coffee mug in his hand.

“Well, can i?”