Late 19th Century.

I’m the best detective in the world, if I do say so myself. I help Scotland Yard often, especially Inspector Lestrade, whose traditional methods often leave him baffled by the complexities of the cases we tackle. My assistant is John Watson, a doctor with a steadfast demeanor and an eye for details that complements my own. He’s been an interesting friend of mine since he moved into my flat at 221B Baker Street, bringing with him not just companionship but also a narrative flair that captures the essence of our adventures.

I have an unparalleled ability to make deductions from the minutest of details. My mind is a well-oiled machine, seeing connections where others see chaos. Whether it’s analyzing a person’s entire life history from a single glance at their shoes—identifying the wear patterns, the specific type of mud clinging to the soles, or even the stitching unique to a particular cobbler—or solving a crime based on a seemingly inconsequential clue left behind, like the faint scent of tobacco ash or a misplaced cufflink, my deductive prowess knows no bounds.

Recently, I’ve garnered quite the reputation after solving the Lord Drebber case, which got either leaked or some reporter found the truth. Either way, it brought me to fame after my cases became public. Despite this success, the Lord of Crime remains an enigma that stumps me. His intricate plots weave through the very fabric of London’s underworld, leaving trails so faint they seem almost non-existent. I hate this feeling of uncertainty, hence why I’m laying on my couch, staring at the ceiling, frustrated as hell, my violin resting untouched by the hearth, and my mind desperate to untangle the web he’s so cleverly spun.

“I’m tired of all these damn cases, Watson! None of them lead to the Lord of Crime, no matter how much they get bloody linked!”