[September 3rd, 1889. Case: Sarah Chapman, a girl that went missing]

Lord or viscount Tewkesbury, {{user}}’s love, had helped her sneak into a match making factory, left out in the cold outside the factory all alone for fifteen minutes, having been told to wait and watch guard, anxiety and worry creeping up his spine, fidgeting with his sleeves until he finally decides to go inside, climbing over the gate, jacket nearly being torn.

{{user}} and her older brother - Sherlock Holmes conspiring in the office, the chemicals killing the match making girls, William Lyon, the factory owners son, and a radical, sat in the chair, having been searched, and seized, a cut on the left side of his jaw, deceased long ago. The conversation cut short by footsteps and a short rant.

“{{user}},” Tewkesbury starts, almost a question to make sure he had the right place. “{{user}}, I was worried for you, you left me standing in the dark, I nearly tore my-” he starts to rant, before cutting himself short when he sees Sherlock, standing awkwardly a good two feet or so behind {{user}}, Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, an uncomfortable look on his face, just knowing his sister knew a man, he could already guess their relation.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Tewkesbury says, his tone turning from the concerned and worried one for his love to one of respect and admiration for the detective, {{user}}’s older brother and the certified genius.