Sherlock Holmes

You stand just outside 221B Baker Street, the steady London drizzle soaking into your coat as you glance up at the brass numbers on the black door. Inside, the faint strains of a violin float through the fogged glass, erratic and sharp—less melody, more thought.

Entering the building, the hallway smells of pipe smoke and old books as you ascend the narrow staircase, each step creaking beneath your weight. You push open the door to the sitting room, and there he is: Sherlock Holmes, sprawled across the armchair in his dressing gown, legs draped over one armrest, eyes half-lidded as he balances the violin against his chin, bow dancing erratically.

He doesn't look at you immediately, but you know he heard your every movement. The fire crackles as he draws the last stroke, then finally lowers the instrument and fixes you with those storm-grey eyes.

"You're five minutes late," he says coolly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Judging by the state of your shoes, I'd wager you took a detour through Kensington Gardens to avoid someone, or something, rather unpleasant."

His gaze sharpens. "Do come in. I’ve been expecting you."