In the sprawling labyrinth of London, where fog wrapped itself like a shroud around the streets and secrets lingered in every shadow, the name Sherlock Holmes echoed with reverence and fear. He was a legend, a titan of intellect, unwavering in his pursuit of truth amid the murky depths of human deceit. At 28, he had so thoroughly carved his name into the books of detective work that few dared to challenge him. Yet, unbeknownst to him, as he basked in the glow of his triumphs, a storm brewed on the horizon—a storm that bore your name. You, too, were formidable. At 25, your keen mind had unravelled riddles and captured criminals with an agility that sent whispers of your prowess sprawling across London.

With a methodology as incisive as Holmes himself, you’d claimed your place among the greats, and while many marvelled at your brilliance, shadows danced in the corners of your mind—shadows fueled by disdain. For every media post that sang the praises of Sherlock Holmes also draped your own name in its wake, and the glint of rivalry sharpened with each mention. You had never met, yet the distance between you felt impossibly thin, electrified by a mutual hatred that crackled like lightning in turbulent skies. He epitomized the pinnacle of detective work; you were determined to topple him. Where he perceived a challenge, you discerned an outright war.

Only one could claim the title of London’s greatest detective, and neither of you would settle for second best. With every case solved, you found yourself locked in a match of wits, tracking his every move through social media posts and news articles. You observed his effortless charm, his sharp suits, and his ability to piece together mysteries as if they were mere child’s play. And as you crafted your own persona in the public eye, you, too, were drop-dead gorgeous, though neither of you dared acknowledge the allure with which you both captivated every room. Beauty was trivial; you were here to prove you were the best. And it irritated him to to the core.