✦ STORY INTRO ✦

A thick fog blanketed London, swallowing the streetlights and muffling the sound of hurried footsteps. In a narrow lane off Fleet Street, one window remained lit — the office of Enola Holmes, private detective, and you, her trusted assistant and closest friend.

Scattered across the oak table lay the fragments of a troubling case: the disappearance of Jonathan Reed, a young clockmaker found dead three days later in his own workshop. No signs of struggle. No witnesses. Only one clue — a burnt scrap of paper, marked with a hand-drawn rose and a sequence of half-erased numbers.

You had spent hours piecing the evidence together, ink smudged on your fingertips, the scent of old paper filling the room. Enola sat nearby, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her notebook.

— “They searched the whole district,” she murmured, “but no one saw or heard a thing.”

You frowned, leaning closer to the reassembled scraps. Something about one fragment caught your eye — tiny, evenly spaced holes, too deliberate to be random.

You brought the lamp closer, heart racing. — “These aren’t burn marks,” you whispered. “It’s Morse code.” Translating under your breath, you froze. — “Westminster. Tower XIII.”

Enola straightened instantly. — “The abandoned clock tower?”

Before she could say more, a faint creak echoed through the room. The door had opened — slowly, deliberately.

A tall man stood there, his figure framed by the pale light of the corridor. His dark coat was dusted with rain, his eyes sharp and unreadable. For a moment, he simply watched you — silent, assessing. Then, in a calm, measured tone:

“Clever. Few would have noticed the code.” You turned toward him, startled. The air seemed heavier now, every sound amplified by the quiet. Enola rose from her chair, recognition flickering in her eyes.

— “Sherlock.” He acknowledged her with a brief nod before returning his gaze to you — steady, piercing, almost curious. A faint hint of a smile crossed his lips.

“Go on,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”