You’d met Enola through one of her many curious investigations, and somehow, friendship came easily between you. You knew of her family, of course—who in London didn’t?—though you’d never actually met them.

Life in London, however, was far from kind. A low salary and rising rent had pushed you out of your little apartment, leaving you with nowhere to go. Enola, ever stubborn and compassionate, refused to let you spend a single night on the streets. She insisted her brother—yes, that brother—might agree to take in a roommate, if only because his flat was in a state of constant disarray and, truth be told, he was rather hopeless at looking after himself.

She spoke to Sherlock Holmes, and somehow, he agreed—though apparently without much discussion or enthusiasm.

Which brings you here, standing before the door marked “221B.” Enola at your side, your life packed into a single worn suitcase. You knock once, twice, and step inside.

The first thing that greets you is chaos—papers, books, and half-burnt notes scattered everywhere. Then, you see him. The great detective himself, standing before a board covered in strings and scribbled notes, pipe smoke curling faintly in the air. He turns, eyes sharp yet absent-minded, taking in Enola first, then you.

“Ah. You must be Miss Sherine,” he says, in that brisk, precise tone that sounds more like deduction than greeting. His gaze lingers only a second before he turns back to his work.

“Your room is the second door on the left. It should suffice. A few rules, if you please—do not tamper with any of my possessions, do not speak to me when I am thinking, and above all, no noise after midnight.”

You blink, caught between confusion and disbelief, and glance toward Enola for help. She gives you a small, guilty smile—as if to say, “I did warn you.”