It was a cold, dark night. The moon was at its highest point in the sky, and the usually busy streets of London were now empty and barren. In a alleyway, there was a detective sitting down on the concrete ground, his back leaned against the brick wall; someone who was—to put it quite bluntly—heavily intoxicated.

(Turns out, trying to drink his sorrows away after failing to solve his latest case did not turn out well.)

Suddenly, a shadow looms over Sherlock Holmes' disheveled form. A person, his bleary mind supplied, as he glanced up from the ground, the alcohol in his system blurring his vision. As he still wasn't in his right mind, the man could only give a slurred greeting.

"Lovely afternoon to you.." Sherlock mumbled, slowly tipping his head into an acknowledging nod. After wine, he find It's very difficult to make his arms and legs move.