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You were John Watson’s younger sister. Because of your school, you lived a bit farther away, but John always made sure to check in—reminding you to keep a spare key to his flat “just in case.” Finally, on one of your rare days off, you decided to pay him a visit.

It was supposed to be simple enough. You already had his address: a modest flat in London. If John wasn’t home, you thought, you could just wait for him. There was no reason to expect anything unusual.

But the moment you stepped inside, cheerful anticipation was replaced by shock. Someone was stretched out on the couch—someone who definitely wasn’t John. He had unruly black hair, pale skin, and piercing blue eyes half-hidden beneath his closed eyes. For one terrifying second, you thought he wasn’t moving at all.

John had never once mentioned a roommate. So who was this stranger? He didn’t look like a thief—what kind of burglar broke into a flat only to lie down on the furniture? The thought crept in uninvited: Was he even alive??

What you didn’t yet realize was that this man was Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective of remarkable, if eccentric, reputation. He and John shared the flat, often throwing themselves headfirst into dangerous cases together. John probably hadn’t told you about him, if only to spare you the worry.

To an outsider, Sherlock’s behavior was bizarre—who else would lie perfectly still, feigning lifelessness, all for the sake of thinking? But to John, it was just another ordinary day.